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MAX CARRADOS
By
Ernest Bramah
Methuen & Co., Ltd.
1914
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS 1
THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM 25
THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE 66
THE CLEVER MRS STRAITHWAITE 99
THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR 138
THE TILLING SHAW MYSTERY 187
THE COMEDY AT FOUNTAIN COTTAGE 224
THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK 262
MAX CARRADOS
THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS
It was eight o'clock at night and raining, scarcely a time when a
business so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could hope
to attract any customer, but a light was still showing in the small shop
that bore over its window the name of Baxter, and in the even smaller
office at the back the proprietor himself sat reading the latest _Pall
Mall_. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for presently the door
bell gave its announcement, and throwing down his paper Mr Baxter went
forward.
As a matter of fact the dealer had been expecting someone and his manner
as he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller of
importance. But at the first glance towards his visitor the excess of
deference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessed
shopman in the presence of the casual customer.
"Mr Baxter, I think?" said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping
umbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner pocket.
"You hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr Carlyle--two years ago I took up
a case for you----"
"To be sure. Mr Carlyle, the private detective----"
"Inquiry agent," corrected Mr Carlyle precisely.
"Well," smiled Mr Baxter, "for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an
antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I can
do for you?"
"Yes," replied his visitor; "it is my turn to consult you." He had taken
a small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned something
carefully out upon the counter. "What can you tell me about that?"
The dealer gave the coin a moment's scrutiny.
"There is no question about this," he replied. "It is a Sicilian
tetradrachm of Dionysius."
"Yes, I know that--I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tell
you further that it's supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave two
hundred and fifty pounds for at the Brice sale in '94."
"It seems to me that you can tell me more about it than I can tell you,"
remarked Mr Baxter. "What is it that you really want to know?"
"I want to know," replied Mr Carlyle, "whether it is genuine or not."
"Has any doubt been cast upon it?"
"Certain circumstances raised a suspicion--that is all."
The dealer took another look at the tetradrachm through his magnifying
glass, holding it by the edge with the careful touch of an expert. Then
he shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance.
"Of course I could make a guess----"
"No, don't," interrupted Mr Carlyle hastily. "An arrest hangs on it and
nothing short of certainty is any good to me."
"Is that so, Mr Carlyle?" said Mr Baxter, with increased interest.
"Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was a
rare Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I'd stake my reputation on my
opinion, but I do very little in the classical series."
Mr Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned
the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket.
"I had been relying on you," he grumbled reproachfully. "Where on earth
am I to go now?"
"There is always the British Museum."
"Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?"
"Now? No fear!" replied Mr Baxter. "Go round in the morning----"
"But I must know to-night," explained the visitor, reduced to despair
again. "To-morrow will be too late for the purpose."
Mr Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances.
"You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now," he remarked.
"I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to have
an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time."
Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr Baxter's right eye.
"Offmunson he's called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter has traced
his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he--quite naturally--wants a
set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof."
"Very interesting," murmured Mr Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. "I
should love an hour's chat with you about your millionaire
customers--some other time. Just now--look here, Baxter, can't you give
me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who
happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts."
"Why, bless my soul, Mr Carlyle, I don't know a man of them away from
his business," said Mr Baxter, staring. "They may live in Park Lane or
they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there aren't so
many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likely
quarrel over it. You've had to do with 'expert witnesses,' I suppose?"
"I don't want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I
want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Is
there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?"
Mr Baxter's meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he
continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed.
"Stay a bit; there is a man--an amateur--I remember hearing wonderful
things about some time ago. They say he really does know."
"There you are," exclaimed Mr Carlyle, much relieved. "There always is
someone. Who is he?"
"Funny name," replied Baxter. "Something Wynn or Wynn something." He
craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor car that was
drawing to the kerb before his window. "Wynn Carrados! You'll excuse me
now, Mr Carlyle, won't you? This looks like Mr Offmunson."
Mr Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff.
"Wynn Carrados, right. Where does he live?"
"Haven't the remotest idea," replied Baxter, referring the arrangement
of his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror. "I have never seen the
man myself. Now, Mr Carlyle, I'm sorry I can't do any more for you. You
won't mind, will you?"
Mr Carlyle could not pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed the
distinction of holding open the door for the transatlantic
representative of the line of Offa as he went out, and then made his way
through the muddy streets back to his office. There was only one way of
tracing a private individual at such short notice--through the pages of
the directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself by a very
high estimate of his chances.
Fortune favoured him, however. He very soon discovered a Wynn Carrados
living at Richmond, and, better still, further search failed to unearth
another. There was, apparently, only one householder at all events of
that name in the neighbourhood of London. He jotted down the address and
set out for Richmond.
The house was some distance from the station, Mr Carlyle learned. He
took a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He prided
himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of the deductions
which resulted from it--a detail of his business. "It's nothing more
than using one's eyes and putting two and two together," he would
modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather than
impressive, and by the time he had reached the front door of "The
Turrets" he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the
man who lived there.
A man-servant admitted Mr Carlyle and took in his card--his private card
with the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr Carrados
for ten minutes. Luck still favoured him; Mr Carrados was at home and
would see him at once. The servant, the hall through which they passed,
and the room into which he was shown, all contributed something to the
deductions which the quietly observant gentleman was half unconsciously
recording.
"Mr Carlyle," announced the servant.
The room was a library or study. The only occupant, a man of about
Carlyle's own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his
visitor's entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression of
formal courtesy.
"It's very good of you to see me at this hour," apologized the caller.
The conventional expression of Mr Carrados's face changed a little.
"Surely my man has got your name wrong?" he exclaimed. "Isn't it Louis
Calling?"
The visitor stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden
flash of anger or annoyance.
"No, sir," he replied stiffly. "My name is on the card which you have
before you."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr Carrados, with perfect good-humour. "I
hadn't seen it. But I used to know a Calling some years ago--at St
Michael's."
"St Michael's!" Mr Carlyle's features underwent another change, no less
instant and sweeping than before. "St Michael's! Wynn Carrados? Good
heavens! it isn't Max Wynn--old 'Winning' Wynn?"
"A little older and a little fatter--yes," replied Carrados. "I _have_
changed my name, you see."
"Extraordinary thing meeting like this," said his visitor, dropping into
a chair and staring hard at Mr Carrados. "I have changed more than my
name. How did you recognize me?"
"The voice," replied Carrados. "It took me back to that little
smoke-dried attic den of yours where we----"
"My God!" exclaimed Carlyle bitterly, "don't remind me of what we were
going to do in those days." He looked round the well-furnished, handsome
room and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had noticed. "At all
events, you seem fairly comfortable, Wynn."
"I am alternately envied and pitied," replied Carrados, with a placid
tolerance of circumstance that seemed characteristic of him. "Still, as
you say, I am fairly comfortable."
"Envied, I can understand. But why are you pitied?"
"Because I am blind," was the tranquil reply.
"Blind!" exclaimed Mr Carlyle, using his own eyes superlatively. "Do you
mean--literally blind?"
"Literally.... I was riding along a bridle-path through a wood about a
dozen years ago with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twig
sprang back--you know how easily a thing like that happens. It just
flicked my eye--nothing to think twice about."
"And that blinded you?"
"Yes, ultimately. It's called amaurosis."
"I can scarcely believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyes
are full of expression--only a little quieter than they used to be. I
believe you were typing when I came.... Aren't you having me?"
"You miss the dog and the stick?" smiled Carrados. "No; it's a fact."
"What an awful infliction for you, Max. You were always such an
impulsive, reckless sort of fellow--never quiet. You must miss such a
fearful lot."
"Has anyone else recognized you?" asked Carrados quietly.
"Ah, that was the voice, you said," replied Carlyle.
"Yes; but other people heard the voice as well. Only I had no
blundering, self-confident eyes to be hoodwinked."
"That's a rum way of putting it," said Carlyle. "Are your ears never
hoodwinked, may I ask?"
"Not now. Nor my fingers. Nor any of my other senses that have to look
out for themselves."
"Well, well," murmured Mr Carlyle, cut short in his sympathetic
emotions. "I'm glad you take it so well. Of course, if you find it an
advantage to be blind, old man----" He stopped and reddened. "I beg your
pardon," he concluded stiffly.
"Not an advantage perhaps," replied the other thoughtfully. "Still it
has compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore,
new experiences, new powers awakening; strange new perceptions; life in
the fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Louis?"
"I am an ex-solicitor, struck off in connexion with the falsifying of a
trust account, Mr Carrados," replied Carlyle, rising.
"Sit down, Louis," said Carrados suavely. His face, even his incredibly
living eyes, beamed placid good-nature. "The chair on which you will
sit, the roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to which you
have so amiably alluded, are the direct result of falsifying a trust
account. But do I call you 'Mr Carlyle' in consequence? Certainly not,
Louis."
"I did not falsify the account," cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down,
however, and added more quietly: "But why do I tell you all this? I have
never spoken of it before."
"Blindness invites confidence," replied Carrados. "We are out of the
running--human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldn't you? In
my case the account _was_ falsified."
"Of course that's all bunkum, Max," commented Carlyle. "Still, I
appreciate your motive."
"Practically everything I possess was left to me by an American cousin,
on the condition that I took the name of Carrados. He made his fortune
by an ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and unloading
favourably in consequence. And I need hardly remind you that the
receiver is equally guilty with the thief."
"But twice as safe. I know something of that, Max.... Have you any idea
what my business is?"
"You shall tell me," replied Carrados.
"I run a private inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to do
something for a living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed my
appearance and opened an office. I knew the legal side down to the
ground and I got a retired Scotland Yard man to organize the outside
work."
"Excellent!" cried Carrados. "Do you unearth many murders?"
"No," admitted Mr Carlyle; "our business lies mostly on the conventional
lines among divorce and defalcation."
"That's a pity," remarked Carrados. "Do you know, Louis, I always had a
secret ambition to be a detective myself. I have even thought lately
that I might still be able to do something at it if the chance came my
way. That makes you smile?"
"Well, certainly, the idea----"
"Yes, the idea of a blind detective--the blind tracking the alert----"
"Of course, as you say, certain faculties are no doubt quickened," Mr
Carlyle hastened to add considerately, "but, seriously, with the
exception of an artist, I don't suppose there is any man who is more
utterly dependent on his eyes."
Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial exterior
did not betray a shadow of dissent. For a full minute he continued to
smoke as though he derived an actual visual enjoyment from the blue
sprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He had already
placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which that
gentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded as unattainable, and
the matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which the blind man had
brought the box and put it before him had sent a questioning flicker
through Carlyle's mind.
"You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis," he remarked
presently. "Give me your opinion of my latest purchase--the bronze lion
on the cabinet there." Then, as Carlyle's gaze went about the room, he
added quickly: "No, not that cabinet--the one on your left."
Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados's
expression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to
the figure.
"Very nice," he admitted. "Late Flemish, isn't it?"
"No. It is a copy of Vidal's 'Roaring lion.'"
"Vidal?"
"A French artist." The voice became indescribably flat. "He, also, had
the misfortune to be blind, by the way."
"You old humbug, Max!" shrieked Carlyle, "you've been thinking that out
for the last five minutes." Then the unfortunate man bit his lip and
turned his back towards his host.
"Do you remember how we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sanders
and then roast him?" asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smothered
exclamation with which the other man had recalled himself.
"Yes," replied Carlyle quietly. "This is very good," he continued,
addressing himself to the bronze again. "How ever did he do it?"
"With his hands."
"Naturally. But, I mean, how did he study his model?"
"Also with his hands. He called it 'seeing near.'"
"Even with a lion--handled it?"
"In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought the
animal to bay while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts.... You
don't feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?"
Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max's
unquenchable pleasantries, Mr Carlyle was on the point of making a
suitable reply when a sudden thought caused him to smile knowingly. Up
to that point he had, indeed, completely forgotten the object of his
visit. Now that he remembered the doubtful Dionysius and Mr Baxter's
recommendation he immediately assumed that some mistake had been made.
Either Max was not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else the
dealer had been misinformed; for although his host was wonderfully
expert in the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he could
decide the genuineness of a coin without seeing it. The opportunity
seemed a good one of getting even with Carrados by taking him at his
word.
"Yes," he accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he recrossed
the room; "yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems to be a
rather remarkable fraud." He put the tetradrachm into his host's hand.
"What do you make of it?"
For a few seconds Carrados handled the piece with the delicate
manipulation of his finger-tips while Carlyle looked on with a
self-appreciative grin. Then with equal gravity the blind man weighed
the coin in the balance of his hand. Finally he touched it with his
tongue.
"Well?" demanded the other.
"Of course I have not much to go on, and if I was more fully in your
confidence I might come to another conclusion----"
"Yes, yes," interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement.
"Then I should advise you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun,
communicate with the police authorities of Padua for particulars of the
career of Helene Brunesi, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he should
return to London to see what further depredations have been made in his
cabinet."
Mr Carlyle's groping hand sought and found a chair, on to which he
dropped blankly. His eyes were unable to detach themselves for a single
moment from the very ordinary spectacle of Mr Carrados's mildly
benevolent face, while the sterilized ghost of his now forgotten
amusement still lingered about his features.
"Good heavens!" he managed to articulate, "how do you know?"
"Isn't that what you wanted of me?" asked Carrados suavely.
"Don't humbug, Max," said Carlyle severely. "This is no joke." An
undefined mistrust of his own powers suddenly possessed him in the
presence of this mystery. "How do you come to know of Nina Brun and Lord
Seastoke?"
"You are a detective, Louis," replied Carrados. "How does one know these
things? By using one's eyes and putting two and two together."
Carlyle groaned and flung out an arm petulantly.
"Is it all bunkum, Max? Do you really see all the time--though that
doesn't go very far towards explaining it."
"Like Vidal, I see very well--at close quarters," replied Carrados,
lightly running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrachm.
"For longer range I keep another pair of eyes. Would you like to test
them?"
Mr Carlyle's assent was not very gracious; it was, in fact, faintly
sulky. He was suffering the annoyance of feeling distinctly unimpressive
in his own department; but he was also curious.
"The bell is just behind you, if you don't mind," said his host.
"Parkinson will appear. You might take note of him while he is in."
The man who had admitted Mr Carlyle proved to be Parkinson.
"This gentleman is Mr Carlyle, Parkinson," explained Carrados the moment
the man entered. "You will remember him for the future?"
Parkinson's apologetic eye swept the visitor from head to foot, but so
lightly and swiftly that it conveyed to that gentleman the comparison
of being very deftly dusted.
"I will endeavour to do so, sir," replied Parkinson, turning again to
his master.
"I shall be at home to Mr Carlyle whenever he calls. That is all."
"Very well, sir."
"Now, Louis," remarked Mr Carrados briskly, when the door had closed
again, "you have had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What is
he like?"
"In what way?"
"I mean as a matter of description. I am a blind man--I haven't seen my
servant for twelve years--what idea can you give me of him? I asked you
to notice."
"I know you did, but your Parkinson is the sort of man who has very
little about him to describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary. His
height is about average----"
"Five feet nine," murmured Carrados. "Slightly above the mean."
"Scarcely noticeably so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. No
particularly marked features. Dark eyes. Good teeth."
"False," interposed Carrados. "The teeth--not the statement."
"Possibly," admitted Mr Carlyle. "I am not a dental expert and I had no
opportunity of examining Mr Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what is
the drift of all this?"
"His clothes?"
"Oh, just the ordinary evening dress of a valet. There is not much room
for variety in that."
"You noticed, in fact, nothing special by which Parkinson could be
identified?"
"Well, he wore an unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of the
left hand."
"But that is removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole--a
small one, I admit--on his chin. And you a human sleuth-hound. Oh,
Louis!"
"At all events," retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this
good-humoured satire, although it was easy enough to see in it
Carrados's affectionate intention--"at all events, I dare say I can give
as good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me."
"That is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again."
"Seriously?"
"Quite. I am trying my eyes against yours. If I can't give you fifty out
of a hundred I'll renounce my private detectorial ambition for ever."
"It isn't quite the same," objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell.
"Come in and close the door, Parkinson," said Carrados when the man
appeared. "Don't look at Mr Carlyle again--in fact, you had better stand
with your back towards him, he won't mind. Now describe to me his
appearance as you observed it."
Parkinson tendered his respectful apologies to Mr Carlyle for the
liberty he was compelled to take, by the deferential quality of his
voice.
"Mr Carlyle, sir, wears patent leather boots of about size seven and
very little used. There are five buttons, but on the left boot one
button--the third up--is missing, leaving loose threads and not the more
usual metal fastener. Mr Carlyle's trousers, sir, are of a dark
material, a dark grey line of about a quarter of an inch width on a
darker ground. The bottoms are turned permanently up and are, just now,
a little muddy, if I may say so."
"Very muddy," interposed Mr Carlyle generously. "It is a wet night,
Parkinson."
"Yes, sir; very unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I will
brush you in the hall. The mud is dry now, I notice. Then, sir,"
continued Parkinson, reverting to the business in hand, "there are dark
green cashmere hose. A curb-pattern key-chain passes into the left-hand
trouser pocket."
From the visitor's nether garments the photographic-eyed Parkinson
proceeded to higher ground, and with increasing wonder Mr Carlyle
listened to the faithful catalogue of his possessions. His
fetter-and-link albert of gold and platinum was minutely described. His
spotted blue ascot, with its gentlemanly pearl scarfpin, was set forth,
and the fact that the buttonhole in the left lapel of his morning coat
showed signs of use was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he recorded but
he made no deductions. A handkerchief carried in the cuff of the right
sleeve was simply that to him and not an indication that Mr Carlyle was,
indeed, left-handed.
But a more delicate part of Parkinson's undertaking remained. He
approached it with a double cough.
"As regards Mr Carlyle's personal appearance; sir----"
"No, enough!" cried the gentleman concerned hastily. "I am more than
satisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson."
"I have trained myself to suit my master's requirements, sir," replied
the man. He looked towards Mr Carrados, received a nod and withdrew.
Mr Carlyle was the first to speak.
"That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max," he
remarked thoughtfully. "But, of course----"
"I don't think that he would take it," replied Carrados, in a voice of
equally detached speculation. "He suits me very well. But you have the
chance of using his services--indirectly."
"You still mean that--seriously?"
"I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis.
It is really--to an Englishman--almost painful. Is there something
inherently comic about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?"
"No, my friend," replied Mr Carlyle, "but there is something
essentially prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now what
is it?"
"It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that," replied Carrados.
"It is, well, partly vanity, partly _ennui_, partly"--certainly there
was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic now--"partly
hope."
Mr Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject.
"Those are three tolerable motives," he acquiesced. "I'll do anything
you want, Max, on one condition."
"Agreed. And it is?"
"That you tell me how you knew so much of this affair." He tapped the
silver coin which lay on the table near them. "I am not easily
flabbergasted," he added.
"You won't believe that there is nothing to explain--that it was purely
second-sight?"
"No," replied Carlyle tersely; "I won't."
"You are quite right. And yet the thing is very simple."
"They always are--when you know," soliloquized the other. "That's what
makes them so confoundedly difficult when you don't."
"Here is this one then. In Padua, which seems to be regaining its old
reputation as the birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, there
lives an ingenious craftsman named Pietro Stelli. This simple soul, who
possesses a talent not inferior to that of Cavino at his best, has for
many years turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation of
forging rare Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student of
certain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have been
familiar with Stelli's workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to have
come under the influence of an international crook called--at the
moment--Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli's genius on a
royal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is--and really is, I
believe--Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the enterprise."
"Quite so," nodded Mr Carlyle, as his host paused.
"You see the whole sequence, of course?"
"Not exactly--not in detail," confessed Mr Carlyle.
"Dompierre's idea was to gain access to some of the most celebrated
cabinets of Europe and substitute Stelli's fabrications for the genuine
coins. The princely collection of rarities that he would thus amass
might be difficult to dispose of safely but I have no doubt that he had
matured his plans. Helene, in the person of Nina Bran, an Anglicised
French parlourmaid--a part which she fills to perfection--was to obtain
wax impressions of the most valuable pieces and to make the exchange
when the counterfeits reached her. In this way it was obviously hoped
that the fraud would not come to light until long after the real coins
had been sold, and I gather that she has already done her work
successfully in several houses. Then, impressed by her excellent
references and capable manner, my housekeeper engaged her, and for a few
weeks she went about her duties here. It was fatal to this detail of
the scheme, however, that I have the misfortune to be blind. I am told
that Helene has so innocently angelic a face as to disarm suspicion, but
I was incapable of being impressed and that good material was thrown
away. But one morning my material fingers--which, of course, knew
nothing of Helene's angelic face--discovered an unfamiliar touch about
the surface of my favourite Euclideas, and, although there was doubtless
nothing to be seen, my critical sense of smell reported that wax had
been recently pressed against it. I began to make discreet inquiries and
in the meantime my cabinets went to the local bank for safety. Helene
countered by receiving a telegram from Angiers, calling her to the
death-bed of her aged mother. The aged mother succumbed; duty compelled
Helene to remain at the side of her stricken patriarchal father, and
doubtless The Turrets was written off the syndicate's operations as a
bad debt."
"Very interesting," admitted Mr Carlyle; "but at the risk of seeming
obtuse"--his manner had become delicately chastened--"I must say that I
fail to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and this
particular forgery--assuming that it is a forgery."
"Set your mind at rest about that, Louis," replied Carrados. "It is a
forgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelli could have
achieved. That is the essential connexion. Of course, there are
accessories. A private detective coming urgently to see me with a
notable tetradrachm in his pocket, which he announces to be the clue to
a remarkable fraud--well, really, Louis, one scarcely needs to be blind
to see through that."
"And Lord Seastoke? I suppose you happened to discover that Nina Brun
had gone there?"
"No, I cannot claim to have discovered that, or I should certainly have
warned him at once when I found out--only recently--about the gang. As a
matter of fact, the last information I had of Lord Seastoke was a line
in yesterday's _Morning Post_ to the effect that he was still at Cairo.
But many of these pieces----" He brushed his finger almost lovingly
across the vivid chariot race that embellished the reverse of the coin,
and broke off to remark: "You really ought to take up the subject,
Louis. You have no idea how useful it might prove to you some day."
"I really think I must," replied Carlyle grimly. "Two hundred and fifty
pounds the original of this cost, I believe."
"Cheap, too; it would make five hundred pounds in New York to-day. As I
was saying, many are literally unique. This gem by Kimon is--here is his
signature, you see; Peter is particularly good at lettering--and as I
handled the genuine tetradrachm about two years ago, when Lord Seastoke
exhibited it at a meeting of our society in Albemarle Street, there is
nothing at all wonderful in my being able to fix the locale of your
mystery. Indeed, I feel that I ought to apologize for it all being so
simple."
"I think," remarked Mr Carlyle, critically examining the loose threads
on his left boot, "that the apology on that head would be more
appropriate from me."
THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM
"Louis," exclaimed Mr Carrados, with the air of genial gaiety that
Carlyle had found so incongruous to his conception of a blind man, "you
have a mystery somewhere about you! I know it by your step."
Nearly a month had passed since the incident of the false Dionysius had
led to the two men meeting. It was now December. Whatever Mr Carlyle's
step might indicate to the inner eye it betokened to the casual observer
the manner of a crisp, alert, self-possessed man of business. Carlyle,
in truth, betrayed nothing of the pessimism and despondency that had
marked him on the earlier occasion.
"You have only yourself to thank that it is a very poor one," he
retorted. "If you hadn't held me to a hasty promise----"
"To give me an option on the next case that baffled you, no matter what
it was----"
"Just so. The consequence is that you get a very unsatisfactory affair
that has no special interest to an amateur and is only baffling because
it is--well----"
"Well, baffling?"
"Exactly, Max. Your would-be jest has discovered the proverbial truth. I
need hardly tell you that it is only the insoluble that is finally
baffling and this is very probably insoluble. You remember the awful
smash on the Central and Suburban at Knight's Cross Station a few weeks
ago?"
"Yes," replied Carrados, with interest. "I read the whole ghastly
details at the time."
"You read?" exclaimed his friend suspiciously.
"I still use the familiar phrases," explained Carrados, with a smile.
"As a matter of fact, my secretary reads to me. I mark what I want to
hear and when he comes at ten o'clock we clear off the morning papers in
no time."
"And how do you know what to mark?" demanded Mr Carlyle cunningly.
Carrados's right hand, lying idly on the table, moved to a newspaper
near. He ran his finger along a column heading, his eyes still turned
towards his visitor.
"'The Money Market. Continued from page 2. British Railways,'" he
announced.
"Extraordinary," murmured Carlyle.
"Not very," said Carrados. "If someone dipped a stick in treacle and
wrote 'Rats' across a marble slab you would probably be able to
distinguish what was there, blindfold."
"Probably," admitted Mr Carlyle. "At all events we will not test the
experiment."
"The difference to you of treacle on a marble background is scarcely
greater than that of printers' ink on newspaper to me. But anything
smaller than pica I do not read with comfort, and below long primer I
cannot read at all. Hence the secretary. Now the accident, Louis."
"The accident: well, you remember all about that. An ordinary Central
and Suburban passenger train, non-stop at Knight's Cross, ran past the
signal and crashed into a crowded electric train that was just beginning
to move out. It was like sending a garden roller down a row of
handlights. Two carriages of the electric train were flattened out of
existence; the next two were broken up. For the first time on an English
railway there was a good stand-up smash between a heavy steam-engine and
a train of light cars, and it was 'bad for the coo.'"
"Twenty-seven killed, forty something injured, eight died since,"
commented Carrados.
"That was bad for the Co.," said Carlyle. "Well, the main fact was plain
enough. The heavy train was in the wrong. But was the engine-driver
responsible? He claimed, and he claimed vehemently from the first and he
never varied one iota, that he had a 'clear' signal--that is to say, the
green light, it being dark. The signalman concerned was equally dogged
that he never pulled off the signal--that it was at 'danger' when the
accident happened and that it had been for five minutes before.
Obviously, they could not both be right."
"Why, Louis?" asked Mr Carrados smoothly.
"The signal must either have been up or down--red or green."
"Did you ever notice the signals on the Great Northern Railway, Louis?"
"Not particularly. Why?"
"One winterly day, about the year when you and I were concerned in being
born, the engine-driver of a Scotch express received the 'clear' from a
signal near a little Huntingdon station called Abbots Ripton. He went on
and crashed into a goods train and into the thick of the smash a down
express mowed its way. Thirteen killed and the usual tale of injured. He
was positive that the signal gave him a 'clear'; the signalman was
equally confident that he had never pulled it off the 'danger.' Both
were right, and yet the signal was in working order. As I said, it was a
winterly day; it had been snowing hard and the snow froze and
accumulated on the upper edge of the signal arm until its weight bore it
down. That is a fact that no fiction writer dare have invented, but to
this day every signal on the Great Northern pivots from the centre of
the arm instead of from the end, in memory of that snowstorm."
"That came out at the inquest, I presume?" said Mr Carlyle. "We have had
the Board of Trade inquiry and the inquest here and no explanation is
forthcoming. Everything was in perfect order. It rests between the word
of the signalman and the word of the engine-driver--not a jot of direct
evidence either way. Which is right?"
"That is what you are going to find out, Louis?" suggested Carrados.
"It is what I am being paid for finding out," admitted Mr Carlyle
frankly. "But so far we are just where the inquest left it, and, between
ourselves, I candidly can't see an inch in front of my face in the
matter."
"Nor can I," said the blind man, with a rather wry smile. "Never mind.
The engine-driver is your client, of course?"
"Yes," admitted Carlyle. "But how the deuce did you know?"
"Let us say that your sympathies are enlisted on his behalf. The jury
were inclined to exonerate the signalman, weren't they? What has the
company done with your man?"
"Both are suspended. Hutchins, the driver, hears that he may probably be
given charge of a lavatory at one of the stations. He is a decent,
bluff, short-spoken old chap, with his heart in his work. Just now
you'll find him at his worst--bitter and suspicious. The thought of
swabbing down a lavatory and taking pennies all day is poisoning him."
"Naturally. Well, there we have honest Hutchins: taciturn, a little
touchy perhaps, grown grey in the service of the company, and
manifesting quite a bulldog-like devotion to his favourite 538."
"Why, that actually was the number of his engine--how do you know it?"
demanded Carlyle sharply.
"It was mentioned two or three times at the inquest, Louis," replied
Carrados mildly.
"And you remembered--with no reason to?"
"You can generally trust a blind man's memory, especially if he has
taken the trouble to develop it."
"Then you will remember that Hutchins did not make a very good
impression at the time. He was surly and irritable under the ordeal. I
want you to see the case from all sides."
"He called the signalman--Mead--a 'lying young dog,' across the room, I
believe. Now, Mead, what is he like? You have seen him, of course?"
"Yes. He does not impress me favourably. He is glib, ingratiating, and
distinctly 'greasy.' He has a ready answer for everything almost before
the question is out of your mouth. He has thought of everything."
"And now you are going to tell me something, Louis," said Carrados
encouragingly.
Mr Carlyle laughed a little to cover an involuntary movement of
surprise.
"There is a suggestive line that was not touched at the inquiries," he
admitted. "Hutchins has been a saving man all his life, and he has
received good wages. Among his class he is regarded as wealthy. I
daresay that he has five hundred pounds in the bank. He is a widower
with one daughter, a very nice-mannered girl of about twenty. Mead is a
young man, and he and the girl are sweethearts--have been informally
engaged for some time. But old Hutchins would not hear of it; he seems
to have taken a dislike to the signalman from the first and latterly he
had forbidden him to come to his house or his daughter to speak to him."
"Excellent, Louis," cried Carrados in great delight. "We shall clear
your man in a blaze of red and green lights yet and hang the glib,
'greasy' signalman from his own signal-post."
"It is a significant fact, seriously?"
"It is absolutely convincing."
"It may have been a slip, a mental lapse on Mead's part which he
discovered the moment it was too late, and then, being too cowardly to
admit his fault, and having so much at stake, he took care to make
detection impossible. It may have been that, but my idea is rather that
probably it was neither quite pure accident nor pure design. I can
imagine Mead meanly pluming himself over the fact that the life of this
man who stands in his way, and whom he must cordially dislike, lies in
his power. I can imagine the idea becoming an obsession as he dwells on
it. A dozen times with his hand on the lever he lets his mind explore
the possibilities of a moment's defection. Then one day he pulls the
signal off in sheer bravado--and hastily puts it at danger again. He may
have done it once or he may have done it oftener before he was caught in
a fatal moment of irresolution. The chances are about even that the
engine-driver would be killed. In any case he would be disgraced, for it
is easier on the face of it to believe that a man might run past a
danger signal in absentmindedness, without noticing it, than that a man
should pull off a signal and replace it without being conscious of his
actions."
"The fireman was killed. Does your theory involve the certainty of the
fireman being killed, Louis?"
"No," said Carlyle. "The fireman is a difficulty, but looking at it from
Mead's point of view--whether he has been guilty of an error or a
crime--it resolves itself into this: First, the fireman may be killed.
Second, he may not notice the signal at all. Third, in any case he will
loyally corroborate his driver and the good old jury will discount
that."
Carrados smoked thoughtfully, his open, sightless eyes merely appearing
to be set in a tranquil gaze across the room.
"It would not be an improbable explanation," he said presently.
"Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would say: 'People do not do these
things.' But you and I, who have in our different ways studied
criminology, know that they sometimes do, or else there would be no
curious crimes. What have you done on that line?"
To anyone who could see, Mr Carlyle's expression conveyed an answer.
"You are behind the scenes, Max. What was there for me to do? Still I
must do something for my money. Well, I have had a very close inquiry
made confidentially among the men. There might be a whisper of one of
them knowing more than had come out--a man restrained by friendship, or
enmity, or even grade jealousy. Nothing came of that. Then there was the
remote chance that some private person had noticed the signal without
attaching any importance to it then, one who would be able to identify
it still by something associated with the time. I went over the line
myself. Opposite the signal the line on one side is shut in by a high
blank wall; on the other side are houses, but coming below the butt-end
of a scullery the signal does not happen to be visible from any road or
from any window."
"My poor Louis!" said Carrados, in friendly ridicule. "You were at the
end of your tether?"
"I was," admitted Carlyle. "And now that you know the sort of job it is
I don't suppose that you are keen on wasting your time over it."
"That would hardly be fair, would it?" said Carrados reasonably. "No,
Louis, I will take over your honest old driver and your greasy young
signalman and your fatal signal that cannot be seen from anywhere."
"But it is an important point for you to remember, Max, that although
the signal cannot be seen from the box, if the mechanism had gone wrong,
or anyone tampered with the arm, the automatic indicator would at once
have told Mead that the green light was showing. Oh, I have gone very
thoroughly into the technical points, I assure you."
"I must do so too," commented Mr Carrados gravely.
"For that matter, if there is anything you want to know, I dare say
that I can tell you," suggested his visitor. "It might save your time."
"True," acquiesced Carrados. "I should like to know whether anyone
belonging to the houses that bound the line there came of age or got
married on the twenty-sixth of November."
Mr Carlyle looked across curiously at his host.
"I really do not know, Max," he replied, in his crisp, precise way.
"What on earth has that got to do with it, may I inquire?"
"The only explanation of the Pont St Lin swing-bridge disaster of '75
was the reflection of a green bengal light on a cottage window."
Mr Carlyle smiled his indulgence privately.
"My dear chap, you mustn't let your retentive memory of obscure
happenings run away with you," he remarked wisely. "In nine cases out of
ten the obvious explanation is the true one. The difficulty, as here,
lies in proving it. Now, you would like to see these men?"
"I expect so; in any case, I will see Hutchins first."
"Both live in Holloway. Shall I ask Hutchins to come here to see
you--say to-morrow? He is doing nothing."
"No," replied Carrados. "To-morrow I must call on my brokers and my time
may be filled up."
"Quite right; you mustn't neglect your own affairs for
this--experiment," assented Carlyle.
"Besides, I should prefer to drop in on Hutchins at his own home. Now,
Louis, enough of the honest old man for one night. I have a lovely thing
by Eumenes that I want to show you. To-day is--Tuesday. Come to dinner
on Sunday and pour the vials of your ridicule on my want of success."
"That's an amiable way of putting it," replied Carlyle. "All right, I
will."
Two hours later Carrados was again in his study, apparently, for a
wonder, sitting idle. Sometimes he smiled to himself, and once or twice
he laughed a little, but for the most part his pleasant, impassive face
reflected no emotion and he sat with his useless eyes tranquilly fixed
on an unseen distance. It was a fantastic caprice of the man to mock his
sightlessness by a parade of light, and under the soft brilliance of a
dozen electric brackets the room was as bright as day. At length he
stood up and rang the bell.
"I suppose Mr Greatorex isn't still here by any chance, Parkinson?" he
asked, referring to his secretary.
"I think not, sir, but I will ascertain," replied the man.
"Never mind. Go to his room and bring me the last two files of _The
Times_. Now"--when he returned--"turn to the earliest you have there.
The date?"
"November the second."
"That will do. Find the Money Market; it will be in the Supplement. Now
look down the columns until you come to British Railways."
"I have it, sir."
"Central and Suburban. Read the closing price and the change."
"Central and Suburban Ordinary, 66-1/2 - 67-1/2, fall 1/8. Preferred
Ordinary, 81 - 81-1/2, no change. Deferred Ordinary, 27-1/2 - 27-3/4, fall
1/4. That is all, sir."
"Now take a paper about a week on. Read the Deferred only."
"27 - 27-1/4, no change."
"Another week."
"29-1/2 - 30, rise 5/8."
"Another."
"31-1/2 - 32-1/2, rise 1."
"Very good. Now on Tuesday the twenty-seventh November."
"31-7/8 - 32-3/4, rise 1/2."
"Yes. The next day."
"24-1/2 - 23-1/2, fall 9."
"Quite so, Parkinson. There had been an accident, you see."
"Yes, sir. Very unpleasant accident. Jane knows a person whose sister's
young man has a cousin who had his arm torn off in it--torn off at the
socket, she says, sir. It seems to bring it home to one, sir."
"That is all. Stay--in the paper you have, look down the first money
column and see if there is any reference to the Central and Suburban."
"Yes, sir. 'City and Suburbans, which after their late depression on the
projected extension of the motor bus service, had been steadily
creeping up on the abandonment of the scheme, and as a result of their
own excellent traffic returns, suffered a heavy slump through the
lamentable accident of Thursday night. The Deferred in particular at one
time fell eleven points as it was felt that the possible dividend, with
which rumour has of late been busy, was now out of the question.'"
"Yes; that is all. Now you can take the papers back. And let it be a
warning to you, Parkinson, not to invest your savings in speculative
railway deferreds."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, I will endeavour to remember." He lingered
for a moment as he shook the file of papers level. "I may say, sir, that
I have my eye on a small block of cottage property at Acton. But even
cottage property scarcely seems safe from legislative depredation now,
sir."
The next day Mr Carrados called on his brokers in the city. It is to be
presumed that he got through his private business quicker than he
expected, for after leaving Austin Friars he continued his journey to
Holloway, where he found Hutchins at home and sitting morosely before
his kitchen fire. Rightly assuming that his luxuriant car would involve
him in a certain amount of public attention in Klondyke Street, the
blind man dismissed it some distance from the house, and walked the rest
of the way, guided by the almost imperceptible touch of Parkinson's arm.
"Here is a gentleman to see you, father," explained Miss Hutchins, who
had come to the door. She divined the relative positions of the two
visitors at a glance.
"Then why don't you take him into the parlour?" grumbled the ex-driver.
His face was a testimonial of hard work and general sobriety but at the
moment one might hazard from his voice and manner that he had been
drinking earlier in the day.
"I don't think that the gentleman would be impressed by the difference
between our parlour and our kitchen," replied the girl quaintly, "and it
is warmer here."
"What's the matter with the parlour now?" demanded her father sourly.
"It was good enough for your mother and me. It used to be good enough
for you."
"There is nothing the matter with it, nor with the kitchen either." She
turned impassively to the two who had followed her along the narrow
passage. "Will you go in, sir?"