Rolfe was spending a quiet evening in his room after a trying day's
inquiries into a confidence trick case; inquiries so fruitless that they
had brought down on his head an official reproof from Inspector
Chippenfield.
Rolfe had left Scotland Yard that evening in a somewhat despondent frame
of mind in consequence, but a brisk walk home and a good supper had done
him so much good, that with a tranquil mind and his pipe in his mouth, he
was able to devote himself to the hobby of his leisure hours with keen
enjoyment.
This hobby would have excited the wondering contempt of Joe Leaver, whose
frequent attendance at cinema theatres had led him to the conclusion that
police detectives--who, unlike his master, had to take the rough with the
smooth--spent their spare time practising revolver shooting, and throwing
daggers at an ace of hearts on the wall. Rolfe's hobby was nothing more
exciting than stamp collecting. He was deeply versed in the lore of
stamps, and his private ambition was to become the possessor of a "blue
Mauritius." His collection, though extensive, was by no means of fabulous
value, being made up chiefly of modest purchases from the stamp
collecting shops, and finds in the waste-paper-baskets at Scotland Yard
after the arrival of the foreign mails.
That day he had made a particularly good haul from the
waste-paper-baskets, for his "catch" included several comparatively good
specimens from Japan and Fiji. He sat gloating over these treasures,
examining them carefully and holding each one up to the light as he
separated it from the piece of paper to which it had been affixed. He
pasted them one by one in his stamp album with loving, lingering fingers,
adjusting each stamp in its little square in the book with meticulous
care. He was so absorbed in this occupation that he did not hear the
ascending footsteps drawing nearer to his door, and did not see a visitor
at the door when the footsteps ceased. It was Crewe's voice that recalled
him back from the stamp collector's imaginary world.
"Why, Mr. Crewe," said Rolfe, with evident pleasure, "who'd have thought
of seeing you?"
"Your landlady asked me if I'd come up myself," said Crewe, in explaining
his intrusion. "She's 'too much worried and put about, to say nothing of
having a bad back,' to show me upstairs."
"I've never known her to be well," said Rolfe, with a laugh. "Every
morning when she brings up my breakfast I've got to hear details of her
bad back which should be kept for the confidential ear of the doctor. But
she regards me as a son, I think--I've been here so long. But now you are
here, Mr. Crewe--" Rolfe waited in polite expectation that his visitor
would disclose the object of his visit.
But Crewe seemed in no hurry to do so. He produced his cigar case and
offered Rolfe a cigar, which the latter accepted with a pleasant
recollection of the excellent flavour of the cigars the private detective
kept. When each of them had his cigar well alight, Crewe glanced at the
open stamp album and commenced talking about stamps. It was a subject
which Rolfe was always willing to discuss. Crewe declared that he was an
ignorant outsider as far as stamps were concerned, but he professed to
have a respectful admiration for those who immersed themselves in such a
fascinating subject. Rolfe, with the fervid egoism of the collector,
talked about stamps for half an hour without recalling that his visitor
must have come to talk about something else.
"I've got a small stamp collection in my office," said Crewe, when Rolfe
paused for a moment. "It belonged to that Jewish diamond merchant who was
shot in Hatton Gardens two years ago. You remember his case?"
"Rather! That was a smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Crewe, in laying
your hands on the woman who did it and getting back the diamond."
Crewe smiled in response.
"The Jew was very grateful, poor fellow. He died in the hospital after
the trial, so she was lucky to escape with twelve years. He left me a
diamond ring and a stamp album that had come into his possession."
"I should like to see it," said Rolfe eagerly. "It is more than likely
that there are some good specimens in it. The Jews are keen
collectors. If you let me have a look at it, I'll tell you what the
collection is worth."
"You can have it altogether," said Crewe. "I'll send my boy Joe round
with it in the morning."
"Oh, Mr. Crewe, it's very good of you," said Rolfe, with the covetousness
of the collector shining in his eyes.
"Nonsense! Why shouldn't you have it? But I didn't come round here solely
to talk about stamps, Rolfe. I came to have a little chat about the
Riversbrook case. How are you getting on with it?"
"Why, really," said Rolfe, "I've not done much with it since, since--"
"Since Birchill was acquitted, eh! But you are not letting it drop
altogether, are you? That would be a pity--such an interesting case.
Whom have you your eye on now as the right man?"
Rolfe, who thought he detected a suspicion of banter in Crewe's
remarks, evaded the latter question by answering the first part of
Crewe's inquiry.
"Why hardly that, Mr. Crewe. But the chief is not very keen on the case.
Birchill's acquittal was too much of a blow to him. He reckons that
nowadays juries are too soft-hearted to convict on a capital charge."
"It's just as well that they are too soft-hearted to convict the wrong
man," said Crewe.
"Yes; you told me from the first that we were on the wrong track," was
the reply. "I haven't forgotten that and the chief is not allowed to
forget it, either. All the men at the Yard know that you held the
opinion that we had got hold of the wrong man when we arrested Birchill,
and he has had to stand so much chaff in the office, that he's pretty raw
about it." Rolfe spoke in the detached tone of a junior who had no share
in his chief's mistakes or their attendant humiliation, and he added,
"That's once more that you've scored over Scotland Yard, Mr. Crewe, and
you ought to be proud of it." He glanced covertly at Crewe to see how he
took the flattery.
"So you've done very little about the case since Birchill was acquitted?"
was his only remark.
"I've been so busy," replied Rolfe, again evading the question, and
avoiding meeting Crewe's glance by turning over the leaves of his stamp
album. "You see, there has been a rush of work at Scotland Yard lately.
There is that big burglary at Lord Emden's, and the case of the woman
whose body was found in the river lock at Peyton, and half a dozen other
cases, all important in their way. There has been quite an epidemic of
crime lately, as you know, Mr. Crewe. I don't seem to get a minute to
myself these times."
"Rolfe," said Crewe drily, "you protest too much. You don't suppose that
after coming over here to see you that I can be deceived by such talk?"
Rolfe flushed at these uncompromising words, but before he could speak
Crewe proceeded in a milder tone.
"I don't blame you a bit for trying to put me off. It's all part of the
game. We're rivals, in a sense, and you are quite right not to lose sight
of that fact. But as a detective, Rolfe, your methods lack polish.
Really, I blush for them. You might have known that I came over here to
see you to-night because I had an important object in view, and you
should have tried to find out what it was before playing your own
cards,--and such cards, too! You're sadly lacking in finesse, Rolfe.
You'd never make a chess player; your concealed intentions are too
easily discovered. You must try not to be so transparent if you want to
succeed in your profession."
Crewe delivered his reproof with such good humour that Rolfe stared at
him, as if unable to make out what his visitor was driving at.
"I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Crewe," he said at length.
"Oh, yes, you do. You know I'm speaking about your latest move in the
Riversbrook case, which you've been so busy with of late. And I've come
to tell you in a friendly way that once more you're on the wrong track."
"What do you mean?" asked Rolfe quickly.
"Why, Princes Gate, of course," replied Crewe cheerily. "You don't
suppose that a fine-looking young man like yourself could be seen in the
neighbourhood of Princes Gate without causing a flutter among feminine
hearts there, do you?"
"So the servants have been talking, have they?" muttered Rolfe.
"They have and they haven't. But that's beside the point. What I want to
say is that you're on the wrong track in suspecting Mrs. Holymead, and I
strongly advise you to drop your inquiries if you don't want to get
yourself into hot water. She's as innocent of the murder of Sir Horace
Fewbanks as Birchill is, but you cannot afford to make a false shot in
the case of a lady of her social standing, as you did with a criminal
like Birchill."
At this rebuke Rolfe gave way to irritation.
"Look here, Mr. Crewe, I'll thank you to mind your own business," he
said. "It's got nothing to do with you where I make inquiries. I'll have
you remember that! I don't interfere with you, and I won't have you
interfering with me."
"But I'm interfering only for your own good, man! What do you suppose I'm
doing it for? I tell you you're riding for a very bad fall in suspecting
Mrs. Holymead and shadowing her."
Crewe's plain words were an echo of a secret fear which Rolfe had
entertained from the time his suspicions were directed towards Mrs.
Holymead. But he was not going to allow Crewe to think he was alarmed.
"If I'm making inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, it's because I have ample
justification for doing so," he said stiffly.
"And I tell you that you have not."
"Prove it!" exclaimed Rolfe defiantly.
Crewe produced from his pocket a revolver and a lady's handkerchief, and
handed them to Rolfe without speaking.
Rolfe's embarrassment was almost equal to his astonishment as he examined
the articles. In the handkerchief with its missing corner, he speedily
recognised something for which he had searched in vain. He had never
confided to Crewe the discovery of the missing corner in the dead man's
hand, and therefore the production of the handkerchief by Crewe
considerably embarrassed him. He longed to ask Crewe how he had obtained
possession of the handkerchief, but he could not trust his voice to frame
the question without betraying his feelings, so he picked up the revolver
and examined it closely. Then he put it down and again gave his attention
to the handkerchief, bending his head over it so that Crewe should not
see his face.
"You do not seem very astonished at my finds, Rolfe," said Crewe
quizzically. "Perhaps you've seen these articles before?"
"No, I haven't," said Rolfe, still avoiding his visitor's eye.
"Well, the torn handkerchief is not exactly new to you," said Crewe.
"You've got the missing part; you found it in Sir Horace's hand after he
was murdered."
"You're too clever for me, and that's the simple truth, Mr. Crewe,"
said Rolfe, in a mortified tone. "I did find a small piece of a
lady's handkerchief in his hand, and here it is." He produced his
pocket-book and took out the piece. "How you found out I had it, is
more than I know."
"Mere guess-work," said Crewe.
Rolfe shook his head slowly.
"I know better than that," he said. "You're deep. You don't miss much. I
wish now that I had told you about that bit of handkerchief at the first.
But Chippenfield and I wanted to have all the credit of elucidating the
Riversbrook mystery. I hunted high and low to get trace of this
handkerchief, but I couldn't. And now you've beaten me, although you
couldn't have known at first that there was such a thing as a missing
handkerchief in the case. I hope you bear me no malice, Mr. Crewe."
"What for, Rolfe?"
"For not telling you about the handkerchief, after I found this piece in
Sir Horace's hand."
"Not in the least," said Crewe. "Why should you have told me? I don't
tell you everything that I find out. It's all part of the game. That
piece of the handkerchief was a good find, Rolfe, and I congratulate you
on getting it. How did you come to discover it?"
"I was trying to force open the murdered man's hand, and I found it
clenched between the little finger and the next. Of course it was not
visible with his hand closed. Chippenfield, who missed it, didn't
half like my discovery, and all along he underestimated the value of
it as a clue."
"Well, he has had to pay for his folly."
"He has, and serves him right," replied Rolfe viciously. "He's the most
pig-headed, obstinate, vain, narrow-minded man you could come across." It
occurred to Rolfe that it was not exactly good form on his part to
condemn his superior officer so vigorously in the presence of a rival, so
he broke off abruptly and asked Crewe how he came into possession of the
revolver and handkerchief.
Crewe's reply was that he had obtained these articles under a promise of
secrecy from some one who had assured him that Mrs. Holymead had no
connection with the crime. When he was at liberty to tell the story as it
had been told to him, Rolfe would be the first to hear it.
"Mrs. Holymead had no connection with the crime?" exclaimed Rolfe
impatiently. "Perhaps you don't know that the morning after the murder
was discovered she went out to Riversbrook and removed some secret papers
from the murdered man's desk--papers that he had been in the habit of
hiding in a secret drawer?"
"Yes, I know that," said Crewe.
"Well, doesn't that look as if she knew something about the crime?"
"Not necessarily."
"Well, to me it does. What were these secret papers? They were letters,
I am told."
"I believe so. And you, Rolfe, as a man of the world, know that a married
woman would not like the police to get possession of letters she had
written to a man of the reputation of Sir Horace Fewbanks."
"I admit that her action is capable of a comparatively innocent
interpretation, but taken in conjunction with other things it looks to me
mighty suspicious. In Hill's statement to us he told us that on the night
of the murder, Birchill when hiding in the garden waiting for the lights
to go out before breaking into the house, heard the front door slam and
saw a stylish sort of woman walk down the path to the gate."
"That was not Mrs. Holymead," said Crewe.
"How do you know? If it was not her, who was it? Do you know?"
"I think I know, and when I am at liberty to speak I will tell you."
"Then there is a third point," continued Rolfe. "Look at this
handkerchief you brought. I saw a handkerchief of exactly similar pattern
at Mrs. Holymead's house when I called there."
"Wasn't that the property of her French cousin, Mademoiselle Chiron?"
"Yes, she dropped it on the floor while I was there. But it is probable
the handkerchief was one of a set given her by Mrs. Holymead."
"Quite probably, Rolfe. But scores of ladies who are fond of expensive
things have handkerchiefs of a similar pattern. You will find if you
inquire among the West End shops, that although it is a dainty, expensive
article from the man's point of view, there is nothing singular about the
quality or the pattern."
"Perhaps so," said Rolfe, "but the possession of handkerchiefs of this
kind is surely suspicious when taken in conjunction with her removal of
the letters. I wish I could get hold of that infernal scoundrel Hill
again. I am convinced that he knows a great deal more about this murder
than he has yet told us, and a great deal more about Mrs. Holymead and
her letters. I've had his shop watched day and night since he
disappeared, but he keeps close to his burrow, and I've not been able to
get on his track."
"I'd give up watching for him if I were you," said Crewe, as he flicked
the ash of his cigar into the fireplace. "You're not likely to find him
now. As a matter of fact, he has left the country."
"Hill left the country?" echoed Rolfe. "I think you are mistaken there,
Mr. Crewe. He had no money; how could he get away?"
Crewe selected another cigar from his case and lighted it before
answering.
"The fact is, I advanced him the money," he said. "Technically it's a
loan, but I do not think any of it will be paid back."
Rolfe stared hard at Crewe to see if he was joking.
"What on earth made you do that?" he demanded at length. "Hill may be the
actual murderer for all we know."
"Not at all," was the reply. "Before I helped him to leave England I
satisfied myself that he had absolutely nothing to do with the murder. He
does not know who shot Sir Horace Fewbanks, though, of course, he still
half believes that it was Birchill. When I got in touch with him after
his disappearance he was in a pitiable state of fright--waking or
sleeping, he couldn't get his mind off the gallows. There were two or
three points on which I wanted his assistance in clearing up the
Riversbrook case, and I promised to get him out of the country if he
would make a clean breast of things and tell me the truth as far as he
knew it. He made a confession--a true one this time. I took it down and
I'll let you have a copy. There are a few interesting points on which it
differs materially from the statement he made to the police when you and
Chippenfield cornered him."
"What are they?" asked Rolfe.
"In the first place the burglary was his idea, and not Birchill's,"
replied Crewe. "After the quarrel between Sir Horace and the girl
Fanning, he went out to her flat and suggested to Birchill that he should
rob Riversbrook. Hill's real object in arranging this burglary was to get
possession of the letters which Mrs. Holymead subsequently removed, but
he did not tell Birchill this. His plan was to go to Riversbrook the
morning after the burglary and then break open Sir Horace's desk and open
the secret drawer before informing the police of the burglary. To the
police and Sir Horace it would look as though the burglar had
accidentally found the spring of the secret drawer. With these letters in
his possession Hill intended to blackmail Sir Horace, or Mrs. Holymead,
without disclosing himself in the transaction.
"When Sir Horace returned unexpectedly from Scotland on the 18th of
August, Hill had just removed the letters from the desk, being afraid
that when Birchill broke into the house he might find them accidentally.
He was naturally in a state of alarm at Sir Horace's return. He tried to
get an opportunity to put the letters back as Sir Horace might discover
they had been removed, but Sir Horace dismissed him for the night before
he could get such an opportunity. Then he went to Fanning's flat and
told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned. Birchill was in favour of
postponing the burglary, but Hill, who had possession of the letters,
and did not know when he would get an opportunity to put them back,
urged Birchill to carry out the burglary. He assured Birchill that Sir
Horace was a very sound sleeper and that there would be no risk. In
order to arouse Birchill's cupidity and to protect himself from the
suspicions of Sir Horace regarding the letters, he told Birchill that he
had seen a large sum of money in his possession when he returned, and
that this money would probably be hidden in the secret drawer of the
desk, until Sir Horace had an opportunity of banking it. He told
Birchill to break open the desk, and explained to him how to find the
spring of the secret drawer."
"What a damned cunning scoundrel he is," exclaimed Rolfe, in unwilling
admiration of the completeness of Hill's scheme. "Don't you think, Mr.
Crewe, that, after all, he may be the actual murderer--that he told you a
lot of lies just as he did to us? Holymead in his address to the jury
made out a pretty strong case against him."
"No one knows better than Holymead that Hill did not commit the
murder," said Crewe. "Hill is an incorrigible liar, but he has no nerve
for murder."
"Did he put the letters back?" asked Rolfe. "He told me that Mrs.
Holymead stole them the day after the murder was discovered. But he is
such a liar--"
"I believe he spoke the truth in that case," said Crewe. "He told me he
put the letters back in the secret drawer the night after the murder,
when he went to Riversbrook to report himself to Chippenfield. He put
them back because he was afraid that if the police found them in his
possession, they would think he had a hand in the murder. His idea was to
remove them from the secret drawer after the excitement about the murder
died down, and then blackmail Mrs. Holymead, but she acted with a skill
and decision that robbed him of his chance to blackmail her."
"How did you get hold of the cunning scoundrel?" asked Rolfe. "I've had
his wife's shop watched day and night, as I've said. I made sure he would
try to communicate with her sooner or later, but he didn't."
"It was Joe who found him," said Crewe. "I knew you were watching Mrs.
Hill's shop, so it was superfluous for me to set anybody to watch it.
Besides, I didn't think Hill would visit his wife or attempt to
communicate with her, for he would think that the police, if they wanted
him, would be sure to watch the shop. I tried to consider what a man like
Hill would do in the circumstances. He had no money--I knew that--and, so
far as I was able to ascertain, he had no friends who were likely to hide
him. Without friends or money he could not go very far. Finally it
occurred to me that he might be hiding somewhere in Riversbrook--either
in that unfinished portion of the third floor, or in one of the
outbuildings. He knew the run of the rambling old place so well. Have you
ever been over it carefully? No. Well, there are several good places in
the upper stories where a man might conceal himself. I put Joe on the
job, and after watching for several nights Joe got him. Hill had made a
hiding place in the loft above the garage. It appears that he subsisted
on the stores that had been left in the house; he was able to make his
way into the main building through one of the kitchen windows. He was on
one of these foraging expeditions when Joe discovered him--emaciated,
dirty, and half demented through terror of the gallows."
"So that is how you got him!" said Rolfe. "I never thought of looking for
him at Riversbrook. Sometimes I am inclined to agree with you that he had
no nerve for murder. But an unpremeditated murder doesn't want much
nerve. He might have done it in a moment of passion." Rolfe was
endeavouring to take advantage of Crewe's communicative mood and to
arrive by a process of elimination at the person against whom Crewe had
accumulated his evidence.
"It was not Hill," said Crewe. "The murder was committed in a moment of
passion, and yet it was far from being unpremeditated."
"You are trying to mystify me," said Rolfe despairingly.
"No; it is the case itself which has mystified you," replied Crewe.
"It has," was Rolfe's candid confession. "The more thought I give it, the
more impossible it seems to see through it. Was Sir Horace killed before
dusk--before the lights were turned on? If he was killed after dark, who
turned out the lights?"
"He was killed between 10 and 10.30 at night," said Crewe. "The lights
were turned out by the woman Birchill saw leaving the house about 10.30.
But she was not the murderer, and she was not present in the room, or
even in the house, when Sir Horace was shot. She arrived a few minutes
too late to prevent the tragedy. Turning out the lights was an
instinctive act due to her desire to hide the crime, or rather to hide
the murderer."
"How do you know all this?" asked Rolfe, who had been staring at Crewe
with open-mouthed astonishment.
"That woman was not Mrs. Holymead," continued Crewe. "I had a visit
to-day from the woman who did these things, and as evidence of the truth
of her story she brought me the revolver and the handkerchief."
"What did she come to you for?" asked Rolfe, with breathless interest.
"What did she want?"
"She came to me to make a full confession," said Crewe, in even tones.
"A confession!" exclaimed Rolfe. "She ought to have come to the police.
Why didn't she come to us?"
Crewe smiled at the puzzled, indignant detective.
"I think she came to me because she wanted to mislead me," he said.