Peter Daventry Is Mindful of Mr. Bathurst
To say that Goodall and his companions were dumbfounded is no
exaggeration. Events were crowding upon them this morning with a
vengeance. The announcement of this second murder took their breath
away. It startled them and threw them off their balance much more
effectively than the first calamity had done. Mason was a
night-watchman! Stewart was a millionaire! The former could be very
easily replaced—the latter’s death was a tragedy in more senses than
one. Goodall knew perfectly well that any failure on his part to find
the murderer of Mason would occasion no questions in Parliament and
would cause the Home Secretary no loss of sleep. But now that Laurence
P. Stewart was caught in the wheels of the murder-machinery he was
painfully conscious that he must be “up and doing.” The case might be
his, too!
“How did that news reach you, Mr. Linnell?” was his first question.
“From my partner, Mr. Daventry. He has just had a ’phone-call from
Stewart’s home in Berkshire—from Stewart’s son, I understood him to
say.”
“What made Stewart’s son telephone so quickly to your office?”
Linnell rubbed his cheek with his fingers. “He didn’t explain the
reason to me just now—Daventry didn’t, I mean. I can only surmise that
young Stewart knew that we had received instructions from his father
concerning the sale of those antiques and wished possibly to
countermand them—considering the fresh and tragic circumstances.”
“H’m,” muttered the Inspector. “I suppose that’s possible. When was
Stewart murdered, did you say?”
“They believe—some time last night. Naturally, I wasn’t able to glean
extensive details—even if my partner had been in a position to give
them to me. But from what he did tell me, I imagine that the body was
discovered early this morning.”
Goodall looked thoughtful. “Hardly looks like the same people!
Assynton must be a matter of seventy miles from London—getting on for
a couple of hours’ journey at least—that means they would have to
leave there somewhere about nine-thirty, assuming Stewart to have been
killed first, and accepting Druce’s evidence as reliable—h’m—possible
but not probable—have to find out when Stewart was last seen alive.”
He turned to Linnell. “Extremely useful your turning up here, Mr.
Linnell. There does seem to be a connection between the two
affairs—difficult though it may be to discover it. I’ll come and see
your Mr. Daventry later on.”
“I shall be delighted. There’s our address.” He handed his card to the
Inspector.
Goodall fingered it, thinking carefully. “Mr. Forshaw!” he called.
“Mr. Forshaw, Junior!”
“Yes, Inspector!”
“You stated just now that you interviewed Mr. Linnell’s partner
yesterday.”
“That’s so, Inspector. Yesterday afternoon, to be precise.”
“What happened exactly—tell me?”
“Well, it was like this! This gentleman, Mr. Daventry, asked to be
allowed to have a look at the Stuart stuff—the three articles that
have been stolen. I showed them to him. He examined them rather
carefully . . . that’s all I think . . . oh . . . he commented on the
possibility of them being stolen . . . I remember that fact, because I
took the trouble to explain the precautions that were always taken to
safeguard our property.”
“You had a watch on the stuff then?” queried Goodall.
Day intervened and took up the thread from Forshaw. “Two of your
people were here, Inspector. During the hours the Galleries were open
to the public! In ‘plain-clothes’ of course, and armed! It’s our usual
plan when we have sales of anything at all valuable. It’s been our
practice for many years now.”
Goodall signified that he understood. Then he turned to young Forshaw
again. “What else did this Daventry do?”
Forshaw passed his hands across his brow in an attempt at
recollection.
“Nothing, I think! That is to say—oh, I remember—he asked how many
other people had been to examine the three articles he was handling.”
“What was your answer? That question interests me too.”
“My answer was ‘nobody’ . . . It was true,” Forshaw replied simply.
Goodall looked across at Linnell.
“Now I wonder what made your partner——”
“Look here, Inspector,” broke in Linnell with a gesture of annoyance,
“for goodness sake don’t start imagining things. Daventry was
interested in Stuart articles purely from the standpoint of a
competitive purchaser, about to act on behalf of a client—surely you
don’t——”
Goodall patted him on the arm. “Don’t get a ‘peeve,’ Mr. Linnell. It’s
my job to ask questions and very often a random sort of question hits
a target quite unexpectedly. Don’t forget that the presence of both
you and your partner in this affair is downright queer. Right from the
beginning—to the point we’ve reached now—you admitted as much yourself
when you came in.”
But Mr. Linnell’s professional dignity had been touched—he remained
quite silent under the Inspector’s attempt at justification. He walked
across to the others. “I think I’ll go, gentlemen. My partner will, no
doubt, desire to discuss matters with me as soon as possible. You know
where to find me if you should want me.”
He bowed to the company and made his exit.
Upon arrival at his offices in Cornhill he found Peter awaiting him
with anxious impatience.
“I’m jolly glad to see you,” was his greeting. “There’s been a second
message from Assynton—young Stewart was particularly anxious to talk
to you—he seemed quite annoyed when I told him you were still away
from the office.”
“Peter,” said Linnell, “we’ve been caught in a most curious set of
circumstances. When you ’phoned me just now, at Day, Forshaw and
Palmers’, what do you imagine I was doing?”
Peter looked at him blankly. “Doing? Why—having a look round of
course—the same as I had. What are you driving at?”
“I’m not driving at anything, Peter. I’m just giving you some
information. When I arrived at the show-rooms this morning I had
rather a ‘jolt.’ The police were there—the Galleries had been robbed
during the night—and what is even more dreadful than that, a
night-watchman employed there had been brutally murdered.”
Peter gasped. “Good Lord! My telephone message to you must have been a
shock.”
“It was! I could hardly believe my ears! I decided not to say anything
to you over the ’phone but to come back here.”
Peter thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets. “Funny thing—we seem
in it both ends—don’t we? The whole thing is very queer. Both here and
in Berkshire.”
Linnell shook his head. “Not really. We just happened to be in at the
Galleries end because Stewart sent us there—but I haven’t finished
yet.”
Peter uttered a cry of amazement. “Don’t say there are any more——”
Linnell cut into his remarks. “I told you the Galleries had been
robbed during the night. I didn’t tell you what had actually been
stolen. As far as the police could tell when I left them, the only
three things that had been taken were _the very three that Stewart
commissioned us to buy_!”
He paused and walked to the window. Then turned and confronted Peter.
“What do you make of that? Extraordinary, isn’t it? To say the least!”
Peter whistled softly. “I said we seemed to be well in it. I feel sure
now. And what’s more, Linnell, I’ve got a feeling we haven’t heard or
seen the last of it either, by a long way. You mark my words.”
Linnell smiled. “I agree with you! As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be
at all surprised if Detective-Inspector Goodall hasn’t already got a
certain Peter Daventry on his list of ‘suspects.’ I hope your alibi’s
good.”
“What on earth are you gibbering about?” demanded Peter. “And who the
hell’s Detective-Inspector Goodall?”
“I’m not gibbering, my dear fellow. Detective-Inspector Goodall is the
gentleman from Scotland Yard that is investigating the Galleries
murder, and he has, of course, been informed of your interest in the
Stuart relics and of your call there yesterday. Young Forshaw told
him. Then there was my call to-day—I got in ‘at the death’ as you
might say—I could see he thought it was damned suspicious conduct—all
of it—I explained our connection with the affair——”
“You told him of Stewart’s commission? Was that wise? Yet awhile?”
“I think so, Peter! My professional experience has taught me the value
of frankness and truth—even as a solicitor—that is why I never entered
Parliament.”
“But why suspect _me_?” reiterated Peter. “Is every intending
purchaser on the——?”
“The police _must_ suspect _somebody_. Why not flatter yourself at
their attention? But tell me all you’ve heard about the Berkshire end
of the tangle.”
Peter swung his legs as he sat . . . somewhat petulantly. “The message
came through about half-past ten—the first message, I mean—Stewart’s
secretary put it through—I think he said his name was Morgan or
Llewellyn—I’m not sure. He asked if you were in—I told him ‘no’—then
he asked for me. I said it was all right and he told me that young Mr.
Stewart wanted me. The poor chap seemed very agitated—his father had
been found dead in the library that morning. Murdered—his head beaten
in! Would we cancel our instructions about the sale to-morrow? As far
as he was able he was getting into touch with all his father’s
immediate business activities . . . in the case of a millionaire, he
explained, it was of the utmost importance . . . affected the money
market so. That was about all, I fancy. Then I ’phoned the news on to
you—I knew I should find you there. By the way, did you run down to
Assynton last night?”
“Didn’t have time. When was the second telephone message?”
“About twenty minutes before you returned,” said Peter.
“What did he want?”
“He asked for you, again. It seems he isn’t too satisfied with the
quality of the local Police Force—he’s asking for Scotland Yard to
send a man down—says he’s prepared to pay anything to get at the truth
and arrest the murderer. Also he wanted your advice. Could you
recommend an efficient, discreet, and trustworthy private detective?
They were the three adjectives he used.”
“Why does he appeal to me, I wonder?”
“I asked him that. He says he hasn’t been in England more than a few
months and it occurred to him that we might help him. He also wants
one of us to go down—his father’s solicitors, I understand, are in New
York.”
“H’m,” muttered Linnell. “I can appreciate his position. But I’m
afraid I’m no use to him in the matter of the private detective. I
don’t know anybody I should care to send down there—it isn’t as though
it were a case of keeping a person under observation.” He shook his
head doubtfully.
“Nor I, either,” supplemented Peter. “What about his idea of one of us
going down there—shall I go? What do you think yourself?”
“I think you might go,” replied Linnell. “It should be more in your
line than mine—you’re younger to begin with. Can’t you do a bit of
‘sleuthing’ on your own account? Sherlock Holmes has had many
imitators!”
“I might. It will make quite an interesting and ‘piquant’ situation—a
‘suspect’ one moment—a ‘sleuth’ the next. I remember my brother
Gerald—by Jove, Linnell, I’ve got it—Anthony Bathurst! Why on earth
didn’t I think of him before?”
“Who’s that? What do you mean?”
“Why, if you want a man to act for young Stewart, you couldn’t
possibly find a better!”
“What is he—a private inquiry agent?”
“Not on your life—he’s a sort of free lance—tinkers about at a good
many things. He was up at Oxford about the same time as Gerald. That
is to say, about three years after me. Can you remember the Considine
Manor affair?”
“Considine Manor? Wasn’t it a murder down in Sussex somewhere?”
“You’ve got it. Well, old Gerald was actually stopping in the house at
the time. He always regards Bathurst as an absolute marvel. Cleared up
the case when it had got the Police absolutely ‘stone cold.’ He never
tires of singing Bathurst’s praises!”
“Where is he now? Do you know?”
Peter stroked his chin. Hadn’t Gerald told him Bathurst was living in
London somewhere?
“No, I don’t. There you’ve got me! Still—old Gerald may know. I’ll
give him a ring.” He unhooked the receiver. “Give me ‘Wedderburn and
Rathbone,’ will you—the Accountants—Devonshire Place—will you
_please_—I’ve forgotten the number. Oh! Thank you!”
He waited for a moment or two. “Yes. Mr. Gerald Daventry, that’s it!
Oh—hallo, Gerald—Peter speaking. Could you possibly put me into touch
with Anthony Bathurst? Eh? . . . Yes, something after his own heart,
where . . . Leyton . . . thanks very much.”
He turned to Linnell. “Gerald says we shall probably find him at
Leyton this afternoon, on the members’ pavilion. Middlesex are playing
Essex, and he rarely misses any of the Middlesex games. He’ll come
down himself—Gerald, I mean—and if Bathurst is there—he’ll introduce
us.”
“All right, then, Peter. You get along—and if it can be arranged
satisfactorily, we’ll ’phone Stewart when you return.”
“Won’t you come along too? Come and see your adopted shire!”
“No. I’ll stay here. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
Peter grinned! “You’re a superlative optimist,” he exclaimed, “I must
introduce you to a friend of mine who’s a baseball ‘fan.’ He’d be
tickled to death to hear you connect cricket with excitement.”
A step sounded in the corridor outside. Linnell and Peter glanced
quickly in the direction of the door. Then Linnell heard a voice that
he recognized only too well.
“Come in, Inspector,” he announced. “I was half expecting you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Linnell. I thought no harm would be done if I came
along and dropped in on you as I suggested. This gentleman, I presume,
is Mr. Daventry?” His keen eyes ran Peter up and down.
Peter bowed. “Quite right, Inspector. The man in whom you are
interested, I believe.”
Goodall shot a quick glance at him—then laughed quietly. “Mr.
Linnell’s been talking, I suppose! I certainly got a bit curious—but
there—curiosity’s part of my job—and I can’t afford to take anything
for granted.”
“Any more news, Inspector?” intervened Linnell affably.
“Up to the moment—no! I came straight on here. I want to have a look
at one or two things! That letter from Stewart—may I see it?”
Linnell opened a drawer and handed the letter to him.
“H’m,” muttered Goodall. “Assynton postmark—June 7th.” He read it. “I
fancy you gave me to understand that you knew nothing about Stewart,
till you got this letter. Am I right?”
“That is so, Inspector. My only knowledge of him was just ordinary
public knowledge.”
“I see. What did you do after you got the letter?”
“I thought it over and wired back. To get confirmation, as it were!”
“And you got a reply?”
“This!”
Linnell gave him the extravagant telegram—then waited for the smile to
ripple over Goodall’s face.
“Seems to be a man who knew his own mind. Doesn’t seem possible the
man’s dead.” His eyes narrowed as he stood thinking.
“Tell Inspector Goodall what you’ve just told me, Peter! About young
Stewart ’phoning here.”
Goodall became all attention. “That interesting! Fire away, Mr.
Daventry!”
Peter repeated the information he had previously given Linnell, taking
care, however, to suppress any reference to the Berkshire police or
the desire for a private detective.
Goodall listened carefully. “It doesn’t help me much,” he commented
when Peter had finished. Then looked him straight between the eyes.
“Oh! Mr. Daventry!” Goodall spoke as though an afterthought had struck
him. “After you visited the Galleries yesterday—where did you go?”
Peter’s cheeks went a dull red—it seemed to him he was being
humiliated.
“Came back here! Mr. Linnell can confirm that—if you doubt my word.”
“Thank you! And after that?” He fingered his note-book.
“I dined at my club—then went to a show.”
“Thank—you—your club is—and the show was——?”
“The Isthmian—Piccadilly—and ‘On Approval’! Anything more, Mr.
Inspector?”
“That will do for the present.” Goodall closed his note-book with a
snap.
Peter’s eyes blazed at him angrily. “And if you’re interested in any
more of my comings and goings—I may as well tell you that I’m just off
down to Leyton to put in an hour or two at the Middlesex and Essex
match.”
But Goodall remained imperturbable under the shaft of sarcasm. “Wish I
could come with you! I like watching cricket—particularly Lancashire
and Glamorganshire—they always seem to me to lack supporters so—it
means such a terrible lot of traveling, you see, for their relations
to go to watch them.” The Inspector grinned.
Peter’s ill-temper vanished instantaneously at Goodall’s sally. He
held out his hand and shook the Inspector’s. Goodall took it—crossed
to Linnell—and departed.
“I’ll bring Bathurst along, then, as arranged—if I’m lucky enough to
find him.”
Linnell made a gesture of assent. “If he’ll come! Then we’ll get on to
Assynton and tell them.”
Daventry soon motored down to the ground and quickly found his
brother. Together they made their way onto the pavilion, Gerald being
a member of the M.C.C. and of the three Metropolitan counties. But all
attempts to unearth the man for whom they were searching proved
unavailing.
Then Gerald met a kindred spirit. “Bathurst?” he said. “Yes—I can help
you—he won’t be here to-day at all—he told me—now, why the devil was
it?—I’ve a cursed rotten memory”—he assumed an air of painful mental
effort—then suddenly his face cleared. “Oh, I know—he’s playing
‘Squash’ at ‘Princes’ this afternoon—you’ll see him if you pop along
up there. Is it anything important?”
“It is rather,” replied Gerald. “And I’m awfully obliged to you.”
“Pleasure, old son. Shall we drift along and have one off the ice?”
They drifted and after the one had multiplied considerably the two
Daventrys motored back up to Knightsbridge.
“The uninitiated would never dream of a club like ‘Princes’ hiding
here, would they, Peter?” queried his brother as they entered. “I
remember being very interested the first time I came.”
Bathurst was soon run to earth.
“Haven’t seen you for nearly a year, Daventry! Your brother?
Delighted! Fit?”
“Very fit—thanks—and you?”
“Never better!” His words did not belie him. Anthony Bathurst, in
whatever company of men he found himself, was usually the fittest of
the lot. He excelled at nearly all ball games and took extraordinary
pains to keep thoroughly “trained.” And his mental powers were equally
outstanding. Peter Daventry speedily realized something of the
admiration that he knew his brother felt for the man to whom he had
just been introduced. He was aware of that atmosphere of “personality”
that distinguishes a select company.
“What brings you along here?” queried Anthony. “Playing—are you?”
“No,” responded Gerald. “I’ve brought Peter here to see you! It’s his
funeral.”
Anthony waved them into a couple of deck-chairs. “What about?”
“He’s got a story for you that you may possibly find interesting. Have
a cigarette, lie back in your chair, and listen. Now, Peter—say your
mouthful.”
Peter complied with his brother’s request. Bathurst lay
listening—apparently lazily—but Peter quickly discovered that his
faculties were acutely alert. When he reached the murder of Mason—the
night-watchman, Anthony’s eyes betrayed understanding.
“I read a short account in the early editions to-day. Seemed just an
interrupted robbery case to me then . . . of course . . . you say the
identical _three_ things . . . go on.”
At the point when Peter told of the death of Stewart, Bathurst
listened most attentively. “Extraordinary,” he commented at the finish
of Peter’s narrative. “Quite a fascinating little problem. And you say
Stewart’s son would like me to have a look at it for him—eh?”
“He wants me to bring somebody down with me and I suddenly thought of
you—I had heard so much of you from Gerald.”
Anthony took a cigarette and lit up carefully. “I’ve nothing pressing
at the moment. I’m your man if you’re sure you want me.”
“That’s great. When can you come along?”
Anthony looked at his watch.
“I should have liked to commence my little investigations at this end.
But I suppose I can’t—I must get down to Assynton to see
Stewart—that’s evident—there’s a train at Paddington at five minutes
to seven. That will get us down before nine. I’ll meet you on the
platform, Daventry.”
“Right!” declared Peter, “6:55 then.”
“Yes—and Daventry—I think you’d better bring a revolver.”