Inspector Goodall Is Entertained
When they left Blanchard’s, Anthony decided to have a few additional
words with Goodall. “What do you say to a little supper with me,
Inspector?”
Goodall caught eagerly at the idea. “Waring,” he said to his
subordinate—“you can get along now. Report to me at the ‘Yard’ in the
morning—I’m going along with Mr. Bathurst here.”
Waring saluted and quickly made himself scarce.
“I know a nice quiet little place in Soho,” said Anthony, “where I can
give you Omelette Espagnol, Homard Americaine, a delicious piece of
Stilton and a really excellent Burgundy—you will be my guest, of
course, Inspector!”
“I shall be delighted, Mr. Bathurst—may I ask what else you intend to
give me?” His eyes twinkled shrewdly.
“Patience, Inspector—there are one or two things I want to tell you,
but Ricardo’s will be a better setting for them than the street we are
in now.”
Ricardo’s was all that Anthony had claimed for it. Inspector Goodall
warmed under its cheering influence, and with his fourth glass of the
really excellent Burgundy toasted Mr. Bathurst almost hilariously, and
Mr. Bathurst was pleased to reciprocate. Eventually the latter pushed
his chair back and recalled Goodall to the business of life.
“Before you tell me what you thought of to-night’s jaunt, Inspector,
I’ll tell you briefly what I did at Assynton after you left us at
Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s—try one of these cigars, Goodall—they’ll suit
your palate.”
Goodall lit up, leaned back and prepared to listen.
“I conducted a series of little experiments,” continued Anthony.
Goodall nodded complacently. The cigar really _was_ intended for a man
of discernment. “First of all,” proceeded Anthony, “I was able to
trace a letter that had been lying in the library since the fatal
evening.” He took the letter from his breast pocket. “Read that,
Goodall, will you?”
The effect was electrical—Goodall’s complacency became a thing of the
past. “Morgan Llewellyn,” he muttered grimly. “I had a pretty shrewd
idea that he was interested in that little baggage that treated old
Clegg so contemptuously.” He tapped the letter with his forefinger. “I
don’t know that I’m altogether too pleased to get hold of this.”
Anthony appeared to disregard the last remark and went on. “Then I set
to work on another point. You remember the condition of the ink in
front of where the dead man was found?” Goodall frowned an
affirmative. “I had a strong impression, Inspector, that I should find
some weapon—near at hand—in the garden in all probability, from which
that débris had come. _I was right in that impression._”
Goodall sat up straight in his chair. “You don’t mean to say——”
Anthony knocked the ash from the end of his cigar. “I’m confident that
I have found the weapon with which Mr. Stewart was killed. It’s a
sharp jagged piece of stone that once formed part of the path leading
from the Assynton Lodge rockery. At the present moment, I believe, it
resides somewhere in the library where Daventry has concealed it.”
“That’s risky, Mr. Bathurst, supposing——!”
“It’s quite safe there, Inspector. Daventry fished it up from the pool
where the murderer had slung it. Acting upon my instructions, of
course—I showed him where to look for it.”
Goodall’s eyes widened with amazement and incredulity. “But where’s
all this leading to—I’m getting bewildered!”
“Sit still, Inspector,” went on Anthony, “I haven’t quite finished
yet. The curtain isn’t up for the third act yet—then there’s still the
fourth to come.” He pushed his fingers into the left-hand pocket of
his waistcoat. “The bullet that Stewart fired at his murderer,
Inspector—take a good look at it!” He tossed it across, nonchalantly.
Goodall’s eyes almost started from his head as he handled the little
messenger of Death. “And how the hell did you find this, Mr. Bathurst,
and where?”
Anthony smiled at the Inspector’s astonishment. “I was convinced that
Stewart _had_ fired his revolver on the fatal night, so it was fairly
conclusive to me that the bullet should be in the library somewhere. I
tried to reconstruct the whole scene as I had imagined it! The result
of this little attempt at reconstruction brought me round about the
bookcase. Eventually, Daventry and I found a book—embedded in this
particular book was the bullet you are now holding.”
Goodall sank back in his chair with the appearance of a man who, after
repeated and ineffectual struggling and striving, at last reluctantly
bows to Fate and accepts the inevitable. “You’ll tell me you’ve
arrested the murderer next, Mr. Bathurst! When are you starting on the
Hanover Galleries case?” His mouth might have been described as
cynical.
Anthony leaned across the table. “Not yet, Inspector! I told you the
fourth act was still to come! I must ask you to give me another
forty-eight hours say—then I hope to put the entire threads of the
case in your hands. You will then proceed to make your arrests.” His
grey eyes danced, and even his hard-bitten companion caught something
of the domination of his personality. “The following day we shall read
with our early morning cup of tea—‘Dramatic Double Arrest—Police Swoop
in Hanover Galleries’ and ‘Assynton Lodge Murders—Triumph of
Detective-Inspector Goodall.’” His mouth twisted into a smile. “Does
the prospect please you, Inspector?”
“That’s a hard question to answer,” grunted Goodall. “I feel that I’d
rather see my way than have somebody hold my hand—with all due
respect, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Of course, Inspector—any man would! I promise you, you shall see
every step of the way, before I ask you to take the _final_
steps—there’s my hand on it.”
The Inspector grasped his hand warmly. “You’ve made me feel easier,”
he conceded. “I’ve only known you a couple of days, and yet I seem to
have known you all my life.”
“One point I want to mention now, Inspector—before I forget it. I’ve
left Mr. Daventry in charge down at Assynton. I’ve told him, if he
wants me in a hurry—and it’s just possible, in the circumstances, that
he may—to ring you up at ‘the Yard.’ I sha’n’t be wanted to-night—I’m
certain of that. If he should ring you to-morrow or Sunday—that
address will find me”—he scribbled an address on his visiting card and
pushed it across to the Inspector. Goodall transferred it to his
pocket-book.
“All Sir Garnet, Mr. Bathurst. That shall be attended to, if
required!”
Anthony called their waiter and settled the bill. “Perhaps you’ll be
good enough to return to Assynton with me when I go back—will you,
Inspector? Don’t worry about this end of the tangle—it will solve
itself with the other, take it from me. I’ve another difficulty,
unfortunately, at the moment—I have to solve a third mystery.” He rose
to go and Goodall followed his example.
“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Bathurst.”
Anthony’s eyes glinted. “I have to solve ‘the riddle of the screens,’
or in the picturesque language of M. Réné de St. Maure—the problem of
the ‘Black Twenty-Two’—but that, Inspector, is another story.” He took
the Inspector by the arm. “The British Museum is going to be my H.Q.
for to-morrow, Inspector—if that interests you at all—don’t forget—if
you should want me at the address I just gave you.”
They passed out into the street. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell
you,” remarked Anthony. “There’s a woman in the case, as I expect you
know. But here’s something you may not know—she suffers a good deal
from hay fever—and although I can’t tell you her name—I could tell you
what it was before she married—good-night, Goodall.”
Goodall turned quickly at the surprising intelligence, but all he
could see was Mr. Bathurst’s retreating figure. Which, as may be
guessed, afforded him no enlightenment.