“I guess you are Inspector Furnival, sir.”
The inspector, with Mr. Steadman, was just about to enter New Scotland
Yard. He glanced keenly at his interlocutor. He saw a tall,
lantern-jawed, lean-shanked man who seemed in some indescribable way
to carry Yankee writ large all over him.
The detective's face cleared.
“Why, certainly, I am William Furnival, sir.”
“And you are in charge of the Bechcombe case?”
“Well, I may say I am,” the inspector agreed. “And I think you are Mr.
Cyril B. Carnthwacke.”
“Sure thing! And no reason to be ashamed of my name either,” the other
said truculently, rather as if he expected the inspector to challenge
his statement.
The inspector, however, was looking his blandest.
“The name of Cyril B. Carnthwacke is one to conjure with not only in
your own country but in ours,” he said politely. “Did you wish to
speak to me, sir?”
“I did, very particularly,” responded Mr. Carnthwacke. “But”—with a
glance at Mr. Steadman—“this gentleman——?”
“Mr. Steadman, sir, the late Mr. Bechcombe's cousin, and at one time
one of the best-known criminal lawyers practising at the bar. He has
been kind enough to place his experience at our disposal in this most
perplexing case. Will you come into my office, Mr. Carnthwacke?”
“Of course, we can't stand out in the street,” responded the
millionaire.
The inspector led the way to his private room and then clearing a lot
of papers from the nearest chair set it forward.
Mr. Carnthwacke sat down with a word of thanks. John Steadman took up
his position with his back to the fireplace, the inspector dropped
into his revolving chair and looked at his visitor.
“I am at your service, sir.”
Carnthwacke settled himself in his chair and looked back.
“I guess you two gentlemen know pretty well what has brought me here.
Mrs. Carnthwacke is at home laid up in bed with the worry of the past
few days. I calculate she isn't exactly the stuff criminals are made
of. So here I have come in her place for a straight talk face to face.
She has told me all about her doings on the day Mr. Bechcombe was
murdered. And she told me that she had been to you on the same
subject. So I guess you fairly well know what I have come to talk
about.”
“Yes, Mrs. Carnthwacke did come to us,” the inspector assented. “It
would have been wiser to have come earlier.”
“It would,” agreed Mr. Carnthwacke. “But women ain't the wisest of
creatures, even if they are not scared out of their wits as Mrs.
Carnthwacke was when she realized that she was the ‘lady of the
glove,’ that every newspaper in the kingdom was making such a clamour
about.”
“Perhaps it was a good thing for her that she was,” remarked the
inspector enigmatically.
Cyril B. Carnthwacke stared at him.
“I don't comprehend. I wasn't aware you dealt in conundrums,
inspector.”
“No,” the inspector said as he opened a drawer and began to rummage in
it. “Ah, here we are! This is the report of the expert in
finger-prints and it shows that it was impossible for the fingers that
fitted into this glove to have made the prints on Mr. Bechcombe's
throat. They were much too small.”
“I grasp your meaning.” Mr. Carnthwacke sat back in his chair and put
his elbows on the arms, joining the tips of his fingers together and
surveying them with much interest. “But I reckon I didn't need this
corroboration. My wife's word is the goods for me. I guess you
gentlemen have tumbled to it that it is to make some inquiries about
the diamonds that I have come butting in this morning.”
The inspector bowed. “I thought it quite likely.”
“Now, I have made certain that by your laws as well as ours the late
Mr. Bechcombe's estate is liable for the value of Mrs. Carnthwacke's
jewels since he gave my wife a receipt for them, which I believe is
held by you gentlemen now,” the American said, speaking with a strong
nasal accent.
Again the inspector nodded his assent.
“Certainly it is. What do you suppose to be the value of the diamonds,
Mr. Carnthwacke?”
“Well, I couldn't figure it off in a minute,” the millionaire said in
a considering tone. “But a good many thousands of dollars anyway. I
did not buy them all at once, but picked up a few good ones when I got
a chance. Thought to myself diamonds were always an investment. The
gem of the whole lot was the necklace; it was part of the Russian
crown jewels and had been worn by the ill-fated Czarina herself. But
anyhow I guess my wife's diamonds were pretty well known in London and
they were valuable enough to excite the cupidity of this gang of
criminals that have been so busy about London of late. You see, I
suppose, that it was in order to get them that they broke in to Mr.
Bechcombe's office and strangled him.”
John Steadman raised his eyebrows as he looked across at the
inspector. That worthy coughed.
“You are rather jumping to conclusions, it seems to me, Mr.
Carnthwacke. In the first place Mr. Bechcombe's office was not broken
into. The murderer, whoever he might have been, entered in the usual
fashion and apparently in no way alarmed Mr. Bechcombe. In fact all
the indications go to prove that the assassin was some one known to
Mr. Bechcombe.”
“I don't figure that out.” Carnthwacke hunched his shoulders and
looked obstinate. “I will take what odds you like that my wife was
followed and that, unable to get what he wanted without, the thief
strangled Mr. Bechcombe and walked off with the diamonds.”
“The diamonds certainly provide a very adequate motive,” John Steadman
said slowly, taking part in the conversation for the first time. “But
there are some very weak points in your story, Mr. Carnthwacke. You
must remember that the rubber gloves worn by the assassin as well as
the chloroform used seem to prove conclusively that the murder was
planned beforehand.”
There was a pause.
“That may be, but I don't see that it precludes the motive being the
theft of my wife's diamonds,” said Carnthwacke truculently.
“You spoke of Mrs. Carnthwacke's being followed, and of the ‘follower’
assaulting Mr. Bechcombe and strangling him in the struggle. That
rather suggests an accidental discovery of Mrs. Carnthwacke's errand
to me,” John Steadman hazarded mildly.
“It doesn't suggest anything of the kind to me,” the American
contradicted obstinately. “Of course somebody had discovered my wife's
errand, what it was and what time she was to be there, and followed
her there for the express purpose of getting them.”
“I should have thought it would have been easier to snatch them from
Mrs. Carnthwacke than to get them from Mr. Bechcombe,” John Steadman
went on, his eyes watching every change of expression in the other's
face.
“You wouldn't have if you had heard the strength of Mrs. Carnthwacke's
lungs,” Mr. Carnthwacke contradicted. “It would have been devilish
difficult to get the diamonds from her. She only left the car at the
archway, too, and she carried the jewels concealed beneath her coat.
It would have been a bold thief who would have attacked her, crossing
that bit of a square in front or coming up the steps to the office.
No. It was a wiser plan to wait and take them from Mr. Bechcombe.”
“I don't think so, and I think you are wrong,” John Steadman
dissented. “The most probable thing would have been for Mr. Bechcombe
to have deposited the diamonds in the safe while Mrs. Carnthwacke was
there. That he did not do so is one of the minor puzzles of the case.
I cannot understand why he should put them in the cupboard pointed out
by Mrs. Carnthwacke, and why he should call it his safe I cannot
imagine. He might almost have intended to make things easy for the
thief.”
“I wonder whether he did,” Carnthwacke said very deliberately.
His words had all the force of a bombshell. The other two men stared
at him in amazement.
“I do not understand you,” John Steadman said at last, his tone
haughty in its repressive surprise.
But Cyril B. Carnthwacke was not to be easily repressed.
“Weel, I reckoned I might as well mention the idea—which is an idea
that has occurred to more than me. But then I didn't want to put up
the dander of you two gentlemen, and you in particular”—with a polite
inclination in the direction of Mr. Steadman—“being a cousin of the
late Mr. Bechcombe. But I was at a man's dinner last night, and it was
pretty freely canvassed. It is hinted that Mr. Bechcombe might have
been in difficulties in his accounts—I understand that there are
pretty considerable deficiencies in his balance. And though they are
all put down by the police to that clerk that can't be found—well,
doesn't it pretty well jump to your eye that the late Mr. Bechcombe
himself knew all about them, and that it might have suited his book to
have my wife's jewels stolen, perhaps by a confederate—the clerk
Thompson or another——”
“And arranged to get himself murdered to get suspicion thrown off
himself?” Mr. Steadman inquired satirically as the other paused for
breath.
“No, not that exactly, though I guess he was pretty slick,” returned
Carnthwacke equably. “But I am inclined to size it up that the two had
a quarrel and that the other one killed Mr. Bechcombe.”
“Are you indeed?” questioned John Steadman, a glitter in his eye that
would have warned his juniors that the old man was going to be nasty.
But the K.C. had rarely lost his temper so completely as to-day. “I
can tell you at once that your idea is nothing but a lie—a lie,
moreover, that has its foundation in your own foul imagination!” he
said very deliberately. “Luke Bechcombe was the soul of honour. I
would answer for him as I would for myself.”
“That is vurry satisfactory,” drawled Carnthwacke. “Most satisfactory,
I am sure. Weel, since that question is settled I will ask another.
Was Mr. Bechcombe's face injured at all?”
The other two looked surprised at this question.
“Why, no,” the inspector answered. “There was not even a scratch upon
it. Why do you ask?”
“Another idea!” responded Mr. Carnthwacke cheerfully. “Another idea.
But my last wasn't a success. I guess I will keep this to myself for a
time.”
“One cannot help seeing that the rubber gloves and the chloroform
pretty well dispose of your idea, as they have disposed of a good many
others,” the inspector remarked. “No, I believe the murder to have
been deliberately planned, but I don't think it was the work of one
man alone. There have been more jewel robberies in London in the past
year than I ever remember and I am inclined to believe that most of
them may be set down to the same gang.”
“The Yellow Gang!” interjected the millionaire. “I have heard of it.”
“The Yellow Gang, if you like to call it so,” acquiesced the
inspector. “But then there comes up the question, how should they know
that Mrs. Carnthwacke was taking her jewels to Mr. Bechcombe that
morning?”
“And why does that puzzle you?” Mr. Carnthwacke inquired blandly.
The inspector glanced at him keenly.
“Mrs. Carnthwacke informed me that no one at all knew that she was
thinking of parting with her jewels, and that her visit to Mr.
Bechcombe that morning had been kept a profound secret.”
Mr. Carnthwacke threw himself back in his chair and gave vent to a
short, sharp laugh.
“I guess you are not a married man, inspector, or you would talk in a
different fashion to that! Is there a woman alive who could keep a
secret? If there is, it isn't Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke. Nobody knew.
Bless your life, I knew well enough she was in debt and had made up
her mind to sell her jewels to Bechcombe. I didn't know the exact time
certainly. But that was because I didn't take the trouble to find out.
Bless your life, there are no flies on Cyril B. Carnthwacke. When she
brought the empty cases to me to put away in the safe after she'd worn
her diamonds the other day, she saw me lock them up in the safe and
was quite contented, bless her heart. But I guess I was slick enough
to look in the cases afterwards, and when I found them empty I pretty
well guessed what was up. Then I took the liberty of listening one day
when she was talking on the telephone and after that she hadn't many
secrets from me. As for nobody else knowing”—with another of those dry
laughs—“it would take a cleverer woman than Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke
to keep it from her maid.”
“That may be,” the inspector said, smiling in his turn. “But to be as
frank with you as you have been with us, Mr. Carnthwacke, we have
taken steps to find out what the maid knows, with the result that we
are inclined to think Mrs. Carnthwacke's statement practically
correct.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Carnthwacke inquired with a satiric emphasis that
made John Steadman look at him more closely. “Weel, I came out on the
open and tackled Mrs. Carnthwacke myself this morning; we had a lot of
trouble, but the upshot of it all was that I got it out of her at last
that she had told nobody, but that she had just mentioned it to
Fédora.”
“Fédora, the fortune teller!” Steadman exclaimed.
“The Soothsayer—the Modern Witch,” Mr. Carnthwacke explained. “All
these Society women are just crazed about her of late. They consult
her about everything. And I feel real ashamed to say Mrs. Carnthwacke
is as silly as anyone. I taxed her with it and made her own up. ‘You'd
ask that fortune-telling woman's advice I know,’ I said. And at last
she burst out crying and the game was up. She swore she didn't mention
names. But there, it is my opinion she don't know whether she did or
not. Anyhow, gentlemen, I have given you something to go upon. You
look up Madame Fédora and her clients. It's there you will find the
clue to Luke Bechcombe's death if it took place as you think.” He got
up leisurely. “If there is nothing more I can do for you gentlemen——”
The inspector rose too.
“I am much obliged for your frankness. If all the witnesses in this
most unhappy tangle were Mr. Carnthwackes, we should soon find
ourselves out in the open, I fancy.”
The millionaire looked pleased at this compliment.
“I know one can't do better than lay all one's cards on the table when
one is dealing with the English police,” he remarked. “Well, so long,
gentlemen. Later on I want to take Mrs. Carnthwacke for a cruise to
get over all this worry and trouble. But I guess we will have to stop
here awhile in case you want her as a witness. And so if you want
either of us any time,—I reckon you know my number—you can ring us up
or come round.”
With a curiously ungraceful bow he turned to the door. A minute or two
later they saw him drive off in his limousine.
John Steadman drew a long breath.
“Well, inspector?”
For answer the inspector handed him his notebook. The last entry was:
“Inquire into C.B.C.'s movements on the day.”
John Steadman glanced curiously at the inspector as he handed it back.
“Do you think he did not realize? Or is he trying to screen some one?”
“I don't know,” the inspector said slowly. “With regard to your second
question, that is to say. With regard to your first, to use his own
phraseology, I don't think there are any flies on Cyril B.
Carnthwacke.”