“Sit down, Mr. Knox! Sit down, sir!” shouted the Major. “I have no dirty
linen to wash, no skeletons in the cupboard or piffle of that kind. I
simply want something explained which I am too thick-headed--too damned
thick-headed, sir--to explain myself.”
He resumed his seat, and taking out his wallet extracted from it a small
newspaper cutting which he offered to Harley.
“Read that, Mr. Harley,” he directed. “Read it aloud.”
Harley read as follows:
“Before Mr. Smith, at Marlborough Street Police Court, John Edward
Bampton was charged with assaulting a well-known clubman in Bond Street
on Wednesday evening. It was proved by the constable who made the
arrest that robbery had not been the motive of the assault, and Bampton
confessed that he bore no grudge against the assailed man, indeed, that
he had never seen him before. He pleaded intoxication, and the police
surgeon testified that although not actually intoxicated, his breath
had smelled strongly of liquor at the time of his arrest. Bampton's
employers testified to a hitherto blameless character, and as the charge
was not pressed the man was dismissed with a caution.”
Having read the paragraph, Harley glanced at the Major with a puzzled
expression.
“The point of this quite escapes me,” he confessed.
“Is that so?” said Major Ragstaff. “Is that so, sir? Perhaps you will be
good enough to read this.”
From his wallet he took a second newspaper cutting, smaller than the
first, and gummed to a sheet of club notepaper. Harley took it and read
as follows:
“Mr. De Lana, a well-known member of the Stock Exchange, who met with a
serious accident recently, is still in a precarious condition.”
The puzzled look on Harley's face grew more acute, and the Major watched
him with an expression which I can only describe as one of fierce
enjoyment.
“You're thinkin' I'm a damned old fool, ain't you?” he shouted suddenly.
“Scarcely that,” said Harley, smiling slightly, “but the significance of
these paragraphs is not apparent, I must confess. The man Bampton would
not appear to be an interesting character, and since no great damage has
been done, his drunken frolic hardly comes within my sphere. Of Mr. De
Lana, of the Stock Exchange, I never heard, unless he happens to be a
member of the firm of De Lana and Day?”
“He's not a member of that firm, sir,” shouted the Major. “He was, up to
six o'clock this evenin'.”
“What do you mean exactly?” inquired Harley, and the tone of his voice
suggested that he was beginning to entertain doubts of the Major's
sanity or sobriety; then:
“He's dead!” declared the latter. “Dead as the Begum of Bangalore! He
died at six o'clock. I've just spoken to his widow on the telephone.”
I suppose I must have been staring very hard at the speaker, and
certainly Harley was doing so, for suddenly directing his fierce gaze
toward me:
“You're completely treed, sir, and so's your friend!” shouted Major
Ragstaff.
“I confess it,” replied Harley quietly; “and since my time is of some
little value I would suggest, without disrespect, that you explain the
connection, if any, between yourself, the drunken Bampton, and Mr. De
Lana, of the Stock Exchange, who died, you inform us, at six o'clock
this evening as the result, presumably, of injuries received in an
accident.”
“That's what I'm here for!” cried Major Ragstaff. “In the first place,
then, I am the party, although I saw to it that my name was kept out of
print, whom the drunken lunatic assaulted.”
Harley, pipe in hand, stared at the speaker perplexedly.
“Understand me,” continued the Major, “I am the person--I, Jack
Ragstaff--he assaulted. I was walkin' down from my quarters in Maddox
Street on my way to dine at the club, same as I do every night o' my
life, when this flamin' idiot sprang upon me, grabbed my hat”--he took
up his white hat to illustrate what had occurred--“not this one, but one
like it--pitched it on the ground and jumped on it!”
Harley was quite unable to conceal his smiles as the excited old
soldier dropped his conspicuous head-gear on the floor and indulged in a
vigorous pantomime designed to illustrate his statement.
“Most extraordinary,” said Harley. “What did you do?”
“What did I do?” roared the Major. “I gave him a crack on the head with
my cane, and I said things to him which couldn't be repeated in court.
I punched him, and likewise hoofed him, but the hat was completely done
in. Damn crowd collected, hearin' me swearin' and bellowin'. Police and
all that; names an' addresses and all that balderdash. Man lugged away
to guard-room and me turnin' up at the club with no hat. Damn ridiculous
spectacle at my time of life.”
“Quite so,” said Harley soothingly; “I appreciate your annoyance, but I
am utterly at a loss to understand why you have come here, and what all
this has to do with Mr. De Lana, of the Stock Exchange.”
“He fell out of the window!” shouted the Major.
“Fell out of a window?”
“Out of a window, sir, a second floor window ten yards up a side street!
Pitched on his skull--marvel he wasn't killed outright!”
A faint expression of interest began to creep into Harley's glance, and:
“I understand you to mean, Major Ragstaff,” he said deliberately, “that
while your struggle with the drunken man was in progress Mr. De Lana
fell out of a neighbouring window into the street?”
“Right!” shouted the Major. “Right, sir!”
“Do you know this Mr. De Lana?”
“Never heard of him in my life until the accident occurred. Seems to
me the poor devil leaned out to see the fun and overbalanced. Felt
responsible, only natural, and made inquiries. He died at six o'clock
this evenin', sir.”
“H'm,” said Harley reflectively. “I still fail to see where I come in.
From what window did he fall?”
“Window above a sort of teashop, called Cafe Dame--damn silly name.
Place on a corner. Don't know name of side street.”
“H'm. You don't think he was pushed out, for instance?”
“Certainly not!” shouted the Major; “he just fell out, but the point is,
he's dead!”
“My dear sir,” said Harley patiently, “I don't dispute that point; but
what on earth do you want of me?”
“I don't know what I want!” roared the Major, beginning to walk up and
down the room, “but I know I ain't satisfied, not easy in my mind, sir.
I wake up of a night hearin' the poor devil's yell as he crashed on the
pavement. That's all wrong. I've heard hundreds of death-yells, but”--he
took up his malacca cane and beat it loudly on the table--“I haven't
woke up of a night dreamin' I heard 'em again.”
“In a word, you suspect foul play?”
“I don't suspect anything!” cried the other excitedly, “but someone
mentioned your name to me at the club--said you could see through
concrete, and all that--and here I am. There's something wrong,
radically wrong. Find out what it is and send the bill to me. Then
perhaps I'll be able to sleep in peace.”
He paused, and again taking out the large silk handkerchief blew his
nose loudly. Harley glanced at me in rather an odd way, and then:
“There will be no bill, Major Ragstaff,” he said; “but if I can see any
possible line of inquiry I will pursue it and report the result to you.”