A surprise awaited him when he came to the Charlton. Mrs. Floyd had
gone--nobody knew whither. Her husband had followed her some time
afterwards, and neither had returned. Somebody had called her on the
telephone, but had left no name.
“I know all about her husband not returning,” said Craig. “But haven’t
you the slightest idea where the lady is?”
The negative reply was uncompromising.
“Her father hasn’t been here?”
His informant hesitated.
“Yes, sir; he was on Mrs. Floyd’s floor when she was missing--in fact,
when Major Floyd was down here making inquiries. The floor waiter
recognised him, but did not see him come or go.”
Calling up the house at Horsham he learnt, what he already knew, that
Peter was away from home. Barney, who answered him, had heard nothing
of the girl; indeed, this was the first intimation he had had that all
was not well. And a further disappointment lay in store for him. The
detective he had sent to find Johnny returned with the news that the
quarry had gone. According to the valet, his master had returned and
changed in a hurry, and, taking a small suit-case, had gone off to an
unknown destination.
An inquiry late that night elicited the fact that Jeff was still
living, but unconscious. The bullet had been extracted, and a hopeful
view was taken of the future. His father had arrived early in the
evening, and was half mad with anxiety and rage.
“And if he isn’t quite mad by the morning, I shall be surprised,” said
the surgeon. “I’m going to keep him here and give him a little bromide
to ease him down.”
“Poison him,” suggested Craig.
When the old detective was on the point of going home, there arrived a
telephone message from the Horsham police, whom he had enlisted to
watch Peter’s house.
“Mr. Kane and his daughter arrived in separate motor-cars at a quarter
past twelve,” was the report. “They came within a few minutes of one
another.”
Craig was on the point of getting through to the house, but thought
better of it. A fast police car got him to Horsham under the hour, the
road being clear and the night a bright one. Lights were burning in
Peter’s snuggery, and it was he himself who, at the sound of the motor
wheels, came to the door.
“Who’s that?” he asked, as Craig came up the dark drive, and, at the
sound of the detective’s voice, he came half-way down the drive to
meet him. “What’s wrong, Craig? Anything special?”
“Jeff’s shot. I suppose you know who Jeff is?”
“I know, to my sorrow,” said Peter Kane promptly. “Shot? How? Where?”
“He was shot this evening between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock, at
the Highlow Club.”
“Come in. You’d better not tell my girl--she’s had as much as she can
bear to-night. Not that I’m worrying a damn about Jeff Legge. He’d
better die, and die quick, for if I get him----”
He did not finish his sentence, and the detective drew the man’s arm
through his.
“Now, listen, Peter, you’ve got to go very slow on this case, and not
talk such a darned lot. You’re under suspicion too, old man. You were
seen in the vicinity of the club.”
“Yes, I was seen in the vicinity of the club,” repeated Peter,
nodding. “I was waiting there--well, I was waiting there for a
purpose. I went to the Charlton, but my girl had gone--I suppose they
told you--and then I went on to the Highlow, and saw that infernal
Lila--by the way, she’s one of Jeff’s women, isn’t she?”
“To be exact,” said the other quietly, “she’s his wife.”
Peter Kane stopped dead.
“His wife?” he whispered. “Thank God for that! Thank God for that! I
forgive her everything. Though she is a brute--how a woman could
allow--but I can’t judge her. That graft has always been dirty to me.
It is hateful and loathsome. But, thank God she’s his wife, Craig!”
Then: “Who shot this fellow?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to pull Johnny for it.”
They were in the hall, and Peter Kane spun round, open-mouthed, terror
in his eyes.
“You’re going to pull Johnny?” he said. “Do you know what you’re
saying, Craig? You’re mad! Johnny didn’t do it. Johnny was nowhere
near----”
“Johnny was there. And, what is more, Johnny was in the room, either
at the moment of the shooting or immediately after. The elevator boy
has spoken what’s in his mind, which isn’t much, but enough to convict
Johnny if this fellow dies.”
“Johnny there!” Peter’s voice did not rise above a whisper.
“I tell you frankly, Peter, I thought it was you.”
Craig was facing him squarely, his keen eyes searching the man’s
pallid face. “When I heard you were around, and that you had got to
know that this fellow was a fake. Why were you waiting?”
“I can’t tell you that--not now,” said the other, after turning the
matter over in his mind. “I should have seen Johnny if he was there. I
saw this girl, Lila, and I was afraid she’d recognise me. I think she
did, too. I went straight on into Shaftesbury Avenue, to a bar I know.
I was feeling queer over this--this discovery of mine. I can prove I
was there from a quarter to ten till ten, if you want any proof. Oh,
Johnny, Johnny!”
All this went on in the hall. Then came a quick patter of footsteps,
and Marney appeared in the doorway.
“Who is it--Johnny? Oh, it is you, Mr. Craig? Has anything happened?”
She looked in alarm from face to face. “Nothing has happened to
Johnny?”
“No, nothing has happened to Johnny,” said Craig soothingly. He
glanced at Peter. “You ought to know this, Marney,” he said. “I can
call you Marney--I’ve known you since you were five. Jeff Legge has
been shot.”
He thought she was going to faint, and sprang to catch her, but with
an effort of will she recovered.
“Jeff shot?” she asked shakily. “Who shot him?”
“I don’t know. That’s just what we are trying to discover. Perhaps you
can help us. Why did you leave the hotel. Was Johnny with you?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t seen Johnny,” she said, “but I owe him--everything. There
was a woman in the hotel.” She glanced timidly at her father. “I think
she was an hotel thief or something of the sort. She was there to--to
steal. A big Welsh woman.”
“A Welshwoman?” said Craig quickly. “What is her name?”
“Mrs. Gwenda Jones. Johnny knew about her, and telephoned her to tell
her to take care of me until he could get to me. She got me out of the
hotel, and then we walked down the Duke of York steps into the Mall.
And then a curious thing happened--I was just telling daddy when you
came. Mrs. Jones--she’s such a big woman----”
“I know the lady,” said Craig.
“Well, she disappeared. She wasn’t exactly swallowed up by the earth,”
she said with a faint smile, “and she didn’t go without warning.
Suddenly she said to me: ‘I must leave you now, my dear. I don’t want
that man to see me.’ I looked round to find who it was that she was so
terribly afraid of, and there seemed to be the most harmless lot of
people about. When I turned, Mrs. Jones was running up the steps. I
didn’t wish to call her back, I felt so ridiculous. And then a man
came up to me, a middle-aged man with the saddest face you could
imagine. I told you that, daddy?”
He nodded.
“He took his hat off--his hair was almost white--and asked me if my
name was Kane. I didn’t tell him the other name,” she said with a
shiver. “‘May I take you to a place of safety, Miss Kane?’ he said. ‘I
don’t think you ought to be seen with that raw-boned female.’ I didn’t
know what to do, I was so frightened, and I was glad of the company
and protection of any man, and, when he called a cab, I got in without
the slightest hesitation. He was such a gentle soul, Mr. Craig. He
talked of nothing but the weather and chickens! I think we talked
about chickens all the way to Lewisham.”
“Are you sure it was Lewisham?”
“It was somewhere in that neighbourhood. What other places are there
there?”
“New Cross, Brockley----” began Craig.
“That’s the place--Brockley. It was the Brockley Road. I saw it
printed on the corner of the street. He took me into his house. There
was a nice, motherly old woman whom he introduced to me as his
housekeeper.”
“And what did he talk about?” asked the fascinated Craig.
“Chickens,” she said solemnly. “Do you know what chickens lay the best
eggs? I’m sure you don’t. Do you know the best breed for England and
the best for America? Do you know the most economical chickens to
keep? I do! I wondered what he was going to do with me. I tried to ask
him, but he invariably turned me back to the question of incubators
and patent feeds, and the cubic space that a sitting hen requires as
compared with an ordinary hen. It was the quaintest, most fantastic
experience. It seems now almost like one of Alice’s dreams! Then, at
ten o’clock, I found a motor-car had come for me. ‘I’m sending you
home, young lady,’ he said.”
“Were you with him all the time, by the way?” asked Craig.
She shook her head.
“No, some part of the time I was with his housekeeper, who didn’t even
talk about chickens, but knitted large and shapeless jumpers, and
sniffed. That was when he was telephoning; I knew he was telephoning
because I could hear the drone of his voice.”
“He didn’t bring you back?”
“No, he just put me into the car and told me that I should be
perfectly safe. I arrived just a few minutes ahead of daddy.”
The detective scratched his chin, irritated and baffled.
“That’s certainly got me,” he said. “The raw-boned lady I know, but
the chicken gentleman is mysterious. You didn’t hear his name, by any
chance?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know the number of the house?”
“Yes,” she said frankly, “but he particularly asked me to forget it,
and I’ve forgotten it.” Then, in a more serious tone: “Is my--my----”
“Your nothing,” interrupted Peter. “The blackguard was
married--married to Lila. I think I must have gone daft, but I didn’t
realise this woman was planted in my house for a purpose. That type of
girl wouldn’t come at the wages if she had been genuine. Barney was
always suspicious of her, by the way.”
“Have you seen Johnny?” the girl asked Craig.
“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Craig carefully. “I thought of calling
on him pretty soon.”
Then it came to her in a flash, and she gasped.
“You don’t think Johnny shot this man? You can’t think that?”
“Of course he didn’t shoot him,” said Peter loudly. “It is a
ridiculous idea. But you’ll understand that Mr. Craig has to make
inquiries in all sorts of unlikely quarters. You haven’t been able to
get hold of Johnny to-night?”
A glance passed between them, and Peter groaned.
“What a fool! What a fool!” he said. “Oh, my God, what a fool!”
“Father, Johnny hasn’t done this? It isn’t true, Mr. Craig. Johnny
wouldn’t shoot a man. Did anybody see him? How was he shot?”
“He was shot in the back.”
“Then it wasn’t Johnny,” she said. “He couldn’t shoot a man in the
back!”
“I think, young lady,” said Craig with a little smile, “that you’d
better go to bed and dream about butterflies. You’ve had a perfect
hell of a day, if you’ll excuse my language. Say the firm word to her,
Peter. Who’s that?” He turned his head, listening.
“Barney,” said Peter. “He has a distressing habit of wearing slippers.
You can hear him miles away. He’s opening the door to somebody--one of
your people, perhaps. Or he’s taking your chauffeur a drink. Barney
has an enormous admiration for chauffeurs. They represent mechanical
genius to him.”
The girl was calmer now.
“I have too much to thank God for to-day, for this terrible thing to
be true,” she said in a low voice. “Mr. Craig, there is a mistake, I’m
sure. Johnny couldn’t have committed such a crime. It was somebody
else--one of Jeffrey Legge’s associates, somebody who hated him. He
told me once that lots of people hated him, and I thought he was
joking; he seemed so nice, so considerate. Daddy, I was mad to go
through that, even to make you happy.”
Peter Kane nodded.
“If you were mad, I was criminal, girlie,” he said. “There was only
one man in the world for you----”
The door opened slowly, and Barney sidled in.
“Johnny to see you folks,” he said, and pulled the door wider.
John Gray was standing in the passage, and his eyes fell upon Craig
with a look of quiet amusement.