Exhibits
The door of the cell clanged to behind Boyd. From a chair, Deacon
unfolded his bulk to greet Anthony. They shook hands.
“Wasn’t long before I yelled for you,” the criminal grinned. “Take the
chair. I’ll squat on the gent’s bedding.”
Anthony sat, running his eye over the cell. There was the chair he sat
on, the truckle bed, a tinware wash-stand, a shelf, a dressing-case of
Deacon’s, and, in one corner, a large brown-paper parcel.
“Pretty snug, brother, isn’t it?” Deacon smiled. “I languish in
comfort. ’D’ve been pretty glad of this at times during the recent
fracas in France. I say, wouldn’t you like to write the story of my
life? _Some Criminals I have Known: Number One—The Abbotshall
Murderer._ You know the sort of thing.”
Anthony laughed. “Well, you take it easily enough. I’m afraid I should
alternate fury and depression.”
For a moment Deacon’s blue eyes met his; and in them Anthony saw a
kind of despairing horror. But only for the half of a second. And then
the old laughing look was in them again. More than ever, Anthony felt
admiration and a desperate desire to get this large man out of this
small cell; to make him free again—as free as the hot, gleaming streak
of the setting sun which pierced the little barred window and painted
a broad line of gold upon the drab floor. But to get him out one must
work.
“What about those finger-prints?” he asked suddenly.
“You have me,” said Deacon, “on the hip. That’s the most amazing bit
of jiggery pokery about all this hocus pocus. What about ’em to you?”
“They certainly savour,” Anthony said, “of hanky panky. In fact, since
I know they’re yours and that you didn’t kill Hoode, I know they must
be. Now, have you seen that wood-rasp?”
“Yes. At the inquest.”
“Never before?”
“Not as I knows on, guv’nor. In fact, I’d almost swear to ‘never.’ But
then I’m the most amazing ass about tools. A fret-saw or a
pile-driver, they’re all one to me.”
“Did you notice the handle?” Anthony asked.
“With interest; because they said it had my paw-marks on it.”
“Ever seen that before? By itself, I mean.”
Deacon shook his head. “Never.” He fell silent, then said: “I suppose
those prints _couldn’t_ be any one else’s, could they?”
“I’m afraid they couldn’t,” said Anthony. “You see, it’s as near
proved as a thing like that can be that no two men have the same
markings on the fingers. They compared those on the wood with those on
the bit of paper Boyd got you to hold, and their experts don’t make
mistakes. By the way, I suppose you realised at the inquest how you’d
been caught?”
Deacon smiled. “Not at the inquest, brother, but at the time. I’ve
read too many spot-the-murderer serials in my time not to know what a
sleuth’s up to when he hands me a bit of paper and asks me whether I
ever saw it before. But I didn’t mind at the time, you see, not
knowing about that blasted file thing. I say, Gethryn, are we mad? Or
is this all a bloody nightmare? I tell you, I didn’t kill the boss,
and yet the thing he’s killed with is all over the marks of my
fingers! And as far as I know I never even saw the gadget before! It
doesn’t work out, does it?”
“It’s got to,” Anthony said. “I’ll damned well make it. Now, what
d’you know about the incomparable Vanda?”
Deacon whistled. “How did you get hold of that?” he asked,
wonderingly.
“You know my methods, my dear Deacon. But what d’you know about Vanda?
Beyond the fact that she’s the most wonderful dancer of all time.”
“I don’t really _know_ anything; but I’ve a shrewd little suspish that
she was the boss’s mistress.”
“She was. But as you didn’t actually know anything, I gather you can’t
help me further there.”
“’Fraid not. For one thing my suspicion was founded on something that
happened by accident, and for another I’ve not the foggiest idea of
what you’re driving at.”
“They _will_ all say that!” Anthony sighed. “And it’s just what I want
some one to tell _me_. Never mind, we’ll get on with the exhibits.
Have you ever seen this?” He took from a swollen hip pocket a small
paper package, unfolded it, and handed the contents to Deacon.
They were a coil of filthy, black-smeared silk cord. Curiously, the
prisoner shook it out, letting one end fall to the floor. He saw now
that it was knotted at regular intervals along its length, which was a
full sixteen feet.
“Never saw it in my natural.” He looked up at Anthony. “What is it?”
“Obviously a length of silk cord,” Anthony said, “with, as you would
probably say, knobs on.”
“I mean, where did you find it? What bearing’s it got?”
“I found it,” said Anthony slowly, “in your bedroom at Abbotshall.”
“What?”
“In your room. On a ledge inside that wonderful old chimney; about six
inches higher than the mantelpiece. That accounts for the filth. You
can see the rope was white once, and not so long ago.”
Deacon frowned at the floor. “Well, it’s either been there up the
chimney since I went to the house—last May, that is—or else it’s been
planted there. I never set eyes on it before.”
“Good!” Anthony coiled up the cord, wrapped it up in the paper, and
returned the parcel to his pocket.
“But what’s the beastly bit of string _mean_? What’s it got to do with
me or you or anything in this business? Tell me that!”
“Shan’t,” said Anthony. “I’m not sure yet myself. You’ll have to
wait.”
Deacon shrugged his great shoulders. “Right-o. Next, please.”
Anthony’s hand went to his breast pocket. From a leather wallet he
took a bunch of newspaper cuttings.
“These,” he said, “I found in a really-truly secret drawer in your
late chief’s desk. Know anything about ’em? Or why they were there?”
In silence, Deacon read each slip. When he had finished,
“Well?” Anthony said.
“They mean nothing in my young life. These three rags—_The
Searchlight_, _The St. Stephen’s Gazette_, and the weekly one, _Vox
Populi_—always were dead agin the boss. I can’t make head or tail of
what you’re driving at, Gethryn, I can’t really!”
Anthony groaned. “There you go again. Never mind that, but tell me,
did you know Hoode was keeping these cuttings?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention the persistent attacks of these three papers?”
“No.”
“No? Pity.” Anthony got to his feet. “I must move. Anything you want?
Books? Food? Tobacco?”
Deacon smiled. “Nothing, thanks awfully. Our Arthur—old Digby-Coates,
you know—has done all that. Brought me down a sack of books, a box of
cigars, and arranged for decidedly improved victuals to be brought
over from the White Horse by quite a neat line in barmaidings. Also,
he’s fixed up the solicitors and trimmings. They’re going to try to
get Marshall, K.C.”
“Excellent! Marshall’s about the best counsel there is. There’s
nothing you want, then.”
“Nothing. Shall I see you to-morrow?”
Anthony nodded. “You will. Early afternoon, probably, as I hear
they’re moving you later. Good-night; and don’t forget I’m going to
get you out of this—somehow.”
They shook hands. A minute later Anthony was walking slowly back
towards his inn up the cobbled street. The sun was sinking behind the
gables of a twisted house at the top of the rise, and the road which
had been gold was splashed with blood-red blotches.
He shivered. In all this morass of doubt and wilderness of evil—a
wilderness wherein innocent men had obviously committed crimes they
had nothing to do with, where every one was sure except Anthony
Ruthven Gethryn—he felt alone. Not even the golden-dark background to
his thoughts which was the perpetual image of the Lady of the Sandal
could compensate for the blackness of bewilderment—the blackness
through which he could see light but not yet the way to light.
Then his thoughts turned to Deacon, his cheerfulness, his ease of
manner, his courage which surely masked a hell of distress. Suddenly
the admiration which he felt somehow cheered him. His step quickened.
“By God!” he muttered, “that’s a man and a half——” and broke off
sharply. He had collided with something softly hard. A girl, running.
A girl with wild, red-rimmed eyes and hatless, dishevelled, golden
head.
Before he could voice apology; almost before he was aware of the
collision, she had passed him and was stumbling down the uneven little
road with its splashes of crimson painted by the dying sun. From a
doorway a slatternly woman peered out, curious with the brutal,
impersonal curiosity of the yokel.
Anthony struggled to adjust his memory. Ah, yes! It was the sister.
Her sister. Dora Masterson. He turned; caught up with four long
strides; laid a hand upon the girl’s shoulder. She shook it off,
turning to him a face disfigured by desire for more tears, tears that
would not come.
“You were going to the police-station, Miss Masterson?” Anthony asked.
She nodded.
“You mustn’t—not like this.” He took her gently by the arm. “You could
do nothing—and you’d make him feel as if things were unbearable.”
“I must see him.” She spoke dully, an unnatural pause between each
word.
“Not now,” said Anthony firmly. “Not when I want your help.” He
wondered if the lie showed through his words; cursed that he should
have to hamper himself with an hysterical girl.
She swallowed the bait. “Help you?” she asked eagerly. “About—about
Archie? How can I do that?
“I can’t tell you here. You must come up to the inn.” He led her back
up the hill.