THE HOUNDS
Superintendent James Leander Winter, Chief of the Criminal
Investigation Department at Scotland Yard, had just opened the
morning's letters, and was virtuously resisting the placid charms of
an open box of cigars, when the telephone bell rang. The speaker was
the Assistant Commissioner.
"Leave everything else, and motor to Roxton," said the calm voice of
authority. "Mr. Mortimer Fenley, a private banker in the City, was
shot dead about nine thirty at his own front door. His place is The
Towers, which stands in a park between the villages of Roxton and
Easton, in Hertfordshire. His son, who has just telephoned here,
believes that a rifle was fired from a neighboring wood, but several
minutes elapsed before any one realized that the banker was shot, the
first impression of the servants who ran to his assistance when he
staggered and fell being that he was suffering from apoplexy. By the
time the cause of death was discovered the murderer could have
escaped, so no immediate search was organized. Mr. Hilton Fenley, a
son, who spoke with difficulty, explained that he thought it best to
'phone here after summoning a doctor. The dead man is of some
importance in the City, so I want you to take personal charge of the
inquiry."
The voice ceased. Mr. Winter, while listening, had glanced at a clock.
"Nine thirty this morning, sir?" he inquired.
"Yes. The son lost no time. The affair happened a quarter of an hour
ago."
"I'll start in five minutes."
"Good. By the way, who will go with you?"
"Mr. Furneaux."
"Excellent. I leave matters in your hands, Superintendent. Let me hear
the facts if you return to town before six."
Evidently the Roxton murder was one of the year's big events. It
loomed large already in the official mind. Winter called up various
departments in quick succession, gave a series of orders, sorted his
letters hastily, thrusting some into a drawer and others into a basket
on the table, and was lighting a cigar when the door opened and his
trusted aide, Detective Inspector Furneaux, entered.
"Ha!" cackled the newcomer; for Winter had confided to him, only the
day before, certain reasons why the habit of smoking to excess was
injurious, and his (Winter's) resolve to cut down the day's cigars to
three, one after each principal meal.
"Circumstances alter cases," said the Superintendent blandly,
scrutinizing the Havana to make sure that the outer leaf was burning
evenly. "You and I are off for a jaunt in the country, Charles, and
the sternest disciplinarian unbends during holiday time."
"Scotland Yard, as well as the other place, is paved with good
intentions," said Furneaux.
Winter stooped, and took a couple of automatic pistols from a drawer
in the desk at which he was seated.
"Put one of those in your pocket," he said.
Again did his colleague smile derisively.
"So it is only a 'bus driver's holiday?" he cried.
"One never knows. Some prominent banker, name of Fenley, has been
shot. There may be more shooting."
"Fenley? Not Mortimer Fenley?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Better than I know you; because you often puzzle me, whereas he
struck me as a respectable swindler. Don't you remember those bonds
which disappeared so mysteriously two months ago from the safe of the
Mortgage and Discount Bank, and were all sold in Paris before the loss
was discovered?"
"By Jove! Is that the Fenley?"
"None other. Of course, you were hob-nobbing with royalty at the time,
so such a trifle as the theft of ten thousand pounds' worth of
negotiable securities didn't trouble you a bit. I see you're wearing
the pin today."
"So would you wear it, if an Emperor deigned to take notice of such a
shrimp."
"Shrimp you call me! Imagine a lobster sticking rubies and diamonds
into a heliotrope tie!"
Winter winked solemnly.
"I picked up some wrinkles in color blends at the Futurist
Exhibition," he said. "But here's Johnston to tell us the car is
ready."
The oddly assorted pair followed the constable in uniform, now
hurrying ahead to ring for the elevator. The big, bluff, bullet-headed
Superintendent was physically well fitted for his responsible
position, though he combined with the official demeanor some of the
easy-going characteristics of a country squire; but Charles Francois
Furneaux was so unlike the detective of romance and the stage that he
often found it difficult to persuade strangers that he was really the
famous detective inspector they had heard of in connection with many a
celebrated trial.
On the other hand, if one were told that he hailed from the Comedie
Francaise, the legend would be accepted without demur. He had the
clean-shaven, wrinkled face of the comedian; his black eyes sparkled
with an active intelligence; an expressive mouth bespoke clear and
fluent speech; his quick, alert movements were those of the mimetic
actor. Winter stood six feet in height, and weighed two hundred and
ten pounds; Furneaux was six inches shorter and eighty pounds lighter.
The one was a typical John Bull, the other a Channel Islander of pure
French descent, and never did more curiously assorted couple follow
the trail of a criminal.
Yet, if noteworthy when acting apart, they were almost infallible in
combination. More than one eminent scoundrel had either blown out his
brains or given himself up to the law when he knew that the Big 'Un
and Little 'Un of the Yard were hot on his track. Winter seldom failed
to arrive at the only sound conclusion from ascertained facts, whereas
Furneaux had an almost uncanny knowledge of the kinks and obliquities
of the criminal mind. In the phraseology of logic, Winter applied the
deductive method and Furneaux the inductive; when both fastened on to
the same "suspect" the unlucky wight was in parlous state.
It may be taken for granted, therefore, that the Assistant
Commissioner knew what he was about in uttering his satisfaction at
the Superintendent's choice of an assistant. Possibly he had the
earlier bond robbery in mind, and expected now that another "mystery"
would be solved. Scotland Yard guards many secrets which shirk the
glare of publicity. Some may never be explained; but by far the larger
proportion are cleared up unexpectedly by incidents which may occur
months or years afterward, and whose connection with the original
crime is indiscernible until some chance discovery lays bare the
hidden clue.
One queer feature of the partnership between the two was their habit
of chaffing and bickering at each other during the early stages of a
joint hunt. They were like hounds giving tongue joyously when laid on
the scent; dangerous then, they became mute and deadly when the quarry
was in sight. In private life they were firm friends; officially,
Furneaux was Winter's subordinate, but that fact neither silenced the
Jersey man's sarcastic tongue nor stopped Winter from roasting his
assistant unmercifully if an opportunity offered.
Their chauffeur took the line through the parks to the Edgware Road,
and they talked of anything save "shop" until the speed limit was off
and the car was responding gayly to the accelerator. Then Winter threw
away the last inch of a good cigar, involuntarily put his hand to a
well-filled case for its successor, sighed, and dropped his hand
again.
"Force of habit," he said, finding Furneaux's eye on him.
"I didn't even think evil," was the reply.
"I really mustn't smoke so much," said Winter plaintively.
"Oh, for goodness' sake light up and be happy. If you sit there
nursing your self-righteousness you'll be like a bear with a sore
head before we pass Stanmore. Besides, consider me. I like the smell
of tobacco, though my finer nervous system will not endure its use."
"Finer fiddlesticks," said Winter, cutting the end off a fresh Havana.
"Now tell me about Fenley and the ten thousand. What's his other name?
I forget--Alexander, is it?"
"No, nor Xenophon. Just Mortimer. He ran a private bank in Bishopsgate
Street, and that, as you know, generally hides a company promoter.
Frankly, I was bothered by Fenley at first. I believe he lost the
bonds right enough, for he gave the numbers, and was horribly upset
when it was found they had been sold in Paris. But, to my idea, he
either stole them himself and was relieved of them later or was
victimized by one of his sons.
"The only other person who could have taken them was the cashier, a
hoary-headed old boy who resides at Epping, and has not changed his
method of living since he first wore a silk hat and caught the
eight-forty to the City one morning fifty years ago. I followed him
home on a Saturday afternoon. The bookstall clerk at Liverpool Street
handed him _The Amateur Gardener_, and the old boy read it in the
train. Five minutes after he had reached his house he was out on the
lawn with a daisy fork. No; the cashier didn't arrange the Paris
sale."
"What of the sons?"
"The elder, Hilton Fenley, is a neurotic, like myself, so he
would shine with equal luster as a saint, or a detective, or a
dyed-in-the-wool thief. The younger, Robert, ought to be an explorer,
or a steeplechase jockey, or an airman. In reality, he is a first-rate
wastrel. In my distress I harked back to the old man, to whom the loss
of the bonds represented something considerably less than a year's
expenditure. He is mixed up in all sorts of enterprises--rubber, tea,
picture palaces, breweries and automobile finance. He lent fifty
thousand pounds on five per cent. first mortgage bonds to one firm at
Coventry, and half that amount to a rival show in West London. So he
has the stuff, and plenty of it. Yet----"
Winter nodded.
"I know the sort of man. Dealing in millions today; tomorrow in the
dock at the Old Bailey."
"The point is that Fenley has never dealt in millions, and has
kept his head high for twenty years. Just twenty years, by the way.
Before that he was unknown. He began by the amalgamation of some tea
plantations in Assam. Fine word, 'amalgamation.' It means money, all
the time. Can't we amalgamate something, or somebody?"
"In Fenley's case it led to assassination."
"Perhaps. I have a feeling in my bones that if I knew who touched the
proceeds of those bonds I might understand why some one shot Fenley
this morning."
"I'll soon tell you a trivial thing like that," said Winter, affecting
a close interest in the landscape.
"I shouldn't be at all surprised if you did," said Furneaux. "You have
the luck of a Carnegie. Look at the way you bungled that affair of
Lady Morris's diamonds, until you happened to see her maid meeting
Gentleman George at the White City."
Winter smoked complacently.
"Smartest thing I ever did," he chortled. "Fixed on the thief within
half an hour, and never lost touch till I knew how she had worked the
job."
"The Bow Street method."
"Why didn't you try something of the sort with regard to Fenley's
bonds?"
"I couldn't be crude, even with a City financier. I put it gently that
the money was in the family; he blinked at me like an owl, said that
he would give thought to the suggestion, and shut down the inquiry by
telephone before I reached the Yard from his office."
"Oh, he did, did he? It seems to me you've made a pretty good guess in
associating the bonds and the murder. You've seen both sons, of
course?"
"Yes, often."
"Are there other members of the family?"
"An invalid wife, never away from The Towers; and a young lady, Miss
Sylvia Manning--a ward, and worth a pile. By the way, she's twenty.
Mortimer Fenley, had he lived, was appointed her guardian and trustee
till she reached twenty-one."
"Twenty!" mused Winter.
"Yes, twice ten," snapped Furneaux.
"And Fenley has cut a figure in the City for twenty years."
"I was sure your gray matter would be stimulated by its favorite
poison."
"Charles, this should be an easy thing."
"I'm not so sure. Dead men tell no tales, and Fenley himself could
probably supply many chapters of an exciting story. They will be
missing. Look at the repeated failures of eminent authors to complete
'Edwin Drood.' How would they have fared if asked to produce the
beginning?"
"Still, I'm glad you attended to those bonds. Who had charge of the
Paris end?"
"Jacques Faure."
"Ah, a good man."
"Pretty fair, for a Frenchman."
Winter laughed.
"You born frog!" he cried.... "Hello, there's a Roxton sign post. Now
let's compose our features. We are near The Towers."
The estate figured on the county map, so the chauffeur pulled up at
the right gate. A woman came from the lodge to inquire their
business, and admitted the car when told that its occupants had been
summoned by Mr. Hilton Fenley.
"By the way," said Furneaux carelessly, "is Mr. Robert at home?"
"No, sir."
"When did he leave?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir."
Mrs. Bates knew quite well, and Furneaux knew that she knew.
"The country domestic is the detective's aversion," he said as the car
whirred into the avenue. "The lady of the lodge will be a sufficiently
tough proposition if we try to drag information out of her, but the
real tug of war will come when we tackle the family butler."
"Her husband is also the head keeper," said Winter.
"Name of Bates," added Furneaux.
"Oh, you've been here before, then?"
"No. While you were taking stock of the kennels generally, I was
deciphering a printed label on a box of dog biscuit."
"I hardly feel that I've begun this inquiry yet," said Winter airily.
"You'd better pull yourself together. The dead man's limousine is
still waiting at the door, and the local doctor is in attendance."
"Walter J. Stern, M.D."
"Probably. That brass plate on the Georgian house in the center of
the village positively glistened."
They were received by Hilton Fenley himself, all the available men
servants having been transferred to the cohort organized and directed
by Police Constable Farrow.
"Good morning, Mr. Furneaux," said Fenley. "I little thought, when
last we met, that I should be compelled to seek your help so soon
again, and under such dreadful circumstances."
Furneaux, whose face could display at will a Japanese liveliness of
expression or become a mask of Indian gravity, surveyed the speaker
with inscrutable eyes.
"This is Superintendent Winter, Chief of my Department," he said.
"The Assistant Commissioner told me to take charge of the inquiry
without delay, sir," explained Winter. He glanced at his watch. "We
have not been long on the road. It is only twenty minutes to eleven."
Fenley led them through a spacious hall into a dining-room on the
left. On an oak settee at the back of the hall the outline of a white
sheet was eloquent of the grim object beneath. In the dining-room were
an elderly man and a slim, white-faced girl. Had Trenholme been
present he would have noted with interest that her dress was of white
muslin dotted with tiny blue spots--not _fleurs de lys_, but rather
resembling them.
"Dr. Stern, and Miss Sylvia Manning," said Fenley to the newcomers.
Then he introduced the Scotland Yard men in turn. By this time the
young head of the family had schooled himself to a degree of
self-control. His sallow skin held a greenish pallor, and as if to
satisfy some instinct that demanded movement he took an occasional
slow stride across the parquet floor or brushed a hand wearily over
his eyes. Otherwise he had mastered his voice, and spoke without the
gasping pauses which had made distressful his words to Farrow.
"Ours is a sad errand, Mr. Fenley," began Winter, after a hasty glance
at the table, which still bore the disordered array of breakfast.
"But, if you feel equal to the task, you might tell us exactly what
happened."
Fenley nodded.
"Of course, of course," he said quietly. "That is essential. We
three, my father, Miss Manning and myself, breakfasted together. The
second gong goes every morning at eight forty-five, and we were
fairly punctual today. My father and Sylvia, Miss Manning, came in
together--they had been talking in the hall previously. I saw them
entering the room as I came downstairs. During the meal we chatted
about affairs in the East; that is, my father and I did, and Syl--Miss
Manning--gave us some news of a church bazaar in which she is taking
part.
"My father rose first and went to his room, to collect papers brought
from the City overnight. I met him on the stairs, and he gave me some
instructions about a prospectus. (Let me interpolate that I was going
to Victoria by a later train, having an appointment at eleven o'clock
with Lord Ventnor, chairman of a company we are bringing out.) I stood
on the stairs, saying something, while my father crossed the hall and
took his hat and gloves from Harris, the footman. As I passed along
the gallery to my own room I saw him standing on the landing at the
top of the steps.
"He was cutting the end off a cigar, and Harris was just behind him
and a little to the left, striking a match. Every fine morning my
father lighted a cigar there. In rain or high wind he would light up
inside the house. By the way, my mother is an invalid, and dislikes
the smell of tobacco, so unless we have guests we don't smoke indoors.
"Well, I had reached my room, a sitting-room adjoining my bedroom,
when I heard a gunshot. Apparently it came from the Quarry Wood, and I
was surprised, because there is no shooting at this season. A little
later--some few seconds--I heard Sylvia scream. I did not rush out
instantly to discover the cause. Young ladies sometimes scream at
wasps and caterpillars. Then I heard Tomlinson say, 'Fetch Mr. Hilton
at once,' and I ran into Harris, who blurted out, 'Mr. Fenley has been
shot, sir.'
"After that, I scarcely know what I said or how I acted. I remember
running downstairs, and finding my father lying outside the front
door, with Sylvia supporting his head and Tomlinson and Brodie trying
to lift him. I think--in fact, I am sure now from what Dr. Stern tells
me--that my father was dead before I reached him. We all thought at
first that he had yielded to some awfully sudden form of paralysis,
but some one--Tomlinson, I believe--noticed a hole through the right
side of his coat and waistcoat. Then Sylvia--oh, perhaps that is
matterless----"
"Every incident, however slight, is of importance in a case of this
sort," Winter encouraged him.
"Well, she said--what was it, exactly? Do you remember, Sylvia?"
"Certainly," said the girl, unhesitatingly. "I said that I thought I
recognized the sound of Bob's .450. Why shouldn't I say it? Poor Bob
didn't shoot his father."
Her voice, though singularly musical, had a tearful ring which became
almost hysterical in the vehemence of the question and its disclaimer.
Fenley moved uneasily, and raised his right hand to his eyes, while
the left grasped the back of a chair.
"Bob is my brother Robert, who is away from home at this moment," he
said, and his tone deprecated the mere allusion to the rifle owned by
the absentee. "I only mentioned Miss Manning's words to show how
completely at a loss we all were to account for my father's wound. I
helped Tomlinson and Brodie to carry him to the settee in the hall.
Then we--Tomlinson, that is--opened his waistcoat and shirt. Tomlinson
cut the shirt with a scissors, and we saw the wound. Dr. Stern says
there are indications that an expanding bullet was used, so the
injuries must have been something appalling.... Sylvia, don't you
think----"
"I'll not faint, or make a scene, if that is what you are afraid of,
Hilton," said the girl bravely.
"That is all, then, or nearly all," went on Fenley, in the same
dreary, monotonous voice. "I telephoned to Dr. Stern, and to Scotland
Yard, deeming it better to communicate with you than with the local
police. But it seems that Bates, our head keeper hurrying to
investigate the cause of the shot, met some artist coming away from
the other side of the wood. The Roxton police constable too, met and
spoke with the same man, who told both Bates and the policeman that he
heard the shot fired. The policeman, Farrow, refused to arrest the
artist, and is now searching the wood with a number of our men----"
"Can't they be stopped?" broke in Furneaux, speaking for the first
time.
"Yes, of course," and Hilton Fenley became a trifle more animated. "I
wanted Farrow to wait till you came, but he insisted--said the
murderer might be hiding there."
"When did Farrow arrive?"
"Oh, more than half an hour after my father was shot. I forgot to
mention that my mother knows nothing of the tragedy yet. That is why
we did not carry my poor father's body upstairs. She might overhear
the shuffling of feet, and ask the cause."
"One thing more, Mr. Fenley," said Winter, seeing that the other had
made an end. "Have you the remotest reason to believe that any person
harbored a grievance against your father such as might lead to the
commission of a crime of this nature?"
"I've been torturing my mind with that problem since I realized that
my father was dead, and I can say candidly that he had no enemies. Of
course, in business, one interferes occasionally with other men's
projects, but people in the City do not shoot successful opponents."
"No private feud? No dismissed servant, sent off because of theft or
drunkenness?"
"Absolutely none, to my knowledge. The youngest man on the estate has
been employed here five or six years."
"It is a very extraordinary crime, Mr. Fenley."
For answer, the other sank into a chair and buried his face in his
hands.
"How can we get those clodhoppers out of the wood?" said Furneaux. His
thin, high-pitched voice dispelled the tension, and Fenley dropped his
hands.
"Bates is certain to make for a rock which commands a view of the
house," he said. "Perhaps, if we go to the door, we may see them."
He arose with obvious effort, but walked steadily enough. Winter
followed with the doctor, and inquired in an undertone--
"Are you sure about the soft-nosed bullet, doctor?"
"Quite," was the answer. "I was in the Tirah campaign, and saw
hundreds of such wounds."
Furneaux, too, had something to say to Miss Manning.
"How were you seated during breakfast?" he asked.
She showed him. It was a large room. Two windows looked down the
avenue, and three into the garden, with its background of timber and
park. Mr. Mortimer Fenley could have commanded both views; his son sat
with his back to the park; the girl had faced it.
"I need hardly put it to you, but you saw no one in or near the
trees?" said Furneaux.
"Not a soul. I bathe in a little lake below those cedars every
morning, and it is an estate order that the men do not go in that
direction between eight and nine o'clock. Of course, a keeper might
have passed at nine thirty, but it is most unlikely."
"Did you bathe this morning?"
"Yes, soon after eight."
"Did you see the artist of whom Mr. Fenley spoke?"
"No. This is the first I have heard of any artist. Bates must have
mentioned him while I was with Dr. Stern."
When Farrow arrived at the head of his legion he was just in time to
salute his Inspector, who had cycled from Easton after receiving the
news left by the chauffeur at the police station. Farrow was bursting
with impatience to reveal the discoveries he had made, though resolved
to keep locked in his own breast the secret confided by Bates. He was
thoroughly nonplussed, therefore, when Winter, after listening in
silence to the account of the footprints and scratches on the
moss-covered surface of the rock, turned to Hilton Fenley.
"With reference to the rifle which has been mentioned--where is it
kept?" he said.
"In my brother's room. He bought it nearly a year ago, when he was
planning an expedition to Somaliland."
"May I see it?"
Fenley signed to the butler, who was standing with the others at a
little distance.
"You know the .450 Express which is in the gun rack in Mr. Robert's
den?" he said. "Bring it to the Superintendent."
Tomlinson, shaken but dignified, and rather purple of face as the
result of the tramp through the trees, went indoors. Soon he came
back, and the rich tint had faded again from his complexion.
"Sorry, sir," he said huskily, "but the rifle is not there."
"Not there!"
It was Sylvia Manning who spoke; the others received this sinister
fact in silence.
"No, miss."
"Are you quite sure?" asked Fenley.
"It is not in the gun rack, sir, nor in any of the corners."
There was a pause. Fenley clearly forced the next words.
"That's all right. Bates may have it in the gun room. We'll ask him.
Or Mr. Robert may have taken it to the makers. I remember now he spoke
of having the sight fitted with some new appliance."
He called Bates. No, the missing rifle was not in the gun room.
Somehow the notion was forming in certain minds that it could not be
there. Indeed, the keeper's confusion was so marked that Furneaux's
glance dwelt on him for a contemplative second.