SOME SIDE ISSUES
Trenholme, rather interested than otherwise, did not blanch at mention
of Scotland Yard.
"Walk right in, Mr. Furneaux," he said; he had picked up a few tricks
of speech from Transatlantic brethren of the brush met at Julien's.
"Have you lunched?"
"Excellently," was the reply.
"Not in Roxton. I defy you to produce a cook in this village that
shall compare with our Eliza of the White Horse."
"Sir, my thoughts do not dwell on viands. True, I ate with a butler,
but I drank wine with a connoisseur. It was a Chateau Yquem of the
eighties."
"Then you should be in expansive mood. Before you demand with a scowl
why I shot Mr. Fenley you might tell me why the headquarters of the
London Police is named Scotland Yard."
"Because it was first housed in a street of that name near Trafalgar
Square. Scotland Yard was a palace at one time, built in a spirit of
mistaken hospitality for the reception of prominent Scots visiting
London. We entertained so many and so lavishly that 'Gang Sooth' has
become a proverb beyond the Tweed."
"There is virtue, I perceive, in a bottle of Chateau Yquem--or was it
two?"
"In one there is light, but two might produce fireworks. Now, sir, if
you have finished luncheon, kindly take me to your room and show me
the sketches you made this morning."
The artist raised an inquiring eyebrow.
"I have the highest respect for your profession in the abstract, but
it is new to find it dabbling in art criticism," he said.
"I assure you, Mr. Trenholme, that any drawings of yours made in the
neighborhood of The Towers before half past nine o'clock today will be
most valuable pieces of evidence--if nothing more."
Though Furneaux's manner was grave as an owl's, a certain gleam in his
eye gave the requisite sting to the concluding words. Trenholme, at
any other time, would have delighted in him, but dropped his bantering
air forthwith.
"I don't mind exhibiting my work," he said. "It will not be a novel
experience. Come this way."
Watched by two awe-stricken women from the passage leading to the
kitchen, the artist and his visitor ascended the stairs. Trenholme
walked straight to the easel, took off the drawing of Sylvia Manning
and the Aphrodite, placed it on the floor face to the wall, and
staged the sketch of the Elizabethan house. Furneaux screwed his
eyelids to secure a half light; then, making a cylinder of his right
hand, peered through it with one eye.
"Admirable!" he said. "Corot, with some of the breadth of Constable.
Forgive the comparisons, Mr. Trenholme. Of course, the style is your
own, but one uses the names of accepted masters largely as adjectives
to explain one's meaning. You are a true impressionist. You paint
Nature as you see her, not as she is, yet your technique is superb and
your observation just. For instance, every shadow in this lovely
drawing shows that the hour was about eight o'clock. But, in painting
figures, I have no doubt you sink the impressionist in the realist....
The other sketch, please."
"The other sketch is a mere color note for future guidance," said
Trenholme offhandedly.
"It happens also to be a recognizable portrait of Miss Sylvia Manning.
I'm sorry, but I must see it."
"Suppose I refuse?"
"It will be obtained by other methods than a polite request."
"I'm afraid I shall have to run the risk."
"No, you won't." And the detective's tone became eminently friendly.
"You'll just produce it within the next half minute. You are not the
sort of man who would care to drag a lady's name into a police-court
wrangle, which can be the only outcome of present stubbornness on your
part. I know you were hidden among those cedars between, say, eight
o'clock and half past nine. I know that Miss Manning bathed in a lake
well within your view. I know, too, that you sketched her, because I
saw the canvas a moment ago--an oil, not a water color. These things
may or may not be relevant to an inquiry into a crime, but they will
certainly loom large in the public mind if the police have to explain
why they needed a warrant to search your apartments."
Furneaux had gauged the artistic temperament accurately. Without
another word of protest Trenholme placed the disputed canvas on the
easel.
"Do you smoke?" inquired the detective suddenly.
"Yes. What the deuce has my smoking got to do with it?"
"I fancied that, perhaps, you might like to have a pipe while I
examine this gem at leisure. One does not gabble the common-places of
life when in the presence of the supreme in art. I find that a really
fine picture induces a feeling of reverence, an emotion akin to the
influence of a mountain range, or a dim cathedral. Pray burn incense.
I am almost tempted to regret being a non-smoker."
Trenholme had heard no man talk in that strain since last he sat
outside the Cafe Margery and watched the stream of life flowing along
the Grand Boulevard. Almost unconsciously he yielded to the spell of a
familiar jargon, well knowing he had been inspired in every touch
while striving frenziedly to give permanence to a fleeting vision. He
filled his pipe, and surveyed the detective with a quickened interest.
Furneaux gazed long and earnestly.
"Perfect!" he murmured, after that rapt pause. "Such a portrait, too,
without any apparent effort! Just compare the cold sunlight on the
statue with the same light falling on wet skin. Of course, Mr.
Trenholme, you'll send this to the Salon. Burlington House finds
satiety in Mayors and Masters of Fox Hounds."
"Good, isn't it?" agreed Trenholme. "What a cursed spite that it must
be consumed in flame!"
"But why?" cried Furneaux, unfeignedly horrified.
"Dash it all, man, I can never copy it. And you wouldn't have me
blazon that girl's face in a gallery after today's tragedy!"
The detective snapped his fingers.
"Poof!" he said. "I shall have Mr. Fenley's murderer hanged long
before your picture is hung. London provides one front-rank tragedy a
week, but not another such masterpiece in ten years. Burn it because
of a sentiment! Perish the thought."
"If I had guessed you were coming here so promptly it would have been
in ashes an hour ago," said Trenholme, grimly insistent on sacrifice.
With a disconcerting change of manner the detective promptly assumed a
dryly official attitude.
"A mighty good job for you that nothing of the sort occurred," he
said. "Your picture is your excuse, Mr. Trenholme. What plea could you
have urged for spying on a lady in an open-air bath if deprived of the
only valid one?"
"Look here!" came the angry retort. "You seem to be a pretty fair
judge of a drawing, but you choose your words rather carelessly. Just
now you described me as 'hidden' behind that clump of trees, and again
you accuse me of 'spying.' I won't stand that sort of thing from
Scotland Yard, nor from Buckingham Palace, if it comes to that."
Furneaux instantly reverted to his French vein. His shrug was
eminently Parisian.
"You misunderstand me. I allege neither hiding nor spying on your
part. Name of a good little gray man! The President of the Royal
Academy would hide and spy for a month if he could palliate his
conduct by that picture. But, given no picture, what is the answer?
Reflect calmly, Mr. Trenholme, and you'll see that mine are words of
wisdom. Burn that canvas, and you cut a sorry figure in the witness
box. Moreover, suppose you treat the law with disdain, how do you
propose explaining your actions to Miss Sylvia Manning?"
"In all probability, I shall never meet the lady."
"Oh, won't you, indeed! I have the honor to request you to meet her
tomorrow morning by the shore of that sylvan lake at nine fifteen,
sharp. And kindly bring both sketches with you. Only, for goodness'
sake, keep this one covered with a water-proof wrap if the weather
breaks, which it doesn't look like doing at this moment. Now, Mr.
Trenholme, take the advice of a dried-up chip of experience like me,
and be sensible. One word as to actualities. I'm told you didn't see
anything in the park which led you to believe that a crime had been
committed?"
"Not a thing. I heard the gunshot, and noted where it came from, but
so far as I could ascertain, the only creatures it disturbed were some
rabbits, rooks and pheasants."
"Ah! Where did the pheasants show up?"
"Out of the wood, close to the spot where the rifle was fired."
"How many?"
"How many what?"
"Pheasants."
"A brace. They flew right across the south front of the house to a
covert on the west side. Is that an important detail?"
"When you hear the evidence you may find it so," commented Furneaux.
"Why do you say 'rifle'? Why not plain 'gun'?"
"Because any one who has handled both a rifle and a shotgun can
recognize the difference in sound. The explosive force of the one is
many times greater than that of the other."
"Are you, too, an expert marksman?"
"I can shoot a bit. Hardly an expert, perhaps, seeing that I haven't
used a gun during the past five years. If you know France, Mr.
Furneaux, you'll agree that British ideas of sport----"
"I do know France," broke in the detective. "There isn't a cock robin
or a jenny wren left in the country.... As a mere formality, what
magazine are you working for?"
Trenholme told him, and Furneaux hurried away, halting for an instant
in the doorway to raise a warning finger.
"Tomorrow, at the cedars, nine fifteen," he said. "And, mind you, no
holocausts, or you're up a gum tree. You were either painting a pretty
girl or gloating over her. Prove the one and people won't think the
other, which they will be only too ready to do, this being a cynical
and suspicious world."
He left a bewildered artist glaring after him. Trenholme's
acquaintance with the police, either of England or France, was of the
slightest. Sometimes, when overexcited by the discovery of some new
and entrancing upland in the domain of art, he had bought or borrowed
a volume of light fiction in order to read himself to sleep, and a
detective figured occasionally in such pages. Usually, the official
was a pig-headed idiot, whose blunders and narrow-mindedness served as
admirable whetstones for the preternaturally sharp intelligence of an
amateur investigator of crime.
Trenholme, like the average reader, did not know that such
self-appointed sleuths are snubbed and despised by Scotland Yard, that
they seldom or never base their fantastic theories on facts, or that,
in fiction, they act in a way which would entail their own speedy
appearance in the dock if practiced in real life. Furneaux came as a
positive revelation. A small, wiry individual who looked like a
comedian and spouted the truisms of the studio, a wizened little
whippersnapper who put hardly one direct question to a prospective
witness, but whose caustic comments had placed a new and vastly
disagreeable aspect on the morning's adventure--such a man to be the
representative of staid and heavy-footed Scotland Yard! Well, wonders
would never cease. It was not for a bewildered artist yet to know that
Furneaux's genius alone excused his eccentricities.
And he, Trenholme, was to meet the girl! He turned to the easel and
looked at the picture. A few hours ago he had reviled the fate that
seemed to forbid their meeting. Now he was to be brought to her,
though somewhat after the fashion of a felon with gyves on his wrists,
since Furneaux's request for the morrow's rendezvous rang ominously
like a command. Indeed, indeed, it was a mad world!
At any rate, he did not, as he had intended, tear the canvas from its
stretcher and apply a match to it in the grate. Thus far, then, had
Furneaux's queer method been justified. He had hit on the one certain
means of restraint on an act of vandalism. The picture now stood
between Trenholme and the scoffing multitude. It was his buckler
against the shafts of innuendo. Rather than lose it before his actions
were vindicated he would suffer the depletion to the last penny of a
not altogether meager bank account.
Of course, this open-souled youngster never dreamed that the detective
had read his style and attributes in one lightning-swift glance of
intuition. Before ever Trenholme was aware of a stranger standing in
the open doorway of the dining-room Furneaux had taken his measure.
"English, a gentleman, art-trained in Paris. Thinks the loss of La
Giaconde a far more serious event than a revolution, and regards the
Futurist school pretty much as the Home Secretary regards the militant
suffragists. Knows as much about the murder as I do about the rings of
Saturn. But he ought to provide a touch of humor in an affair that
promises little else than heavy tragedy. And it will do Miss Sylvia
Manning some good if she is made to see that there are others than
Fenleys in the world. So, have at him!"
While going downstairs, the detective became aware of some sniffing in
the back passage. Eliza red-eyed now from distress, stood there,
dabbing her cheeks with a corner of her apron.
"Pup-pup-please, sir," she began, but quailed under a sudden and
penetrating look from those beady eyes.
"Well, what is it?" inquired Furneaux.
A violent nudge from curl papers stirred the cook's wits.
"I do hope you dud-dud-didn't pay any heed to anythink I was a-sayin'
of," she stammered. "Mr. Trenholme wouldn't hurt a fuf-fuf-fly. I
sus-sus-saw the picter, an' was on'y a-teasin' of 'im, like a
sus-sus-silly woman."
"Exactly. Yet he heaps coals of fire on your head by declaring that
you are the best cook in Hertfordshire! Is that true?"
Furneaux's impish grin was a tonic in itself. Eliza dropped the apron
and squared her elbows.
"I don't know about bein' the best in Hertfordshire," she cried, "but
I can hold me own no matter where the other one comes from, provided
we start fair."
"Take warning, then, that if I bring a man here tomorrow evening--a
big man, with a round head and bulging blue eyes--a man who looks as
though he can use a carving-knife with discretion--you prepare a
dinner worthy of the reputation of the White Horse! In that way, and
in none other, can you rehabilitate your character."
Furneaux was gone before Eliza recovered her breath. Then she turned
on the kitchen maid.
"Wot was it he said about my char-ac-ter?" she demanded warmly. "An'
wot are _you_ grinnin' at? If it wasn't for _your_ peepin' an' pryin'
I'd never ha' set eyes on that blessed picter. You go an' put on a
black dress, an' do yer hair respectable, an' mind yer don't spend
half an hour perkin' an' preenin' in front of a lookin'-glass."
Mary fled, and Eliza bustled into the kitchen.
"A big man, with a round head an' bulgin' blue eyes!" she muttered
wrathfully. "Does he think I'm afraid of that sort of brewer's
drayman, or of a little man with eyes like a ferret, either? If he
does, he's very much mistaken. I don't believe he's a real 'tec. I
wouldn't be a bit surprised if he wasn't a reporter. They've cheek
enough for ten, as a rule. Talkin' about my char-ac-ter, an' before
that hussy of a girl, too! Wait till I see him tomorrow, that's all."
Meanwhile, Furneaux had not held the second glass of Chateau Yquem to
the light in Tomlinson's sanctum before Winter's car was halting
outside Brondesbury police station. An Inspector assured the
Superintendent that a constable was on the track of Robert Fenley, and
had instructions to report direct to Scotland Yard. Then Winter
reentered the car, and was driven to Headquarters.
He was lunching in his own room, frugally but well, on bread and
cheese and beer, when the Assistant Commissioner came in.
"Ah, Mr. Winter," he said. "I was told you had returned. That
telephone call came from a call office in Shaftesbury Avenue. A lady,
name unknown, but the youth in charge knows her well by sight, and
thinks she lives in a set of flats near by. I thought the information
sufficient for your purpose, so suspended inquiries till I heard from
you."
"Just what I wanted, sir," said Winter. "There may be nothing in it,
but I was curious to know why Hilton Fenley took the trouble to fib
about such a trivial matter. His brother, too, is behaving in a way
that invites criticism. I don't imagine that either of the sons shot
his father--most certainly, Hilton Fenley could not have done it, and
Robert, I think, was in London at the time----"
"Dear me!" broke in the other, a man of quiet, self-contained manner,
on whose lips that mild exclamation betokened the maximum of
surprise. "Is there any reason whatsoever for believing that one of
these young men may be a parricide?"
"So many reasons, sir, and so convincing in some respects, that the
local police would be seriously considering the arrest of Robert
Fenley if they had the ascertained facts in their possession."
The Assistant Commissioner sat down.
"I hear you keep a sound brand of cigars here, Mr. Winter," he said.
"I've just lunched in the St. Stephen's Club, so, if you can spare the
time----"
At the end of the Superintendent's recital the Chief offered no
comment. He arose, went to the window, and seemed to seek inspiration
from busy Westminster Bridge and a river dancing in sunshine. After a
long pause he turned, and threw the unconsumed half of a cigar into
the fireplace.
"It's a pity to waste such a perfect Havana," he said mournfully, "but
I make it a rule not to smoke while passing along the corridors.
And--you'll be busy. Keep me posted."
Winter smiled. When the door had closed on his visitor he even
laughed.
"By Jove!" he said to himself. "A heart to heart talk with the guv'nor
is always most illuminative. Now many another boss would have said he
was puzzled, or bothered, or have given me some silly advice such as
that I must be discreet, look into affairs closely, and not act
precipitately. Not so our excellent A. C. He's clean bowled, and
admits it, without speaking a word. He's a tonic; he really is!"
He touched an electric bell. When the policeman attendant, Johnston,
appeared, he asked if Detective Sergeant Sheldon was in the building,
and Sheldon came. The Superintendent had met him in a Yorkshire town
during a protracted and difficult inquiry into the death of a wealthy
recluse; although the man was merely an ordinary constable he had
shown such resourcefulness, such ability of a rare order, that he was
invited to join the staff of the Criminal Investigation Department,
and had warranted Winter's judgment by earning rapid promotion.
Though tall, and of athletic build, he had none of the distinctive
traits of the average policeman. He dressed quietly and in good taste,
and carried himself easily; a peculiarity of his thoughtful, somewhat
lawyer-like face was that the left eye was noticeably smaller than the
right. Among other qualifications, he ranked as the best amateur
photographer in the "Yard," and was famous as a rock climber in the
Lake District.
Winter plunged at once into the business in hand.
"Sheldon," he said, "I'm going out, and may be absent an hour or
longer. If a telephone message comes through from Mr. Furneaux tell
him I have located the doubtful call made to The Towers this morning.
Have you read the report of the Fenley murder in the evening papers?"
"Yes, sir. _Is_ it a murder?"
"What else could it be?"
"An extraordinary accident."
Winter weighed the point, which had not occurred to him previously.
"No," he said. "It was no accident. I incline to the belief that it
was the best-planned crime I've tackled during the past few years.
That is my present opinion, at any rate. Now, a man from the
Brondesbury police station is following one of the dead man's sons, a
Mr. Robert Fenley, who bolted back to London on a motor cycle as soon
as I threatened to question him.
"Robert Fenley is twenty-four, fresh-complexioned, clean-shaven, about
five feet nine inches in height, stoutish, and of sporty appearance.
He had his hair cut yesterday or the day before. His hands and feet
are rather small. He talks aggressively, and looks what he is, a
pampered youth, very much spoiled by his parents. His clothes--all
that I have seen--are a motorist's overalls. If the Brondesbury man
reports here during my absence act as you think fit. I want Robert
Fenley located, followed, and watched unobtrusively, especially in
such matters as the houses he visits and the people he meets. If you
need help get it."
"Till what time, sir?" was the laconic question.
"That depends. Try and 'phone me here about five o'clock. But if you
are otherwise engaged let the telephone go. Should Fenley seem to
leave London by the Edgware Road, which leads to Roxton, have him
checked on the way. Here is the number of his cycle," and Winter
jotted a memorandum on the back of an envelope.
"What about Mr. Furneaux if I am called out almost immediately?"
"Give the message to Johnston."
Then Winter hurried away, and, repressing the inclination to hail a
taxi, walked up Whitehall and crossed Trafalgar Square _en route_ to
the Shaftesbury Avenue address supplied by the Assistant Commissioner.
He found a sharp-featured youth in charge of the telephone, which was
lodged in an estate agent's office. The boy grinned when the
Superintendent explained his errand.
"Excuse _me_," he said, with the pert assurance of the born Cockney,
"but we aren't allowed to give information about customers."
"You've broken your rules already, young man," said Winter. "You
answered a similar inquiry made by Scotland Yard some hours since."
"Oh, was _that_ it? Gerrard rang me up, and I thought there was
something funny going on. Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?"
Winter proffered a card, and the boy's eyes opened wide.
"Crikey!" he said. "I've read about you, sir. Well, I've been doing a
bit of detective work of my own. At lunch time I strolled past the set
of flats where I thought the lady lived, and had the luck to see her
getting out of a cab at the door. I followed her upstairs, pretending
I had business somewhere, and saw her go into No. Eleven. Her name is
Miss Eileen Garth--at least, that's the name opposite No. Eleven in
the list in the hall."
"When you're a bit older you'll make a detective," said Winter.
"You've learned the first trick of the job, and that is to keep your
eyes open. Now, to encourage you, I'll tell you the second. Keep your
mouth shut. If this lady is Miss Garth she is not the person we want,
but it would annoy her if she heard the police were inquiring about
her; so here is half a crown for your trouble."
"Can I do anything else for you, sir?" came the eager demand.
"Nothing. I'm on the wrong scent, evidently, but you have saved me
from wasting time. This Miss Eileen Garth is English, of course?"
"Yes, sir; very good-looking, but rather snappy."
Winter sighed.
"That just shows how easy it is to blunder," he said. "I'm looking for
a Polish Jewess, whose chief feature is her nose, and who wears big
gold earrings."
"Oh, Miss Garth is quite different," said the disappointed youth.
"She's tall and slim--a regular dasher, big black hat, swell togs,
black and white, and smart boots with white spats. She wore pearls in
her ears, too, because I noticed 'em."
Winter sighed again.
"Another half day lost," he murmured, and went out.
Knowing well that the boy would note the direction he took, he turned
away from the block of flats and made for Soho, where he smoked a
thin, raffish Italian cigar with an Anarchist of his acquaintance who
kept a restaurant famous for its _risotto_. Then, by other streets, he
approached Gloucester Mansions, and soon was pressing the electric
bell of No. Eleven.
"Miss Garth in?" he said to an elderly, hatchet-faced woman who opened
the door.
"Why do you want Miss Garth?" was the non-committal reply, given in
the tone of one who meant the stranger to understand that he was not
addressing a servant.
"I shall explain my errand to the lady herself," said Winter civilly.
"Kindly tell her that Superintendent Winter, of the Criminal
Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, wishes to see her."
To him it was no new thing that his name and description should bring
dismay, even terror, to the cheeks of one to whom he made himself
known professionally, but unless he was addressing some desperate
criminal, he did not expect to be assaulted. For once, therefore, he
was thoroughly surprised when a bony hand shot out and pushed him
backward; the door was slammed in his face; the latch clicked, and he
was left staring at a small brass plate bearing the legend: "Ring. Do
not knock."
Naturally, this bold maneuver could not have succeeded had he a right
of entry. A woman's physical strength was unequal to the task of
disturbing his burly frame, and a foot thrust between door and jamb
would have done the rest. As matters stood, however, he was obliged to
abandon any present hope of an interview with the mysterious Miss
Eileen Garth.
He remained stock still for some seconds, listening to the retreating
footsteps of the strong-minded person who had beaten him. It was his
habit to visualize for future reference the features and demeanor of
people in whom he was interested, and of whom circumstances permitted
only the merest glimpse. This woman's face had revealed annoyance
rather than fear. "Scotland Yard" was not an ogre but a nuisance. She
held, or, at any rate, she had exercised, a definite power of
rejecting visitors whom she considered undesirable. Therefore, she was
a relative, probably Eileen Garth's mother or aunt.
Eileen Garth was "tall and slim," "good-looking, but rather snappy."
Well, twenty years ago, the description would have applied to the
woman he had just seen. Her voice, heard under admittedly adverse
conditions, was correct in accent and fairly cultured. Before the
world had hardened it its tones might have been soft and dulcet. But
above all, there was the presumable discovery that Eileen Garth was as
decidedly opposed as Robert Fenley to full and free discussion of that
morning's crime.
"Furneaux will jeer at me when he hears of this little episode,"
thought Winter, smiling as he turned to descend the stairs. Furneaux
did jeer, but it was at his colleague's phenomenal luck.
The door of No. Twelve, the only other flat on the same landing,
opened, and a man appeared. Recognition was prompt on Winter's side.
"Hello, Drake!" he said genially. "Are _you_ Signor Maselli? Well met,
anyhow! Can you give me a friendly word?"
The occupant of flat No. Twelve, an undersized, slightly built man of
middle age, seemed to have received the shock of his life. His
sallow-complexioned face assumed a greenish-yellow tint, and his
deep-set eyes glistened like those of a hunted animal.
"Friendly?" he contrived to gasp, giving a ghastly look over his
shoulder to ascertain whether any one in the interior of the flat had
heard that name "Drake."
"Yes. I mean it. Strictly on the q. t.," said Winter, sinking his
voice to a confidential pitch. Signor Giovanni Maselli, since that was
the name modestly displayed on No. Twelve's card in the hall beneath,
closed the door carefully. He appeared to trust Winter, up to a point,
but evidently found it hard to regain self-control.
"Not here!" he whispered. "In five minutes--at the Regency Cafe,
Piccadilly. Let me go alone."
Winter nodded, and the other darted downstairs. The detective followed
slowly. Crossing the street at an angle, he looked up at the
smoke-stained elevation of Gloucester Mansions.
"A well-filled nest," he communed, "and a nice lot of prize birds in
it, upon my word!"
The last time he had set eyes on a certain notably expert forger and
counterfeiter a judge was passing sentence of five years' penal
servitude and three years' police supervision on a felon; and the
judge had not addressed the prisoner as Giovanni Maselli, but as John
Christopher Drake!