WHEREIN SCOTLAND YARD IS DINED AND WINED
Three dinners for two were in progress in The Towers at one and the
same hour. One feast had been shortened by the ill-concealed hatred of
each brother for the other. At the second, brooding care found
unwonted lodging in the charming personality of Sylvia Manning--care,
almost foreboding, heightened by the demented mutterings of her
"aunt." At the third, with the detectives, sat responsibility; but
light-heartedly withal, since these seasoned man-hunters could cast
off their day's work like a garment.
The first and second meals were of the high quality associated with
English country houses of a superior class; the third was a spread for
epicures. Tomlinson saw to that. He was catering for a gourmet in
Furneaux, and rose to the requisite height.
The little man sighed as he tasted the soup.
"What is it now?" inquired Winter, whose glance was dwelling
appreciatively on a dusty bottle labeled "Clos Vosgeot, 1879."
"I hate eating the food of a man whom I mean to produce as a star
turn at the Old Bailey," was the despondent answer.
"So do I, if it comes to that," said Winter briskly. "But this
appetizing menu comes out of another larder. I shall be vastly
mistaken if we're not actually the guests of a certain pretty young
lady. Finance of the Fenley order is not in good odor in the City.
"Have no scruples, my boy. We may be vultures at the feast; but before
we see the end of the Fenley case there'll be a smash in Bishopsgate
Street, and Miss Sylvia Manning will be lucky if some sharp lawyer is
able to grab some part of the wreckage for her benefit."
"Clear logic, at any rate." And Furneaux brightened visibly.
"I'll tell you what it's based on. Our swarthy friend was examining
lists of securities in the train. He didn't lift his head quickly
enough--took me for a ticket puncher, I expect--so I had time to twig
what he was doing. I'd like to run my eye over the papers in that
leather portfolio."
"You may manage it. You're the luckiest fellow breathing. Such
opportunities come your way. _I_ have to make them."
After an interlude played by sole Colbert, Winter shot an amused
question at his companion.
"What's at the back of your head with regard to the artist and Miss
Sylvia?" he said.
"It's high time she spoke to a real man. These Fenleys are animals,
all of 'em. John Trenholme is a genius, and a good-looking one."
"I met the girl in a corridor a while ago, and she was rather
disconsolate, I thought."
"And with good reason. You've noticed how each brother eyes her.
They'll fight like jackals before this night is out. I hope Sylvia
will indulge in what women call a good cry. That will be Trenholme's
golden hour. Some Frenchman--of course he was clever, being
French--says that a man should beware when a woman smiles but he may
dare all when she weeps."
"Are we marriage brokers, then?"
"We must set the Fenleys at each other's throats."
"Yes," mused Winter aloud, when a _ris de veau bonne maman_ had passed
like a dream, "this affair is becoming decidedly interesting. But
every why hath a wherefore, according to Shakespeare. Tell me"--and
his voice sank to a whisper--"tell me why you believe Hilton Fenley
killed his father."
"You nosed your way into that problem this afternoon. Between his
mother and that girl, Eileen Garth, he was in a tight place. He stole
those bonds. I fancied it at the time, but I know it now. They were
negotiated in Paris by a woman who occupied a room in the Hotel
d'Italie, Rue Caumartin, Paris, and one of her registered boxes bore
the rail number, 517."
"You little devil!" blazed out Winter. "And you never said a word when
I told you!"
"Astonishment has rendered you incoherent. You mean, of course, when
you told me you had seen in Gloucester Mansions a box labeled in
accordance with the facts I have just retailed. But I yield that minor
point. It is a purist's, at the best. I have supplied a motive, one
motive, for the crime; the plotter feared discovery. But there are
dozens of others. He was impatient of the old man's rigid control.
Hilton is sharp and shrewd, and he guessed things were going wrong
financially. He knew that his father's methods were out of date, and
believed he could straighten the tangle if the reins of power were not
withheld too long.
"He saw that Sylvia Manning's gold was in the melting-pot, and
appreciated precisely the cause of the elder Fenley's anxiety that she
should marry Robert. Once in the family, you know, her fortunes were
bound up with theirs; while any 'cute lawyer could dish her in the
marriage settlements if sufficiently well paid for a nasty job. When
Sylvia was Mrs. Robert Fenley, and perhaps mother of a squalling
Fenley, the head of the business could face the future if not with
confidence, at least with safety. But where would Hilton be then? The
girl lost, the money in jeopardy, and he himself steadily elbowed
out. _'Cre nom!_ I've known men murdered for less convincing
reasons."
"Men, yes; not fathers."
"Some sons are the offspring of Beelzebub. Consider the parentage in
this instance. Fenley, a groom and horse coper on the one hand, and
the dark daughter of a Calcutta merchant on the other. If the progeny
of such a union escaped a hereditary taint it would be a miracle.
Cremate Hilton Fenley and his very dust will contain evil germs."
"You're strong in theory but weak in proof."
That style of argument invariably nettled Furneaux.
"You must butt into a few more mysterious suites of apartments in
London and elsewhere, and you'll supply proof in bucketfuls," he
snapped.
"But was there an accomplice? Squirm as you like, you can't get over
the fact that Hilton was in his room when the bullet that killed his
father came from the wood."
"He is not the sort of person likely to trust his liberty, his
life even, to the keeping of any other human being. I start from
the hypothesis that he alone planned and carried out the crime,
so I do not lift my hand and cry 'Impossible,' but I ask myself,
'How was it done?' Well, there are several methods worthy of
consideration--clockwork, electricity, even a time fuse attached
to the proper mechanism. I haven't really bothered myself yet to
determine the means, because when that knowledge becomes indispensable
we must have our man under lock and key."
"Of course, the rifle is securely fixed in that----"
The door opened. Tomlinson came in, smiling blandly.
"I hope you are enjoying your dinner, gentlemen both?" he said.
"You have made your cook an artist," said Furneaux.
"I suppose you are happier here than in a big London restaurant," said
Winter.
The butler appreciated such subtle compliments, and beamed on them.
"With a little encouragement and advice, our chef can prepare a very
eatable dinner," he said. "As for my own ambitions, I have had them,
like every man worth his salt; but I fill a comfortable chair here--no
worry, no grumbling, not a soul to say _nem_ or _con_, so long as
things go smoothly."
"It must have been _nem_ all the time," giggled Furneaux, and Winter
was so afflicted by a desire to sneeze that he buried his face in a
napkin.
"And how was the wine?" went on Tomlinson, with an eye on the little
man. Furneaux's features were crinkled in a Japanese smile. He wanted
to kick Winter, who was quivering with suppressed laughter.
"I never expected to find such vintages in a house of the _mauvais
riches_," he said. "Perhaps you don't speak French, Mr. Tomlinson, so
allow me to explain that I am alluding to men of wealth not born in
the purple."
"Precisely--self-made. Well sir, poor Mr. Fenley left the stocking of
his cellar entirely to me. I gave the matter much thought. When my
knowledge was at fault I consulted experts, and the result----"
"That is the result," cried Furneaux, seizing the empty claret bottle,
and planting it so firmly on the table that the cutlery danced.
A shoulder of lamb, served _a la Soubise_, appeared; and Tomlinson,
announcing that his presence in the dining-room had been dispensed
with, thought he would join them in a snack. Being a hospitable
creature, he opened another bottle of the Clos Vosgeot, but his guests
were not to be tempted.
"Well, then," he said, "in a few minutes you must try our port. It is
not Alto Douro, Mr. Furneaux, but it has body and bowket."
Winter was better prepared this time. Moreover he was carving, and
aware of a master's criticism, and there are occult problems connected
with even such a simple joint as a shoulder of lamb. Furneaux, too,
was momentarily subdued. He seemed to be reflecting sadly that statues
of gold, silver and bronze may have feet of clay.
"I have often thought, gentlemen," said the butler, "that yours must
be a most interesting profession. You meet all sorts and conditions of
men and women."
"We consort with the noblest malefactors," agreed Furneaux.
"Dear me, sir, you do use the queerest words. Now, I should never
dream of describing a criminal as noble."
"Not in the generally accepted sense, perhaps. But you, I take it,
have not had the opportunity of attending a really remarkable trial,
when, say, some intellectual giant among murderers is fighting for his
life. Believe me, no drama of the stage can rival that tragedy.
"The chief actor, remote, solitary, fenced away from the world he is
hoping to reenter, sits there in state. Every eye is on him, yet he
faces judge, jury, counsel, witnesses and audience with a calm dignity
worthy of an emperor. He listens imperturbably to facts which may hang
him, to lies which may lend color to the facts, to well-meaning
guesses which are wide of the mark. Truthful and false evidence is
equally prone to err when guilt or innocence must be determined by
circumstances alone.
"But the prisoner _knows_. He is the one man able to discriminate
between truth and falsity, yet he must not reveal the cruel stab
of fact or the harmless buffet of fiction by so much as a flicker
of an eyelid. He surveys the honest blunderer and the perjured
ruffian--I mean the counsel for the defense and the prosecution
respectively--with impartial scrutiny. If he is a sublime villain,
he will call on Heaven to testify that he is innocent with a
solemnity not surpassed by the judge who sentences him to death....
Yes, please, a bit off the knuckle end."
The concluding words were addressed to Winter, and Tomlinson started,
for he was wrapped up in the scene Furneaux was depicting.
"That point of view had not occurred to me," he admitted.
"You'll appreciate it fully when you see Mr. Fenley's murderer in the
dock," said Furneaux.
"Ah, sir. That brings your illustration home, indeed. But shall we
ever know who killed him?"
"Certainly. Look at that high dome of intelligence glistening at you
across the table. But that it is forbid to tell the secrets of the
prison house, it could a tale unfold whose slightest word would harrow
up thy soul----"
Harris, the footman, entered, carrying a decanter.
"Mr. Hilton Fenley's compliments, gentlemen, and will you try this
port? He says Mr. Tomlinson will recommend it, because Mr. Fenley
himself seldom takes wine. Mr. Fenley will not trouble you to meet him
again this evening. Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Fenley wants you for a
moment."
The butler rose.
"That is the very wine I spoke of," he said. "If Mr. Hilton did not
touch it, Mr. Robert evidently appreciated it."
He glanced at Harris, but the footman did not even suspect that his
character was at stake. The decanter was nearly full when placed on
the sideboard; now it was half empty.
Singularly enough, both Winter and Furneaux had intercepted that
questioning glance, and had acquitted Harris simultaneously.
"Are the gentlemen still in the dining-room?" inquired Winter.
"Mr. Hilton is there, sir, but Mr. Robert went out some time since."
"Please convey our thanks to Mr. Hilton. I'm sure we shall enjoy the
wine."
When Tomlinson and Harris had gone, the eyes of the two detectives
met. They said nothing at first, and it may be remembered that they
were reputedly most dangerous to a pursued criminal when working
together silently. Winter took the decanter, poured out a small
quantity into two glasses, and gave Furneaux one. Then they smelled,
and tasted, and examined the wine critically. The rich red liquid
might have been a poisonous decoction for the care they devoted to its
analysis.
Furneaux began.
"I have so many sleepless nights that I recognize bromide, no matter
how it is disguised," he murmured.
"Comparatively harmless, though a strong dose," said Winter.
"If one has to swallow twenty grains or so of potassium bromide I can
not conceive any pleasanter way of taking them than mixed with a sound
port."
Winter filled one of the glasses four times, pouring each amount into
a tumbler. Furneaux looked into a cupboard, and found an empty beer
bottle, which he rinsed with water. Meanwhile Winter was fashioning a
funnel out of a torn envelope, and in a few seconds the tumblerful of
wine was in the bottle, and the bottle in Winter's pocket. This done,
the big man lit a cigar and the little one sniffed the smoke, which
was his peculiar way of enjoying the weed.
"It was most thoughtful of Mr. Hilton Fenley to try and secure us a
long night's uninterrupted sleep," said Winter between puffs.
"But what a vitiated taste in wine he must attribute to Scotland
Yard," said Furneaux bitterly.
"Still, we should be grateful to him for supplying a gill of real
evidence."
"I may forgive him later. At present, I want to dilate his eyes with
atropine, so that he may see weird shapes and be tortured of ghouls."
"Poor devil! He won't need atropine for that."
"Don't believe it, James. In some respects he's cold-blooded as a
fish. Besides, he carries bromide tablets for his own use. He simply
couldn't have arranged beforehand to dope us."
"He's getting scared."
"I should think so, indeed--in the Fenley sense, that is. His plot
against Robert has miscarried in one essential. The rifle has not been
found in the wood. Now, I'm in chastened mood, because the hour for
action approaches; so I'll own up. I've been keeping something up my
sleeve, just for the joy of watching you floundering 'midst deep
waters. Of course, you chose the right channel. I knew you would, but
it's a treat to see your elephantine struggles. For all that, it's a
sheer impossibility that you should guess who put a sprag in the wheel
of Hilton's chariot. Give you three tries, for a new hat."
"You're desperately keen today on touching me for a new hat."
"Well, this time you have an outside chance. The others were
certs--for me."
Winter smoked in silence for a space.
"I'll take you," he said. "The artist?"
"No." The Jerseyman shook his head.
"Police Constable Farrow?" ventured Winter again.
Furneaux's dismay was so comical that his colleague shook with mirth.
"I wanted a new silk topper," wheezed Winter.
"Silk topper be hanged. I meant a straw, and that's what you'll get.
But how the deuce did you manage to hit upon Farrow?"
"He closed the Quarry Wood at the psychological moment."
"You're sucking my brains, that's what you're doing," grumbled
Furneaux. "Anyhow, you're right. Hilton had the scheme perfected to
the last detail, but he didn't count on Farrow. After a proper display
of agitation--not all assumed, either, because he was more shaken than
he expected to be--he 'phoned the Yard and the doctor. We couldn't
arrive for nearly an hour, and the doctor starts on his rounds at nine
o'clock sharp. What so easy, therefore, as to wander out in a welter
of grief and anger, and search the wood for the murderer on his own
account? One solitary minute would enable him to put the rifle in a
hiding-place where it would surely be discovered.
"But Farrow stopped him. I wormed the whole thing out of our sentry
this afternoon. Fenley tried hard to send Farrow and Bates off on a
wild-goose chase, but Farrow, quite mistakenly, saw the chance of his
life and clung on to it. Had Farrow budged we could never have hanged
Hilton. Don't you see how the scheme works? He had some reason for
believing that Robert will refuse to give a full account of his
whereabouts this morning. Therefore, he must contrive that the rifle
shall be found. Put the two damning facts together, and Robert is tied
in a knot. Of course, he would be forced to prove an alibi, but by
that time all England would be yelping, 'Thou art the man.' In any
event, Hilton's trail would be hopelessly lost."
"The true bowket of our port and bromide begins to tickle my
nostrils."
A good-looking maid brought coffee, and Furneaux grinned at her.
"How do you think he'd look in a nice straw hat?" he asked, jerking
his head toward Winter. The girl smiled. The little man's reputation
had reached the kitchen. She glanced demurely at the Superintendent's
bullet head.
"Not an ordinary straw. You mean a Panama," she said.
"Certainly," laughed Winter.
"Nothing of the sort," howled Furneaux. "Just run your eye over him.
He isn't an isthmus--he's a continent."
"A common straw wouldn't suit him," persisted the girl. "He's too big
a gentleman."
"How little you know him!" said Furneaux.
The girl blushed and giggled.
"Go on!" she said, and bounced out.
"This inquiry will cost you a bit, my boy, if you're not careful,"
sniggered Winter. "I'll compound on a straw; but take my advice, and
curb your sporting propensities. Now, if this coffee isn't doctored,
let's drink it, and interview Robert before the bromide begins to
act."
Robert Fenley received them in his own room. He strove to appear at
ease and business-like, but, as Furneaux had surmised, was emphatic in
his refusal to give any clear statement as to his proceedings in
London. He admitted the visit to Hendon Road, which, he said, was
necessitated by a promise to a friend who was going abroad, but he
failed to see why the police should inquire into his private affairs.
Winter did not press him. There was no need. A scapegrace's record
could always be laid bare when occasion served. But one question he
was bound to put.
"Have you any theory, however remote or far-fetched, that will account
for your father's death in such a way?" he inquired.
The younger Fenley was smoking a cigarette. A half consumed whisky and
soda stood on a table; a bottle of whisky and a siphon promised
refreshers. He was not quite sober, but could speak lucidly.
"Naturally, I've been thinking a lot about that," he said, wrinkling
his forehead in the effort to concentrate his mind and express himself
with due solemnity. "It's funny, isn't it, that my rifle should be
missing?"
"Well, yes."
Some sarcastic inflection in Winter's voice seemed to reach a rather
torpid brain. Fenley looked up sharply.
"Of course, funny isn't the right word," he said. "I mean it's odd, a
bit of a mystery. Why should anybody take my gun if they wanted to
shoot my poor old guv'nor? That beats me. It's a licker--eh, what?"
"It is more important to know why any one should want to shoot your
father."
"That's it. Who benefits? Well, I suppose Hilton and I will be better
off--no one else. And I didn't do it. It's silly even to say so."
"But there is only your brother left in your summary."
"By Jove, yes. That's been runnin' in my head. It's nonsense, anyhow,
because Hilton was in the house. I wouldn't believe a word he said,
but Sylvia, and Tomlinson, and Brodie, and Harris all tell the same
yarn. No; Hilton couldn't have done it. He's ripe for any mischief, is
Hilton, but he can't be in this hole; now, can he?"
They could extract nothing of value out of Robert, and left him after
a brief visit.
In the interim, Hilton Fenley had kept Tomlinson talking about the
crime. The dining-room door was ajar, and he knew when the detectives
had gone to Robert's room. Then he glanced around the table, and
affected to remember the decanter of port.
"By the way," he said, "I feel as if a glass of that wine would be a
good notion tonight. I don't suppose the Scotland Yard men have
finished the lot. Just send for it, will you?"
Harris brought the decanter, and Tomlinson was gratified by seeing
that his favorite beverage had been duly appraised.
"Sorry if I've detained you," said Fenley, and the butler went out.
Rising, Fenley strolled to the door and closed it. Instantly he became
energetic, and his actions bore a curious similitude to those of
Winter a little while earlier. Pouring the wine into a tumbler, he
rinsed the decanter with water, and partly refilled it with the
contents of another tumbler previously secreted in the sideboard,
stopping rather short of the amount of wine returned from the butler's
room. He drank the remainder, washed the glass, and put a few drops of
whisky into it.
Carrying the other tumbler to an open window, he threw the medicated
wine into a drain under a water spout, and making assurance doubly
sure, douched the same locality with water; also, he rinsed this
second glass. He seemed to be rather pleased at his own thoroughness.
As Furneaux had said, Hilton Fenley was cold-blooded as a fish.