THE SPREADING OF THE NET
That John Trenholme should be in the right place at the right
moment, and that the place should happen to be one where his presence
was urgently required in Sylvia Manning's behalf, was not such a
far-fetched coincidence as it might be deemed, for instance, by a
jury. Juries are composed mainly of bald-headed men, men whose shining
pates have been denuded of hair by years and experience, and these
factors dry the heart as surely as they impoverish the scalp.
Consequently, juries (in bulk, be it understood; individual jurors
may, perhaps, retain the emotional equipment of a Chatterton) are
skeptical when asked to accept the vagaries of the artistic
temperament in extenuation of some so-called irrational action.
In the present case counsel for the defense would plead that his
clients (Sylvia would undoubtedly figure in the charge) were moved by
an overwhelming impulse shared in common. It was a glorious night, he
might urge; each had been thinking of the other; each elected to
stroll forth under the stars; their sympathies were linked by the
strange circumstances which had led to the production of a noteworthy
picture--what more likely than that they should visit the scene to
which that picture owed its genesis?
Trenholme, it might be held, had not knowingly reached that stage of
soul-sickness which brings the passionate cry to _Valentine's_ lips:
Except I be by Sylvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Sylvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon.
"But, gentlemen," the wily one would continue, "that indefinable
excitation of the nervous system which is summed up in the one small
word 'love' must have a beginning; and whether that beginning springs
from spore or germ, it is admittedly capable of amazingly rapid
growth. The male defendant may not even have been aware of its
existence, but subsequent events establish the diagnosis beyond cavil;
and I would remind you that the melodious lines I have just quoted
could not have been written by our immortal bard, Shakespeare, if two
gentlemen of Verona, and two Veronese ladies as well, had not yielded
to influences not altogether unlike those which governed my clients on
this memorable occasion."
Juries invariably treat Shakespeare's opinions with profound respect.
They know they ought to be well acquainted with his "works," but they
are not, and hope to conceal their ignorance by accepting the poet's
philosophy without reservation.
If, however, owing to the forensic skill of an advocate, romance might
be held accountable for the wanderings of John and Sylvia, what of
Robert? He, at least, was not under its magic spell. He, when the
fateful hour struck, was merely drinking himself drowsy. To explain
_him_, witnesses would be needed, and who more credible than a
Superintendent and Detective Inspector of the Criminal Investigation
Department?
When Winter had smoked, and Furneaux had contributed some personal
reminiscences the whole aim and object of which was the perplexing
and mystification of that discreet person, Tomlinson, the two retired
to their room at an early hour. The butler pressed them hospitably
to try the house's special blend of Scotch whisky, but they had
declined resolutely. Both acknowledged to an unwonted lassitude and
sleepiness--symptoms which Hilton Fenley might expect and inquire
about. When they were gone, the major domo sat down to review the
day's doings.
His master's death at the hands of a murderer had shocked and saddened
him far more than his manner betrayed. If some fantastic chain of
events brought Tomlinson to the scaffold he would still retain the
demeanor of an exemplary butler. But beneath the externals of his
office he had a heart and a brain; and his heart grieved for a
respected employer, and his brain told him that Scotland Yard was no
wiser than he when it came to suspecting a likely person of having
committed the crime, let alone arresting the suspect and proving his
guilt.
Of course, therein Tomlinson was in error. Even butlers of renown have
their limitations, and his stopped far short of the peculiar science
of felon-hunting in which Winter and Furneaux were geniuses, each in
his own line.
Assuredly he would have been vastly astonished could he have seen
their movements when the bedroom door closed on them. In fact, his
trained ear might have found some new quality in such a commonplace
thing as the closing of the door. Every lock and bolt and catch in The
Towers was in perfect working order, yet the lock of this door failed
to click, for the excellent reason that it was jammed by a tiny wedge.
Hence, it could be opened noiselessly if need be; and lest a hinge
might squeak each hinge was forthwith drenched with vaseline. Further,
a tiny circlet of India rubber, equipped with a small spike, was
placed between door and jamb.
Then, murmuring in undertones when they spoke, the detectives unpacked
their portmanteaux. Winter produced no article out of the ordinary
run, but Furneaux unrolled a knotted contrivance which proved to be a
rope ladder.
"One or both of us may have to go out by the window," he said. "At any
rate, we have Wellington's authority for the military axiom that a
good leader always provides a line of retreat."
"I wonder what became of the rest of that wine?" said Winter, rolling
the beer bottle in a shirt and stowing it away.
"I didn't dare ask. Tomlinson can put two and two together rather
cleverly. He _almost_ interfered when Harris brought the decanter, so
I dropped the wine question like a hot potato."
"It had gone, though, when we came back from Robert's room. Hilton
sent for it. Bet you another new hat he emptied----"
"You'll get no more new hats out of me," growled Furneaux savagely,
giving an extra pressure to a pair of sharp hooks which gripped the
window sill, and from which the rope ladder could be dropped to the
ground instantly.
"Sorry. Where did you retrieve that dirty towel?" For the little man
had taken from a pocket an object which merited the description, and
was placing it in his bag.
"It's one of Hilton's. He used it to wipe bark moss off his clothes.
Queer thing that such rascals always omit some trivial precaution. He
should have burned the towel with the moccasins; but he don't. This
towel will help to strangle him."
"You're becoming a bloodthirsty detective," mused Winter aloud. "I've
seldom seen you so vindictive. Why is it?"
"I dislike snakes, and this fellow is a poisonous specimen. If there
were no snakes in the world, we should all be so happy!"
"Blessed if I see that."
"I have always suspected that your religious education had been
neglected. Read the Bible and Milton. Then you'll understand; and
incidentally speak and write better English."
"Can you suggest any means whereby I can grasp your jokes without
being bored to weariness? They're more soporific than bromide. Anyhow,
it's time we undressed."
Though the blind was drawn the window was open; there was no knowing
who might be watching from the garden, so they went through all the
motions of undressing and placed their boots outside the door.
Then the light was switched off, the blind raised, and they dressed
again rapidly, donning other boots. Each pocketed an automatic pistol
and an electric torch and, by preconcerted plan, Winter sat by the
window and Furneaux by the door. It was then a quarter to eleven, and
they hardly looked for any developments until a much later hour, but
they neglected no precaution. Unquestionably it would be difficult for
any one to move about in that part of the house, or cross the gardens
without attracting their attention.
Their room was situated on the south front, two doors from Sylvia's,
and two from Hilton Fenley's bedroom. The door lay in shadow beyond
the range of the light burning in the hall. Sylvia's room was farther
along the corridor. The door of Hilton's bedroom occupied the same
plane; the door of his sitting-room faced the end of the corridor.
The walls were massive, as in all Tudor houses, and the doors so
deeply recessed that there was space for a small mat in front of each.
Ordinarily boots placed there were not visible in the line of the
corridor, but the detectives' footgear stood well in view. There were
two reasons for this. In the first place, Hilton Fenley might like to
see them, so his highly probable if modest desire was gratified;
secondly, when Parker visited Sylvia and quitted her, and when Sylvia
went downstairs, Furneaux's head, lying between two pairs of boots,
could scarcely be distinguished, while his scope of vision was only
slightly, if at all, diminished.
Soon the girl's footsteps could be heard crossing the hall, and the
raising of the drawing-room window and opening of the shutters were
clearly audible. Winter, whose office had been a sinecure hitherto,
now came into the scheme.
He saw Sylvia's slight form standing beneath, marked her hesitancy,
and watched her slow progress down the terraces and into the park.
This nocturnal enterprise on her part was rather perplexing, and he
was in two minds whether or not to cross the room and consult with
Furneaux, when the latter suddenly withdrew his head, closed the door,
and hissed "Snore!"
Winter crept to a bed, and put up an artistic performance, a duet,
musical, regular, not too loud. In a little while his colleague's
"S-s-t!" stopped him, and a slight crack of a finger against a thumb
called him to the door, which was open again.
Explanation was needless. Hilton Fenley, like the other watchers,
hearing the creaking of window and shutters, had looked out from his
own darkened room. In all likelihood, thanking his stars for the happy
chance given thus unexpectedly, he noted the direction the girl was
taking, and acted as if prepared for this very development; the truth
being, of course, that he was merely adapting his own plans to
immediate and more favorable conditions.
Coming out into the corridor, he consulted his watch. Then he glanced
in the direction of the room which held the two men he had cause to
fear--such ample cause as he little dreamed of at that moment. To make
assurance doubly sure, he walked that way, not secretly, but boldly,
since it was part of his project now to court observation--by others,
at any rate, if not by the drugged emissaries of Scotland Yard. He
waited outside the closed door and heard what he expected to hear,
the snoring of two men sound asleep.
Returning, he did not reenter his own room, but crossed the head of
the staircase to Robert's. He knocked lightly, and his brother's
"Hello, there! Come in!" reached Furneaux's ears. Not a word of the
remainder of the colloquy that ensued was lost on either of the
detectives.
"Sorry to disturb you, Bob," said Hilton, speaking from the doorway,
"but I thought you might not be in bed, and I've come to tell you that
Sylvia has just gone out by way of the drawing-room and is wandering
about the park."
"Sylvia! On her lonesome?" was Robert's astounded cry.
"Yes. It isn't right. I can't understand her behavior. I would have
followed her myself; but in view of your statement at dinner tonight,
I fancied it would save some annoyance if I entrusted that duty to
you."
"Look here, Hilton, old chap, are you really in earnest?"
"About Sylvia? Yes. I actually saw her. At this moment she is heading
for the lake. If you hurry you'll see her yourself."
"I say, it's awfully decent of you ... I take back a lot of what I
said tonight.... Of course, as matters stand, this is _my_ job....
Tell MacBain not to lock us out."
"I'll attend to that, if necessary. But don't mention me to Sylvia.
She might resent the notion of being spied on. Say that you, too, were
strolling about. You see, I heard the window being opened, and looked
out, naturally. Anyhow, drop me, and run this affair on your own."
Robert was slightly obfuscated--the fresh air quickly made him
worse--but he was sensible of having grossly misjudged Hilton.
"Right-O," he said, hurrying downstairs. "We'll have a talk in the
mornin'. Dash it! It's twelve o'clock. That silly kid! What's she
after, I'd like to know?"
Robert gone, Hilton returned to his own room and rang a bell. MacBain
came, and was asked if he was aware that Miss Sylvia had quitted the
house. MacBain gave his version of the story, and Fenley remarked that
he might leave the window unfastened until he made his rounds at one
o'clock.
Seemingly as an afterthought, Hilton mentioned his brother's open
door, and MacBain discovered that Mr. Robert was missing also.
By that time the detectives, without exchanging a word, had each
arrived at the same opinion as to the trend of events. Hilton Fenley
was remodeling his projects to suit an unforeseen development. No
matter what motive inspired Sylvia Manning's midnight ramble, there
could be no disputing the influence which dominated Robert Fenley. He
was his brother's catspaw. When his rifle was found next day MacBain's
testimony would be a tremendous addition to the weight of evidence
against him, since any unprejudiced judgment must decide that the
pursuit of his "cousin" was a mere pretense to enable him to go out
and search for the weapon he had foolishly left in the wood.
Hilton might or might not admit that he told Robert of the girl's
escapade. If he did admit it, he might be trusted to give the incident
the requisite kink to turn the scale against Robert. Surveying the
facts with cold impartiality afterwards, Scotland Yard decided that
while Hilton could not hope that Robert would be convicted of the
murder, the latter would assuredly be suspected of it, perhaps
arrested and tried; and in any event his marriage with Sylvia Manning
would become a sheer impossibility.
Moreover, once the rifle was found by the police, the only reasonable
prospect of connecting Hilton himself with the crime would have
vanished into thin air. If that weapon were picked up in the Quarry
Wood, or for that matter in any other part of the estate, the hounds
of the law were beaten. Winter's level-headed shrewdness and
Furneaux's almost uncanny intuition might have saddled Hilton with
blood guiltiness, but a wide chasm must be bridged before they could
provide the requisite proof of their theory.
In fact, thus far they dared not even hint at bringing a charge
against him. To succeed, they had to show that the incredible was
credible, that a murderer could be in a room within a few feet of his
victim and in a wood distant fully four hundred yards. It was a
baffling problem, not wholly incapable of solution by circumstantial
evidence, but best left to be elucidated by Hilton Fenley himself.
They believed now that he was about to oblige them by supplying that
corroborative detail which, in the words of Poohbah, "lends artistic
verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative."
Winter drew Furneaux into the room, and breathed the words into his
ear:
"You go. You stand less chance of being seen. I'll search his room."
"If there is a misfire, show a signal after five minutes."
"Right!"
Furneaux, standing back from the window, but in such a position that a
light would be visible to any one perched on the rock in the wood,
pressed the button of an electric torch three times rapidly. Then he
lowered the rope ladder and clambered down with the nimbleness of a
sailor. In all probability, Hilton Fenley was still talking to MacBain
and creating the illusion that the last thing he would think of was a
stroll out of doors at that late hour. But the little man took no
chances. Having surveyed the ground carefully during the day, he was
not bothered now by doubts as to the most practicable path.
Creeping close to the house till he reached the yew hedge, and then
passing through an arch, he remained in the shadow of the hedge till
it turned at a right angle in front of the Italian garden. From that
point to the edge of the Quarry Wood was not a stone's throw, and
clumps of rhododendrons and other flowering shrubs gave shelter in
plenty. Arrived at the mouth of the footpath, which he had marked by
counting the trees in the avenue, he halted and listened intently.
There was no sound of rustling grass or crunched gravel. Hilton was
taking matters leisurely. Fifteen minutes would give him ample time
for the business he had in hand. Even if Robert and Sylvia reached
home before him, which was unlikely--far more unlikely even than he
imagined--he could say that he thought it advisable to follow his
brother and help in the search for the girl. The same excuse would
serve if he met any of those pestilential police prowling about the
grounds. Indeed, he could dispatch the alert and intelligent ones on
the trail of the wanderers, especially on Robert's. In a word, matters
were going well for Hilton, so well that Furneaux laughed as he turned
into the wood.
Here the detective had to advance with care. Beneath the trees the
darkness was now so complete that it had that peculiar quality of
density which everyday speech likens to a wall. Cats, gamekeepers,
poachers, and other creatures of predatory and nocturnal habits can
find and follow a definite track under such conditions; but detectives
are nearly human, and Furneaux was compelled to use the torch more
than once. He ran no risk in doing this. Hilton Fenley could not yet
be in a position to catch the gleam of light among the trees. The one
thing to avoid was delay, and Furneaux had gained rather than lost
time, unless Fenley was running at top speed.
After crossing the damp hollow the Jerseyman had no further
difficulty; he breasted the hill and kept a hand extended so as to
avoid colliding with a tree trunk. Expecting at any instant to have a
bull's-eye lantern flashed in his eyes, which he did not want to
happen, he said softly:
"Hi! You two! Don't show a light! How near are you?"
"Oh, it's you, sir!" said a voice. "We thought it would be. We saw the
signal, and you said you might be the first to arrive."
"Any second signal?"
"No, sir."
Furneaux recognized the pungent scent of the colza oil used in
policemen's lamps.
"By gad," he said, "if the average criminal had the nose of the
veriest cur dog he'd smell that oil a mile away. Now, where are
you? There." He had butted into a constable's solid bulk. "Take me
to the rock--quick. We must hide behind it, on the lower side.... Is
this the place? Right! Squat down, both of you, and make yourselves
comfortable, so that you won't feel your position irksome, and move
perhaps at the wrong moment. When you feel me crawling away, follow to
the upper foot of the rock--no farther.
"Stand upright then, and try to keep your joints from cracking. There
must be no creaking of belts or boots. Absolute silence is the order.
Not a word spoken. No matter what you hear, don't move again until you
see the light of my electric torch. Then run to me, turning on your
own lamps, and help in arresting any one I may be holding. Use your
handcuffs if necessary, and don't hesitate to grab hard if there is a
struggle. Remember, you are to arrest _any one_, no matter who it may
be. Got that?"
"Yes, sir," came two eager voices.
"Don't be excited. It will be an easy thing. If we make a mistake, I
bear the responsibility. Now, keep still as mice when they hear a
cat."
One of the men giggled. Both constables had met Furneaux in the local
police station that afternoon, as he had asked the Inspector to parade
the pair who would be on duty during the night. It was then that he
had arranged a simple code of flash signals, and warned them to look
out for Winter or himself during the night. Any other person who
turned up was not to be challenged until he reached the higher ground
beyond the rock, but that instruction was to be acted on only in the
unavoidable absence of one of the Scotland Yard officers. Privately,
the constables hoped Furneaux would be their leader. They deemed him
"a funny little josser," and marveled greatly at his manner and
appearance. Still, they had heard of his reputation; the Inspector, in
an expansive moment, had observed that "Monkey Face was sharper than
he looked."
Thinking example better than precept, Furneaux did not reprove the
giggler. Lying there, screened even in broad daylight by the bulk of
the rock and some hazels growing vigorously in that restricted area
owing to the absence of foliage overhead, he listened to the voices of
the night, never dumb in a large wood. Birds fluttered uneasily on the
upper branches of the trees--indeed, Furneaux was lucky in that the
occasional gleam of the torch had not sent a pheasant hurtling off
with frantic clamor ere ever the rendezvous was reached--and some
winged creature, probably an owl, swept over the rock in stealthy
flight. The rabbits were all out in the open, nibbling grass and crops
at leisure, but there were other tiny forms rustling among the shrubs
and scampering across the soft carpet of fallen leaves.
Twitterings, and subdued squeaks, and sudden rushes of pattering feet,
the murmuring of myriad fronds in the placid breeze, the whispering
of the neighboring elms, even the steady chant of the distant
cascade--all swelled into a soft and continuous chorus, hardly heard
by the country policemen, accustomed as they were to the sounds of a
woodland at night, but of surprising volume and variety to the man
whose forests lay in the paved wilderness of London.
Suddenly a twig cracked sharply and a match was struck. It was of the
safety type and made little noise, but it was too much for the nerves
of a bird, which flew away noisily. Furneaux pursed his lips and
wanted to whistle. He realized now what an escape he had earlier. But
the intruder seemed to care less about attracting attention than
making rapid progress. He came on swiftly, striking other matches when
required, until he stood on the bare ground near the rock. Not daring
to lift a head, none of the three watchers could see the newcomer, and
in that respect their hiding-place was almost too well chosen. Whoever
it was, he needed no more matches to guide his footsteps. They heard
him advancing a few paces; then he halted again. After a marked
interval, punctuated by a soft, whirring noise hard to interpret,
there were irregular scrapings and the creaking of a branch.
Furneaux arose. Keeping a hand on the rock until he was clear of the
shrubs, he crept forward on thievish feet. His assistants, moving more
clumsily to their allotted station, were audible enough to him, but to
a man unconscious of their presence, and actively climbing a tree,
they were remote and still as Uranus and Saturn.
The scraping of feet and heavy breathing, to say nothing of the prompt
flight of several birds, led the detective unerringly to the trunk of
a lofty chestnut which he had already fixed on as the cover whence the
shot that killed Mortimer Fenley was fired. He was convinced also that
the rifle was yet hidden there, and his thin lips parted in a smile
now that his theory was about to be justified.
He could follow the panting efforts of the climber quite easily. He
knew when the weapon was unlashed from the limb to which it was bound,
and when the descent was begun. He could measure almost the exact
distance of his prey from the ground, and was awaiting the final drop
before flashing the torch on his prisoner, when something rapped him
smartly on the forehead. It was a rope, doubled and twisted, and
subsequent investigation showed that it must have been thrown in a
coil over the lowermost branch in order to facilitate the only
difficult part of the climb offered by ten feet of straight bole.
That trivial incident changed the whole course of events. Taken by
surprise, since he did not know what had struck him, Furneaux pressed
the governor of the torch a second too soon, and his eyes, raised
instantaneously, met those of Hilton Fenley, who was on the point of
letting go the branch and swinging himself down.
During a thrilling moment they gazed at each other, the detective cool
and seemingly unconcerned, the self-avowed murderer livid with mortal
fear. Then Furneaux caught the rope and held it.
"I thought you'd go climbing tonight, Fenley," he said. "Let me assist
you. Tricky things, ropes. You're at the wrong end of this one."
Even Homer nods, but Furneaux had erred three times in as many
seconds. He had switched on the light prematurely, and his ready
banter had warned the parricide that a well-built scheme was crumbling
to irretrievable ruin. Moreover, he had underrated the nervous forces
of the man thus trapped and outwitted. Fenley knew that when his feet
touched the earth he would begin a ghastly pilgrimage to the scaffold.
Two yellow orbs of light were already springing up the slight incline
from the rock, betokening the presence of captors in overwhelming
number. What was to be done? Nothing, in reason, yet Furneaux had
likened him to a snake, and he displayed now the primal instinct of
the snake to fight when cornered. Thrusting the heavy gun he was
carrying straight downward, he delivered a vicious and unerring blow.
The stock caught the detective on the crown of the head, and he fell
to his knees, dropping the torch, which of course went out as soon as
the thumb relaxed its pressure.