It did not take more than five minutes to cover the distance between
Sunnington Crescent and the modest little house where Captain Morrison
and his daughter lived; so in a very brief time Cleek had the
satisfaction of interviewing both.
Narkom's assertion, that Miss Morrison was "half out of her mind over
the distressing affair" had prepared him to encounter a weeping,
red-eyed, heart-broken creature of the most excitable type. He found
instead a pale, serious-faced, undemonstrative girl of somewhat
uncertain age--sweet of voice, soft of step, quiet of demeanour--who was
either one of those persons who repress all external evidence of
internal fires, and bear their crosses in silence, or was as
cold-blooded as a fish and as heartless as a statue. He found the father
the exact antithesis of the daughter, a nervous, fretful, irritable
individual (gout had him by the heels at the time), who was as full of
"yaps" and snarls as any Irish terrier, and as peevish and fussy as a
fault-finding old woman. Added to this, he had a way of glancing all
round the room, and avoiding the eye of the person to whom he was
talking. And if Cleek had been like the generality of people, and hadn't
known that some of the best and "straightest" men in the world have been
afflicted in this manner, and some of the worst and "crookedest" could
look you straight in the eyes without turning a hair, he might have
taken this for a bad sign. Then, too, he seemed to have a great many
more wrappings and swaddlings about his gouty foot than appeared to be
necessary--unless it was done to make his helpless state very apparent,
and to carry out his assertion that he hadn't been able to walk a foot
unassisted for the past week, and could not, therefore, be in any way
connected with young Carboys' mysterious vanishment. Still, even that
had its contra aspect. He might be one of those individuals who make a
mountain out of a molehill of pain, and insist upon a dozen poultices
where one would do.
But Cleek could not forget that, as Narkom had said, there was not the
shadow of doubt that in the event of Carboys having died possessed of
means, the Captain would be the heir-at-law by virtue of his kinship;
and it is a great deal more satisfactory to be rich oneself than to be
dependent upon the generosity of a rich son-in-law. So, after adroitly
exercising the "pump" upon other matters:
"I suppose, Miss Morrison," said Cleek in a casual off-hand sort of way,
"you don't happen to know if Mr. Carboys ever made a will, do you? I am
aware, from what Mr. Narkom has told me of his circumstances, that he
really possessed nothing that would call for the execution of such a
document; but young men have odd fancies sometimes--particularly when
they become engaged--so it is just possible that he might have done such
a thing; that there was a ring or something of that sort he wanted to
make sure of your getting should anything happen to him. Of course, it
is an absurd suggestion, but--"
"It is not so absurd as you think, Mr. Headland," she interrupted. "As
it happens, Mr. Carboys did make a will. But that was a very long time
ago--in fact, before he knew me, so my name did not figure in it at all.
He once told me of the circumstances connected with it. It was executed
when he was about three-and-twenty. It appears that there were some
personal trinkets, relics of his more prosperous days: a set of jewelled
waistcoat buttons, a scarf-pin, a few choice books and things like that,
which he desired Mr. Van Nant to have in the event of his death (they
were then going to the Orient, and times there were troublous); so he
drew up a will, leaving everything that he might die possessed of to Mr.
Van Nant, and left the paper with the latter's solicitor when they bade
good-bye to England. So far as I know, that will still exists, Mr.
Headland; so"--here the faintest suggestion of a quiver got into her
voice--"if anything of a tragical nature had happened to him, and--and
the trinkets hadn't disappeared with him, Mr. Van Nant could claim them
all, and I should have not even one poor little token to cherish in
memory of him. And I am sure--I am very sure--that if he had known--if
he had thought--"
"Mary, for goodness' sake, don't begin to snivel!" chimed in her father
querulously. "It gets on my nerves. And you know very well how I am
suffering! Of course, it was most inconsiderate of Carboys not to
destroy that will as soon as you and he were engaged; but he knew that
marriage invalidates any will a man may have made previously, and--well,
you can't suppose that he ever expected things to turn out as they have
done. Besides, Van Nant would have seen that you got something to
treasure as a remembrance. He's a very decent chap, is Van Nant, Mr.
Headland, although my daughter has never appeared to think so. But
there's no arguing with a woman any way."
Cleek glanced at Narkom. It was a significant glance, and said as
plainly as so many words: "What do you think of it? You said there was
no motive, and, provided Carboys fell heir to something of which we know
nothing as yet, here are _two_! If that will was destroyed, one man
would, as heir-at-law, inherit; ditto the other man if it was not
destroyed and not invalidated by marriage. And here's the 'one' man
singing the praises of the 'other' one!"
"Collusion?" queried Narkom's answering look. "Perhaps," said Cleek's in
response, "one of these two men has made away with him. The question is,
which? and, also, why? when? where?" Then he turned to the Captain's
daughter, and asked quietly: "Would you mind letting me see the room
from which the young man disappeared? I confess I haven't the ghost of
an idea regarding the case, Captain; but if you don't mind letting your
daughter show me the room--"
"Mind? Good Lord, no!" responded the Captain. "All I want to know is,
what became of the poor boy, and if there's any likelihood of his ever
coming back alive. I'd go up with you myself, only you see how helpless
I am. Mary, take Mr. Headland to the room. And please don't stop any
longer than is necessary. I'm suffering agonies and not fit to be left
alone."
Miss Morrison promised to return as expeditiously as possible, and then
forthwith led the way to the room in question.
"This is it, Mr. Headland," she said as she opened the door and ushered
Cleek in. "Everything is just exactly as it was when George left it. I
couldn't bring myself to touch a thing until after a detective had seen
it. Father said it was silly and sentimental of me to go on sleeping in
a little box of a hall bedroom when I could be so much more comfortable
if I returned to my own. But--I couldn't! I felt that I might possibly
be unconsciously destroying something in the shape of a clue if I moved
a solitary object, and so--Look! there is the drawn blind just as he
left it; there his portmanteau on that chair by the bedside, and
there--" Her voice sank to a sort of awed whisper, her shaking finger
extended in the direction of a blue semi-circle in the middle of the
floor. "There is the belt! He had it round his waist when he crossed
this threshold that night. It was lying there just as you see it when
the servant brought up his tea and his shaving-water the next morning,
and found the room empty and the bed undisturbed."
Cleek walked forward and picked up the belt.
"Humph! Unfastened!" he said as he took it up; and Miss Morrison,
closing the door, went below and left them. "Our wonderful wizard does
not seem to have mastered the simple matter of making a man vanish out
of the thing without first unfastening the buckle, it appears. I should
have thought he could have managed that, shouldn't you, Mr. Narkom, if
he could have managed the business of making him melt into thin air?
Hur-r-r!" reflectively, as he turned the belt over and examined it. "Not
seen much use, apparently; the leather's quite new, and the inside quite
unsoiled. British manufactured brass, too, in the buckle. Shouldn't have
expected that in a Persian-made article. Inscription scratched on with
the point of a knife, or some other implement not employed in metal
engraving. May I trouble you for a pin? Thank you. Hum-m-m! Thought so.
Some dirty, clayey stuff rubbed in to make the letters appear old and of
long standing. Look here, Mr. Narkom: metal quite bright underneath when
you pick the stuff out. Inscription very recently added; leather,
American tanned; brass, Birmingham; stitching, by the Blake shoe and
harness machine; wizard--probably born in Tottenham Court Road, and his
knowledge of Persia confined to Persian powder in four-penny tins."
He laid the belt aside, and walked slowly round the room, inspecting its
contents before turning his attention to the portmanteau.
"Evidently the vanishing qualities of the belt did not assert themselves
very rapidly, Mr. Narkom," he said, "for Mr. Carboys not only prepared
to go to bed, but had time to get himself ready to hurry off to business
in the morning with as little delay as possible. Look here; here are his
pyjamas on the top of this chest of drawers, neatly folded, just as he
lifted them out of his portmanteau; and as a razor has been wiped on
this towel (see this slim line of dust-like particles of hair), he
shaved before going to bed in order to save himself the trouble of doing
so in the morning. But as there is no shaving-mug visible, and he
couldn't get hot water at that hour of the night, we shall probably
discover a spirit-lamp and its equipment when we look into the
portmanteau. Now, as he had time to put these shaving articles away
after using, and as no man shaves with his collar and necktie on, if we
do not find those, too, in the portmanteau, we may conclude that he put
them on again; and, as he wouldn't put them on again if he were going to
bed, the inference is obvious--something caused him to dress and prepare
to leave the house voluntarily. That 'something' must have manifested
itself very abruptly, and demanded great haste--either that, or he
expected to return; for you will observe that, although he replaced his
shaving tackle in the portmanteau, he did not put his sleeping-suit back
with it. While I am poking about, do me the favour of looking in the
bag, Mr. Narkom; and tell me if you find the collar and necktie there."
"Not a trace of them," announced the superintendent a moment or two
later. "Here are the shaving-mug, the brush, and the spirit-lamp,
however, just as you suggested; and--Hallo! what have you stumbled upon
now?" For Cleek, who had been "poking about," as he termed it, had
suddenly stooped, picked up something, and was regarding it fixedly as
it lay in the palm of his hand.
"A somewhat remarkable thing to discover in a lady's bed-chamber, Mr.
Narkom, unless--Just step downstairs, and ask Miss Morrison to come up
again for a moment, will you?" And then held out his hand so that Narkom
could see, in passing, that a hempseed, two grains of barley, and an oat
lay upon his palm. "Miss Morrison," he inquired as Mary returned in
company with the superintendent, "Miss Morrison, do you keep pigeons?"
She gave a little cry, and clasped her hands together, as if reproaching
herself for some heartless act.
"Oh!" she said, moving hastily forward toward the window. "Poor dears!
How good of you to remind me. To think that I should forget to feed them
for three whole days. They may be dead by now. But at such a time I
could think of nothing but this hideous mystery. My pigeons--my poor,
pretty pigeons!"
"Oh, then you do keep them?"
"Yes; oh, yes. In a wire-enclosed cote attached to the house just
outside this window. Homing pigeons, Mr. Headland. George bought them
for me. We had an even half dozen each. We used to send messages to each
other that way. He would bring his over to me, and take mine away with
him at night when he went home, so we could correspond at any moment
without waiting for the post. That's how I sent him the message about
the arrival of the belt. Oh, do unlock the window, and let me see if the
pretty dears are still alive."
"It doesn't need to be unlocked, Miss Morrison," he replied, as he
pulled up the blind. "See, it can be opened easily--the catch is not
secured."
"Not secured? Why, how strange. I myself fastened it after I despatched
the bird with the message about the belt. And nobody came into the room
after that until George did so that night. Oh, do look and see if the
pretty creatures are dead. They generally coo so persistently; and now I
don't hear a sound from them."
Cleek threw up the sash and looked out. A huge wistaria with tendrils as
thick as a man's wrist covered the side of the house, and made a
veritable ladder down to the little garden; and, firmly secured to this,
on a level with the window-sill and within easy reach therefrom, was the
dovecote in question. He put in his hand, and slowly drew out four
stiff, cold, feathered little bodies, and laid them on the
dressing-table before her; then, while she was grieving over them, he
groped round in all corners of the cote and drew forth still another.
"Five?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Five? Oh, but there should be only
four, Mr. Headland. It is true that George brought over all six the day
before; but I 'flew' one to him in the early morning, and I 'flew' a
second at night, with the message about the belt; so there should be but
four."
"Oh, well, possibly one was 'flown' by him to you, and it 'homed'
without your knowledge."
"Yes, but it couldn't get inside the wired enclosure unassisted, Mr.
Headland. See! that spring-door has to be opened when it is returned to
the cote after it has carried its message home. You see, I trained them,
by feeding them in here, to come into this room when they were flown
back to me. They always flew directly in if the window was opened, or
gave warning of their presence by fluttering about and beating against
the panes if the sash was closed. And for a fifth pigeon to be inside
the enclosure--I can't understand the thing at all. Oh, Mr. Headland, do
you think it is anything in the nature of a clue?"
"It may be," he replied evasively. "Clues are funny things, Miss
Morrison; you never know when you may pick one up, nor how. I shouldn't
say anything to anybody about this fifth pigeon if I were you. Let that
be our secret for awhile; and if your father wants to know why I sent
for you to come up here again--why, just say I have discovered that your
pigeons are dead for want of food." And for a moment or two, after she
had closed the door and gone below again, he stood looking at Mr. Narkom
and slowly rubbing his thumb and forefinger up and down his chin. Then,
of a sudden:
"I think, Mr. Narkom, we can fairly decide, on the evidence of that
fifth pigeon, that George Carboys left this room voluntarily," returned
Cleek; "that the bird brought him a message of such importance it was
necessary to leave this house at once, and that, not wishing to leave it
unlocked while he was absent, and not--because of the Captain's
inability to get back upstairs afterward--having anybody to whom he
could appeal to get up and lock it after him, he chose to get out of
this window, and to go down by means of that wistaria. I think, too, we
may decide that, as he left no note to explain his absence, he expected
to return before morning, and that, as he never did return, he has met
with foul play. Of course, it is no use looking for footprints in the
garden in support of this hypothesis, for the storm that night was a
very severe one and quite sufficient to blot out all trace of them;
but--Look here, Mr. Narkom, put two and two together. If a message was
sent him by a carrier pigeon, where must that pigeon have come from,
since it was one of Miss Morrison's?"
"Why, from Van Nant's place, of course. It couldn't possibly come from
any other place."
"Exactly. And as Van Nant and Carboys lived together--kept Bachelor
Hall--and there was never anybody but their two selves in the house at
any time, why, nobody but Van Nant himself could have despatched the
bird. Look at that fragment of burnt paper lying in the basin of that
candlestick on the washstand. If that isn't all that's left of the paper
that was tied under the pigeon's wing, and if Carboys didn't use it for
the purpose of lighting the spirit-lamp by which he heated his
shaving-water, depend upon it that, in his haste and excitement, he
tucked it into his pocket, and if ever we find his body we shall find
that paper on it."
"His body? My dear Cleek, you don't believe that the man has been
murdered?"
"I don't know--yet. I shall, however, if this Van Nant puts anything in
the way of my searching that house thoroughly or makes any pretence to
follow me whilst I am doing so. I want to meet this Maurice Van Nant
just as soon as I can, Mr. Narkom, just as soon as I can."
And it was barely two minutes after he had expressed this wish that Miss
Morrison reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by a pale, nervous,
bovine-eyed man of about thirty-five years of age, and said in a tone of
agitation: "Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Headland, but this is Mr.
Maurice Van Nant. He is most anxious to meet you, and father would have
me bring him up at once."
Narkom screwed round on his heel, looked at the Belgian, and lost faith
in Miss Morrison's powers of discrimination instantly. On the
dressing-table stood Carboys' picture--heavy-jowled, sleepy-eyed,
dull-looking--and on the threshold stood a man with the kindest eyes,
the sweetest smile, and the handsomest and most sympathetic countenance
he had seen in many a day. If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, if
the face is the index of the character, then here was a man weak as
water, as easily led as any lamb, and as guileless.
"You are just the man I want to see, Mr. Van Nant," said Cleek, after
the first formalities were over, and assuming, as he always did at such
times, the heavy, befogged expression of incompetence. "I confess this
bewildering affair altogether perplexes me; but you, I understand, were
Mr. Carboys' close friend and associate, and as I can find nothing in
the nature of a clue here, I should like, with your permission, to look
over his home quarters and see if I can find anything there."
If he had looked for any sign of reluctance or of embarrassment upon Van
Nant's part when such a request should be made, he was wholly
disappointed, for the man, almost on the point of tears, seized his
hand, pressed it warmly, and said in a voice of eager entreaty: "Oh, do,
Mr. Headland, do. Search anywhere, do anything that will serve to find
my friend and to clear up this dreadful affair. I can't sleep for
thinking of it; I can't get a moment's peace night or day. You didn't
know him or you would understand how I am tortured--how I miss him. The
best friend, the dearest and the lightest-hearted fellow that ever
lived. If I had anything left in this world, I'd give it all--all, Mr.
Headland, to clear up the mystery of this thing and to get him back. One
man could do that, I believe, could and would if I had the money to
offer him."
"Indeed? And who may he be, Mr. Van Nant?"
"The great, the amazing, the undeceivable man, Cleek. He'd get at the
truth of it. Nothing could baffle and bewilder him. But--oh, well, it's
the old, old tale of the power of money. He wouldn't take the case--a
high-and-mighty 'top-notcher' like that--unless the reward was a
tempting one, I'm sure."
"No, I'm afraid he wouldn't," agreed Cleek, with the utmost composure.
"So you must leave him out of your calculations altogether, Mr. Van
Nant. And now, if you don't mind accompanying us and showing the
chauffeur the way, perhaps Mr. Narkom will take us over to your house in
his motor."
"Mind? No, certainly I don't mind. Anything in the world to get at a
clue to this thing, Mr. Headland, anything. Do let us go at once."
Cleek led the way from the room. Halfway down the stairs, however, he
excused himself on the plea of having forgotten his magnifying glass,
and ran back to get it. Two minutes later he rejoined them in the little
drawing-room, where the growling Captain was still demanding the whole
time and attention of his daughter, and, the motor being ready, the
three men walked out, got into it, and were whisked away to the house
which once had been the home of the vanished George Carboys.
It proved to be a small, isolated brick house in very bad condition,
standing in an out-of-the-way road somewhere between Putney and
Wimbledon. It stood somewhat back from the road, in the midst of a
little patch of ground abounding in privet and laurel bushes, and it was
evident that its cheapness had been its chief attraction to the two men
who had rented it, although, on entering, it was found to possess at the
back a sort of extension, with top and side lights, which must have
appealed to Van Nant's need of something in the nature of a studio. At
all events, he had converted it into a very respectable apology for one;
and Cleek was not a little surprised by what it contained.
Rich stuffs, bits of tapestry, Persian draperies, Arabian
prayer-mats--relics of his other and better days and of his Oriental
wanderings--hung on the walls and ornamented the floor; his rejected
pictures and his unsold statues, many of them life-sized and all of
clay, coated with a lustreless paint to make them look like marble, were
disposed about the place with an eye to artistic effect, and near to an
angle, where stood (on a pedestal, half concealed, half revealed by
artistically arranged draperies) the life-size figure of a Roman
senator, in toga and sandals, there was the one untidy spot, the one
utterly inartistic thing the room contained.
It was the crude, half-finished shape of a recumbent female figure, of
large proportions and abominable modelling, stretched out at full length
upon a long, low, trestle-supported "sculptor's staging," on which also
lay Van Nant's modelling tools and his clay-stained working blouse.
Cleek looked at the huge unnatural thing--out of drawing, anatomically
wrong in many particulars--and felt like quoting Angelo's famous remark
anent his master Lorenzo's faun: "What a pity to have spoilt so much
expensive material," and Van Nant, observing, waved his hand toward it.
"A slumbering nymph," he explained. "Only the head and shoulders
finished as yet, you see. I began it the day before, yesterday, but my
hand seems somehow to have lost its cunning. Here are the keys of all
the rooms, Mr. Headland. Carboys' was the one directly at the head of
the stairs, in the front. Won't you and Mr. Narkom go up and search
without me? I couldn't bear to look into the place and see the things
that belonged to him and he not there. It would cut me to the heart if I
did. Or, maybe, you would sooner go alone, and leave Mr. Narkom to
search round this room. We used to make a general sitting-room of it at
nights when we were alone together, and some clue may have been
dropped."
"A good suggestion, Mr. Narkom," commented Cleek, as he took the keys.
"Look round and see what you can find whilst I poke about upstairs."
Then he walked out of the studio and searching every nook and corner,
whilst Van Nant, for the want of something to occupy his mind and his
hands, worked on the nymph, and could hear him moving about overhead in
quest of possible clues.
For perhaps twenty minutes Cleek was away; then he came down and walked
into the room looking the very picture of hopeless bewilderment.
"Mr. Narkom," he said, "this case stumps me. I believe there's magic in
it, if you ask me; and as the only way to find magic is with magic, I am
going to consult a clairvoyante, and if one of those parties can't give
me a clue, I don't believe the mystery will ever be solved. I know of a
ripping one, but she is over in Ireland, and as it's a dickens of a way
to go, I shan't be able to get back before the day after to-morrow at
the earliest. But--look here, sir, I'll tell you what! This is Tuesday
evening, isn't it? Now if you and Mr. Van Nant will be at Captain
Morrison's house on Thursday evening at seven o'clock, and will wait
there until I come, I'll tell you what that clairvoyante says, and
whether there's any chance of this thing being solved or not. Is that
agreeable, Mr. Van Nant?"
"Quite, Mr. Headland. I'll be there promptly."
"And stop until you hear from me?"
"And stop until I hear from you--yes."
"Right you are, sir. Now then, Mr. Narkom, if you'll let the chauffeur
whisk me over to the station, I'll get back to London and on to the
earliest possible train for Holyhead so as to be on hand for the first
Irish packet to-morrow. And while you're looking for your hat, sir--good
evening, Mr. Van Nant--I'll step outside and tell Lennard to start up."
With that, he passed out of the studio, walked down the hall, and went
out of the house. And half a minute later, when the superintendent
joined him, he found him sitting in the limousine and staring at his
toes.
"My dear Cleek, did you find anything?" he queried, as he took a seat
beside him, and the motor swung out into the road and whizzed away. "Of
course, I know you've no more idea of going to Ireland than you have of
taking a pot-shot at the moon: but there's something on your mind. I
know the signs, Cleek. What is it?"
The response to this was rather startling.
"Mr. Narkom," said Cleek, answering one question with another, "what's
the best thing to make powdered bismuth stick--lard, cold cream, or
cocoa butter?"