MILBURGH'S LAST BLUFF
Milburgh had gone too far. He had hoped to carry through this scene
without the actual disclosure of the confession. In his shrewd, clever
way he had realised before Tarling himself, that the detective from
Shanghai, this heir to the Lyne millions, had fallen under the spell of
the girl's beauty, and all his conjectures had been confirmed by the
scene he had witnessed, no less than by the conversation he had overheard
before the door was opened.
He was seeking immunity and safety. The man was in a panic, though this
Tarling did not realise, and was making his last desperate throw for the
life that he loved, that life of ease and comfort to secure which he had
risked so much.
Milburgh had lived in terror that Odette Rider would betray him, and
because of his panicky fear that she had told all to the detective that
night he brought her back to London from Ashford, he had dared attempt to
silence the man whom he believed was the recipient of the girl's
confidence.
Those shots in the foggy night which had nearly ended the career of Jack
Tarling had their explanation in Milburgh's terror of exposure. One
person in the world, one living person, could place him in the felon's
dock, and if she betrayed him----
Tarling had carried the girl to a couch and had laid her down. He went
quickly into his bedroom, switching on the light, to get a glass of
water. It was Milburgh's opportunity. A little fire was burning in the
sitting-room. Swiftly he picked the confession from the floor and thrust
it into his pocket.
On a little table stood a writing cabinet. From this he took a sheet of
the hotel paper, crumpled it up and thrust it into the fire. It was
blazing when Tarling returned.
"What are you doing?" he asked, halting by the side of the couch.
"I am burning the young lady's confession," said Milburgh calmly. "I do
not think it is desirable in the interests----"
"Wait," said Tarling calmly.
He lowered the girl's head and sprinkled some of the water on her face,
and she opened her eyes with a little shudder.
Tarling left her for a second and walked to the fire. The paper was burnt
save a scrap of the edge that had not caught, and this he lifted
gingerly, looked at it for a moment, then cast his eyes round the room.
He saw that the stationery cabinet had been disturbed and laughed. It was
neither a pleasant nor an amused laugh.
"That's the idea, eh?" he said, walked to the door, closed it and stood
with his back to it.
"Now, Milburgh, you can give me that confession you've got in your
pocket."
"I've burnt it, Mr. Tarling."
"You're a liar," said Tarling calmly. "You knew very well I wouldn't let
you go out of this room with that confession in your pocket and you tried
to bluff me by burning a sheet of writing-paper. I want that confession."
"I assure you----" began Milburgh.
"I want that confession," said Tarling, and with a sickly smile. Milburgh
put his hand in his pocket and drew out the crumpled sheet.
"Now, if you are anxious to see it burn," said Tarling, "you will have an
opportunity."
He read the statement again and put it into the fire, watched it until it
was reduced to ashes, then beat the ashes down with a poker.
"That's that," said Tarling cheerfully.
"I suppose you know what you've done," said Milburgh. "You've destroyed
evidence which you, as an officer of the law----"
"Cut that out," replied Tarling shortly.
For the second time that night he unlocked the door and flung it wide
open.
"Milburgh, you can go. I know where I can find you when I want you," he
said.
"You'll be sorry for this," said Milburgh.
"Not half as sorry as you'll be by the time I'm through with you,"
retorted Tarling.
"I shall go straight to Scotland Yard," fumed the man, white with
passion.
"Do, by all means," said the detective coolly, "and be good enough to ask
them to detain you until I come."
With this shot he closed the door upon the retreating man.
The girl was sitting now on the edge of the sofa, her brave eyes
surveying the man who loved her.
"What have you done?" she asked.
"I've destroyed that precious confession of yours," said Tarling
cheerfully. "It occurred to me in the space of time it took to get from
you to my wash-stand, that that confession may have been made under
pressure. I am right, aren't I?"
She nodded.
"Now, you wait there a little while I make myself presentable and I'll
take you home."
"Take me home?" said the startled girl. "Not to mother, no, no. She
mustn't ever know."
"On the contrary, she must know. I don't know what it is she mustn't
know," said Tarling with a little smile, "but there has been a great deal
too much mystery already, and it is not going to continue."
She rose and walked to the fireplace, her elbows on the mantelpiece, and
her head back.
"I'll tell you all I can. Perhaps you're right," she said. "There has
been too much mystery. You asked me once who was Milburgh."
She turned and half-faced him.
"I won't ask you that question any more," he said quietly, "I know!"
"You know?"
"Yes, Milburgh is your mother's second husband."
Her eyes opened.
"How did you find out that?"
"I guessed that," he smiled, "and she keeps her name Rider at Milburgh's
request. He asked her not to reveal the fact that she was married again.
Isn't that so?"
She nodded.
"Mother met him about seven years ago. We were at Harrogate at the time.
You see, mother had a little money, and I think Mr. Milburgh thought it
was much more than it actually was. He was a very agreeable man and told
mother that he had a big business in the city. Mother believes that he is
very well off."
Tarling whistled.
"I see," he said. "Milburgh has been robbing his employers and spending
the money on your mother."
She shook her head.
"That is partly true and partly untrue," she said. "Mother has been an
innocent participant. He bought this house at Hertford and furnished it
lavishly, he kept two cars until a year ago, when I made him give them up
and live more simply. You don't know what these years have meant, Mr.
Tarling, since I discovered how deeply mother would be dragged down by
the exposure of his villainy."
"How did you find it out?"
"It was soon after the marriage," said the girl. "I went into Lyne's
Store one day and one of the employees was rude to me. I shouldn't have
taken much notice, but an officious shop-walker dismissed the girl on the
spot, and when I pleaded for her reinstatement, he insisted that I should
see the manager. I was ushered into a private office, and there I saw Mr.
Milburgh and realised the kind of double life he was living. He made me
keep his secret, painted a dreadful picture of what would happen, and
said he could put everything right if I would come into the business and
help him. He told me he had large investments which were bringing in big
sums and that he would apply this money to making good his defalcations.
That was why I went into Lyne's Store, but he broke his word from the
very beginning."
"Why did he put you there?" asked Tarling.
"Because, if there had been another person," said the girl, "he might
have been detected. He knew that any inquiries into irregularities of
accounts would come first to my department, and he wanted to have
somebody there who would let him know. He did not betray this thought,"
said the girl, "but I guessed that that was the idea at the back of his
mind...."
She went on to tell him something of the life she had lived, the
humiliation she suffered in her knowledge of the despicable part she was
playing.
"From the first I was an accessory," she said. "It is true that I did not
steal, but my reason for accepting the post was in order to enable him,
as I thought, to right a grievous wrong and to save my mother from the
shame and misery which would follow the exposure of Milburgh's real
character."
She looked at him with a sad little smile.
"I hardly realise that I am speaking to a detective," she said, "and all
that I have suffered during these past years has been in vain; but the
truth must come now, whatever be the consequences."
She paused.
"And now I am going to tell you what happened on the night of the
murder."