ANOTHER MYSTERY
Mulligan stared at the dead woman, but beyond touching her to see if
life remained, he did not attempt to alter the position of the corpse.
For corpse it was. The woman was as dead as a stone, and Mulligan knew
his duty too well to take any authority upon himself The inspector was
the man to issue orders, and the inspector would be at the head of
Achilles Avenue when the clock struck twelve. As this thought passed
slowly through the policeman's mind--for the unexpectedness of the
tragedy had somewhat dazed him--he heard the midnight chimes. With a
sudden start he recovered his wits and wheeled round. In a few minutes
he was out of the house, and had closed the door. Only when in the
roadway did his brain begin to work at its normal speed.
"It's that young gentleman," thought Mulligan. "He said I'd come
across a crime sooner than I expected. And the key is his. Mary, be
good to us; but he must have killed the poor creature before he joined
me. Augh!" He stopped and considered. "But if that's so, what about the
singing. She was at the piano, and the song wasn't done when the
gentleman joined me. Augh!"
At this moment of his reflection, and while he was looking anxiously
down the road for the inspector, a man came walking rapidly along, and
suddenly emerged from a side-street that ran at right angles to
Achilles Avenue. He almost dashed into the arms of Mulligan, who
brought up short under a lamp. "Where are ye going?" asked the
policeman, rendered suspicious by his recent discovery and by the
manifest haste of the man.
"Going, confound you!" snapped the man, who seemed to be in a very bad
temper. "I'm looking for my motor-car."
"For your what?"
"Motor-car! Automobile! Can't you understand English? I've lost it.
Some one's bolted with the whole kit. Have you seen my car? It's
painted yellow picked out with black, and------"
"Here's the inspector," chipped in Mulligan, recognising with relief
the rigid form of his superior. "You can tell him, and if you're the
man, anything you may say will be used in evidence against you. That's
the law. Augh!"
The man stared at this speech, but Mulligan wiped his heated brow and
glared at him in a resentful manner, not at all sure but what this
might be the criminal. There was no ground for such a supposition,
especially as the key belonged to another man. But Mulligan was not in
a position to weigh his words, and therefore said the first thing that
came into his mind. So the man stared, Mulligan scowled, and the
inspector drew near.
"You've been drinking, bobby," said the man at length. "My name is
Luther Tracey. I manufacture motor-cars, and some beast has bolted
with one of the best I've ever turned out. Such a flier. I guess you
police hereabouts ain't worth a cent."
"You're American," said Mulligan.
"And you're several kinds of ass, I reckon. See here, about this car
of mine."
Mr. Tracey would have gone on to explain at length, but that he was
interrupted by the arrival of the inspector, who was tall and thin,
military and sharp. He glanced keenly at Tracey, and inquiringly at
Mulligan. The engineer would have begun talking at once, as he
appeared to have a considerable fund of what his countrymen call
"chin-music"; but Mulligan waved him aside, and reported hurriedly to
Inspector Derrick what he had discovered. Although Derrick was
manifestly surprised and excited by the strange recital, he made no
remark; but when in possession of Mulligan's facts--which ranged from
his meeting with the young gentleman to his leaving the dead body in
the house--he turned to Tracey. That man was listening eagerly, and
seemed quite interested.
"Well, I surmise that's a queer case," said he, smacking his leg.
"What do you make of it, inspector? If you want to know my opinion,
the man as laid out that lady corpse has bolted with my motor-car."
"No," said Mulligan; "he walked with me for a---- When did you miss
your car, sir?"
"You might call it a few minutes after eleven."
"He was with me then," said the policeman; "'twasn't him. No!"
Derrick, who had preserved silence, chimed in "Who are you, sir?"
"My name's Tracey," replied the American smartly; "here's my card. I
manufacture motor-cars, and came to see some friends of mine this
night in one of my latest. I left her humming at the gate, and at ten
minutes after eleven I went out to start her for the factory. Nary a
sign of the car, sir, and I've been chasing round these lanes for the
last hour. This lunatic"--he pointed to Mulligan--"seems to think I
have to do with the murder. Don't you think you'd better run me in? It
'ull be an advertisement and a smart action for false imprisonment."
Derrick smiled under his heavy moustache, and took a long look at Mr.
Tracey. The American was fair and handsome, active in his movements
and compact in his frame. He wore fashionable evening-dress, and
looked a shrewd, pleasant man of the world, who had travelled much and
had his wits about him. The mention he made of arrest showed Derrick
that the man was innocent. Not even a Yankee's passion for advertising
his goods would hurry a man into the grip of the law if he were in any
way guilty. The inspector, however, did not think it wise to lose
sight of Tracey, and being diplomatic he behaved towards him in quite
an affable way. "You might come with me and see into this matter," he
said, moving on.
"Rather," rejoined Tracey with alacrity. "I'm dead gone on adventures,
and this is a ripper. Wonder if I can get an advertisement out of it?
What do you think, sir?"
"Well, if your car is missing------"
"'Course. The man's raced off with it."
"No," denied Mulligan again; "he was with me at the time your car was
lost."
"Do you think the man you talked to, killed this woman?" asked the
inspector, turning sharply on Mulligan.
"I do and I don't, sir."
"What do you mean by that?"
Mulligan scratched his head. "He had the key, and he came out of the
house sure enough. But she was singing when he talked to me at the
gate. She wasn't dead then."
"Then he must be innocent," said Derrick sharply. "Do you know to whom
the villa belongs?"
"No, sir. Here it is, and you can see that the light's still burning
as I left it. I haven't touched the body, sir."
"You did right," approved Derrick, swinging open the gate. "Wait, we
must look at the name. Your lantern, Mulligan."
The light illuminated the black letters on the gate, but before the
inspector could pronounce the name, Tracey did it for him. "Ajax
Villa--Ajax Villa," said he, stopping; "sakes, it's Fane's house.
Don't tell me it's Mrs. Fane--such a fine woman. But it can't be."
"Why not?" said Derrick, looking at him suspiciously.
"Because the whole family are at the seaside--all except Miss Mason."
"Where is she, and who is she?"
"Miss Mason is the sister of Mrs. Fane, and she's stopping with the
friends I was seeing when my car was stolen."
This was a strange discovery, and Derrick looked puzzled. Tracey spoke
in all good faith, and seemed quite willing to enter the house. All
the same it was queer he should know so much about the matter. As the
constable opened the door Derrick asked a question. "You heard
Mulligan describe the man who came out of this house," he said; "can
you tell me who he is?"
"No," confessed Tracey. "I know very little of Mr. Fane and his
family. I've never been in this house. But Miss Mason is the bosom
friend of the girl I'm going to engineer into the position of Mrs.
Tracey. She's Gerty Baldwin at present, and lives at No. 20 Meadow
Lane along with her mother and the kids. Now, is there anything else
you want, to know, Mr. Inspector?"
"Not at present. But later on." Derrick nodded and walked into the
house, followed by the two men.
"Oh, anything you like," called out Tracey, not at all damped by the
fact of death being in the house, "anything for an advertisement. I
guess I'll sell that car at a big figure. Tussaud's will buy it if the
murderer's skipped in it."
"He hasn't," said Mulligan, still confused.
"He has," insisted the American. "Why should an honest man yank off my
car? Some one wanted to get out of the way in a hurry, and he took my
flier. I guess he's out of London by this time. She can skim a bit.
Oh, I reckon she's no slouch."
"Hush," said Derrick sharply, and removed his cap. Tracey did the
same, for the presence of death--the immediate presence--began to
sober him. Mulligan stood rigidly at the door while Derrick examined
the body. "Is it Mrs. Fane?" he asked.
"No," said Tracey, staring at a girlish face, still and white and
waxen. "Mrs. Fane would make two of this poor thing. She's a Junoesque
sort of woman, about the size of the Venus of Milo, and the same
shape, too. This is a slip of a girl."
"A married woman," said Derrick, pointing to a ring on the hand. He
walked slowly round the room. "Mulligan," said he, "go and see if any
one else is in the house------"
"I tell you Fane and family are at the seaside," said Tracey.
"Never mind. There may be a caretaker. Look round, Mulligan, and see
if any windows or doors are unlocked or open. Mr. Tracey, please sit
still and silent. I wish to make an examination."
Mulligan departed promptly, and the American sat comfortably in a deep
armchair watching the inspector. That gentleman prowled round like a
sleuth-hound. He examined the window, then scrambled along the floor,
shook various curtains, shifted several cushions, and finally knelt
beside the body after a glance at the piano. He interrupted his
examination to point out the music. "According to Mulligan, she was
singing 'Kathleen Mavourneen,'" said he. "There's the song. Poor soul.
She was evidently struck down when singing."
"Then the man met by Mulligan is innocent, since he was outside while
the song was still being sung."
"He might be an accessory before the fact, Mr. Tracey."
"In other words, an accomplice. But he didn't nick my car. No, sir.
The real murderer did that, and I guess that car's worth money at the
boss waxwork show of this metropolis. They can fire it into the
chamber of horrors along with Napoleon's cart and the baby's pram.
What figure would you ask now, inspector?"
"You go too fast, Mr. Tracey. We don't know yet that the criminal has
stolen your car. Is the house you were visiting far from here?"
"Oh, I guess not. Mrs. Baldwin hangs out No. 20------"
"Yes," interrupted Derrick, "you told me. That's no distance. Meadow
Lane--to be sure--part of Old Troy."
"No," contradicted Tracey. "The village is called Cloverhead."
"And round the village Troy has been built, so the lesser name is
merged in the larger."
"Sounds legal, and not quite right, Mr. Inspector. Say, your
name's------"
"Derrick. Inspector Derrick. I am in charge of the Troy police, and
this is the first crime of any sort I have stumbled across here."
"Slow lot," commented the American. "In our country we'd have filled
the boneyard in six months."
"We don't murder on that gigantic scale here, Mr. Tracey," Derrick
answered, somewhat dryly. Then he looked steadily and keenly at the
man. "I'm going to trust you," he declared.
Tracey whistled, and stared doubtfully at the body. "Shouldn't if I
were you, sir. Here's a crime, and I know a lot------"
"Oh, you do! What do you know?"
"What I've told you. I might be an accomplice too, you see, along with
the other man."
"The murderer?"
"No. The rooster who skipped with my car. He didn't stick that poor
girl there. Not he. Guess he kept your copper employed in jaw while
the real murderer polished off the female. That's how I size up
things. Well, sir, and what do you want me to do?"
"Fetch a doctor."
"Don't know any hereabouts My knowledge of this township is limited to
Meadow Lane, and Miss Baldwin's favourite walk across the fields.
'Sides"--he cast a quizzical look at the officer--"I might not come
back."
"Oh yes, you will. I shouldn't let you go if I wasn't sure you'd
return, if only for the sake of your car and the advertisement."
Tracey laughed. "Well, where's the medicine man?"
Derrick scribbled a few lines on his card, and passed it along. "Go
there, and ask Dr. Geason to come here--the sooner the better."
"Right, sir!" Tracey rose and looked wistfully down at the dead. "I
guess the man who did that would be lynched in our country."
"He'll be hanged in this when found," retorted Derrick. "Go, please."
When the American was out of the room the inspector resumed his
examination. Mulligan returned when he was in the middle of a brown
study. "There's nothing to be seen, sir," he reported. "No one in the
house. Doors and windows all bolted and barred. Not a sign."
"Strange," mused Derrick. "You are sure that the man who came out of
the house was speaking with you while the singing was going on?"
"I'll take my oath on it, sir. He can't be guilty."
"Did he strike you as being confused?"
"Not very, sir. He didn't want his face to be seen, though, and kept
his hat down on his eyes. He said the lady who was singing was his
sister, and that he often came to see her."
"H'm! Why should he come to a house which is shut up?"
"He had the latch-key."
"Hand it over to me," said Derrick, and when in possession of it, took
a long look at the size and shape. "New," said he, rapping it on his
knuckles. "Hasn't been used much."
"Might be polished from too much use, sir," ventured Mulligan.
"The edges wouldn't be so rough if it wasn't new." Derrick pointed
this fact out. "You don't know the man's name?"
"No, sir."
"Nor where he lives?"
"No, sir; I had no reason to ask him anything."
"Well, I suppose you couldn't foresee that we should want him. I don't
expect he'll turn up in this neighbourhood again."
"What's your theory, sir?"
"It's early to form one, Mulligan. I fancy two men killed this woman.
The one you saw kept you in conversation, while the other murdered the
woman, and then cleared, while his accomplice led you away. Did you
hear a scream?"
"No, sir. The song ended as we left the gate, and in a few minutes we
were too far away to hear any cry."
"As I thought. The man was an accomplice sent out to lure you away."
"It might be, sir," confessed Mulligan. "I was leaning over the gate
when the young gentleman came out."
"The men saw you from the window, and as they couldn't kill the woman
while you were there, Number One went out to draw you away, while
Number Two remained behind to commit the crime. At what hour did you
part with Number One?"
"Half-past eleven, sir. I was with him thirty minutes."
"Time enough for Number Two to murder the woman and make off. He
escaped by the front door, since you say the back premises are locked
up. Ah! there's the doctor. Go to the station and send on----" Here
Derrick named two of his most trusted subordinates.
When Mulligan left, the inspector resumed his examination. Already he
had looked over the clothing of the deceased. She was plainly but
tastefully dressed in black, but wore no ornaments. Everything was of
good quality, but made without trimmings. The under-linen was equally
fine, but on it the inspector could find no mark or initials likely to
indicate the name. Apparently she had been seated at the piano when
stabbed, and had fallen dead on the bearskin almost without a cry. The
assassin had assured himself that she was dead, then had turned her
face downward, so as to avoid the horrified stare of those wide-open
eyes. At least this was the inspector's view.
"A pretty woman," said Derrick musingly. "Fair, slender, blue eyes,
delicate hands. I should think she was a lady. Married"--he touched
the ring--"but not rich, since she wears no ornaments. Careful in her
dress, but, not mean, and not fashionable either. Hullo!"
This exclamation was drawn from him by the sight of a hat and cloak
thrown over a chair on the further side of the piano. These were also
fine, but neat and unpretentious. The woman must have come to the
house on a visit, since she certainly would not have placed her
out-of-door things in such a place and have sat down had she a bedroom
in the house. But what was she doing in a mansion, the owner of which
was at the seaside? Had the first man let her in with his latch-key,
and if so, how did he come to be in possession of the latch-key? These
were questions which the inspector was trying to answer when the
doctor arrived.
Geason was an ambitious young medical man who had set up in Troy a
year previously, and was trying hard to scrape a practice together. He
was well aware that such a case as this would give him a much-desired
publicity, and consequently expressed himself profoundly grateful to
Derrick for the job. Then he knelt beside the body and made an
examination, while Tracey, who had returned, questioned the inspector.
"Found out anything?" he asked.
"Only that the woman was a visitor to this house," and Derrick pointed
out the cloak and hat.
"Strange," said the American. "Wonder what she meant making free with
a man's house in his absence?"
"Are you sure Mr. Fane's at the seaside?"
"Certain. Miss Baldwin was told by Miss Mason--and she's Mrs. Fane's
sister--that they would stay a month. Westcliff-on-Sea is the place.
Miss Mason got a letter yesterday. Fane was there then."
"It is an easy run from Westcliff-on-Sea to this place," responded
Derrick dryly. "A man can fetch this house from there in a couple of
hours. But I don't suspect Mr. Fane."
"He might be the man with the latch-key."
"No." Derrick thought of the key being new. "I don't think so. Did any
young man stay in this house?"
"Not that I know of. You'd better ask Miss Mason. I know nothing about
this ranche. Well, doctor?"
"She's been dead nearly five hours," said Geason, rising.
"Nonsense," said Derrick. "She was alive at eleven, and it's not one
o'clock yet."
"I don't know about that," persisted Geason, "but from the condition
of the body and the lack of warmth, I say she has been dead five
hours."
Derrick and Tracey looked at one another perplexed. If the doctor was
right--and he seemed positive--this unknown person could not have been
the woman who sang "Kathleen Mavourneen."
"There's four of them," said Tracey; "two women and two men."
Derrick shook his head. The case was too mysterious for him to venture
an opinion.