A MYSTERIOUS PEDDLER
HE WENT to the Millicents’ that afternoon, the bangle in his pocket, and
found Jean unaffectedly glad to see him. Mrs. Millicent had said nothing
to her daughter, but her manner had been that of one who approves. She
liked Derrick and had conceived a genuine fondness for Edith. The
contemplated summer in France was becoming a little indefinite. In a few
moments she murmured something and disappeared. Derrick thought rapidly
and looked straight into the girl’s clear eyes. Then he held out the
bangle.
“Will you take this from me? It has a curious something about it.”
Jean hesitated, the look on his face being unmistakable. “It’s charming.
Where did you get it?”
“From Burma,” he said slowly. “It arrived this morning by a peddler who
is staying the night with Martin. He seemed grateful for my allowing it
and insisted that I take this from his pack.”
She stared at the yellow circlet. “Does he know Martin?”
“He pretended that he did not, but Martin knew him without question and
was horrified to see him.”
Jean did not speak, but her eyes were full of swift wonder. “And then?”
“Then it was my turn to pretend that I had noticed nothing. They are
together now and will be till to-morrow morning, at any rate. That’s one
reason I came here.”
She did not ask the other but slid the bangle on her wrist with a slow
and lingering touch. Derrick’s gaze did not leave her. He saw the color
flood and desert her cheek, and the pulse throbbing in her slim throat.
How utterly desirable she was! This was the indescribable quality about
which Edith had talked with a cheerfulness that he now saw must have
cost her dearly; the thing that secured what all women at some time long
to possess.
He waited breathlessly, but she was still silent. Her heart whispered
one thing, but over her there yet hung a cloud of memories that well
nigh blotted out all else. For so long she had thought of herself as the
child of a foully murdered man, for so long had the menace seemed to be
transferred to herself, that the promise of a future such as she
believed she saw in Derrick’s eyes seemed almost as unreal as it was
divine. She was already more than fond of him and admitted it in secret
hours. It was something new and strange and alluring for the mind to
feed on. But what escape would it mean till the secret of Beech Lodge
had been read, and the weight lifted from her soul? She took the bangle
because she did not want to hurt him, but her eyes avoided his.
“What do you think is going to happen now?” she asked shakily.
“I don’t know. I wanted to see you first of all. Do you remember such a
man ever coming to Beech Lodge before?”
“What is he like?”
He told her, and she shook her head. “I can’t think of any one. Martin
had no friends even in the village, and father had no visitors from the
East. Can it be the image that brought him?”
“Nothing else, as I see it.”
“But how could he know it was there?”
Derrick smiled. “How did I know? It’s all part of the main puzzle, and
perhaps the missing part. I hoped you might be able to tell me something
that would throw some light on this man’s arrival. I have a queer idea
that it closes the circle, and am going to get him into the study on
some pretext.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, to begin with.”
“Have you told the police about him?”
“I’m not ready for the police yet. The first thing to find out is
whether the study means anything to him. That little god, or devil, is
there, safely out of sight and touch, but if the peddler is what I take
him to be, he will know it, and if he has come here for it, some attempt
will be made before long.”
“But what about you?” she asked nervously.
“He’s not interested in me, but I expect he has something to say to
Martin. He’s probably saying it now. Oh, my dear!” he went on
unconsciously, “don’t you see that we’re getting nearer to the end of it
every hour?”
Nothing he might have said could have touched her more, or given her a
swifter assurance of what lay next his heart. It moved her to see that
he did not know he had said it. So tender was the thought that she hid
it away to delight in after he had gone. She was ready to love in
secret, but he must not know that yet. Then, in this new light, she was
suddenly afraid for him.
“Are you quite sure there’s no danger?”
“The danger,” he said slowly, “is to the man who committed the crime.”
There was a little silence till instinctively they turned to other
things. It was a strange talk, of the lips and mind only, veering
sometimes to ground where as yet it was trespass to enter, and just as
often diverted with a deftness that only added to the growing reality of
what they both felt but must not declare. He studied the girl, wanting
her the more as moments passed, finding in her the charm that is beyond
explanation, delighting in her perception, caressing her with the arms
of his spirit, and wondering a little at the strangeness of his own
voice. Often in days to come they would remember this meeting and smile
at each other.
And Jean, timid lest she show what must not yet be shown, discovered in
him a companion of her fancy, a swift interpreter, creative, sensitive,
and ambitious, whose nature was fresh and unexhausted. She did not
realize how secluded a life had been hers. She only knew that never
before had she met a man just like this. And, above all, he made her
feel safe.
He walked thoughtfully back to Beech Lodge and, approaching the gates,
unconsciously slackened his pace. He pictured the jade god in its hidden
cabinet, ominous behind the mellow oak, its creamy fingers resting on
its rigid miniature knees. Who had lifted this thing from the place
where it should be, and where was that place? It had brought death to
Millicent. What would it bring to others? He pictured Perkins, haunting
the room of tragic memory that would not let her go. How much more did
Perkins see than that to which she had sworn? He pictured Martin, his
thick fingers among the rose-trees. What was written on the screen of
Martin’s mind, what had jerked him out of the jungle, and why should
fear be written on his swarthy face at sight of the stranger of that
morning? How could he fear a man he did not know? But he did know him!
Pondering this last, and with the cottage but a few yards ahead, Derrick
thought he could hear voices, and stepped close against the high hedge
that fronted the grounds of Beech Lodge. Peering through this, he could
make out the window of the cottage kitchen, and it was from here that
the voices came. There was a little stirring of wind that made it
difficult to distinguish anything clearly, but even at this distance it
was evident that some kind of heated argument was in progress. Martin
was speaking with a stubborn sort of rasp in his tones that carried with
it a queer suggestion of nervousness, while the other man talked with a
contemptuous lift in his voice as though he reminded the gardener of
things he had culpably forgotten. Coming as close as he dared, and,
leaning tensely forward, Derrick listened. He could not understand one
word.
The men were using some unknown language, sometimes sharp, sometimes
liquid, shooting it out with a speed that showed complete familiarity.
Into Derrick’s brain flashed his sister’s description of how Perkins had
talked in her sleep, and he knew that this was the same tongue.
Breathless at the discovery, he listened the more intently. Martin was
rapidly getting on the defensive, jabbering a jargon of defiance, in
which, however, fear seemed always present. Derrick started at the sound
of his own name, then Millicent’s, then Thursby’s. The word “Buddha” was
repeated, but always linked to some unintelligible prefix, and never
with the usual respect accorded to the god by the Oriental.
What the peddler now said appeared to take the form of some kind of
pronouncement as though he were delivering a verdict, framed almost in a
mysterious chant that sounded as though it came from an infinite
distance. In the middle of this Martin burst forth in a great English
oath, to which the stranger replied with one word that came like the
hiss of a snake, whereat Martin choked audibly and fell silent. Then
Derrick, his brain working like an engine, stepped back on the road,
strolled on to the gate at his usual pace, and, turning in, went
casually on to the house. No sooner had his foot touched the gravel than
instantaneous silence spread in the cottage. And at that he smiled
grimly.
Passing directly to the study, he closed the door and, making sure he
was not observed from the lawn, opened the oak panel. Inside was the
jade god and its waxen copy. Weighing these in either hand, he
deliberated a moment; then, putting the original back, he closed the
cabinet and dropped the model into his pocket. From the top drawer of
the big desk he took a small automatic. Finally, with god and gun
balancing each other in their concealment, he lit his pipe and strolled
back toward the cottage.
This time he knew he was observed, for, as he neared the gates, Martin
emerged from the front of the cottage and touched his cap. His face was
of a curiously mottled appearance, and betrayed signs of great tension,
but as his eyes met those of his master he pulled himself together and
assumed his ordinary gruff though respectful manner. Derrick nodded
affably.
“Well, Martin, what do you think of those Lady Hillingdons for next
year? I see you’ve been at them.”
“They promise well, sir, but I don’t think so much of the Richmonds.”
“Sorry to hear that. Why not?”
“One thing, they weren’t properly pruned last winter, and for another
the mildew’s been at them.”
“You don’t seem to think much of the man who was here last.”
“I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact!”
“And what do you make of your visitor of this morning? Does he know
anything about flowers?”
“No, sir, flowers aren’t exactly in his line from what I make of him.
Queer sort of chap, I should say, but I don’t take it there’s any harm
in him.”
“He told me he came from the East. Does he know any of the parts you
know?”
“Yes, sir, some.”
“Never happened to come across him before, did you?”
Martin stiffened ever so slightly. “No, sir, never set eyes on him. The
East is a big bit of country, and there’s room for all kinds there.”
“You know some foreign lingos?”
“Yes, sir, a trader needs them if he’s going to do any business.”
“Have you tried your friend in that respect?”
“I tackled him just now with Hindustani, but that beat him.”
“It would beat me, too. Does he know any Malay?” Derrick smiled a
little. “Not that I know any myself.”
“Only a word or two, sir.”
“Curious that two traders like you, both of whom have lived in the
Orient, should have to fall back on English to converse.”
Martin’s eyes were unfathomable, and Derrick searched his mind for the
next move. The man had twice been proved a liar, but the object of his
lies was as remote as ever. Then suddenly came the thought of Perkins,
babbling what was probably Malay in her dream-haunted sleep.
“I wonder if Perkins happens to know any of those Eastern lingos?”
The man’s face underwent a swift change. There was fear in it now. He
ground his heel nervously into the soil, while the big fingers clenched
tight. There was in his manner that which suggested a new anxiety, and
for the moment he seemed oddly helpless.
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Derrick, but if I may make so bold, I wouldn’t try.
She’s a queer woman, and”—here he touched his forehead
meaningly—“she’s best left alone. Mr. Millicent never bothered her, and
he knew her well.”
Derrick nodded. “You may be right. Where are you putting your visitor
to-night?”
“On the floor in the kitchen, sir; he says that’s good enough for him.
He’s about used up and asked if he might rest for another day or two.
Showed me his feet. They’re in bad shape. I told him it was for you to
say.”
Derrick felt a quickening of his pulse. Once again everything fitted in.
The peddler would stay, but not on account of sore feet. He pressed his
fingers against the image in his pocket, but his mind sped to the dark
recess where the real god stared malevolently into the darkness and
waited till his servants should gather at his baffling summons. Then he
glanced at Martin, experiencing a throb of pity for one who was so
secretly tortured. He began to see how the man must already have
suffered, anticipating the inevitable, paying in advance, with the pangs
of two years, part of the price of a blow that took place in a second.
But there was no room now for compassion.
“Did you happen to see the inside of the peddler’s pack?” he asked
carelessly.
Martin shook his head. “No, sir, he won’t trouble to show that to the
likes of me.”
“I don’t know! I’d ask him if I were you, and have a look at them.
They’ll probably remind you of a good many places you ought to know.
Also I think I’d keep an eye on him to-night.”
“He’s all right so far as that’s concerned,” put in the gardener
hastily.
“He may be, but one can never tell. I fancy he wouldn’t mind picking up
anything portable, especially if it happened to be in his own line. One
can never be sure about men like that. I’ve known them to wander about
the country picking up odds and ends that were of no value to most
people, but of particular interest to others. I’ve half a mind to send
him along to the village as it is.”
“That will be all right, sir,” put in Martin hurriedly; “he’s a harmless
old soul with not as much strength as a cat. I’ll stand good for him.”
He spoke with great earnestness and unconsciously raised his voice.
Derrick at this moment felt his gaze drawn toward the cottage and,
glancing over Martin’s shoulder, noted that at one of the tiny windows
of the kitchen the blind had been drawn slightly aside. The window was
open. Pitching his own tones a little higher, he looked straight into
Martin’s troubled eyes.
“You remember that talk we had about Mr. Millicent’s death the first
night you came to see me?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the gardener with reluctance.
“Well, I’ve said nothing about it since then, but I’ve thought a good
deal. What about you?”
“I don’t forget it, either, Mr. Derrick, but what else is there to be
said? I told you what I know.”
“Then I take it that nothing has occurred to you since?”
“What could occur, sir? It’s more than two years ago now. The poor
gentleman’s cold in his grave, and the world has moved on. I’m trying to
forget it as hard as I can.”
“Yes, I know, but sometimes, Martin, when a man comes back to a
well-known place which is associated with an event like that, the mind
takes a curious turn and pitches on something it did not see before.
It’s almost as though the place had kept something up its sleeve to
reveal later on. Perhaps it’s your friend’s arrival that has started me
thinking.”
Martin sent him an indescribable glance. “I don’t quite follow, sir.”
“I was wondering,” went on Derrick in the same clear tones, “whether it
was possible that any one answering to the description of this stranger
had been hanging about the night Mr. Millicent was killed. Things like
that have been known to happen.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk that way, sir.” Martin’s face was now
desperate, and he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.
Derrick smiled reassuringly. “I can’t see that there’s any harm done by
mentioning it, and it might be as well to let your friend know that
we’re not asleep.”
The man winced as though struck. “Mr. Derrick, sir, if there’s anything
you want to say about Mr. Millicent now, couldn’t we go a few steps up
the drive? It isn’t wise, is it, that this fellow should know anything
about it?”
“What’s the matter with you, Martin?”
“Nothing, sir, but I can’t help being upset when I talk about the
thing.”
Derrick hesitated, then thrust the probe still deeper. “I can’t see what
difference would be made if he did learn of it. However, let that go,
and perhaps you’re right. You remember my asking you if anything was
missed at that time?”
“Yes, sir, and I told you all I knew.”
“And the motive for the crime is as much a mystery to you as ever?”
Martin’s lips were trembling now, and he could only nod.
“Well, I had a chat the other day with a man who was on the case, and he
told me that another thing, not that creese, was missed and has never
been seen since. It was a sort of image, carved in jade.”
“I never heard of that, sir,” stammered Martin thickly.
“Yes, and apparently it had been picked up by Mr. Millicent in the East
years before.”
Martin made a convulsive gesture. “Please, sir,” he begged, “don’t talk
like that here.”
Simultaneously his gaze was drawn to the cottage window as though by
mesmeric power. It seemed that now he had ceased to feel anything except
a mounting fear that struck to his very heart. Little tremors ran
through his massive frame, and he began to sway with a slow, rhythmic
motion as if endeavoring to maintain his balance. His face was a
changing mask in which there was not so much of guilt as of a deadly
recognition that he was being overtaken by some remorseless destiny from
which there was no escape. No longer a gardener, a pruner of rose-trees,
or a traveler from far countries. He became in that moment a man under a
curse.
Again Derrick felt a fleeting pang of pity for such torture, but
remembered the triangle of death, with Martin standing at one corner. At
the same time he sensed the strangeness of the situation, in which he, a
dweller in a quiet country-side, should be inextricably involved in a
problem so grim and unexpected. Might it be some period of fantasy or
subconscious phase from which he would presently awaken? To this there
were two apparent answers. One, the faint tingle that seemed to spread
from the thing hidden in his clenched hand. The other, the picture of a
girl waiting, waiting. At that, all thought of compassion vanished from
his mind. It was real, all real, and destiny was at work in Beech Lodge.
Then in a flash the next move became clear.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if this was the sort of thing that was
missed from the desk?” He took the image from his pocket and balanced it
openly in the palm of his hand. “Of course,” he added, fixing Martin
with a steady eye, “you can’t tell me, because you say you never saw
it.”
The gardener’s figure seemed to shrink visibly, and his eyes protruded.
He made a choking sound, the blood rushed in a mottled flood to his
cheeks, and the big hands clasped and unclasped mechanically. Derrick,
staring at him, felt a throb of triumph and slid the image out of sight.
“God!” said Martin chokingly. “Oh, God! Where did you get that?”
Then he swung round and glared at the cottage.
Out of the door came the figure of the peddler, and Martin, watching
him, made a gesture of despair foreign to so powerful a man. The
stranger’s eyes were preternaturally bright, and there was now no trace
of the weary limp with which he had moved only a few hours ago. His head
was erect, the bent shoulders were straight, his body was lithe and had
taken on something of the springy contours of youth. Instinctively
Derrick’s fingers tightened round the image, but it was at him rather
than at his pocket that Blunt looked first.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began, “but when I was smoking inside just now I
couldn’t help hearing you say that some one had been killed in your
house. Might I ask who it was?”
The audacity of the thing made Derrick blink. He could not trust himself
to glance at Martin but knew that the gardener’s eyes were fixed
intently on the peddler’s face. There followed an instant of silence.
Derrick realized that he was hunting big game, the biggest game of all,
and it behooved him to keep his head.
“Will you tell me first why the matter is of any interest to you?”
Blunt’s lips formed an inscrutable smile, but his gaze was as blank as
sea-water.
“It’s of no more interest than anything else of the same kind, but I’ve
seen a bit of that sort of thing in the East, and it may be I can be of
use in getting at the bottom of it, if that’s not been done yet.”
Derrick pondered. “This was not the usual kind of sudden death, and
there were no clues left.”
The man nodded understandingly. “There ain’t so many deaths of what you
would call the usual kind where I come from, either, but there is most
always a clue of some sort if one knows where to look. That’s a matter
of instinct. Can’t explain it, but I reckon I’ve got it.”
Over Martin’s features crept a shade of admiration. Derrick saw this,
and it stiffened his resolution. The hunt was afoot now, one against
two. Soon, he was convinced, it would be one against three, when Perkins
joined in. She would prove perhaps the most elusive of all. Then his
mind jumped back to the man in front of him.
“I don’t see how a complete stranger could spot at first sight anything
that skilled detectives failed to discover after very close
examination,” he said coolly. “You’ll have to convince me that it’s
something more than mere curiosity on your part before I go any
further.”
“And against that there’s such a thing as looking at some object for so
long that after a while one doesn’t see it at all. It’s the fresh eye
that picks things up. Would it surprise you if I said that you’ve got
something close to you at this minute that might be a clue, and you
never guess it.”
Martin drew in his breath sharply, but Derrick’s eyes never left the
stranger’s face.
“Isn’t that a rather wild shot of yours?”
“It may be, but I’ll risk it. I reckon I’ve sucked in something from the
places I’ve been in that helps to get under the skin at times. Getting
back to clues, this world is full of clues that go unnoticed just
because people don’t know how to look at them. Same thing when you get
so used to a thing that you can’t tell whether it’s in the room or not,
without making sure. That’s because you don’t hear what it says.”
“Ah,” put in Derrick swiftly, “then you believe that things talk?”
“It’s the only talk worth listening to now and then.”
Derrick’s pulse quickened. “Is that what you depend on in this case?”
The peddler nodded. “Perhaps it would surprise you if I said that
something was talking at this very minute, a queer kind of stuff that I
only half get.”
Saying this, he lifted his eyes, and sent Derrick an extraordinary look.
There was power in it, and a certain mesmeric weight, and in a strange
but unmistakable fashion it invited the young man to acknowledge what he
himself believed. This look stated very plainly that the stranger saw
through Derrick’s camouflage, and also quite understood the present
necessity for it; but it suggested, too, that behind the newcomer was an
authority that as yet he had no intention to disclose. There were no
words in which to phrase what Derrick felt. Presently, and as though to
make the thing as easy as possible for the master of Beech Lodge, the
little man gave a short laugh.
“You might as well let me try it, sir. If I fail there will be no harm
done.”
Derrick, without realizing it, took his cue. “Well,” he said
good-humouredly, “at any rate, you can’t do much harm by having a look
at the room. What do you say, Martin? I’ll let you decide, since you’re
responsible for Blunt while he’s here.”
Martin twisted his lips in a vain effort to speak, but it seemed that
any reminder of responsibility was almost too much for him. He shot the
peddler a swift glance, in which fear and respect were mingled, and when
he looked at his master his eyes implored that he be not further
involved. In that moment Martin acted like an honest man. Then the
expression passed, and his face was once more a mask.
“That’s just as you feel about it, sir.”
Derrick turned to Blunt. “Well, then, you can come up, say, at six
o’clock, and you’d better bring Martin with you. And, by the way,” he
added, “if you want any details about this murder before you come,
Martin knows a good deal more than I do, so you’d better pump him.”
Blunt shook his head. “It’s just as well I shouldn’t know anything at
all, sir. Sometimes the more one thinks one knows the less one finds
out.” Again he sent the young man that extraordinary look.
“All right; but if you change your mind, and Martin gets stuck, I’ll put
you in touch with Perkins at the house.”
Martin started at this, but Blunt seemed unmoved. “Who might Perkins
be?”
“The maid who was here when Mr. Millicent died. She found him.”
The man’s expression did not change in the slightest.
“I won’t want to bother her, sir; and look here, if you doubt my faith
you can take my pack till you’re satisfied I’m straight. Anything else?”
His voice lifted as he spoke, and Derrick knew what he meant. The sharp
eyes peering from the cottage window had missed nothing. The stranger
was aware that something lay hidden in that pocket, nor could all his
art conceal the hunger that was growing in his soul. Derrick, his mind
tense, and realizing that every step taken now must inevitably affect
the last scene of the drama, gripped the image with fingers that felt
suddenly cold, then drew it out and dropped it carelessly into the
peddler’s hand. The man quivered at the touch.
“While we’re on the subject, there’s something that may interest you.
Ever see anything like it before?”
A tremor ran through the lean form, and the bright eyes became clouded
with emotion. The brown fingers closed caressingly, till, all in a
breath, a look of concentrated shrewdness spread over the swarthy face.
The man stared at the molded wax, then at Derrick. “You clever devil!”
was what the eyes said. He grasped the meaning of this model, there
could be no doubt of that, and telegraphed an unconscious admiration to
the one who had fashioned it. He scanned the small square base, the
cloaked shoulders, the tiny folded hands, and the hellish sneer on the
pygmy features, and nodded. Yes, it was all there, and nothing was
there. A great gulf yawned between wax and jade. But the peddler
remained master of himself, while Martin, at his elbow, seemed rooted to
the ground.
“What do you think of it?” asked Derrick smoothly.
The peddler shook his head. “Of this, sir, nothing at all; but if I
could see the original it might be another matter. Do you happen to have
it?”
“I do, but not here. And it doesn’t belong to me. Ever see anything like
it?”
Blunt nodded. “Yes, but not often. The original of this may have come
from Indo-China, up northeast of the Bay of Bengal. I reckon it would be
about five hundred years old. They don’t make them often nowadays. These
things sometimes drift down into the Malay country, but they’re not
supposed to. Look here, sir, I’ve a leaning for carved jade, which
brings a good price from the Chinese, and I’ll trade you anything in my
pack for the original of this.”
“But I’ve told you it’s not mine.”
“Maybe, sir, but if you’ll put me in touch with the owner I’ll make it
worth his while to sell.”
“We’ll see about that later. Why did you say that these things are not
supposed to get out of Indo-China?”
“Let me ask first, sir, if this ever brought any bad luck to the man who
owned it?” He paused and smiled cynically. “I mean the original.”
Derrick nodded. The daring of it was prodigious.
“Does it happen to be the man you spoke of just now?”
“Yes.”
Again the odd smile, and the peddler handed back the image. “It’s a
queer thing,” he said slowly, “but I’ve heard tell that the spirit of
Buddha doesn’t like these things drifting about. It’s talk of the East,
of course, and perhaps it isn’t worth much in England. But there’s
something at work in those parts that gets hold of people without their
knowing it. It isn’t so long ago that I was in a temple up country where
there was something like this, and it just looked at me and dared me to
steal it. I reckon I would have tried to if it hadn’t been guarded by
about a hundred priests. It was the same size as this, and just as ugly,
and carved out of jade, too.
“All round it there were the usual images, but arranged like rows of
policemen. Next it was an empty stand, and I guessed that that was where
another one just like it had been, but when I asked where it had got to
there was a hell of an excitement, because the beggars thought perhaps I
had it and had come after its mate. It took me all my time to get them
quieted down. Queer sort of game, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Derrick, in a strained voice. “Anything else?”
“We had a lot of talk back and forth but didn’t get anywhere. They
seemed to claim that the thing was a sort of link between what one saw
and didn’t see, and in a way joined them up to make a kind of general
picture. I didn’t take much stock in all that, for Indo-China is stuffed
with temples where they palaver about such subjects year after year. So
that, sir, is why I happen to be interested in the original of this, and
if you could put me in the way of getting it I’d make it worth your
while.”
Derrick glanced involuntarily at Martin. On the man’s face had settled a
look of utter hopelessness. There was no sullenness now, nothing grim or
repellent. His eyes, at times so furtive, held only despair. His figure
was slack, the broad shoulders dropped, and the big hands hung inert by
his side. As though conscious of his master’s scrutiny, he looked up and
pulled himself spasmodically together.
“Well,” said Derrick, “I don’t know if the present owner puts any value
on the thing, but I’ll find out.” He took back the wax impression and
slipped it into his pocket. “I don’t suppose this model really interests
you from what you tell me.”
The peddler shook his head. “The copy is dead,” he replied slowly, “but,
from what I gathered in the East, the real thing may have a sort of life
in it.”
“All right, I’ll see you both at six o’clock.”
The man touched his cap. Derrick strolled on through the white gates,
and, turning to the right, took the road that led away from Bamberley.
Following this a quarter of a mile, he left it abruptly, traversed a
neighboring copse, and doubled back along a parallel lane. He walked
fast and came to the village in a little more than half an hour. In the
tiny police office sat Sergeant Burke. Derrick waved his hand, went in,
and took the proffered chair. Burke’s face was full of sudden interest,
but he asked no questions. Presently Derrick leaned forward.
“I think, sergeant, that an attempt at robbery will take place at Beech
Lodge within the next hour or so.”
Burke sat up straighter than ever. “What’s that, sir?”
“I’ll explain in a minute, but first I want to make sure that, so far as
the evidence went, no stranger was seen in the vicinity of the Lodge
about the time of the murder.”
“No, sir. That seems to be without question.”
“No peddler or traveling tinker had been in Bamberley that week?”
“No, Mr. Derrick, these people are all licensed and registered, and we
examine the license of every one who comes along. They are under the
head of itinerant vendors.”
“Well, there’s an itinerant vendor at the Lodge now, and he’s more keen
on buying than selling. He doesn’t make any bones of the fact that he’d
like to get hold of the original of this.”
Derrick put the model on the table, and Burke fingered it curiously.
“Neat sort of job you’ve made of it, sir. Weighs about the same, too,
doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I put some shot inside the base and balanced it with the other.
It’s the other that my peddler friend is coming to see at six o’clock.
Martin will be there with him.”
“When did this fellow turn up?”
Derrick told him all that had happened, Burke’s face growing ever more
tense, while he thrilled to the belief that the Millicent case was alive
again.
“You haven’t missed much, sir,” he rambled presently. “Now what can I
do?”
“At six o’clock those two men will be in the study. Blunt will be
apparently in charge of Martin, whom I have made responsible for him,
but actually I suspect it is the other way round. From what I can see,
Martin is under Blunt’s thumb. Blunt will be asked if the room suggests
anything to him in connection with the murder. He will probably pretend
it does, and begin some kind of queer story, which may after all have
something in it. I expect that he will in some way involve Martin, and
that’s what Martin is in such fear of. At the same time, so far as Blunt
is concerned, I can’t feel that Martin is so very important. It’s the
image he’s after. Whether he can resist the impulse when he sees the
real thing I can’t tell, but if he does not, that’s where you come in.
The Millicent case will then start all over again with an attempted
burglary, and I shall be in a position to testify that Martin lied to me
about the burglar. And that’s as far as I can go at the moment.”
Burke nodded approvingly. “Then you want the grounds guarded?”
“Yes, in any way you think best. I would not bother about the front
door; it would take too long to get out that way. The French window is
the place.”
“The trap will be set at a quarter to six,” said Burke, glancing at the
clock.
Derrick grinned contentedly. “It would be a bit of a feather in your
cap, sergeant, if you could pull this thing off after two years.”