IV

At nine o’clock that night the bell of Tab Holland’s flat rang long and

noisily.

“Who the dickens is that?” he growled.

He was in his shirt-sleeves, writing for dear life and the table was

strewn with proofs of his industry.

Rex Lander came out of his bedroom.

“Your boy, I expect,” he said. “I left the lower door open for him.”

Tab shook his head.

“The office is sending for the copy at eleven,” he said. “See who it

is, Babe.”

Mr. Lander grumbled. He always grumbled when he was called upon for

physical effort. He opened the door and Tab, hearing a loud and

unfamiliar voice, joined him. On the landing without, was a bearded,

swaying figure and he was talking noisily.

“What is wrong?” asked Tab.

“Everything, sir,” hiccoughed the caller, “everything is wrong. A man,

a gen’leman cannot be robbed with impunity or assaulted by me-menials

with--with--” He considered a moment and added: “impunity.”

“Bring him in, the poor soused herring,” said Tab, and Mr. Wellington

Brown swaggered and staggered into the sitting-room. He was abominably

intoxicated.

“Wish of you young gen’lemen is Rex Lander?”

“That is my name,” said the puzzled Rex.

“I’m Wellin’ton Brown of Chei-Feu. A pensioner at the mercy of a dam’

ol’ scound’l! A pension’r! He pays me a pittance out of what he robbed

me. I can tell you some’n about ol’ Trasmere.”

“Trasmere, my uncle?” asked the startled young man.

The other nodded gravely and sleepily.

“I can tell you some’n about him. I was his bookkeeper ’n sec’tary. I

know! I’ll tell you some’n about him!”

“You can save your breath,” said Rex coldly. “Why have you come here?”

“Because you’re ’is nephew. Thas why! He robbed me--robbed me!” he

sobbed. “Took bread out ’f the mouth of innocent child--that what! Took

bread out ’f orphan’s mouth and robbed me, swin’led me out ’f my share

Mancurian Trading Syn’cate, an’ then gave me remittance ’n said ‘Drink

yourself to death’--thas what he said!”

“And did you?” asked Tab sardonically.

The stranger eyed him unfavourably.

“Who’s this?” he demanded.

“This is a friend of mine,” said Rex, “and you’re in his flat. And if

the only business you have is to abuse my uncle, you can get out just

as soon as you like.”

Mr. Wellington Brown tapped the young man’s chest with a grimy

forefinger.

“Your uncle is a rascal! Get that! A low thief!”

“Better write and tell him so,” said Tab, briskly. “Just now I am

engaged in churning out two yards of journalese, and you’re disturbing

my thoughts.”

“Write to him!” roared Mr. Brown delightedly, “write to him! Thas

good--best thing I’ve heard for years! Why--!”

“Get out!”

Babe Lander threw open the door with a crash and the visitor glared at

him.

“Like uncle, like nephew,” he said, “like nephew, like lackey--I’m

goin’. And let me tell you--”

The door slammed in his face.

“Phew!” said Babe, wiping his brow. “Let’s open the window and let in

some fresh air!”

“Who is he?”

“Search me,” said Rex Lander. “I’ve no illusions about Uncle Jesse’s

early friends. I gather that he’s been a pensioner of the old boy’s,

and there is probably some truth in his charge that he was robbed. I

cannot imagine uncle giving money away from charitable motives. Anyway,

I’m seeing him tomorrow and I’ll ask.”

“You’ll see nothing,” said Tab. “Do you ever read the fashionable

intelligence or society news? Uncle is leaving town tomorrow.”

Rex smiled.

“That is an old trick when he doesn’t want to be seen--by Joab! It is

the Wellington who has put his name in the society column!”

Tab paused, pen in hand.

“Silence will now reign,” he commanded, “whilst a great journalist

deals adequately with the Milligan Murder Appeal.”

Rex looked at him, admiringly.

“How you can stick your nose at the grindstone is a source of wonder to

me,” he said. “I couldn’t--”

“Shut up!” snapped Tab, and the desirable silence was his. He finished

the last page at eleven, sent off his copy by a punctual messenger,

then filling his pipe, stretched himself luxuriously in his mission

chair.

“Now I’m a free man until Monday afternoon--”

The hall telephone signalled at that moment and he got up with a groan.

“Boast not!” he growled. “That is the office or I’m a saint!”

It was the office, as he had so intelligently foreseen. He snapped a

few words at the transmitter and came back to the room. And Tab was

very voluble.

A Polish gentleman concerned in certain frauds on insurance companies

had been arrested, escaped again, and having barricaded himself in his

house, was keeping the police at bay with the aid of boiling water and

a large axe.

“Jacko is enthusiastic about it,” said the savage Tab, speaking thus

disrespectfully of his city editor, “says it is real drama--I told him

to send the dramatic critic. Gosh--I did his job the other night.”

“Going out?” asked Rex with mild interest.

“Of course I’m going out, you thick-headed jibberer!” said the other

unkindly as he struggled into the collar he had discarded.

“I thought all that sort of stuff was invented in the office,” said the

young architect monstrously. “Personally I never believe what I read in

newspapers.”

But Tab had gone.

At midnight he joined a little group of police officers that stood at

safe range from the besieged house, whose demented occupant had found

a shot-gun. Tab was with them until the door of the house was stormed

and the defender borne down and clubbed to a state of placidity.

At two o’clock in the morning, he and Carver, the chief of the

detectives engaged in the case, adjourned to the police mess and had

supper. It was half-past three and the streets were lit by the ghostly

light of dawn, when he started to walk home.

Passing through Park Street, he heard the whirr of wheels and a

motor-car flew past him. It had gone a hundred yards when there came

to him the explosion of a burst tire. He saw the car swerve and stop.

A woman alighted and examined the damage. Apparently she was alone,

for he saw her open the tool-box on the running-board, and take out a

jack. He hastened his footsteps and crossed to the middle of the road.

The only other person in sight was a cyclist down the road who had

dismounted and was examining his wheel.

“Can I be of any assistance?” asked Tab.

The woman started and turned.

“Miss Ardfern!” he said in astonishment.

For a second she seemed uncomfortable and then with a quick smile:

“It is Mr. Tab! Please forgive the familiarity, I cannot remember your

other name.”

“Don’t try,” he said, taking the jack from her hands, “but if you are

very anxious to remember, I am called Holland.”

She said nothing whilst he was raising the car. When he was knocking

the torn wheel free, she said:

“I am out rather late, I have been to a party.”

There was light enough for him to see that she was dressed very plainly

and that the shoes she wore were heavy and serviceable. He would have

gone farther and said that she was dressed poorly. Inside the car on

the seat by her side was a square black case, smaller but deeper than

a suit-case. Perhaps she had changed her clothes--but for all their

surprising agility in this direction, actresses do not change their

clothes to go home from a party.

“I have been to a party too,” he said, jerking off the wheel and

rolling it to the front of the car, “a surprise party with fireworks.”

“A dance?”

Tab smiled to himself.

“I only danced once,” he said, “I saw the gentleman taking aim with the

shot-gun and danced right merrily yo ho!”

He heard the quick intake of her breath.

“Oh, yes, it was the Pole. We heard the shots and I knew that he had

taken refuge in his house before I left the theatre.”

The wheel was replaced now, the tools returned and the old wheel

strapped to the car.

“That is O. K.,” said Tab stepping back. “Oh no, it was nothing,” he

said hastily as she began to thank him, “nothing at all.”

She did not offer to drive him home. He rather hoped that she would;

indeed, her method of going was a little precipitate, and she was out

of sight before he realized that she was gone.

What on earth was she doing at that time in the morning he wondered?

A party she had said, but again it occurred to him that fashionable

actresses did not go to parties in that kind of outfit.

Rex was awake when he reached home and came out to him. Strangely

enough, although they discussed the happenings of the night, Tab did

not mention his meeting with Ursula Ardfern.

V

“Ursula Ardfern,” Tab woke with the words on his lips. The hour was

eleven and Rex had been out and was back again.

“L’ami de mon oncle has been--did you hear him?” asked Rex, stopping

his towel-encompassed companion on his way to the bath-room.

“Who--Bonaparte?”

“Wellington is his name, I believe. Yes, he came rather subdued and

apologetic, but full of horrific threats toward Uncle Jesse. I turned

him out.”

“Why did he come?”

Rex Lander shook his head.

“Heaven knows! Unless it was that he simply had to find somebody who

knew uncle well enough to be interested in hearing him curse the old

man. I’ve persuaded him to leave town until the end of next week. But I

must say that I was impressed by the brute’s threats. He says he will

kill Uncle Jesse unless he makes reparation.”

“Twiff!” said Tab contemptuously and went to his tub. Over his

breakfast (Rex had had his two hours before) he returned to the subject

of Mr. Jesse Trasmere and his enemy.

“When a man soaks he’s dangerous,” he said. “There isn’t any such thing

as a harmless drunkard, any more than there is a harmless lunatic.

Carver and I had a talk on the matter early this morning and he

agreed. That man is certainly intelligent, which is more than you can

say of the majority of detectives. Not that it is their faults, poor

fellows; they are the victims of a system which calls for a sixty-nine

inch brain.”

“Eh?”

“A sixty-nine inch brain,” explained Tab, and there was really no

excuse for Babe Lander to be puzzled, for Tab was on his favorite

topic, “is the brain of a man who is chosen for the subtle business

of criminal investigation, not because he is clever, or shrewd or has

a knowledge of the world, but because he stands sixty-nine inches in

his stockings and has a chest expansion to thirty-eight. Funny, isn’t

it? And yet detectives are chosen that way. They have to strip hard,

very hard, but they need not think very hard. Do you ever realize that

Napoleon and Julius Cæsar, to mention only two bright lads, could never

have got into the police force?”

“It hasn’t struck me before,” admitted Rex. “But I’ve never had any

doubt as to the size of your brain, Tab.”

There were exactly seventy inches of Tab, though he did not look so

tall, having thickness and breadth to his shoulders. He had a habit of

stooping, which made him seem round-shouldered. This trick came from

pounding a typewriter or crouching over a desk which was just a little

too low for him. He was fresh-coloured, but brown rather than pink.

His face was finer drawn than is usual in a man of his build, his eyes

deep-set and steadfastly grey. When he spoke he drawled a little. Those

who knew him very well indeed detected one imperfection of speech. He

could not say “very”--it was “verthy” but spoken so quickly that only

the trained and acquainted ear could detect the lisp.

He came to journalism from one of the Universities bringing no

particular reputation for learning, but universally honoured as

the best three-quarter back of his time. Without being rich he was

comfortably placed and as he was one of those fortunates who had

innumerable maiden-aunts he received on an average one legacy a year,

though he had studiously neglected them because of their possessions.

It would be more true to say that Tab leapt into journalism, and that

particular department of journalism which he found most fascinating,

when he dived off the end of a river pier and rescued Jasper Dorgon,

the defaulting banker who had tried to commit suicide, and had

extracted an exclusive story from the banker whilst both sat in a state

of nudity before a night watchman’s fire watching their clothes dry.

“Let it strike you now, Babe,” he said. “The sixty-ninth inch brain,

the generally accepted theory that anything under the sixty-nine inch

level is solid ivory is the theory that keeps Lew Vann and old Joe

Haspinell and similar crook acquaintances of mine dining in the Grand

Criterion when they ought to be atoning for their sins in the Cold

Stone Jug. But Carver is a good man. He thinks, though it is against

regulations.”

“What does he think about Wellington?”

“Didn’t tell him,” said Tab. “You ought to warn your uncle.”

“I’ll see him today,” nodded Rex.

They went out together before the lunch hour. Tab had a call to make

at the office and afterwards he was meeting Carver for lunch. Carver,

a lanky and slow-speaking man, was ordinarily no conversationalist.

On some subjects he was impressively interesting, and as Tab provided

the subject, two hours slipped away very quickly. Before they left

the restaurant, Tab told him of the drunken stranger and his threats

against Jesse Trasmere.

“I don’t worry about threats,” said Carver, “but a man with a

grievance, and especially a Number One grievance, like this man has, is

pretty certain to cause trouble. Do you know old Trasmere?”

“I’ve seen him twice. I was once sent to his house to make an inquiry

about an action that the municipality started against him for building

without the town architect’s permission. Rex Lander, who is a

kindergarten architect, by-the-way, and rooms with me, is his nephew

and I’ve heard a whole lot about him. He writes to Rex from time to

time; letters full of good advice about saving money.”

“Lander is his heir?”

“Rex hopes so, fervently. But he says it is just as likely that Uncle

Jesse will leave his money to a Home for the Incurably Wealthy. Talking

of Trasmere, there goes his valet, and he seems in a hurry.”

A cab dashed past them, its solitary passenger was Walters, a

pinched-faced man, bareheaded, and on his face a tense, haggard look

that immediately arrested the attention of the two men.

“Who did you say that was?” asked Carver quickly.

“Walters--old Trasmere’s sergeant,” replied Tab, “looks pretty scared

to me.”

“Walters?” The detective stood stock still, thinking. “I know that

man’s face. I’ve got him! Walter Felling!”

“Walter who?”

“Felling--he was through my hands ten years ago and he has been

convicted since. Walters, as you call him, is an incorrigible thief!

Old Trasmere’s servant, eh? That’s his speciality. He takes service

with rich people and one fine morning they wake up to find their loose

jewelry and money and plate gone. Did you notice the number of the cab?”

Tab shook his head.

“The question is,” said the detective, “has he made a get-away in a

hurry, or is he on an urgent errand for his boss? Anyway we ought to

see Trasmere. Shall we take a cab or walk?”

“Walk,” said Tab promptly. “Only the detectives of fiction take cabs,

Carver. The real people know that when they present their cab bills to

the head office, a soulless clerk will question each item.”

“Tab, you certainly know more about the interior economy of

thief-catching than an outsider ought to know,” responded the detective

gloomily.

Between them and Trasmere’s house was the better part of a mile.

Mayfield, the dwelling place of old Jesse, was the one ugly building

in a road which was famous for the elegance of its houses. Built of

hideously yellow brick, without any attempt at ornamentation, it

stood squat and square in the middle of a cemented “garden.” Three

microscopic circles of earth had been left at the urgent request of

the builder, wherein Mr. Jesse might, if he so desired, win from the

sickly earth such blooms and blossoms as might delight his eye. To this

he reluctantly agreed, but only after there had been pointed out to him

the fact that such an alteration to his plans would save a little money.

“It isn’t exactly the Palace of the Fairy Prince, is it?” said Tab, as

he pushed open the cast iron gate.

“I’ve seen prettier houses,” admitted Carver, “I wonder--”

So far he got, when the front door was flung violently open and Rex

Lander rushed out. His face was the colour of chalk, his big baby eyes

were staring wildly. They fell upon the two men on the concrete walk

and his mouth opened to speak, but no words came.

Tab ran to him.

“What is wrong?” he demanded and that something was badly wrong one

glance at Babe Lander told him.

“My uncle,” he gasped. “Go look.”

Carver rushed into the house and through the open door of the

dining-room. It was empty, but at the side of the fireplace was a

narrower door.

“Where is he?” asked the detective.

Rex could only point to the narrow aperture.

There was a flight of stone stairs which terminated in a narrow

passage, barred by yet another door, which was also open. The corridor

was well-lighted by three globes set at intervals in the ceiling, and

the acrid smell of exploded cordite filled the confined space of the

passage, which was empty.

“There must be a room opening from here,” said Carver, “whose are

these?”

He stooped and picked up an old pair of gloves that lay on the floor

and pushed them into his pocket.

He looked round for Rex Lander. That young man was sitting on the top

step of the stairs, his face in his hands.

“There’s no sense in questioning him,” said Carver in an undertone,

“where is his uncle?”

Tab walked rapidly down the passage and came to a door on the left.

It was a narrow door painted black, and deeply recessed in the thick

wall. There was no handle and only a tiny keyhole. Four inches from

its top was a steel plate pierced with small holes for the purpose of

ventilation. He pushed the door, but it was locked. Then he peered

through the ventilator.

He saw a vault which he guessed was about ten feet long by eight feet

wide. Fixed to the rough walls were a number of steel shelves, loaded

up with black iron boxes. A brilliant light came from a globe in the

vaulted roof, and he saw plainly.

At the farther end of the room was a plain table, but it was not at

this he was looking, but at the figure crouched against one of its

legs. The face was turned in his direction.

It was the face of Jesse Trasmere and he was dead.