Rex was in his own room when Carver called.
“I have had a talk with some of the High Ones,” he said, “and put it up
to them that you might be of assistance to me. First of all they were
horrified at the idea of a newspaper reporter being allowed even to
smell inside information, but I persuaded them at last. I am on my way
down to the house now, and I thought I would pick you up. I am going
through those boxes that we didn’t search on Saturday.”
Tab heard with mingled feelings. To assist the police actively meant
that his newspaper stories would suffer. He would not be allowed to
use any of the information he secured, except in the tamest, most
colourless form. If he remained outside, he was fairly certain to get
a line to the crime, which he might use without laying himself open to
the charge of breaking faith. There was no time to discover the mind of
his chief on the subject--he had to make an instant decision.
“I’ll go,” he said. “This means, of course, that I shall only be able
to write the punk stuff that the evening papers print, but I’ll take a
chance.”
He was surprised, when he came out into Doughty Street, to find that a
private car had been placed at Carver’s disposal. Knowing the parsimony
of headquarters, he expressed his surprise.
“It is Mr. Trasmere’s own. He has had it garaged for the past year,
but Mr. Lander gave us permission to get it out and offered to pay the
running expenses.”
“Good old Babe,” said Tab, sinking back into the carriage seat. “He
didn’t tell me anything about it.”
Nearing the house, Carver broke the silence.
“I have something to show you later,” he said. “Our men have been
at the Post Office all night, making enquiries as to Mr. Trasmere’s
correspondence. It appears that he has had a whole lot during the
past year or two. We shall probably come across it in the boxes that
remain unsearched. But that wasn’t the big thing we found. Most of the
telegraph staff were off duty yesterday. It was only this morning that
we learnt a telegram had been received at Mayfield about ten minutes
before Walters disappeared.”
When they were in the sitting-room and the door was closed, Carver
produced the telegram from his pocket. It was handed in at the General
Post Office and ran:
“Remember 17th July, 1913. Newcastle police coming for you at three
o’clock.”
It was unsigned.
“I have been searching the newspaper files this morning,” said Carver,
“to discover the reference to that date. On the 17th July, 1913, I find
that Felling was sent down to Newcastle for seven years, and the judge
said that if he ever came before him again on a similar charge, he
would send him down for life.”
“Then the telegram was despatched by some friend of Walters?” suggested
Tab.
Carver nodded.
“It was delivered five minutes before he disappeared, that is to say,
exactly at five minutes to three. I have seen the lad who delivered the
telegram, and he says that Walters himself took in the message.”
“Would that account for his disappearance?”
“In a sense it might, yet it does not necessarily follow that
Walters is innocent of the murder. The telegram may have come to him
immediately after the murder was committed and have decided him to get
away. If he was responsible for the murder, there would be even more
reason why he should leave in a hurry. The arrival of the police, who
would find the body, would, of course, have been fatal to him.”
“Did anybody see Wellington Brown go into the house?” asked Tab. It was
a question he meant to have put before.
“Nobody,” said the detective. “At what hour he arrived only Walters can
tell us.”
He folded the telegram and put it away, then unlocking the door from
the study which led to the passage, he went down the steps and stopping
only to switch on the lights, made his way into the vault. One by one
the boxes were taken down, emptied of their contents and carefully
examined.
Money was everywhere; banknotes, treasury bills, money in the greasy
notes of a Chinese Government bank, money in the shape of Greek
drachmas and Italian lira. Sometimes a box would contain nothing but
these valuable squares of paper, sometimes a box held thick packets
of correspondence addressed to Trasmere, at queer looking towns in
Northern China. All bore the same clerkly number, generally written in
green ink, and none of them threw any light whatever upon the tragedy
they were investigating.
In the last box of all, the correspondence was more recent. It was
mostly typewritten copies of letters, evidently addressed by the dead
man to various corporations with whom he had dealings, and these they
went through letter by letter.
“Where were those typed?” said Carver. “And when? He doesn’t seem to
have kept a secretary.”
Until that moment Tab had forgotten the discovery of the
typewriter-key-cover. Now he referred to the find.
“But he used to go out every night at half-past six and remain away
until half-past eight,” said Tab. “Probably he went to some typewriting
office--there are a few in the city which make a specialty of
after-hours work.”
“That is possible,” admitted Carver. “There is nothing here. I have
sent anything that looked important to the translators--I don’t think
it is worth while sending the trading accounts of ’89.” He put the
papers carefully back into the box. “And that’s the lot,” he said.
Tab was standing with his back to the lower shelf to the right hand
of the door and his fingers were idly touching the plain strip of
steel, when he felt something underneath and looking down, saw that the
obstruction which his fingers had found was one of two slides on which
hung a drawer. This had been pushed so far back that it was impossible
to see it from where they had stood.
The detective stooped and picked it out.
“Hullo,” he said, “what are these?”
He brought out first a small box of Chinese workmanship. It was
exquisitely lacquered in pale green. Lifting off the lid he saw that it
was empty.
“Nothing there--some curio he was hoarding,” said Carver.
Next he produced a small brown jewel-case from the drawer and putting
it on the broad shelf, opened it.
Even before he saw the heart-shaped ruby brooch that was pinned to the
satin lining of the lid, Tab knew what it was.
“Those are Ursula Ardfern’s jewels,” he said, and they looked at one
another.
“The jewels that were stolen on Saturday morning?” asked the detective
incredulously.
Tab nodded and the detective took out an emerald cross, turned it over,
looked at its face, then put it back again.
“On Saturday morning,” he said slowly, “if I remember the facts aright,
and I only read them in the newspaper this morning, Miss Ursula Ardfern
went into a post office to buy some stamps. Whilst she was there she
put her jewel-case by her side, and looking round, discovered it was
gone. Thinking she had made some mistake, she went back to her hotel
and searched her room. She reported it to the police on Sunday morning.”
“That is the case as I understand it,” said Tab, who was as
dumb-founded as his companion.
“And three or four hours after Miss Ardfern lost her jewels, Trasmere
was murdered in this room. The jewels were here at that time, because
obviously nobody has been in or out of this room since Trasmere was
murdered, except possibly the murderer; in other words, in the space of
two hours, the jewels were stolen and conveyed to Jesse Trasmere and
locked in his strong-room--why?” He stared at Tab.
Tab could only stare back. Carver scratched his head, massaged the
back of his neck irritably, rubbed his chin, and then: “In other
circumstances, one would say that Trasmere was a receiver. I have
known some very unlikely people who were receivers of stolen property
and grew rich on the proceeds, and I have known very unlikely folk to
loan money, not only to actresses, but very substantial people, on the
security of their jewels. Had we not Miss Ardfern’s report of their
loss, the obvious explanation would have been that these had been
pledged to Trasmere in security for a loan.”
“I am perfectly sure she doesn’t know Trasmere. I happen to be--an--an
acquaintance of hers,” said Tab quickly.
Again the detective was giving contortional evidence of his perplexity.
His long face was longer still, his down-turned face more melancholy.
“Anyway, there is no question of pledge. The only thing we have to
decide is, whether he was the kind of man who would receive stolen
property.” He glanced round at the black boxes which filled the shelves
and shook his head. “The probability is all against that theory,” he
said. “Trasmere was too rich a man to run the risk. Besides we should
have found other property. It is not likely that he would act as
receiver for one gang of thieves, and for only one of their crimes.”
He hoisted himself to the top of the table, pushed his hands in his
trousers pockets and with his chin on his breast, considered.
“Now, that beats me,” he said at last. “I admit that I am thoroughly
and absolutely beaten. You are perfectly sure that these are Miss
Ardfern’s jewels?”
“I am absolutely certain that it is her jewel-case. Probably at
headquarters they have a description of the jewels which are lost,”
said Tab.
“Then we’ll settle that little mystery at once.”
He was telephoning for a quarter of an hour, taking notes all the time,
and when he hung up the receiver, he turned to Tab.
“Without having carefully looked at the pieces in that box,” he said,
“I think it is absolutely certain that those jewels are Miss Ardfern’s.
She gave a fairly complete list to the police, but could not remember
every item. We will go along and check our inventory.”
He had not been at work long before it was clear that the jewelry was
Ursula Ardfern’s property.
“Go along and see her, Tab,” said Carver. “Take the empty box with
you--we had better hold on to the jewelry a little longer--and ask her
to identify the case.”
X
Ursula had only arrived a few minutes before Tab reached the Central
Hotel, and the ban against reporters must have been lifted, because
Ursula saw him immediately.
She took the case from his hand slowly and with a face from whence all
expression had fled.
“Yes, this is mine,” she said. She lifted the lid. “Where are the
jewels?” she asked quickly.
“The police have those.”
“The police?”
“It was found in the strong-room of Jesse Trasmere, the old man who was
murdered on Saturday afternoon,” said Tab. “Have you any idea how they
came into his possession?”
“None,” she said emphatically. “I did not know Mr. Trasmere.”
He told her about the murder, but apparently she had already read the
details and seemed loath to discuss the matter until he told her the
part that he himself was taking in the tracking of the murderer.
“Where did you find these?” she asked.
“In his strong-room. The curious thing is, we turned out all the boxes,
ran over all the papers and found nothing of importance. It was only by
accident that we discovered this case. It was in a little drawer pushed
far under one of the shelves.”
“You went through all the papers,” she repeated mechanically. “What
sort of papers--did he have--many?”
“Quite a number,” said Tab, surprised that after definitely and
decidedly changing the subject, she had returned to it voluntarily.
“Old bills and accounts, copies of letters and that sort of thing.
Nothing of any very great importance. Why do you ask?”
“I had a friend once, a girl who was interested in Mr. Trasmere,”
she answered. “She told me that he was keeping a number of documents
connected with her family. No, I don’t remember her name. She was an
actress I met on tour.”
“There was nothing in his papers except purely business records,” said
Tab.
Tab was very sensitive to atmosphere. He could have sworn when he came
into the room that she had keyed herself up to meet him. There was no
reason why she should, except the reluctance to discuss the robbery,
and she had maintained that tense attitude throughout the interview.
Now he was as certain that she was relieved. He sensed, rather than
saw, a relaxation of mind. Probably it was only his imagination, but
imagination had never played such a trick upon him before.
“When are the police going to give me my beautiful jewels?” she asked
almost gaily.
“I am afraid they will retain those until after the court proceedings
are through. There must be an inquest, you know.”
“Oh,” she said, and seemed disappointed. Then again she returned to the
murder. “It seems all so dreadful and mysterious,” she said quietly.
“How do you account for it, Mr. Holland? One of the newspapers says
that it was impossible that any other hand than Mr. Trasmere’s could
have locked the door and yet they are equally certain that he did not
commit suicide. And who is the man Brown, for whom they are searching?”
“He is an adventurer from China who was at some time or other a sort of
secretary to old Trasmere.”
“A secretary?” she said quickly. “A man--how do you know that?”
“Brown told me himself. I saw him the day before the murder. Apparently
Trasmere had treated him badly and had held him off for years by paying
him a sum of money.”
She bit her lip in thought.
“Why did he come back?” she said, half to herself. “He might have lived
comfortably on the allowance. I suppose it was a good allowance?” she
added quickly. “That is all you want to see me about, Mr. Holland?”
“You may have to go to the police station to identify the jewelry,”
said Tab, “and they are pretty certain to ask you how the box came into
Mr. Trasmere’s possession.”
She did not answer this, and he left her with an odd feeling of
uneasiness.
Going to report the result of his interview to Carver, he found that
energetic man crawling about the vault on all fours. He looked over his
shoulder at the sound of Tab’s footsteps.
“Was Saturday wet or fine?” he asked.
“It was a particularly fine day.”
“Then this must be a blood impression.” He pointed to the floor, and
Tab went on his knees at his side. There was a faint half-moon printed
on the edge of the concrete. “That is the edge of a heel, and a rubber
heel,” said Carver, “which proves beyond any doubt whatever, that
somebody came into the vault after the old man was killed, probably
went close to the body to see the effect of the shot, and in doing so,
got a little of the blood on a part of his heel. The rubber accounts
for his coming on Trasmere without the old man hearing him. There is no
other impression that I can find.”
“Which brings us back to the question of the duplicate key.”
“There was no duplicate key, you can cut that idea right out,” said
Carver, getting up and dusting his knees. “I have been into the matter
very thoroughly with the manufacturers, and although they each claim
to have the best kind of lock and are naturally inclined to take an
uncharitable view of their rivals, they say that the maker of our
particular key is reliable and he says that it was in the hands of
his most trustworthy man, and that no second key was ever made. Not
only that, but no drawing of the key was kept. In fact, the lock, just
before it was fitted, was altered by the manufacturer’s expert, here on
the premises. I am seeing him tomorrow, but from what I learn on the
telephone he says that we can dismiss from our minds the possibility of
there being a duplicate.”
“But Walters was making--”
“Walters hadn’t finished his job, and even if he had, he could not have
fashioned a key that would have unlocked this door, clever as he was.
No, the blood-stained key is the key that locked the door. What is
more, it is the key which the old man carried on a thin silver chain
round his neck. We found the broken ends of the chain in his clothing
after the body was searched. Then again, there are the bloodstains,
both on the inside and on the outside of the door. That is the most
remarkable feature of the case, that after the murder, the door was
locked both from the inside and the outside. At one period, after the
death of Trasmere, the murderer must have been locked in this vault
with him. If I did not know it was an absolute impossibility, I should
say that it was locked finally from the inside, the key was placed on
the table and the murderer disappeared through some secret entrance,
which we know very well does not exist.”
“Have you tested the roof?”
“I have tested everywhere--roof, walls, floor and door,” said Carver.
“A fact, which may or may not be important, is that there is about
an eighth-of-an-inch of space between the bottom of the door and the
floor. If the key had been found on the floor there would be no mystery
about the matter, because the murderer could have pushed it under and,
with a flick of his finger, sent it into the middle of the room. Here
is the situation in a nut-shell.” He ticked off the points on his
finger. “Trasmere is murdered in a vault, the door of which is locked.
The murderer is either Brown, who has threatened him, or Walters who
has been robbing him. Inside the locked vault is found the only key
which could open or close it. Note this particular, that Trasmere was
shot in the back.”
“Why is that important?”
“As proving that at the moment of his murder Trasmere was in no fear.
He was not expecting either to be shot or hurt. And now we add to the
situation, which is sufficiently baffling, the discovery in the vault
of a jewel-case belonging to an eminent actress, from whom it has been
stolen on the very day of the murder. This is the case which I must
take to a coroner’s jury. It doesn’t look very good to me.”
It did not “look very good” to the coroner’s jury, which contented
itself a week later with returning a verdict of wilful murder against
some person or persons unknown, and added a rider expressing its
dissatisfaction with the inefficiency of the police.
The day that verdict was returned, Ursula Ardfern fainted twice in
the course of her performance and was carried home to her hotel in a
condition of collapse.