Mr. Stott combined the implacable qualities of the feudal lord with
an amiable leaning toward the society and approval of his fellow men.
There was a cafe near his office which was extensively patronized by
grave business men, directors, bank managers and superior cashiers. The
price of luncheon had been scientifically fixed by the proprietor, so
that whilst it was within the means of men of substance and standing,
it was just beyond the reach of those whose limited incomes did not
permit the luxury of lunching at Toby’s, though it was well worth the
money to sit at meat with men who had offices labelled “private” and
drove to their business in polished limousines.
Mr. Stott referred to the wistful folk who passed the door of Toby’s
to be swallowed up in less exclusive establishments, as the _hoi
polloi_, which he understood was an Italian expression. Toby’s had
almost acquired the status of a club. Occasionally, ignorant strangers
wandered in to test the gastronomical excellence of the kitchen, and
these were usually accommodated in obscure corners away from the
hearing of intimate gossip.
Mr. Stott had recently become a person to be listened to with respect,
and the necessity for keeping the regular patrons of Toby’s aloof from
the vulgar herd, was doubly urgent by reason of the very important
matters that had to be discussed.
“What I can’t understand, Stott,” said one of his hearers, “is why the
devil didn’t you send for the police?”
Mr. Stott smiled mysteriously.
“The police should have been there,” he said, “and by-the-way, I
need not remind you fellows that what I say to you is in absolute
confidence. I am scared out of my life lest that babbling servant of
mine starts talking. You can never trust these gossiping girls. I
confess, though, that I had half a mind, not to send for the police,
but to tackle the Chinks myself. I should have done it, too, but the
girl was so frightened of being left alone.”
“Have they come since?” asked another interested hearer.
“No; nor the woman--you remember that I told you of the woman who used
to drive up to Mayfield every night in her car?”
“It seems to me that the police ought to know,” interrupted the first
speaker. “One of your servants is bound to talk. As you say, you can’t
trust ’em! And then the authorities will want to know why you haven’t
reported the matter.”
“It is not my business,” said Mr. Stott pharisaically, “It is for the
police to get busy. I’m not at all surprised that the coroner’s jury
made the remark they did. Here is a man murdered--”
He exhibited the crime graphically.
“At any rate, I’m keeping out of it--these Chinese criminals are
dangerous fellows to monkey with.”
He had paid his bill and was walking out of the cafe, when somebody
touched him on the arm, and he swung round to see a tall, melancholy
and long faced man.
“Excuse me; Mr. Stott, I believe?”
“That is my name. I haven’t the pleasure--”
“My name is Carver--I am an Inspector of Police, and I want you to tell
me something about what was seen outside of Mayfield, both before and
after the murder.”
Mr. Stott’s face fell.
“That servant of mine has been talking,” he said annoyed. “I knew she
couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
“I know nothing about your servant, sir,” said Carver, sadly, “but I
have been sitting in Toby’s for the past three days and I have heard
quite a lot. It sounded to me almost as if you were the principal
speaker on the subject, but maybe I was mistaken.”
“I shall say nothing,” said Mr. Stott firmly, and the detective sighed.
“I shouldn’t hurry to make up my mind on that subject if I were you,”
he said, “it is certain to be a difficult business explaining to the
Public Prosecutor why you have kept silence so long--it looks very
suspicious, you know, Mr. Stott.”
Mr. Stott was aghast.
“Suspicious--me--Good heavens! Come to my office, Mr. Carver--
suspicious! I knew I should be dragged into it! I’ll fire Eline
tonight!”
When Tab in the course of duty, called that night at the station, he
heard the story from Carver.
“If the poor nut had only had the pluck to telephone to the police when
the girl first told him the story, we could have caught those birds.
As it is, there’s no sense in keeping the house under observation
any longer. Who was the woman? That puzzles me. Who was the woman
who, night after night, garaged her car in Trasmere’s garden and let
herself into the house carrying a square black bag?”
Tab did not answer. The identity of the woman was no mystery to him.
She was Ursula Ardfern.
The fabric of supposition fitted piece to piece. He remembered how he
had come upon her in the deserted streets at dawn surveying a burst
tyre and the plainness of her dress. Inside the car was a square black
case, but--
Ursula working hand in glove with Chinamen; Ursula privy to these
stealthy coming and goings, these midnight burglaries at Mayfield? That
was unthinkable.
“--their reason for breaking in after we had left the place is beyond
me,” Carver was saying. “I can only suppose that they hoped that we had
overlooked something of value.”
“In Mayfield?--there is nothing there now?”
“Only the furniture and one or two articles we took away but have since
returned, such as the green lacquer box. As a matter of fact, they only
went back yesterday. Mr. Lander thought of selling all the furniture
and effects by auction, and I believe that before he left he put the
matter in the hands of an agent. The Chinamen intrigue me,” he said,
“though it is by no means certain that both Stott and his servant
aren’t mistaken. I gather they were considerably panic stricken and
even I wouldn’t undertake to distinguish a Chinaman from a European by
the light of a match.”
Tab went up into Carver’s private office, and they sat talking until
close on eleven o’clock, at which hour their conversation was
violently interrupted by the ring of the telephone.
“Call through for you, sir,” said the voice of the sergeant on the
desk, and a second later Carver recognised the agitated voice of Mr.
Stott.
“They’re here now! They’ve just gone in! The woman has opened the
door--they’ve just gone in!”
“Who? Is that Stott--do you mean into Mayfield?” asked Carver quickly.
“Yes! I saw them with my own eyes. The woman’s car is outside the door.”
“Go and get its number, quick,” said Carver sharply, “find a policeman
and tell him, and if you can’t find one, detain the woman yourself.”
He heard Mr. Stott’s feeble expostulation, and jumped for his hat.
They boarded the first taxi-cab they could find, and raced through the
town at a break-neck pace, turning into one end of the quiet avenue in
which Mayfield was situated, just as the tail lights of a car turned
the corner at the other end.
Mr. Stott was standing on the side-walk, pointing dumbly, but with
hysterical gestures, at the place where the car had been.
“They’ve gone,” he said hollowly. “--couldn’t find a policeman: they’ve
gone!”
“So I notice,” said Carver. “Did you take the number of the car?”
Mr. Stott shook his head and made a choking noise in his throat.
Presently he commanded his speech.
“Covered over with black paper,” he said.
“Who was it?”
“A Chinaman and a woman,” said the other.
“Why in hell didn’t you stop them?” snapped Carver.
“A Chinaman and a woman,” repeated Stott miserably.
“What was she like?”
“I didn’t get near enough to see,” Mr. Stott made the confession
without shame. “There ought to have been police here--lots of police--.
It is disgraceful. I am going to write to the--”
They left him quivering threats. Carver ran across the concrete garden,
unlocked the door and switched on all the lights in the hall. Nothing,
so far as he could see, had been disturbed. The door to the vault was
locked, and had not been tampered with. Apparently the dining-room
had. The fireplace of the house was a broad deep cavity lined with
red brick, and pointed with a yellow cement. An electric radiator had
replaced the stove, and Carter had made a very thorough examination
both of the recess and of the wide chimney above. But he saw at a
glance that his inspection had been short of perfect. One of the bricks
had been taken out. It lay on the table, with its steel lid open, and
Carver surveyed it thoughtfully.
“That is one on me,” he said. “It looks like the face of a brick,
doesn’t it? Look at that artistic cement pointing all round the edge?
It isn’t cement at all, but steel. In fact, this must be about the
only secret drawer in the house. I ought to have made more thorough
enquiries from the builders.”
The box was empty except for a tiny rubber band. They found its fellow
on the table.
“There was something of importance in that box which has been taken
out; probably a bundle of papers, more likely two bundles. The rubber
bands suggest two. Anyway, they’re gone.”
He glanced around the room.
“And the green lacquer box has gone,” he said. “I know it was here,
because I put it on the mantelshelf with my own hands.”
He opened the door leading to the vault and satisfied himself that
nobody had gained admission to the underground room.
“We had better go along and see this police critic,” he said grimly.
It appeared that he had done Mr. Stott an injustice, for greatly
fearing, he had crossed the road whilst the people were in the house,
and he had made honest attempts to find a policeman, having sent the
toothachy Eline on that errand, which was successful, if the success
was somewhat belated, for the policeman arrived with her whilst the
Inspector was talking to the merchant.
“I not only crossed the road,” said Mr. Stott, “but I went inside the
garden. They must have seen me, for the light in the dining-room went
out suddenly, and they came flying down the steps together.”
“And passed you, of course?”
“They did not pass me,” explained Mr. Stott emphatically, “because I
was on the other side of the road before they were out of the gate. I
do not think anything would have passed me.”
“What was the woman like?” asked Carver again.
“I have an idea she was young, but I did not see her face. She was
dressed in black and as far as I could see, veiled. The other man was
small; he only came up to her shoulder.”
“That is that,” said Carver disconsolately, when they came away. “They
ought to have been caught, if that man had the spunk of a rabbit. You
are very silent, Tab--what are you thinking?”
“I am wondering,” said Tab truthfully, “just wondering.”
“What are you wondering?” growled the other.
“I am wondering whether old Trasmere was a much worse man than any of
us imagine,” said Tab calmly.