Tab smiled to himself. He who had investigated so many burglaries had
never imagined that he would be favoured by the attention of those
midnight adventurers. He went into Rex’s room, turned the switch and
had only to take one glance to know that somebody had been very busy
indeed in his absence. Under the bed which his companion had occupied,
were two shallow trunks, filled with those of Rex Lander’s belongings
which he had not taken with him. One of these had been pulled out,
placed on the bed and opened. It had been opened unscientifically with
a chisel, which Tab knew was his property, and must have been taken
from the tool-box in the kitchen. The lock was wrenched off and the
contents of the box were scattered on the bed. The other trunk had not
been touched. Whether the thief had been successful in his quest Tab
did not know, because he was ignorant of the box’s contents. He guessed
he must have been disappointed, for beyond a quantity of underlinen,
more or less in a state of disrepair, a few books and drawing
instruments, and a packet of letters which Tab saw at a glance were
from Jesse Trasmere, there was nothing at all valuable in the trunk.
He went to his own room, but none of his things had been touched. And
then he began a careful search of the other rooms in the flat. They
yielded, however, no clue as to the identity of the mysterious visitor,
and Tab got on to the ’phone to Carver and was lucky to find him.
“Burglars? That’s poetic justice, Tab,” said Carver’s sad voice. “I’ll
come right along.”
The detective was at the house in ten minutes.
“If this had happened in the daytime I could find a fairly simple
explanation,” said Tab, “because the front door below is left open
until nine, and the tenant who comes in or goes out nearest to nine
o’clock, closes it. We keep the door open because it saves a lot of
running up and down stairs, but the street-door was closed when I came
home.”
“How would it have been a simple matter to burgle the flat?” asked
Carver, and Tab explained that there was a window on the landing
through which a sure-footed and skilful adventurer might emerge on to a
narrow ledge by which the kitchen window could be reached.
“He didn’t go that way I should think,” said Carver, after he had
inspected the kitchenette. “No, the burglar opened the door like a
gentleman. Do you know whether Mr. Lander had anything worth stealing
in that trunk?”
Tab shook his head.
“I am perfectly certain he hadn’t,” he said. “Poor old Rex had nothing
of value except the money he drew from his uncle’s estate just before
he left.”
Carver went back to Rex’s room and carefully emptied the trunk item by
item.
“It was something at the bottom of the trunk. I should imagine it was
in this box.”
He handled a little wooden box with a sliding lid.
“And here is the top,” he said, picking it up from the bed. “Can you
get in touch with Mr. Lander?”
“He’ll be at Naples in a day or two. I’ll wire him then, but I
shouldn’t imagine he had lost anything worth the thief’s trouble,” said
Tab.
They went back to the sitting-room and Carver stood a long time by the
table, tapping its covered surface nervously, his long face puckered in
thought.
“Do you know what I think?” he said suddenly.
“Generally,” said Tab.
“Do you know what I am thinking now?”
“You think I am giving you a lot of trouble over a happening which
wasn’t worth mentioning,” said Tab.
Carver shook his head.
“I am thinking this,” he said slowly and deliberately, “that the man
who burgled this flat was the man who killed Jesse Trasmere! If you ask
me to give chapter and verse for my conclusion I shall both disappoint
you and disappoint myself. I have always found,” he went on, “that when
one has an instinctive conviction, it is a mistake to make too close an
examination of one’s mind. Every human being was endowed some time or
other, with as powerful and potent an instinct as the most sensitive of
wild animals. With the growth of reason, the instinctive quality faded,
until today, in humanity, we find only the faintest trace of it. Yet,”
he said earnestly, “it is possible for humanity to cultivate that germ
of instinct so that one can go to a race-track and pick every winner.”
“You are joking,” said Tab surprised, but Carver shook his head.
“You get flashes of it at times; you call them ‘hunches’. It is
really your atrophied instinct asserting itself. But you won’t give
it a chance. You slay it with the hands of logic and smother it with
argument, and my instinct tells me that the hand that opened Mr.
Lander’s trunk was the hand that destroyed Trasmere. I had a queer
feeling when you telephoned to me,” he went on, “a queer feeling as
though you or somebody was going to hand to me a ready-made solution of
Trasmere’s death.”
“And you are disappointed. My poor old Carver,” said Tab, pityingly.
“You think too much!”
“We all think too much,” said Carver, relapsing into his natural gloom.
The next morning the tenant who occupied the flat below came up whilst
Tab was dressing and Mr. Holland was a little taken aback to see one
who so seldom put in an appearance on any day. He was a red-faced
gentleman, somewhat sportily attired.
“I hope you didn’t mind my shouting up at you last night,” he said
apologetically, “but I had been travelling night and day and I had had
no sleep and naturally I was a little rattled when I heard that noise
going on overhead. Did you drop a box or something?”
“To be exact, I didn’t drop a box at all,” said Tab. “In fact, the
noise you heard was made by a burglar.”
“A burglar?” said the startled man. “I heard the row and it woke me up.
I got out of bed and yelled up, as I thought, to you.”
“What time was this?”
“Between ten and half-past,” said the other. “It was just getting dark.”
“He must have dropped the box as he was putting it on the bed,” said
Tab thoughtfully. “You didn’t by any chance see him?”
“I heard him go out about a quarter of an hour after I’d made a fuss,”
said the man from downstairs, “and I was feeling so ashamed of myself
for losing my temper that I opened the door to apologize for shouting
at him.”
“You didn’t see him?”
The man shook his head.
“He shut the door quick, just as I got into the passage. The only
thing I saw was his hand on the edge of the door. He was wearing black
gloves. Naturally I thought it was you, though the black gloves seemed
to be a queer sort of thing for a young man to wear, even if he was in
mourning, and taking it for granted that it was you, and that you were
mad with me, I thought no more about it.”
All this Tab duly reported to Carver.
That ended the episode of Saturday. Sunday’s surprise was more pleasant
but not less disturbing. It was late in the evening, and Tab was
reading by the light of a table-lamp, when the bell which connected
with the front door rang urgently. This meant that the front door
was closed. On the night of Wellington Brown’s visit it was open. He
unconsciously connected the two visitations and wondered whether his
instinct was working as well as Carver could wish. Putting the book
aside, he went down and opened the door, and nearly staggered in his
astonishment, for his visitor was Ursula Ardfem, and her little car
stood by the edge of the side-walk.
“I am on my way to the Central,” she explained. “May I come in?”
He had seen the two suit-cases strapped to the back of the car and had
wondered to what distant and inaccessible spot she was bound.
“Come in, please,” he said hastily. “I am afraid this room is rather
smoky.” He made to pull up the blind, but she stopped him.
“Please don’t,” she said, “I am all nerves and shivers and I feel I
could swoon on the slightest excuse. It is rather a pity that that
delightful practice of our grandmothers’ days went out of fashion. It
would be such a relief to swoon sometimes.” Her tone was half-jesting,
but there was a whole lot of seriousness in her face. “I am coming to
live at the Central again,” she said, “though I really cannot afford
that extravagance.”
“What has happened?”
“Stone Cottage is haunted,” was the staggering reply.
“Haunted?”
She nodded and a momentary smile came into her eyes, only to fade as
quickly as it came.
“Not by a ghost,” she said, “but by a very human man, a mysterious
individual in black. The woman who looks after me saw him the other
night in the garden: I myself have seen him from my window and
challenged him. He has been seen by other people pacing the road
outside. Now tell me honestly, Tab Holland, am I under the observation
of the police?”
The thought had also occurred to Tab.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Carver does not tell me everything, but
he has never mentioned your name to me as being under the slightest
suspicion. In black, you say?”
“Yes,” nodded the girl. “From head to foot in black, including black
gloves. It was rather spectacular----”
“Black gloves?” interrupted Tab. “I wonder if it is my burglar?” and
he told her of the visitor who had come the night before.
“It is extraordinary,” she said, “more extraordinary because he was not
seen last night. I am not usually nervous, but I must confess that it
is a little worrying to know that somebody is watching me.”
“How did he come? Had he a car or bicycle, or did he come by train?”
On this point she could not enlighten him.
“I almost wish you had not come up,” said Tab. “If you had told me, I
would have gone to Stone Cottage and stayed the night, especially after
my burglar. I should like to meet the gentleman who treats my flat so
unceremoniously.”
She made no reply and then:
“Why did I come here, I wonder?” she asked, and it was as though she
were speaking to herself, for she laughed. “Poor Mr. Tab,” she said,
with that little hint of mockery in her voice which he adored, “I am
laying all my burdens upon you. Mystery upon mystery, some of my own,
but this, I promise you, not of my making.” She considered, her finger
at her lips. “Suppose I return to Stone Cottage on Monday morning and
you come down later? My woman will be an efficient chaperon, and I
think you should come after dark--that is, if you can spare the time.”
Tab wanted to tell her that all eternity, so far as he was concerned,
was at her disposal, but very wisely refrained.
He saw her to her car and went back to his room with a sense of
exhilaration that he had not felt all that week.