Mr. John Stott had discovered to his gratification that the association
of his name with the Trasmere case had enhanced, rather than detracted
from his social standing. It is true that the newspapers, having long
ceased to take the slightest interest in the murder, seemed oblivious
to the part he had played, or the startling discovery which he had
to his credit, but a more important circle of public opinion, that
circle which met daily at Toby’s and discussed an expensive lunch and
such matters of public interest as deserved attention, had applauded
Mr. Stott’s decision to place in the hands of the police authorities
the information which, up to that moment, had been confined to some
twenty commercial gentlemen, their wives, their wives’ families, their
servants, the servants of their wives’ families, the families of the
servants, to say nothing of personal friends of all and each, their
servants and attachments.
“So far as I am concerned, the matter is ended,” said Mr. Stott one day
at Toby’s. “The police have behaved very shabbily. I have neither been
thanked by the Commissioners nor their underlings.”
It is true that Mr. Stott had never expected thanks; it is true that
he had expected a long term of imprisonment and had shivered every
time the door bell rang, lest the callers be minions of the law, armed
with warrants for his arrest. It is true that he had dismissed and
reëngaged Eline at least twice a day, for having dragged him into this
unenviable position. He had expected, at least, the severest censure
and condemnation from all those who had to do with the administration
of the law, but he had never expected a vote of thanks.
“I told this fellow Carver,” said Mr. Stott, “and Carver, I might say,
in passing, is one of those thick-headed, unimaginative men that have
made the police force what it is, I told him, ‘Don’t ever expect any
further information from me. If you do, you will be disappointed.’”
“What did Carver say?” asked one of his fascinated audience.
Mr. Stott shrugged his broad shoulders.
“What could Carver say?” he asked enigmatically, and nobody seemed to
be able to supply an answer on the spur of the moment.
“In my opinion,” said Mr. Stott impressively, “if a business man had
had charge of this case, we should have had the murderer by the heels
and executed by this time!”
Here every one of the business men at the long table was in complete
agreement. They shared a common faith that a man who can make money
by selling sugar, or can acquire a competence by trading in margins,
must necessarily be the best type of mind to tackle every problem,
however obscure. It was their wont to shake their heads sadly at every
mistake the administration made, and hypothesize the same situation if
business men had been in control. It was accepted without dispute, that
no government or government department came up to the business man’s
standard of requirements.
“They had their chance and they missed it,” said Mr. Stott, “when the
Chinaman and the woman were in the house and I was holding them--well
I was practically holding them--the police could have caught the whole
gang if they had arrived in time. As it was, they allowed them to slip
through their fingers. I hate to say so, though it has struck me since,
that probably the police were in it!”
“In the house?” asked a foolish man.
“No,” snapped Mr. Stott, “in the plot, man! Anyway I’ve washed my hands
of the whole affair.”
Mr. Stott was in the habit of washing his hands of the whole affair
twice a day, once at lunch and once after dinner. He washed his hands
that night to his placid wife, not only of the Trasmere case, but of
Eline’s tooth, and he washed them with such effect on Eline herself,
that she reluctantly agreed to have the offending ivory extracted on
the following morning.
She did this after making the most searching enquiries as to whether
people told their most intimate secrets when they were under the
effects of anæsthesis.
Mr. Stott went up to bed at eleven o’clock, had a bath and got into
his pyjamas. The night was warm--indeed it was oppressively hot, and
bed was very uninviting. He opened the French window of his room and
stepping out on to the small balcony, he seated himself in a cane chair
which occupied exactly one half of the balcony space, and enjoyed what
little breeze there was. His partner having gone to bed to sleep,
was behaving according to plan. Mr. Stott remained contemplating
the deserted street and then crept downstairs and brought back his
cigar-case.
He smoked enjoyably for half-an-hour, watched the Manders return from
the theatre and duly noted that Mr. Trammin, who lived three doors away
from him, returned home in a state of intoxication and offered to fight
the cabman for his fare. He saw old Pursuer’s car stop at “Flemington”
and when these interests were exhausted, and his cigar was nearly
through, he saw two men walking slowly toward him along the opposite
side-walk. He failed to identify them and had ceased to be interested
in their movements, when they turned into the gateway of Mayfield.
Instantly Mr. Stott was alert. They might be police officers, only--the
sound of a large voice came to him.
“Let me tell you, my dear fellow, that Wellington Brown is a good
friend and a bad enemy!”
Mr. Stott nearly fainted. Wellington Brown! The man whose portrait had
been in the newspapers; the man for whom the police were searching.
The other said something in a voice which did not reach the balcony.
“I am not threatening,” said the strident voice of Wellington Brown.
They walked up the steps to the door of Mayfield and disappeared from
view.
Mr. Stott rose with knees that trembled. In the shortest space of time
he was at the telephone. Carver’s number he knew, he had been on to him
several times in connection with the unfortunate little disagreement
he had had with the police. But Carver’s number was out of order. The
operator could not get any reply she said.
Strong as was Mr. Stott’s repugnance to assist the police in the
lawful execution of their duty, he dashed back to his bedroom, pulled
on his trousers over his pyjama-legs and with trembling fingers
buttoned himself up. There was no time to get into boots and it was in
his bedroom slippers that he shuffled down the street in search of a
cab, looking back fearfully from time to time lest the mysterious men
who had entered Mayfield should be upon his track with murder in their
hearts.
After an unconscionable time a taxi-cab came past and Mr. Stott flung
himself into the interior.
“Central police station,” he gasped, “quick! Double fare if you get me
there in ten minutes.”
He knew that was the usual thing to say in such circumstances. As
even a slow taxi could have covered the distance in five, Mr. Stott’s
instructions were misplaced.
“They’re at it again,” he quavered as he fell into Carver’s arms.