“At what again?” asked Carver quickly.
“Mayfield,” gurgled Mr. Stott, “two men!”
“Two men have gone into Mayfield? When?”
“I don’t know how long ago I saw them. One was Brown.”
“Wellington Brown? Are you sure?”
“I heard him speak,” said the agitated Mr. Stott, “I’ll swear to it in
a court of law. I was sitting on the balcony smoking a cigar, a box
which a friend of mine has given to me--perhaps you know Morrison of
the Morrison Gold Corporation--”
But Carver had gone back into the station with a rush, to reappear
almost immediately.
He bundled Tab into a taxi and shot a direction at the driver.
“I had to go back to get our own key,” he said, “and--” he took
something from his coat pocket and Tab heard the snick of an automatic
jacket being pulled back. “Unless this man is suffering from delusions,
we are going to see developments tonight, Tab.”
He looked back through the peep-hole at the back of the cab. The other
taxi was following at a distance.
“I brought out every available man,” he said. “I wonder if they found
room for Stott? Anyway he can walk,” he added cruelly.
Mayfield was in darkness when the cab drove up to the gate. Carver
sprang out, ran across the concrete yard and up the steps to the door
with Tab at his heels. He flashed a pocket lamp upon the keyhole, flung
the door wide open, as the second cab drew up at the gate to discharge
half-a-dozen police officers in various stages of attire.
The hall was in darkness, but they had the lights on in a second and
Carver ran into the sitting-room. The door leading to the vault was
open.
“Oh!” said Carver thoughtfully.
He came back to give instructions to his posse and then, followed by
Tab, he went down the stone steps, and along the corridor. The door of
the vault was closed and locked and the room was unlighted. Carver felt
in his pocket, took out the duplicate key, that upon which Walters had
worked so industriously and snapped back the lock. At touch from his
thumb and the vault was flooded with light.
He paused in the open doorway and looked. Wellington Brown was lying
face downward in the centre of the room, blood was flowing from under
him, _and on the table, in the exact centre, was the key of the vault_!
Carver picked it up. There was no doubt about it; the old blood-stain
was still upon it and he looked blankly at his companion.
“Well, what do you think of that, Tab,” he asked in a hushed voice.
Tab did not reply. He was standing just inside the doorway looking down
at his feet, and between his feet was something, the sight of which
deprived him of speech. He stooped slowly and picked it up, laying it
upon the palm of his hand.
“Another new pin!” said the detective thoughtfully. “This time, inside!”
A thorough search of the house failed to discover the second man. He
must have made his escape just before the police arrived, for the smoke
of the pistol’s explosion still hung in the vaulted roof.
When the doctors came and the body was moved Tab spoke what was in his
mind.
“Carver, I have been a fool,” he said quietly. “We ought to have been
able to prevent this. We should have done it if I had only remembered.”
“What?” asked Carver, arousing himself from thoughts which did not seem
to be particularly pleasant, to judge from his expression.
“That key was in Rex’s box. I remember now that he mentioned casually
that he put it in his trunk before he went away.”
Carver nodded.
“I guessed that,” he said. “Probably we both arrived at that solution
when we saw the key on the table. The burglary of your flat is, of
course, explained. He came the first time for the key and was disturbed
by the tenant from the flat beneath and got away before it had been
found. Tonight, the need being urgent, he took a chance, found the key,
and--” he shrugged. “How did the key get on the table? The door was
locked both sides, yet there is the key--and the new pin,” he added
half to himself, “the second new pin.”
He got up and stretched himself and began to pace up and down old
Trasmere’s sitting-room.
“No weapon, nothing but the body--and the new pin,” he mused, half to
himself. “This lets out friend Walters, of course; there isn’t a shadow
of evidence against him after this second murder. We can hold him for
theft on his own confession--but no more. Tab, I am going down to the
vault; I don’t want you to come with me. There are one or two things
that I want to be certain about.”
He was gone half-an-hour and Tab, whose head was throbbing, was glad to
see him when he returned.
Carver said nothing, walked out into the hall where the police
constable was sitting.
“Nobody is to be allowed into this house unless they are accompanied by
me,” he said.
He drove Tab to Doughty Street and went up to see the damage that the
burglar had done. But he was less interested in the condition of Rex
Lander’s wardrobe than he was in the torn photographs. He held their
borders to the light.
“No finger-prints, he wore gloves, of course. I wondered if--yes, ah,
here it is.” He pieced together a torn photograph; scrawled on the face
was a heavy black cross. “Yes, I expected that,” he said to himself.
“If I were you, Tab, I should put the bolt on the door tonight. I don’t
want to alarm you unduly but I rather think you should. The Man in
Black is going to stop at nothing. Have you got a gun?”
Tab shook his head and Carver slipped the automatic from his pocket and
laid it on the table.
“Borrow mine,” he said, “and take my considered advice--do not hesitate
to shoot anybody you find in this flat, or in your room tonight.”
“You are a cheerful little soul, Carver!”
“Better be cheerful than dead,” said the detective cryptically, and
left him to puzzle it out.