The Case Against Grant
Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from
which, to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went
to the post office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a
code address, and exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her
father about the continued fine weather. While he was yet at the
counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist’s shop.
“Let me see,” said the detective musingly, “by committing a slight
trespass on your left-hand neighbor’s garden, can I reach the yard of
the inn?”
“What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over,” smiled Doris.
“Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early to-day, and took her maid. By
shopping at the stores there, they save their fares, and have a day out
each week.”
“May I go that way, then?” he said. “Suppose you send that goggle-eyed
skivvy of yours on an errand.”
This was done, and Furneaux made the desired transit.
Now, Tomlin, to whom the comings and goings of all and sundry formed
the staple of the day’s gossip, had seen the detective go out, but
could “take his sollum davy” that the queer little man had not
returned. He, too, had watched Ingerman going to Siddle’s. Ten minutes
later Elkin came down the hill, and headed for the same rendezvous.
Five minutes more, and Hobbs, the butcher, joined the others. Tomlin
was seething with curiosity, but there were some casual customers in
the “snug,” so he could not abandon his post.
Soon, however, Ingerman led Elkin and Hobbs to the inn. Evidently, the
“financier” had been making some small purchases. He was in high
spirits. Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that
he was returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme
again for the adjourned inquest.
“No matter how my business suffers, I mean to see this affair through,”
he vowed. “You gentlemen can pretty well guess my private convictions.
You were good enough to give me your friendship, so I spoke as openly
as one dares when no charge has actually been laid against any
particular person.”
“Ay,” said Elkin, with whom sunshine seemed to disagree, because he
looked miserably ill. “We know what you mean, Mr. Ingerman. If the
police were half sharp they’d have nabbed their man before this ... Did
you put any water in this gin, Tomlin?”
“Water?” wheezed Tomlin indignantly. _“Water?”_
“Well, no offense. I can’t taste anything. I believe I could swallow
dope and not feel it on my tongue.”
“You do look bad, an’ no mistake, Fred,” agreed Hobbs. “Are you vettin’
yerself? Don’t. Every man to his trade, sez I. Give Dr. Foxton a call.”
“I’m taking his medicine regular. Perhaps I need a change.”
“’Ave a week-end in Lunnon,” said Hobbs, with a broad wink.
“Change of medicine, I mean. I’m not leaving Steynholme till things
make a move. My next trip to London will be my honeymoon.”
“You look like a honeymooner, I don’t think,” guffawed Hobbs.
“You wouldn’t laugh if I told _you_ what you really look like,” cried
Elkin angrily. “Bet you a level fiver I’m married this year. Now, put
up or shut up!”
Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the
stairs.
“Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?” he said. “I’m going to town by the
next train.”
“You don’t mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the case
so soon?” broke in Ingerman.
“Did I say that?” inquired the detective meekly.
“No. One can’t help drawing inferences occasionally.”
“Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He’s been drawing
inferences as well as corks, and he’s beat to the world.”
Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed.
“S’elp me!” he gurgled. “I could ha’ sworn—”
“Bad habit,” and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. “Even
the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I
really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do
you think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box
of old clothes at that. Silly, isn’t it?”
“Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin’ things?”
“Exactly.”
Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh.
“Not so sharp for a London ’tec, I must say,” he cried. “Why, those
props have been there since before Christmas.”
“Yes. I know now,” was the downcast reply. “Twelve hours ago I thought
differently. Didn’t I, Mr. Tomlin?”
Tomlin tried hard to look knowing.
“Oh, is that wot you wur drivin’ at?” he said. “Dang me, mister, I
could soon ha’ put you right ’ad you tole me.”
“Well, well. Can’t be helped. I may do better in London. What do _you_
say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who
knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the
Steynholme mystery?”
“May be you’d get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the
Knoleworth Road, and not so very far, either,” guffawed Elkin.
“Who knows?” repeated Furneaux sadly. “Good-day, gentlemen. Some of
this merry party will meet again, of course, if not here, at the
Assizes. Don’t forget my bill. Mr. Tomlin. By the way, one egg at
breakfast had seen vicissitudes. It shouldn’t be rated too highly.”
“I’m traveling by your train,” cried Ingerman.
“So I understood,” said Furneaux over his shoulder.
There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked
thoughtful, even puzzled. He was casting back in his mind to discover
just how and when the detective “understood” that his departure was
imminent, since he himself had only arrived at a decision after leaving
the chemist’s.
“That chap is no good,” announced Elkin. “I’ll back old Robinson
against him any day.”
“Sh-s-sh! He may ’ear you,” muttered the landlord.
“Don’t care if he does. Cornhill! What the blazes has Cornhill to do
with the murder at _The Hollies_?”
Ingerman appreciated the value of that concluding phrase. Elkin had
used it once before in Siddle’s shop, and was quietly reproved by the
chemist for his outspokenness.
Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office lay in an
alley off Cornhill. He elected to rub in Elkin’s words.
“Mr. Siddle seemed to object to _The Hollies_ being mentioned as the
scene of the crime,” he said. “I wonder why?”
“Because he’s an old molly-coddle,” snapped the horse-dealer. “Thinks
everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach.”
Tomlin closed the door into the passage, closed it for the first time
in living memory, whereat Furneaux, on the landing above, grinned
sardonically, and ran downstairs.
“Wot’s this about them amatoor clo’es?” he inquired portentously. “Oo
’as the key of that box?”
“_I_ have,” said Elkin. “I locked it after the last performance, and,
unless you’ve been up to any monkey tricks, Tomlin, the duds are there
yet.”
“You’re bitin’ me ’ead off all the mornin’, Fred,” protested the
aggrieved landlord. “Fust, the gin was wrong, an’ now I’m supposed to
’ave rummidged yur box. Wot for?”
Furneaux popped in.
“My bill ready?” he squeaked.
“No, sir. The train—”
“Leaves at two, but I’m driving to Knoleworth with Superintendent
Fowler.”
The door closed behind him. Tomlin shook his head.
“Box! Jack-in-the-box, I reckon,” he said darkly, turning to a
dog-eared ledger.
Neither at Knoleworth nor Victoria did Ingerman catch sight of the
detective, though he was anxious either to make the journey in the
company of the representative of Scotland Yard or arrange an early
appointment with him. True, he was not inclined to place the
strange-mannered little man on the same high plane as that suggested by
certain London journalists to whom he had spoken. But he wanted to win
the confidence of “the Yard” in connection with this case, and the
belief that he was being avoided was nettling. He found consolation, of
a sort, in the illustrated papers. One especially contained two pages
of local pictures. “Mr. Grant addressing the crowd,” with full text,
was very effective, while there were admirable studies of _The Hollies_
and the “scene of the tragedy.” His own portrait was not flattering.
The sun had etched his Mephistophelian features rather sharply, whereas
Grant looked a very fine fellow.
Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to
overhear a conversation which began and ended before he reached his
flat in North Kensington.
Furneaux, who had jumped into the fore part of the train at Knoleworth,
and was out in a jiffy at Victoria, handed his bag to a station
detective, and turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road, one of the quietest of
London’s main thoroughfares. There he met a big man, dressed in tweeds,
whose manifest concern at the moment seemed to center in a rather bad
wrapping of a very good cigar.
“Ah! How goes it, Charles?” cried the big man heartily, affecting to be
aware of Furneaux’s presence when the latter had walked nearly a
hundred yards down a comparatively deserted street.
“What’s wrong with the toofa?” inquired Furneaux testily.
“My own carelessness. Stupid things, bands on cigars.... Well, what’s
the rush?”
“There’s a train to Steynholme at five o’clock. I want you to take
hold. I must have help. Like your cigar, this case has come unstuck.”
Mr. James Leander Winter, Chief Inspector under the Criminal
Investigation Department, whistled softly.
“Tut, tut!” he said. “One can never trust the newspapers. Reading this
morning’s particulars, it looked dead easy.”
“Tell me how it struck you. Sometimes the uninformed brain is
vouchsafed a gleam of unconscious genius.”
Winter appeared to be devoting his mind to circumventing the vagaries
of a fragile tobacco-leaf. He was a man of powerful build, over forty,
heavy but active, deep-chested, round-headed, with bulging blue eyes
which radiated kindliness and strength of character. The press
photographer described him accurately to Grant. The average Londoner
would have taken him for a county gentleman on a visit to the
Agricultural Show at Islington, with a morning at Tattersall’s as a
variant. Yet, Sam Weller’s extensive and peculiar knowledge of London
compared with his as a freshman’s with a don’s of a university. It
would be hard to assess, in coin of the realm, the value of the
political and social secrets stowed away in that big head.
“First, I must put a question or two,” he said, smiling at a baby which
cooed at him from the shaded depths of a passing perambulator. “Is
there another woman?”
“Yes, the postmaster’s daughter, Doris Martin.”
“Shy, pretty little bird, of course?”
“Everything that is good and beautiful.”
“Is Grant a Lothario?”
“Excellent chap. Quarter of an hour before the murder he was giving
Doris a lesson in astronomy in the garden of _The Hollies_.”
“Never heard it called _that_ before.”
“This time the statement happens to be strictly accurate.”
“Honest Injun?”
“I’m sure of it. If anything, the death of Adelaide Melhuish cleared
the scales off their eyes. Those two have never kissed or squeezed—yet.
They’ll be starting quite soon now.”
“How old is Doris?”
“Nineteen.”
“But a really good-looking girl of nineteen must have had admirers
before Grant went to the village.”
“She had, and has. Having educated herself out of the rut, however, she
left many runners at the post. One is persistent—a youngish horse-coper
named Elkin. Adelaide Melhuish probably saw her with Grant. Neither
Doris nor Grant knew that Adelaide Melhuish, as such, was in
Steynholme. That is to say, the girl had seen Miss Melhuish in the post
office, and recognized her as a famous actress, but that is all. And
now I shan’t tell you any more, or you’ll know all that I know, which
is too much.”
The cigar was behaving itself at last, having burnt down to the
fracture, so Winter’s thoughts could be given exclusively to the less
important matter of the Steynholme affair.
“To begin with,” he said instantly. “Ingerman can establish a cast-iron
alibi.”
“So I imagined. But he’s a bad lot. I throw in that item gratuitously.”
The oddly-assorted pair walked in silence until Vauxhall Bridge was in
sight. Winter pulled out a watch.
“What time did you say my train left Victoria?” he inquired.
“Plenty of time yet to make your guess and listen to further details,”
scoffed Furneaux.
“Frankly, I give it up. But, if I must share in the hunt, I tell you
now that, metaphorically speaking, I shall cling to the postmaster’s
daughter till torn away by sheer force of evidence.”
Furneaux dug his colleague in the ribs.
“That’s the effect of constant association with me, James,” he cackled
gleefully. “Ten years ago you would have pounced on Elkin. You’ve hit
it! I’m a prood mon the day. The pupil is equaling the master.”
“You little rat, I had hanged my first murderer before you knew the
meaning of _habeas corpus_! Let’s turn now, and get to business.”
Few Treasury barristers, leading for the Crown, could have marshaled
the facts with such lucidity and fairness as Furneaux during that
saunter to Victoria Station.
“Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice,” said Othello to
Lodovico, and these Scotland Yard men, charged with so great a
responsibility, never forgot the great-hearted Moor’s advice.
When Winter took his seat in the train at five o’clock he could have
drawn a plan of Steynholme, which he had never seen, and marked thereon
the exact position of each house mentioned in this record. Moreover, he
was acquainted with the chief characters by sight, as it were. And,
finally, he and Furneaux had arranged a plan of campaign.
Furneaux refreshed a jaded intellect by an evening at the opera. Next
morning, at eleven o’clock, he was inquiring for Mr. Ingerman at an
office in a certain alley off Cornhill.
A smart youth interposed a printed formula between the visitor and a
door marked “Private.” Furneaux wrote his name, and put “Steynholme” in
the space reserved for “business.” He was admitted at once. Mr.
Ingerman, apparently, was immersed in a pile of letters, but he swept
them all aside, and greeted the caller affably.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “I missed you on the train
yesterday. Did you—”
“Nice quiet place you’ve got here, Mr. Ingerman,” interrupted the
detective.
“Yes. But, as I was about to—”
“Artistically furnished, too,” went on Furneaux dreamily. “Oak,
self-toned carpets and rugs, restful decorations. Those etchings, also,
show taste in the selection. ‘The Embankment—by Night.’ Fitting sequel
to ‘The City—by Day.’ I’m a child in such matters, but, ’pon my honor,
if tempted to pour out my hard-earned savings into the lap of a City
magnate, I would disgorge here more readily than in some saloon-bar of
finance, where the new mahogany glistens, and the typewriters click
like machine-guns.”
Ingerman was nettled. He glanced at his correspondence.
“You have a somewhat far-fetched notion of my position,” he said, with
a staccato quality in his velvet voice. “I am not a magnate, and I toil
here to make, not to lose, money for my clients.”
“A noble ideal. Forgive me if my rhapsody took the wrong line.”
“And I’m sure you will forgive me if I now put the question which leads
to the probable cause of your visit. Did you travel by the two o’clock
train yesterday?”
“Yes. I avoided you purposely.”
“May I ask, why?”
“My mind was weary. I wanted my wits about me when I tackled you.”
Ingerman smiled, and leaned back, resting both elbows on the arms of
the chair, and bringing the tips of his fingers together.
“Proceed,” he said.
“You prefer that I should drag out a statement piecemeal rather than
receive it _en bloc_?”
“Put it that way, if you like.”
“I shall even enjoy it. To clear the ground, are you the Isidor G.
Ingerman who exploited the A1 Mine in Abyssinia?”
Ingerman’s finger-tips whitened under a sudden pressure, but his voice
remained calm.
“An unfortunate episode,” he said.
“And the Aegean Transport Company, Limited?”
“Into which I was inveigled by Greeks. But why this history of ruined
enterprises?”
“It’s a sort of schooling. I have noticed that the smartest counsel
invariably begin with a few fireworks in order to induce the proper
frame of mind in a witness.”
“Does that mean that you want me to blurt out bitter and prejudiced
accusations against Mr. Grant?”
“I want to hear what you have to say about the death of your wife. You
forced the cross-examining role on me. I’m doing my best.”
Ingerman kept silent during many seconds. When he spoke, his cultured
voice was suave as ever.
“Perhaps it was my fault, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “You gave me a strong
hint. I should have taken it, and we might have started an interesting
chat on pleasanter lines. So, with apologies for my insistence about
the train, I make a fresh start. I believe firmly that Grant was
directly concerned in the murder. And I shall justify my belief. Within
the past fortnight a _rapprochement_ between my wife and myself became
possible. It was spoken of, even reduced to the written word. I have
her letters. Mine should be found among her belongings. May I take it
that they _have_ been found?”
“Yes,” said Furneaux.
“Ah. So far, so good. My poor wife reached the parting of the ways. She
saw that her life was becoming an empty husk. I think the theater was
palling on her. But I see now that she still cherished the dream of
winning the man she loved—not me, her husband, but that handsome
dilettante, Grant. I take it, therefore, that she went to Steynholme to
determine whether or not the glamour of the past was really dead.
Unfortunately, she witnessed certain idyllic passages between her
one-time lover and a charming village girl. Imagine the effect of this
discovery on one of the artistic temperament. ‘Hell hath no fury like a
woman scorned,’ and my unhappy wife would lash herself into an
emotional frenzy. She would tear a passion to rags. Her very training
on the stage would come to her aid in scathing words—perhaps threats.
If Grant remained cold to her appeal the village beauty should be made
to suffer. Then _he_ would flame into storm. And so the upas-tree of
tragedy spread its poisonous shade until reason fled, and some demon
whispered, ‘Kill!’ I find no flaw in my theory. It explains the
inexplicable. Now, how does it strike you, Mr. Furneaux?”
“As piffle.”
“Is that so? I have the advantage, of course, in knowing my wife’s
peculiarities. And I have made some study of Grant. He admits already
that he is under suspicion. Why, if he is innocent? Mind you, I pay
little heed to the crude disposal of the body. Horace, I think, has a
truism that art lies in concealing art. My wife’s presence in
Steynholme was no secret. She would have been missed from the inn.
Search would be made. The murder must be revealed sooner or later, and
the murderer himself was aware that by no twisting or turning could his
name escape association with that of his victim. Why not face the music
at once? he would argue. The very simplicity of the means adopted to
fasten a kind of responsibility on him might prove his best safeguard.
Even now I doubt whether any jury will find him guilty on the evidence
as it stands, but my duty to my unhappy wife demands that I shall
strengthen the arm of justice by every legitimate means in my power.”
“Is that your case, Mr. Ingerman?”
“At present, yes.”
“It assumes that the police adopt your view.”
“Not necessarily. The police must do their work without fear or favor.
But Grant can be committed for trial on a coroner’s warrant.”
“Grant is certainly in an awkward place.”
“Only a little while ago you dismissed my theory of the crime as airy
persiflage.”
“That was before you quoted Horace. I have a great respect for Horace.
His ode to the New Year is a gem.”
“Would you care to see my wife’s recent letters?”
“If you please.”
“They are at my flat, I’ll send you copies. The originals are always at
your disposal for comparison, of course. Now may I, without offense,
ask a question?”
“Yes.”
“Is it wise that the emissary of Scotland Yard should leave
Steynholme?”
“But didn’t I tell you that I might obtain light in the neighborhood of
Cornhill?”
“True. I could have given you the facts in Steynholme.”
“I’m a greater believer in what the theater people call ‘atmosphere.’
Some of your facts, Mr. Ingerman, remind me of an expert’s report in a
mining prospectus. When tested by cyanide of potassium the gold in the
ore often changes into iron pyrites. But don’t hug the delusion that I
shall neglect Steynholme. The murderer is there, not in London, and,
unless my intellect is failing, he will be tried for his life at the
next Lewes Assizes. Meanwhile, may I give you a bit of advice?”
“By all means.”
“Employ a sound lawyer, one who will avoid needless mud-slinging. Good
day! Send those letters to the Yard by to-night’s post if practicable.”
“It shall be done.”
When the door closed on Furneaux, Ingerman smiled.
“I’ve given that little Frenchman furiously to think,” he murmured.
But the “little Frenchman” was smiling, too. He had elaborated the
scheme already discussed with Winter. It was much to his liking, though
unorthodox, rather crack-brained, more than risky, and altogether
opposed to the instructions of the Police Manual. Each of these
drawbacks was a commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme
mystery had taken quite a favorable turn during that talk with
Ingerman.