P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line
About the time Furneaux was whisked past _The Hollies_ in
Superintendent Fowler’s dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing
luncheon, and planning a long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have
liked to secure Doris’s company, but good taste forbade that he should
even invite her to share the ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with
whom he had not exchanged a word during three years had already set up
a barrier between Doris and himself. Though impalpable, it was
effective. It could neither be climbed nor avoided. Quiet little
Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor of morals and etiquette.
Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow process of law, Doris and
he might meet only by chance and never remain long together.
When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his
South American sombrero.
“I am sensitive to ridicule,” he professed. “The village urchins will
christen me ‘Owd Ben,’ and the old gentleman’s character was such that
I would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I’ll join the no hat brigade.”
“I wonder if we’ll meet Furneaux,” said Grant, selecting a
walking-stick. “It’s odd that we should have seen nothing of him this
morning.”
“It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he
took not to be observed coming here last night.”
“Well, that’s so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I
suppose.”
“Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He’s
wasted on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador.”
“Quaint alternatives, those.”
“Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in
coining cute phrases. I’ve met scores of both tribes, and they’re like
as peas in a pod.”
A bell rang.
“That’s the front door,” said Grant. “It’s Furneaux himself, I hope.”
But the visitor was P. C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted.
“Glad I’ve caught you before you went out, sir,” he said. “Mr. Furneaux
asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also to
mention that he had got the whiskers.”
“What whiskers? Whose whiskers?”
“That’s all he said, sir—he’d got the whiskers.”
“Why, Owd Ben’s whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!” put in
Hart.
Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connection
with the crime. He remembered Elkin’s make-up as Svengali, of course,
and could have kicked himself for not associating earlier a set of
sable whiskers with the black wig and the bullet-torn hat.
But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the
mystery?
“There are certain _lacunae_ in your otherwise vigorous and thrilling
story, constable,” went on Hart.
“Very likely, sir,” agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his
hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a _lacuna_, or its
plural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux’s advice, and trying
to be civil.
“Ah, you see that, do you?” said Hart. “Well, fill ’em in. When, where,
and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter’s hairy adornments?”
The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that
he had scored a point, though he knew not how.
“He did not tell me, sir,” he answered. “It’s a rum business, that’s
what it is, no matter what way you look at it.”
Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable’s change of front,
accepted the olive branch readily.
“We’re just going for a walk,” he said. “If you have ten minutes to
spare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no doubt.”
“Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this,”
admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues would
surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by
the master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates
family dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to
favor with “the force.” Before Robinson departed, he was full of
information and good food.
What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive to
meet Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old
pony he had been “lungeing” on a strip of common opposite his house?
Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire.
“Anything fresh?” he cried. “You have a fair course now, Robinson. That
little London ’tec has bunked home.”
“Has he?” In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar for
an opening.
“Oh, none of your kiddin’,” said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt’s
neck. “You know he has. You don’t miss much that’s going on. Bet you
half a thick ’un you’d have put someone in clink before this if the
murder at _The Hollies_ had been left in your hands.”
“That’s as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you
for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin’ badly?”
“Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night.”
“You shouldn’t be out so late. Why, on’y a week ago you were in bed
regular at 10.15.”
“That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at
Knoleworth.”
“What time did you reach home?”
“Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what’s
this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic
Society? That silly josser of a detective—What’s his name?”
“Furneaux,” said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too
secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the
very topic he wanted to discuss.
“Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about
that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and
I, and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as
Furneaux left to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked,
though I locked it myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and
whiskers I wore when we played a skit on ‘Trilby’ were missing. If that
isn’t a clew, what is?”
“A clew!” repeated the bewildered Robinson.
“Yes. I’m telling you, though I kept dark before the other fellows.
Didn’t you say Grant’s cheek was bleeding on Tuesday morning?”
“I did.”
“Well, the whiskers were held on by wires that slip over the ears. One
wire was sharp as a needle. I know, because it stuck into a finger more
than once. Why shouldn’t it scratch a man’s cheek, and the cut open
again next morning?”
“By jing, you’ve got your knife into Mr. Grant, an’ no mistake,”
commented Robinson.
“You yourself gave him a nasty jab at the inquest,” sneered Elkin.
“I was just tellin’ the facts.”
“So am I. I think you ought to know about that hat and the other
things. I would recognize them anywhere. Furneaux had something up his
sleeve, too, or he wouldn’t have pumped Tomlin... Woa, boy! So long,
Robinson! I must put this youngster into his stall.”
“I’ll wait, Mr. Elkin,” said Robinson solemnly. “I want to have a word
with you.”
The policeman was glad of the respite. He needed time to collect his
thoughts. The story of the dinner-party and its excitement disposed
completely of Elkin’s malicious theory with regard to Grant, but, since
the horse-dealer was minded to be communicative, it would be well to
encourage him.
“Come in, and have a drink,” said Elkin, when the colt had been
stabled.
“No, thanks—not when I’m on duty.”
Elkin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He could not possibly guess
that Robinson was adopting Furneaux’s pose of never accepting
hospitality from a man whom he might have to arrest.
“Well, blaze away. I’m ready.”
The younger man leaned against a gate. He looked ill and physically
worn.
“Your business has kept you out late of a night recently, you say, Mr.
Elkin,” began the other, speaking as casually as he could contrive.
“Now, it might help a lot if you can call to mind anyone you met on the
roads at ten or eleven o’clock. For instance, last night—”
Elkin laughed in a queer, croaking way.
“Last night my mare brought me home. I was decidedly sprung, Robinson.
Glad you didn’t spot me, or there might have been trouble. What between
the inquest, an’ no food, an’ more than a few drinks at Knoleworth, I’d
have passed Owd Ben himself without seeing him, though I believe I did
squint in at _The Hollies_ as I went by.”
“What time would that be?”
“Oh, soon after eleven.”
“Sure.”
“I can’t be certain to ten minutes or so. The pubs hadn’t closed when I
left Knoleworth. What the devil does it matter, anyhow?”
It mattered a great deal. Robinson could testify that Elkin did not
cross Steynholme bridge “soon after eleven.”
“Nothing much,” was the answer. “You see, I’m anxious to find out who
might be stirring at that hour, an’ you know everybody for miles
around. I’d like to fix your journey by the clock, if I could.”
“Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it
straight.”
“Were you out on Monday night?”
“The night of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“I left the Hare and Hounds at ten, and came straight home.”
“Who was there with you?”
“The usual crowd—Hobbs, and Siddle, and Bob Smith, and a commercial
traveler. Siddle went at half past nine, but he generally does.”
“You met no one on the road?”
“No.”
The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin’s usual confidence. It sounded as
if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the last
moment.
Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven
o’clock on that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking
homeward. He was well aware that the licensing hours were not strictly
observed by the Hare and Hounds when “commercial gentlemen” were in
residence. Closing time was ten o’clock, but the “commercials,” being
cheery souls, became nominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests
were in no hurry to depart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to
a conclusion, an acrobatic feat of reasoning which Furneaux had
specifically warned him against. At any rate, he resolved now to leave
well enough alone.
“Well, we don’t seem to get any forrarder,” he said. “You ought to take
more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You’re a changed man these days.”
“I’ll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. You
won’t have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!”
Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he
halted near the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the
river to Bush Walk. He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown.
Then, there being no one about, he made some notes of the chat with
Elkin. The man’s candor and his misstatements were equally puzzling.
None knew better than the policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully
an hour and a half on the Monday night would be difficult to clear up.
Tomlin, of course, would have no recollection of events after ten
o’clock, but the commercial traveler, who could be traced, might be
induced to tell the truth if assured that the police needed the
information solely for purposes in connection with their inquiry into
the murder. That man must be found. His testimony should have an
immense significance.
That evening, shortly before seven o’clock, a stalwart,
prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds “descended” from the London
express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on
the opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for
it when he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner,
bespectacled, who hailed him with delight.
“You, too? Good egg!” was the cry.
The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality.
“Where the deuce are you off to?” he demanded.
“To Steynholme—same as you, of course.”
“Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next
few days, you’ll never know me again. I suppose you’ll be staying at
the local inn—there’s only one of any repute in the place?”
“That’s so. I’ve got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when
the time comes?”
“Have I ever failed you?”
“No. We meet as strangers.”
Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest “writer
up” in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested
both him and a shrewd news-editor.
The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each
other. The big man registered as “Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Peters
ordered a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman.
Mr. Franklin took more pains over the prospective meal.
“Have you a nice chicken?” he inquired.
Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that
moment.
“And do you think your cook could provide a _tourne-dos_?”
“A what-a, sir?” wheezed Tomlin.
The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken
might be deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled
potatoes and French beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he
dared not try Tomlin’s excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had
put him on the water-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the
landlord as a man of taste and ample means.
Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room,
but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs
anent his carryin’s on in Knoleworth the previous night.
Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués
had the place to themselves.
Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose
exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist.
“I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this
sensational murder?” he said.
Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at
his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the
stranger, and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely:
“The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three
days gone, and nothing done!”
“What murder are you discussing, may I ask?” put in Franklin.
Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly
mobile face.
“Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven’t heard of the Steynholme
murder?” he gasped.
“I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I
landed in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though
abyssmal, is pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more
interested in pedigree horses than in vulgar criminals.”
Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and
popular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country
was already deeply stirred by the story.
Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke
in.
“Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir,” he said, his rancor against Grant
being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own
business. “What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?”
“All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an
ever-open door to good horseflesh.”
“Are you having a look round?”
“Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance of
Steynholme. Isn’t that so, landlord?”
“Lots, sir,” said Tomlin. “An’ the very man you’re talkin’ to has some
stuff not to be sneezed at.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly manner.
“May I ask your name, sir?”
Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated in value
forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear to rush
matters.
“Call any day you like, sir,” he said. “Glad to see you. But give me
notice. I generally have an appetizer here of a morning about eleven.”
“An’ you want it, too, Fred,” said Hobbs. “Dash me, you’re as thin as a
herrin’. Stop whiskey an’ drink beer, like me.”
“And you might also follow that gentleman’s example,” interposed Siddle
quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin.
“What’s that?” snapped Elkin.
“Don’t worry about murders.”
“That’s a nice thing to say. Why should _I_ worry about the d—d
mix-up?”
The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly.
“Keep yer ’air on, Fred,” he vociferated. “Siddle means no ’arm. But
wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin’, noon, an’ night?”
Elkin laughed, with his queer croak.
“If you stay here a day or two, you’ll soon get to know what they’re
driving at, sir,” he said to Franklin. “The fact is that this chap,
Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was
committed, has been making eyes at the girl I’m as good as engaged to.
That would make anybody wild—now, wouldn’t it?”
“Possibly,” smiled Franklin. “Of course there is always the lady’s
point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. ‘Woman, thy
vows are traced in sand,’ Lord Byron has it.”
“Ay, an’ some men’s, too,” guffawed Hobbs. “Wot about Peggy Smith,
Fred?”
Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher.
“What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?” he
retorted.
Hobbs’s face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin.
“Ask these gentlemen what they’ll have,” he said gently. The landlord
made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed.
“You’ve aroused my curiosity,” remarked Franklin to Peters, but taking
the company at large into the conversation. “This does certainly strike
one as a remarkable case. Is there no suspicion yet as to the actual
murderer?”
“None whatever,” said Peters.
“That’s what you may call the police opinion,” broke in Elkin. “We
Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you.”
“The matter is still _sub judice_, and may remain so a long time,” said
Siddle. “It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to the
man who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have
no patience with that sort of reasoning.”
Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him.
“That’s all very well,” he rumbled. “But the hevidence you an’ me
’eard, Siddle, an’ the hevidence we know we’re goin’ to ’ear, is a lot
stronger than that.”
“I’m sure you’ll pardon me, friends,” said Siddle, rising with an
apologetic smile, “but I happen to be foreman of the coroner’s jury,
and I feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, to discuss
publicly.”
Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin’s appeal to drink the ginger-ale
he had just ordered.
“Just like ’im,” sighed Hobbs. “Good-’earted fellow! Would find
hexcuses for a black rat.”
Elkin talked more freely now that the chemist’s disapproving eye was
off him. Ultimately, Mr. Franklin elected to smoke a cigar in the open
air, and strolled forth. He sauntered down the hill, stood on the
bridge, and admired the soft blue tones of the landscape in the half
light of a summer evening. Shortly before closing time, Robinson
appeared, it being part of his routine duty to see that no noisy
revelers disturbed the peace of the village. He noticed the stranger at
once, and elected to walk past him.
Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressed him by
name.
“Good evening, Robinson,” said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. “I’ve
been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the door
open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of
Scotland Yard.”
“You don’t say so, sir!” stammered Robinson.
“But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I’ll be with you
in a minute or two. There’s someone coming. You and I must not be seen
together.”
Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met
Bates, going to the post with letters.
Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he
kept a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even
walked quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished.
Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates
thrust his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some
weight on his mind.
“Beg pardon,” he said, “but I thought you’d like to know. The place is
just swarmin’ with ’em.”
“Bees?” inquired Hart.
Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two.
“No, sir, ’tecs,” he said. “There’s a big ’un now—just the opposite to
the little ’un, Hawkshaw. I ’ope I ’aven’t to tackle this customer,
though. He’d gimme a doin’, by the looks of ’im.”
Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press
photographer had mentioned the Big ’Un and the Little ’Un of the Yard.
“Now, I wonder,” he said.
His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter’s had he heard the
gardener’s words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex,
though it was founded solely on the assumption that all comers now,
unless Bates was personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the
law.