An Official Housebreaker
No word bearing on the main topic in these men’s minds was said during
dinner. Grant was attentive to his guests, but markedly silent, almost
distrait. Two such talkers as Hart and Peters, however, covered any
gaps in this respect. Cigars and pipes were in evidence, and, horrible
though it may sound in the ears of a _gourmet_, the port was
circulating, when Winter turned and gazed at the small window.
“Is that where the ghost appears!” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Grant. “You know the whole story, of course?”
“Furneaux misses nothing, I assure you.”
“He missed a daylight apparition this afternoon, at any rate. I have no
secrets from my friends, so I may as well tell you—”
“That Siddle called, and implored you to consider Doris Martin’s future
by avoiding her at present,” put in the Chief Inspector.
Such shocks were losing some of their effect, on the principle that a
man hears the burst of the thousandth high-explosive shell with a good
deal less trepidation than attended the efforts of the first dozen.
Still, Grant gazed at the speaker in profound astonishment.
“You Scotland Yard men seem to know everything,” he said.
“A mere pretense. Try him on sheep-raising in the Argentine, Jack,”
murmured Hart.
“Wally, this business is developing a very serious side,” protested
Grant. Hart stretched a long arm for the port decanter.
“Come, friend!” he addressed it gravely. “Let us commune! You and I
together shall mingle joyous memories of
_“A draught of the Warm South,
The true, the blushful Hippocrene.”_
“We read Siddle’s visit aright, it would appear,” said Winter quietly.
“Yes. That was his mission, put in a nutshell.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him that, after Wednesday, I would ask Doris Martin to marry
me, which is the best answer I can give him and all the world.”
“Why ‘after Wednesday’?”
“Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance which
Ingerman can inflict.”
“Did you give Siddle that reason?”
“Yes.”
Winter frowned.
“You literary gentlemen are all alike,” he said vexedly. “You become
such adepts in analyzing human duplicity in your books that you never
dream of trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author
who will split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign a
contract with a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a
dispute arises. Why be so candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?”
“I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too.”
“So you take him into your confidence.”
“No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference
is useless.”
“Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday?”
“No. Why should I? My hands are clean.”
“But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to
this man in the morning, and mention my name—Winter, of course, not
Franklin.”
“Codlin’s your friend, not Short,” said Hart. “Sorry. It’s a time-worn
jape, but it fitted in admirably.”
The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.
“I don’t think you need worry about Ingerman,” he went on, “though it’s
well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements,
especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this
heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He,
too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only
stumbling-block.”
“Siddle! That stick!” gasped Grant.
“Ridiculous, indeed monstrous,” agreed Winter, rather heatedly, “but
nevertheless a candidate for the lady’s hand.”
Then he laughed. Peters’s keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart
was giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed
stare at the negro’s head in meerschaum.
“You’ve bothered me,” he went on. “I thought you had more sense. Don’t
you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the
filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?”
“The man’s visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just
blurted out the facts.”
“Well, you’ve rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely
indispensable now.”
Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed
the scent of Winter’s red herring like the youngest hound in a pack;
but Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the
right line.
“May I—” they both broke in simultaneously.
“Place to the fourth estate,” bowed Hart solemnly.
“Thanks,” said the journalist. “May I put a question, Winter?”
“A score, if you like.”
“Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and you
have been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?”
“Sometimes we never get him.”
“Oh, come a bit closer than that.”
“Generally, given a clear run, with an established motive, we know who
he is within eight days.”
“Wednesday, in effect?”
“Can’t say, this time?”
“Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man’s guilt, but can
obtain little or no evidence?”
“He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any
other country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit.”
“How does one get evidence?” purred Hart. “It isn’t scattered broadcast
by a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my method,
which has been the only effectual one so far in this affair.”
“If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the
deuce to pay.”
“But you would now be sure of the murderer?”
“Why do you assume that?”
“Like Eugene Aram, he can’t keep away from the scene of his crime.”
Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape.
“Detective work is nearly all guessing,” he said sententiously, “yet
one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and
effect were so closely allied in certain classes of crime my department
would cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be
left safely to the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been
rather inactive during two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What’s
he up to? Can you throw a light on him, Peters?”
The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease
prying. He kicked Hart under the table.
“Hi!” yelled Wally. “What’s the matter? Strike your matches on your own
shin, not mine.”
“Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed,” said Winter
firmly.
“Very well. He needn’t emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. When
my injured feelings have recovered I’ll discourse to you of strange
folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your
stock as an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next
time you’re badgered by a man who knows the country.”
“Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail,” laughed Peters.
“His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the
picture-buying.”
“Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known,” said Winter. “He
gave every publicity to it.”
“Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?” said Grant.
“Oh, I expect so. He doesn’t waste his hard-earned money, even for
official purposes.”
But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art
deal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky
packages with string!
He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever
in attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at
full length on Winter’s bed.
“Been up all night,” he explained. “Chemical analysis is fascinating
but slow work—like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful
job, too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business.
The blighter talked of office hours. _Cré nom_! Ten till four, and an
hour and a half for lunch! Why can’t we run _our_ show on those lines,
James!”
Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face.
“You came down by the mail, I suppose?” he said casually.
“What a genius you are!” sighed Furneaux. “If _I_ were trembling with
expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallow
the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common
decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage
wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich.”
Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip.
“Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?” he inquired.
“Ah, well, I’m tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve,
so I’ll give you a condensed version,” snapped Furneaux. “Elkin’s
illness, begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed into steady
poisoning by Siddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too—pure
nicotine—easy, in a sense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable
explanations when revealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn’t to be
killed outright, I gather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till
he was half crazy. As you can read print when it’s before your eyes, I
needn’t go into the matter of motive; Elkin’s behavior supplies all
details.”
“How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my
skin.”
“One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package.”
“Good! Charles, we’re going to pull off a real twister.”
“_We!_ Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off with
the fluffy transformation pinned to it.”
Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed.
Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a
suitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely,
Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman—the little man with the
French name—might be invited. This important point settled, Mr.
Franklin caught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact,
closeted with Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor.
Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o’clock, and swore at
Tomlin in French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin went
downstairs scratching his head.
“Least said soonest mended,” he communed, “but we may all be murdered
in our beds if them’s the sort of ’tecs we ’ave to look arter us.”
However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some
pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and
the kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the
dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin’s
party. The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than
the prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards’ Cup. Peters had the
tip straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in
hand.
After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and
tapped him professionally on the shoulder.
“A word with you outside,” he said.
Ingerman was irritated—perhaps slightly alarmed.
“Can’t we talk here?” he said, in that singularly melodious voice of
his.
“Better not, but I shan’t detain you more than five minutes.”
“Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?”
“Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like.”
In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with his
companion. Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale
quiver run through Ingerman’s lanky frame.
“You’ve brought down Norris, I see?” he began.
“Yes.”
“Meaning to make things hot for Grant tomorrow?”
“Meaning to give justice the materials—”
“Cut the cackle, Isidor. I know you, and it’s high time you knew me.
Grant has retained Belcher. Ah! that gets you, does it? You haven’t
forgotten Belcher. Now, be reasonable! Or, rather, don’t run your head
into a noose. Grant had no more to do with the murder of your wife than
you had. Call off Norris, and Grant withdraws Belcher. Twig? It’s dead
easy, because the Treasury solicitor will simply ask for another week’s
adjournment, as the police are not ready to go on. In the meantime, you
pay off Norris, and save your face. Is it a deal?”
“Am I to understand—”
“Don’t wriggle! The key of the situation is held by Belcher. Name of a
pipe! What prompting does Belcher need from me or anybody else after
the Bokfontein Lands case?”
“But—”
“Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Saturday, and
met your wife’s mother and sister. They do love you, don’t they?”
Ingerman died game.
“If I have your assurance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of
Adelaide’s death, that is sufficient,” he said slowly.
“Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I’m agreeable. Which is
your road? Back to the hotel? I’m for a short stroll. Mind you, no
wobbling! Go straight, and I’ll attend to Belcher. But, good Lord! How
his eyes will sparkle when they light on you to-morrow!”
Neither the redoubtable Belcher, nor the Bokfontein Lands, nor poor
Adelaide Melhuish’s mother and sister may figure further in this
chronicle. The inquest opened at the appointed hour next day, and was
closed down again for a week with a celerity that was most
disappointing both to the jury and the general public. Of three legal
luminaries present only one, the Treasury man, uttered a few bald
words. Belcher and Norris did not even announce the names of their
clients. Norris noticed that Belcher surveyed Ingerman with a grim
smile, but thought nothing of it until he received a check later in the
week. Then he made some inquiries, and smiled himself.
The foreman of the jury looked a trifle pinched, though his cheeks bore
two spots of hectic color. Mr. Franklin, drawn to the court by
curiosity, happened to glance at him once, and found him gazing at
Furneaux in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.
Elkin, thriving on a diet of tea and eggs, was also interested in the
representative of Scotland Yard. He seemed to ignore Grant entirely.
Doris Martin was not in court. Superintendent Fowler had called about
half past nine to tell her she would not be asked to attend that day.
Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had
not the remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have
been left hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their
comments.
“As usual, the police are utterly at sea,” said one.
“Yes, ‘following up important clews,’ the newspapers say,” scoffed
another.
“It’s a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected and
unpunished.”
“Which is the Scotland Yard man!”
“The small chap, in the blue suit.”
“What? _That_ little rat!”
“Oh, he’s sharp. I met a man in the train and he told me—”
Mr. Franklin grinned amiably; Hobbs, the butcher, intercepting his eye,
grinned back. It is not difficult to imagine what portion of the
foregoing small talk reached Furneaux subsequently.
Oddly enough, both detectives had missed a brief but illuminating
incident which took place in the Hare and Hounds the previous night,
while Winter was finishing a cigar with Peters, and Furneaux was
bludgeoning Ingerman into compliance with his wishes.
Elkin’s remarkable improvement in health was commented on by Hobbs, and
Siddle took the credit.
“That last mixture has proved beneficial, then?” he said, eying the
horse-dealer closely.
“Top-hole,” smirked Elkin. “But it’s only fair to say that I’ve chucked
whiskey, too.”
“Did you finish the bottle?”
“Which bottle?”
“Mine, of course.”
“Nearly.”
“Don’t take any more. It was decidedly strong. I’ll send a boy early
to-morrow morning with a first-rate tonic, and you might give him any
old medicine bottles you possess. I’m running short.”
Elkin hesitated a second or two.
“I’ll tell my housekeeper to look ’em up,” he said. After the inquest
he communicated this episode to Furneaux as a great joke.
“Queer, isn’t it?” he guffawed. “A couple of dozen bottles went back,
as I’m always getting stuff for the gees, but those two weren’t among
’em. You took care of that, eh? When will you have the analysis?”
“It’ll be fully a week yet,” said the detective. “Government offices
are not run like express trains, and this is a free job, you know. But,
be advised by me. Stick to plain food, and throw physic to the dogs.”
Another singular fact, unobserved by the public at large, was that a
policeman, either Robinson or a stranger, patrolled the high-street all
day and all night, while no one outside official circles was aware that
other members of the force watched _The Hollies_, or were secreted
among the trees on the cliffside, from dusk to dawn.
Next morning, however, there was real cause for talk. Siddle’s shop was
closed. Over the letter-box, neatly printed, was gummed a notice:
_“Called away on business. Will open for one hour after arrival of 7 p.
m. train. T. S.”_
Everyone who passed stopped to read. Even Mr. Franklin joined Furneaux
and Peters in a stroll across the road to have a look.
“I want you a minute,” said the big man suddenly to Furneaux. There was
that in his tone which forbade questioning, so Peters sheered off, well
content with the share permitted him in the inquiry thus far.
“That fellow, Hart, is no fool,” went on Winter rapidly. “He said last
night ‘How does one get evidence?’ It was not easy to answer. Siddle
has gone to his mother’s funeral. What do you think!”
“You’d turn me into a housebreaker, would you?” whined Furneaux
bitterly. “I must do the job, of course, just because I’m a little one.
Well, well! After a long and honorable career I have to become a sneak
thief. It may cost me my pension.”
“There’s no real difficulty. An orchard—”
“Bet you a new hat I went over the ground before you did.”
“Get over it quickly now, and get something out of it, and I’ll _give_
you a new hat. Got any tools?”
“I fetched ’em from town Tuesday morning,” chortled Furneaux. “So now
who’s the brainy one?”
He skipped into the hotel, while Winter went to the station to make
sure of Siddle’s departure and destination. Yes, the chemist had taken
a return ticket to Epsom, where a strip of dank meadow-land on the road
to Esher marks the last resting-place of many of London’s epileptics.
On returning to the high-street, Winter lighted a cigar, a somewhat
common occurrence in his everyday life, where-upon Furneaux walked
swiftly up the hill. A farmer, living near the center of the village,
owned a rather showy cob. Winter found the man, and persuaded him to
trot the animal to and fro in front of the hotel. There was a good deal
of noise and hoof-clattering, and people came to their doors to see
what was going on. Obviously, if they were watching the antics of a
skittish two-year-old in the high-street, their eyes were blind to
proceedings in the back premises. Even the postmaster and his daughter
were interested onlookers, and a policeman, who might have put a
summary end to the display, vanished as though by magic.
Luckily, Winter was a good judge of a horse. When the cob was stabled,
and the farmer came to the inn to have a drink, he was forced to admit
a tendency to cow hocks, which, it would seem, is held a fatal blemish
in the Argentine.
Meanwhile, Furneaux had dodged into a lane and thence to a bridle-path
which emerged near Bob Smith’s forge. When he had traversed, roughly
speaking, one-half of a rectangle in which the Hare and Hounds occupied
the center of one of the longer sides, he climbed a gate and followed a
hedge. Though not losing a second, he took every precaution to remain
unseen, and, to the best of his belief, gained an inclosed yard at the
back of Siddle’s premises without having attracted attention. He
slipped the catch of a kitchen window only to discover that the sash
was fastened by screws also. The lock of the kitchen door yielded to
persuasion, but there were bolts above and below. A wire screen in a
larder window was impregnable. Short of cutting out a pane of glass, he
could not effect an entry on the ground floor.
Nimble as a squirrel, and risking everything, he climbed to the roof of
an outhouse, and tried a bedroom window. Here he succeeded. When the
catch was forced, there were no further obstacles. In he went, pausing
only to look around and see if any curious or alarmed eye was watching
him. He wondered why every back yard on that side of the high-street
was empty, not even a maid-servant or woman washing clothes being in
sight, but understood and grinned when the commotion Winter was
creating came in view from a front room.
Then he undertook a methodical search, working with a rapid yet
painstaking thoroughness which missed nothing. From a wardrobe he
selected an overcoat and pair of trousers which reeked with turpentine.
They were old and soiled garments, very different from the well-cut
black coat and waistcoat, with striped cloth trousers, worn daily by
the chemist. He drew a blank in the remainder of the upstairs rooms,
which included a sitting-room, though he devoted fully quarter of an
hour to reading the titles of Siddle’s books.
A safe in the little dispensing closet at the back of the shop promised
sheer defiance until Furneaux saw a bunch of keys resting beside a
methylated spirit lamp.
“’Twas ever thus!” he cackled, lighting the lamp. “Heaven help us poor
detectives if it wasn’t!”
In a word, since murder will out, Siddle had forgotten his keys!
Probably, he had gone to the safe for money, and, while writing the
notice as to his absence, had laid down the keys and omitted to pick
them up again.
Furneaux disregarded ledgers and account books. He examined a bank
pass-book and a check-book. In a drawer which contained these and a
quantity of gold he found a small, leather-bound book with a lock,
which no key on the bunch was tiny enough to fit. A bit of twisted wire
soon overcame this difficulty, and Furneaux began to read.
There were quaint diagrams, and surveyor’s sketches, both in plan and
section, with curious notes, and occasional records of what appeared to
be passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, and
read, referring back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, but
evidently puzzled.
At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of
the safe, examined the bottles on the shelf labeled “poisons,” and took
a sample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked “C10H14N2.”
Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the
door, and let himself out by the way he had come.
Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private
sitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon.
“Well?” said the Chief Inspector eagerly.
“Got him, I think,” said Furneaux.
Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its
answer, but its significance in Siddle’s ears, could he have heard,
would have been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead.