When Johnson reported himself to his chief at Scotland Yard he had in a
great measure recovered his self-possession. He had only failure to his
credit, but that was not his fault. He had followed up the clue given
to him with exemplary speed. The weakness lay in the unsubstantial
nature of the clue.
Smeaton listened to his recital, and made no caustic or petulant
comment. He was a kindly man, and seldom reproached his subordinates,
except for instances of sheer stupidity. He never inquired into their
methods. Whether they obtained their results by luck or judgment was no
concern of his, so long as the results were obtained.
"Sit down. Let us talk this over," he said genially. "It was a clue
worth following, wasn't it?"
"Undoubtedly, sir," replied Johnson. "It was one of the few
alternatives possible in such a case. I assure you, sir, I set out with
high hopes."
"It's a failure, Johnson, but that's no fault of yours; you did all that
could be expected. I have had my rebuff, too. I have tracked the
writer of the threatening letter, only to find he died two years before
Monkton's disappearance. That was a nasty knock also. And yet that was
a good clue too--of the two, a trifle better perhaps than yours."
Detective-sergeant Johnson made no answer. Smeaton looked at him
sharply. "You would say that was something to work on, wouldn't you?"
Johnson reflected a moment. When you are going to exalt your own
intelligence at the expense of your superior's intellect, it demands
diplomacy.
He spoke deferentially. "May I speak my mind plainly?" he asked.
"I desire perfect frankness." Smeaton was not a little man. He knew
that elderly men, in spite of their experience, grow stale, and often
lose their swiftness of thought. It was well to incline their ears to
the rising generation.
"It was a clue worth following, sir, but personally I don't attach great
importance to it."
"Give me your reasons, Johnson. I know you have an analytical turn of
mind. I shall be delighted to hear them."
And Johnson gave his reasons. "This was a threatening letter. I
daresay every big counsel receives them by the dozen. Now, let us
construct for a moment the mentality of the writer; we will call him by
his real name, Bolinski. A man of keen business instincts, or he would
not have been the successful rogue he was. Naturally, therefore, a man
of equable temperament."
"It was not the letter of a man of equable temperament," interposed
Smeaton grimly.
"A temporary aberration," rejoined the scientific detective. "Even men
of calm temperament get into uncontrollable rages occasionally. He
wrote it at white heat, strung to momentary madness by the ruin that
confronted him. That is understandable. What is _not_ understandable
is that a man of that well-balanced mind should cherish rancour for a
period of twenty-odd years."
"There is something in what you say, Johnson. I confess that you are
more subtle than I am."
Johnson pursued his advantage. "After the lapse of twelve months, by
which time he had probably found his feet again, he would recognise it,
to use a phrase we both know well, sir, as `a fair cop.' He had defied
the law; the law had got the better of him. He would take off his hat,
and say to the law: `I give you best. You are the better man, and you
won.'"
Smeaton regarded his subordinate with genuine admiration.
"I am not too old to learn, Johnson; you have taught me something
to-night." He paused a moment, and added slowly: "You have taught me to
distinguish the probable from the possible."
Johnson rose, feeling he had done well and impressed his sagacity upon
his chief.
"I believe, sir, when you think it over you will admit that such a
delayed scheme of vengeance would not be carried out, after the lapse of
so many years, by a man of ordinary sanity. I admit it might be carried
out by a lunatic, or a person half-demented, on the borderland--a man
who had brooded over an ancient wrong till he became obsessed."
Smeaton nodded, in comprehension. His subordinate was developing
unsuspected powers.
"Wait a moment, Johnson. We know certain things. We know Bolinski--who
wrote the threatening letter--is out of it, so far as active
participation is concerned. Lady Wrenwyck is out of it. We know the
two who put the dying man in the cab. We know about Farloe and Saxton.
We know about the Italian who died at Forest View. We know about the
man Whyman, who invited me to stay the night, and disappeared before I
was up next morning. You know all these things, everything that has
taken place since I took up the case. You have thought it all over."
"I have thought it all over," replied Johnson, always deferential and
always imperturbable.
"Don't go yet," said Smeaton. "Frankly, we seem to have come to a dead
end. Have _you_ anything to suggest?"
Johnson's triumph was complete. That the great Smeaton should seek the
advice of a lieutenant, except in the most casual and non-committal way,
was a thing unprecedented.
But, following the example of other great men, he did not lose his head.
He spoke with his accustomed deliberation, his usual deference.
"The mystery, if it ever is solved, sir, will be solved at Forest View.
Keep a watch on that house, day and night." He emphasised the last
word, and looked squarely at his chief.