THE FOOTMAN
DICK ran to the bedside, and one glance at the still figures told him
all he wanted to know.
“Both shot,” he said, and looked up at the filmy cloud under the
ceiling. “May have happened any time—a quarter of an hour ago. This
stuff hangs about for hours.”
“Hold every servant in the house,” said Elk in an undertone to the men
who were with him.
A doorway led to a smaller bedroom, which was evidently that occupied by
Maitland’s sister.
“The shot was fired from this entrance,” said Dick. “Probably a silencer
was used, but we shall hear about that later.”
He searched the floor and found two spent cartridges of a heavy calibre
automatic.
“They killed the woman, of course,” he said, speaking his thoughts
aloud. “I was afraid of this. If I could only have got our men in!”
“You expected him to be murdered?” said Elk in astonishment.
Dick nodded. He was trying the window of the woman’s room. It was
unfastened, and led on to a narrow parapet, protected by a low
balustrade. From there, access could be had into another room on the
same floor, and no attempt had been made by the murderer to conceal the
fact that this was the way he had passed. The window was wide open, and
there were wet footmarks on the floor. It was a guest room, slightly
overcrowded with surplus furniture, which had been put there apparently
by the housekeeper instead of in a lumber-room.
The door opened again into the corridor, and faced a narrow flight of
stairs leading to the servants’ quarters above. Elk went down on his
knees and examined the tread of the carpet carefully.
“Up here, I think,” he said, and ran ahead of his chief.
The third floor consisted entirely of servants’ rooms, and it was some
time before Elk could pick up the footprints which led directly to No.
1. He tried the handle: it was locked. Taking a pace backward, he raised
his foot and kicked open the door. He found himself in a servant’s
bedroom, which was empty. An attic window opened on to the sloping roof
of another parapet, and without a second’s hesitation Dick went out,
following the course of that very precarious alleyway. Farther along,
iron rails protected the walker, and this was evidently one of the ways
of escape in case of fire. He followed the “path” across three roofs
until he came to a short flight of iron stairs, which reached down to
the flat roof of another house, and a guard fire-escape. Guarded it had
been, but now the iron gate which barred progress was open, and Dick ran
down the narrow stairs into a concrete yard surrounded on three sides by
high walls and on the fourth by the back of a house, which was
apparently unoccupied, for the blinds were all drawn.
There was a gate in the third wall, and it was ajar. Passing through, he
was in a mews. A man was washing a motor-car a dozen paces from where he
stood, and they hurried toward him.
“Yes, sir,” said the cleaner, wiping his streaming forehead with the
back of his hand, “I saw a man come out of there about five minutes ago.
He was a servant—a footman or something—I didn’t recognize him, but he
seemed in a hurry.”
“Did he wear a hat?”
The man considered.
“Yes, sir, I think he did,” he said. “He went out that way,” and he
pointed.
The two men hurried along, turned into Berkeley Street, and as they did
so, the car-washer turned to the closed doors of his garage and whistled
softly. The door opened slowly and Mr. Joshua Broad came out.
“Thank you,” he said, and a piece of crisp and crackling paper went into
the washer’s hand.
He was out of sight before Dick and the detective came back from their
vain quest.
No doubt existed in Dick’s mind as to who the murderer was. One of the
footmen was missing. The remaining servants were respectable individuals
of unimpeachable character. The seventh had come at the same time as Mr.
Maitland; and although he wore a footman’s livery, he had apparently no
previous experience of the duties which he was expected to perform. He
was an ill-favoured man, who spoke very little, and “kept himself to
himself,” as they described it; took part in none of their pleasures or
gossip; was never in the servants’ hall a second longer than was
necessary.
“Obviously a Frog,” said Elk, and was overjoyed to learn that there was
a photograph of the man in existence.
The photograph had its origin in an elaborate and somewhat pointless
joke which had been played on the cook by the youngest of the footmen.
The joke consisted of finding in the cook’s workbasket a photograph of
the ugly footman, and for this purpose the young servant had taken a
snap of the man.
“Do you know him?” asked Dick, looking at the picture.
Elk nodded.
“He has been through my hands, and I don’t think I shall have any
difficulty in placing him, although for the moment his name escapes me.”
A search of the records, however, revealed the identity of the missing
man, and by the evening an enlargement of the photograph, and his name,
aliases and general characteristics, were locked into the form of every
newspaper in the metropolis.
One of the servants had heard the shot, but thought it was the door
being slammed—a pardonable mistake, because Mr. Maitland was in the
habit of banging doors.
“Maitland was a Frog all right,” reported Elk after he had seen the body
removed to the mortuary. “He’s well decorated on the left wrist—yes,
slightly askew. That is one of the points that you’ve never cleared up
to me, Captain Gordon. Why they should be tattooed on the left wrist I
can understand, but why the frog shouldn’t be stamped square I’ve never
understood.”
“That is one of the little mysteries that can’t be cleared up until we
are through with the big ones,” said Dick.
A telegram had been received that afternoon by the missing footman. This
fact was not remembered until after Elk had returned to headquarters. A
’phone message through to the district post-office brought a copy of the
message. It was very simple.
“Finish and clear,” were the three words. The message was unsigned. It
had been handed in at the Temple Post Office at two o’clock, and the
murderer had lost no time in carrying out his instructions.
Maitland’s office was in the hands of the police, and a systematic
search had already begun of its documents and books. At seven o’clock
that night Elk went to Fitzroy Square, and Johnson opened the door to
him. Looking past him, Elk saw that the passage was filled with
furniture and packing cases, and remembered that early in the morning
Johnson had mentioned that he was moving, and had taken two cheaper
rooms in South London.
“You’ve packed?”
Johnson nodded.
“I hate leaving this place,” he said, “but it’s much too expensive. It
seems as though I shall never get another job, and I’d better face that
fact sensibly. If I live at Balham, I can live comfortably. I’ve very
few expensive tastes.”
“If you have, you can indulge them,” said Elk. “We found the old man’s
will. He has left you everything!”
Johnson’s jaw dropped, his eyes opened wide.
“Are you joking?” he said.
“I was never more serious in my life. The old man has left you every
penny he had. Here is a copy of the will: I thought you’d like to see
it.”
He opened his pocket-case, producing a sheet of foolscap, and Johnson
read:
“I, Ezra Maitland, of 193, Eldor Road, in the County of
Middlesex, declare this to be my last will and testament, and I
formally revoke all other wills and codicils to such wills. I
bequeath all my property, movable or immovable, all lands,
houses, deeds, shares in stock companies whatsoever, and all
jewellery, reversions, carriages, motor-cars, and all other
possessions absolutely, to Philip Johnson, of 471, Fitzroy
Square, in the County of London, clerk. I declare him to be the
only honest man I have ever met with in my long and sorrowful
life, and I direct him to devote himself with unremitting care
to the destruction of that society or organization which is
known as the Frogs, and which for four and twenty years has
extracted large sums of blackmail from me.”
It was signed in a clerkly hand familiar to Johnson, and was witnessed
by two men whose names he knew.
He sat down and did not attempt to speak for a long time.
“I read of the murder in the evening paper,” he said after a while. “In
fact, I’ve been up to the house, but the policemen referred me to you,
and I knew you were too busy to be bothered. How was he killed?”
“Shot,” said Elk.
“Have they caught the man?”
“We shall have him by the morning,” said Elk with confidence. “Now that
we’ve taken Balder, there’ll be nobody to warn the men we want.”
“It is very dreadful,” said Johnson after a while. “But this”—he looked
at the paper—“this has quite knocked me out. I don’t know what to say.
Where was it found?”
“In one of his deed boxes.”
“I wish he hadn’t,” said Johnson with emphasis. “I mean, left me his
money. I hate responsibility. I’m temperamentally unfitted to run a big
business . . . I wish he hadn’t!”
“How did he take it?” asked Dick when Elk had returned.
“He’s absolutely hazed. Poor devil, I felt sorry for him, and I never
thought I should feel sorry for any man who came into money. He was just
getting ready to move into a cheaper house when I arrived. I suppose he
won’t go to the Prince of Caux’s mansion. The change in Johnson’s
prospects might make a difference to Ray Bennett: does that strike you,
Captain Gordon?”
“I thought of that possibility,” said Dick shortly.
He had an interview in the afternoon with the Director of Public
Prosecutions in regard to Balder. And that learned gentleman echoed his
own fears.
“I can’t see how we’re going to get a verdict of murder against this
man, although it is as plain as daylight that he poisoned Mills and was
responsible for the bomb outrage. But you can’t hang a man on suspicion,
even though the suspicion is not open to doubt. How did he kill Mills,
do you think?”
“Mills had a cold,” said Dick. “He had been coughing all the way up in
the car, and had asked Balder to close the window of the room. Balder
obviously closed, or nearly closed the window, and probably slipped a
cyanide tablet to the man, telling him it was good for his cold. It was
a fairly natural thing for Mills to take and swallow the tablet, and
that, I am sure, is what happened. We made a search of Balder’s house at
Slough, and found a duplicate set of keys, including one to Elk’s safe.
Balder got there early in the morning and planted the bomb, knowing that
Elk and I would be opening the bags that morning.”
“And helped Hagn to escape,” said the Public Prosecutor.
“That was much more simple,” explained Dick. “I gather that the
inspector who was seen walking out at half-past-two was Hagn. When
Balder went into the cell to keep the man company, he must have been
dressed underneath in the police uniform, and have carried the necessary
handcuffs and pass-keys with him. He was not searched—a fact for which
I am as much responsible as Elk. The chief danger we had to fear from
Balder came from his closeness to us, and his ability to communicate
immediately to his chief every movement which we made. His name is
Kramer, and he is by birth a Lithuanian. He was expelled from Germany at
the age of eighteen for his revolutionary activities, and came to this
country two years later, where he joined the police. At what time he
came into contact with the Frogs I do not know, but it is fairly clear,
from evidence we have obtained, that the man has been engaged in various
illegal operations for many years past. I’m afraid you are right about
Balder: it will be immensely difficult to get a conviction until we have
caught Frog himself.”
“And will you catch the Frog, do you think?”
Dick Gordon smiled cryptically.
No fresh news had come about the murder of Maitland and his sister, and
he seized the opportunity which the lull gave to him. Ella Bennett was
in the vegetable garden, engaged in the prosaic task of digging potatoes
when he appeared, and she came running toward him, stripping her leather
gloves.
“This is a splendid surprise,” she said, and flushed at the
consciousness of her own enthusiasm. “Poor man, you must be having a
terrible time! I saw the newspaper this morning. Isn’t it dreadful about
poor Mr. Maitland? He was here yesterday morning.”
He nodded.
“Is it true that Mr. Johnson has been left the whole of Maitland’s
money? Isn’t that splendid!”
“Do you like Johnson?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s a nice man,” she nodded. “I don’t know a great deal about
him; indeed, I’ve only met him once or twice, but he was very kind to
Ray, and saved him from getting into trouble. I am wondering whether,
now that he is rich, he will induce Ray to go back to Maitlands.”
“I wonder if he will induce you——” He stopped.
“Induce me to what?” she asked in astonishment.
“Johnson is rather fond of you—he’s never made any disguise of the
fact, and he’s a very rich man. Not that I think that would make any
difference to you,” he added hastily. “I’m not a very rich man, but I’m
comfortably off.”
The fingers in his hand stole round his, and pressed them tightly, and
then suddenly they relaxed.
“I don’t know,” she said, and drew herself free.
“Father said——” She hesitated. “I don’t think father would like it. He
thinks there is such a difference between our social positions.”
“Rats!” said Dick inelegantly.
“And there’s something else.” She found it an effort to tell him what
that something was. “I don’t know what father does for a living, but it
is . . . work that he never wishes to speak about; something that he
looks upon as disgraceful.”
The last words were spoken so low that he hardly caught them.
“Suppose I know the worst about your father?” he asked quietly, and she
stood back, looking at him from under knit brows.
“Do you mean that? What is it, Dick?”
He shook his head.
“I may know or I may not. It is only a wild guess. And you’re not to
tell him that I know, or that I’m in any way suspicious. Will you please
do that for me?”
“And knowing this, would it make any difference to you?”
“None.”
She had plucked a flower, and was pulling it petal from petal in her
abstraction.
“Is it very dreadful?” she asked. “Has he committed a crime? No, no,
don’t tell me.”
Once more he was near her, his arm about her trembling shoulders, his
hand beneath her chin.
“My dear!” murmured the youthful Public Prosecutor, and forgot there was
such a thing as murder in the world.
John Bennett was glad to see him, eager to tell the news of his triumph.
He had a drawer full of press cuttings, headed “Wonderful Nature
Studies. Remarkable Pictures by an Amateur,” and others equally
flattering. And there had come to him a cheque which had left him
gasping.
“This means—you don’t know what it means to me, Mr. Gordon,” he said,
“or Captain Gordon—I always forget you’ve got a military title. When
that boy of mine recovers his senses and returns home, he’s going to
have just the good time he wants. He’s at the age when most boys are
fools—what I call the showing-off age. Sometimes it runs to pimples and
introspection, sometimes to the kind of life that a man doesn’t like to
look back on. Ray has probably taken the less vicious course.”
It was a relief to hear the man speak so. Dick always thought of Ray
Bennett as one who had committed the unforgiveable sin.
“This time next year I’m going to be an artist of leisure,” said John
Bennett, who looked ten years younger.
Dick offered to drive him to town, but this he would not hear of. He had
to make a call at Dorking. Apparently he had letters addressed to him in
that town (Dick learnt of this from the girl) concerning his mysterious
errands. Dick left Horsham with a heart lighter than he had brought to
that little country town, and was in the mood to rally Inspector Elk for
the profound gloom which had settled on him since he had discovered that
there was not sufficient evidence to try Balder for his life.