“Danger!”
Before leaving Plymouth French had wired to Mrs. Berlyn, asking for an
interview for the following Monday morning. On reaching the Yard he
found a reply. If he called round about half past ten the lady would
see him. He rang his bell for Sergeant Carter.
“I shall want you with me to-day, Carter,” he explained. “Have a taxi
ready at ten-fifteen.”
As they were driving toward Chelsea he explained the business.
“It’s to help me to shadow a woman, a Mrs. Phyllis Berlyn. Lives at
70b Park Walk. There’s her photograph. When I go in, you keep this
taxi and be ready to pick me up when I want you.”
If he were to tap a possible S O S, he must begin by finding out if
his victim had a telephone. He therefore got out at the end of Park
Walk, and passing the house, turned into an entry leading to the lane
which ran along behind the row. The absence of wires front and rear
showed that the house was not connected up. Then he went to the door
and knocked. Mrs. Berlyn received him at once.
“I am very sorry, madame,” he began, gravely, “to have to come on
serious and unpleasant business. In my enquiries into the death of Mr.
Pyke certain facts have come out. These facts require an explanation,
and they point to you as being perhaps the only person who can give
it. I have, therefore, called to ask you some questions, but I have to
warn you that you are not bound to answer them, as in certain
eventualities anything you say might be used against you.”
Mrs. Berlyn looked startled.
“Whatever do you mean, Inspector?” she demanded. “You don’t mean
against me personally, I suppose, but against my husband? I do not
forget the terrible suggestion you made.”
“I mean against you personally, madam. As I say, I want an explanation
of certain facts. If you care to give it I shall hear it with
attention, but if you would prefer to consult a solicitor first, you
can do so.”
“Good gracious! Inspector, you are terrifying me! You are surely not
suggesting that you suspect me of complicity in this awful crime?”
“I make no accusations. All I want is answers to my questions.”
Mrs. Berlyn grew slowly dead white. She moistened her dry lips.
“This is terrible,” she said in low tones. French had some twinges of
conscience, for, after all, he was only bluffing. He recognised,
however, that the greater the effect he produced, the more likely he
was to get what he wanted. He therefore continued his third degree.
“If you are innocent, madam, I can assure you that you have nothing to
fear,” he encouraged her, thereby naturally increasing her
perturbation. “Now would you like to answer my questions or not?”
She did not hesitate. “I have no option,” she exclaimed in somewhat
shaky tones. “If I do not do so your suspicions will be confirmed. Ask
what you like. I have nothing to hide and therefore cannot give myself
away.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” French declared, grimly. “First I want
you to give me a more detailed account of your relations with Colonel
Domlio.”
“Why,” the lady explained, “I told you all about that on your last
visit. Colonel Domlio was very friendly, exceedingly friendly, I might
say. But we had no relations”—she stressed the word—“in the sense
which your question seems to indicate.”
“How did your friendship begin?”
“Through my husband. He and Colonel Domlio were old friends and it was
natural that we should see something of him. He visited at our house
and we at his.”
“That was when you first went to Ashburton, was it not?”
“Not only then. It was so all the time I lived there.”
“But I don’t mean that. I understand that about four months before the
tragedy your friendship became much more intense, if I may use the
word?”
“Intense is certainly not the word, but it is true that we met more
frequently after the time you mention. I thought I had explained that.
It was then that my husband became dissatisfied about my perfectly
harmless friendship with Mr. Pyke. As I told you, Mr. Pyke and I
decided to see less of each other. I was therefore thrown more on my
own resources and frankly I was bored. I filled a little more of the
time with Colonel Domlio than formerly. That is all.”
“Who began this increased intimacy?”
“Our intimacy was not increased. We saw more of each other—a very
different thing. I began it; in this way. In London I heard some
lectures on insect life. I was interested in the subject and I asked
Colonel Domlio to let me see his collection. We began to talk about
it, and it ended in my going out with him occasionally to look for
specimens on the moor and also in my helping him to arrange them
afterwards. That was the beginning and end of what you are pleased to
call our ‘intimacy.’”
The look of fright had left Mrs. Berlyn’s eyes and she was speaking
now with more of her usual assurance.
“You sprained your ankle one day?”
“I twisted it slightly. It was painful for a few hours, but not really
much the worse.”
“You fell?”
“I did not fall. I should have done so, but Colonel Domlio sprang
forward and caught me and helped me down on to the grass. In a few
minutes I was better.”
“Now, Mrs. Berlyn,” and French’s voice was very grave, “what you have
to do is to convince me that that fall into Colonel Domlio’s arms
really was an accident.”
For a moment the lady looked at him uncomprehendingly; then she
flushed angrily.
“Oh,” she cried with a gesture of disgust, “how dare you? This is
insufferable! I shall not answer you. If you are coming here to insult
me I shall apply for protection to your superiors at Scotland Yard.”
“If I were you I should keep away from Scotland Yard as long as you
can,” French advised, drily. “In a case like this heroics will not
help you any. Tell me, did you know there was a photographer watching
the incident?”
“No,” she answered sullenly, while again her face showed fear.
“You knew there wasn’t?”
“I didn’t know anything about it.”
“But you are not surprised to hear of the photographer?”
“I am. At least I should be if you assured me one was there.”
“Did you know that the handwriting of Colonel Domlio’s letter has been
identified?”
Once again the colour ebbed away from her face.
“What letter?” she cried, faintly. “I don’t know what letter you mean
or what you are talking about. You have made me quite confused with
your questions. I scarcely know what I am saying.”
French felt that he had got the effect he wanted. He therefore
reassured her by a few innocuous questions, then with a change of
manner he apologised for having given unnecessary annoyance and took
his leave.
The taxi was standing far down the street with the bonnet open and the
driver bending over the engine. French got in and he and Carter sat
watching the house.
For half an hour they waited; then Mrs. Berlyn appeared, and walking
to King’s Road, turned in the direction of Sloan Square. Presently she
hailed a taxi, causing French to congratulate himself on his
prevision.
Mrs. Berlyn drove to Victoria, and hurriedly paying off their own man,
the detectives followed her into the station. With a rapid look round
she made her way to the telephone boxes and disappeared into one of
them.
“I’ll drop out here, Carter,” French said. “You stick to the woman and
as far as possible keep in touch with the Yard.”
Approaching the boxes, French slipped into a convenient doorway and
watched until Mrs. Berlyn reappeared. As soon as she was out of sight
he entered the box she had left.
“Inspector from Scotland Yard speaking,” he told the operator. “Keep
the number of that last call. It’s wanted in connection with a murder
case. I’ll get you the authority to divulge. Now give me Scotland
Yard, please.”
He put through the request for the number, then returned to the Yard
to wait for the reply. After a short delay he received both number and
name: Thomas Ganope, news agent and tobacconist, 27 Oakley Street, off
Russell Street.
In half an hour he reached the place. Ganope’s was a small, untidy
shop, and Ganope a ruffianly-looking man with purple cheeks and a cast
in his left eye. He was the only occupant of the shop.
“Can I use your telephone?” French asked, laying a shilling on the
counter.
“Sure.”
French rang up his wife to say that he had mislaid Mr. Walker’s
address and could she let him have it again, a code message designed
for such occasions and to which no attention was paid, but which
enabled him to use a telephone without arousing suspicion, as well as
a writing pad, should such be available. For in this case his quick
eye had seen such a pad on the instrument and from many a pad he had
read the last message to be written from the impression left on the
paper. On chance, therefore, he made a pretense of noting the mythical
Mr. Walker’s address, and removing the top sheet, put it in his
pocketbook. Then he turned to Mr. Ganope.
“Say,” he said, confidentially, “what would you charge for taking in
telephone messages and sending them to an address? Private, you know.”
Mr. Ganope looked him over keenly with one of his shrewd little eyes.
“A bob a message, if it’s near by.”
“That’s a lot. Do you never do it for less?”
Mr. Ganope seemed disgusted.
“If you can get anyone to do it for less you’d better go to them,” he
advised, sourly.
“I might manage the money if I was sure the thing would be done
right,” French went on. “How do you send out the messages? I mean is
your arrangement reliable? Do you do it yourself or have you a
messenger?”
“Wot do you tyke me for, mister? Do you think the shop would run
itself while I was away? You don’t need to worry. You pay your bob and
you’ll get your message all right.”
“Not good enough for me. I want to know what kind of messenger you’d
send before I trust my business to you.”
“See ’ere,” the man declared, “I’ve been doing this business for long
enough to know all about ’ow it’s done. I’ve a good boy, if you must
know. You give ’im a penny or two a time if you’re nervous, and you
needn’t be afryde but you’ll get all there’s for you.”
French laid five shillings on the counter.
“Right,” he said. “There’s for the first five messages. Send to Mr.
James Hurley, care of Mr. William Wright, tobacconist, corner of
Bedford Place and Ivy Street.”
“I know it,” declared Ganope, pocketing the money.
Mr. William Wright was a distant connection of Mrs. French’s and
French knew that he would help him in the matter. He nodded to Ganope
and walked across to Ivy Street.
“Hullo, Joe! Some time since we’ve seen you here,” was Mr. Wright’s
greeting. “Come in behind and let’s hear the news.”
“I want you to do me a good turn, William,” French answered. “There’s
a boy I want to get hold of and I’ve fixed it that he’ll come here
asking for Mr. Hurley. Will you put him on to me when he turns up?
That’s all.”
“Surely, Joe,” and Mr. Wright turned the conversation to more intimate
matters.
“Just let me use your phone,” French asked, presently. “Something I
forgot.”
“Surely, Joe.”
Going into the little office at the back of the shop, French rang up
Ganope.
“Message for Hurley,” he explained in falsetto tones. “Mr. James
Hurley.”
“Right,” came from the other end.
“‘Cargo will be in at ten-fifteen to-morrow.’ That’s all. Repeat,
please.”
Mr. Ganope repeated slowly, evidently as he wrote, and French settled
down with his pipe to await the advent of the messenger.
In less than half an hour a sharp, foxy-looking boy turned up and Mr.
Wright sent him into the sitting-room to French.
“Hullo, sonny! You from Ganope’s?”
“Huh-huh,” said the boy. “Name of Hurley?”
“That’s right. You have a message for me?”
“Huh-huh.” He slowly produced an envelope, watching French
expectantly.
French produced sixpence.
“There you are, sonny. Wait half a sec till I read this. There may be
an answer.”
He tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents.
“No, there’s nothing,” he went on. “You’re kept busy, I’m sure?”
“Huh-huh.”
“And maybe you don’t get too much money for it, either?”
The boy indicated that this was a true summary of his case.
“Well, how would half a crown for a little job for me suit you?”
The gleam in the boy’s eyes was sufficient answer.
“It’s just a little bit of information between you and me. No one else
would know anything about it. It wouldn’t take you two minutes to give
it to me. Are you on?”
“Ain’t I, gov’nor? You just try me.”
French took some money out of his pocket and slowly counted out two
single shillings and a sixpence. These he laid on the table in a
little pile.
“Tell me, sonny,” he said. “You had to take a message out this morning
shortly after eleven?”
“Huh-huh.”
“Where did you take it to?”
“You won’t tell the old man?”
“I’ll not, sonny. I give you my word.”
“Name o’ Pyke, seventeen Kepple Street.”
In spite of his training as an officer of the Yard, French started.
Pyke! He remained for a moment lost in thought. Pyke! Could this be
the solution at last? Could Mrs. Berlyn have transferred her somewhat
facile affections to Jefferson Pyke? Could these two be guilty of the
murder of both Stanley and Berlyn?
Here was a promising idea! In the first place, it was the solution to
the dilemma which had so greatly puzzled him. The crime had been
committed to enable the murderer to live with Phyllis in good social
standing. Therefore, the murderer could not have disappeared.
Therefore, it could not have been either Berlyn or Pyke. There had
been French’s problem.
But if Jefferson Pyke and Phyllis had been accomplices, all these
difficulties vanished. Berlyn and Pyke had disappeared because they
were dead. The murderer had survived to enjoy the fruits of his crime.
All the facts seemed to be met.
In itself, also, this new theory was likely enough. Jefferson and
Phyllis had been playmates and an old attachment might easily have
flamed up anew on their meeting at Ashburton. If so, there was the
motive for Berlyn’s murder. Stanley Pyke might also have been in the
way. Possibly Phyllis was so far entangled with him that to break
loose would have turned him into a dangerous enemy. Possibly the
accomplices feared that he might guess their crime. Under the
circumstances it was easy to see that their only safe scheme might
well have been to remove both men.
The details also worked in. Phyllis could have obtained the
information about the works necessary for the disposal of the body.
Jefferson was of the size and build of the man who had called for the
lorry and crate at Swansea, and though his colouring was different,
this could have been altered artificially. He could be biding his time
until he was sure the affair had blown over to take Phyllis out to his
_estancia_ in the Argentine.
Another point occurred to French. Alfred Beer had stated, no doubt in
all good faith, that the conversation he had overheard in the Berlyn’s
shrubbery was between Mrs. Berlyn and Stanley Pyke, and French had
naturally assumed that the “’e” referred to was Berlyn. But were he
and Beer correct? Might the scene not equally well have been between
the lady and Jefferson and might “’e” not have been Stanley? French
decided to look up his notes of the matter at the earliest
opportunity.
He had little doubt that at long last he was on to the truth.
Jubilantly he handed over the half-crown to Ganope’s boy and dismissed
him with the assurance that he would never hear of the matter again.
As to his next step there could be no question. He walked quickly to
Kepple Street and asked if Mr. Jefferson Pyke was at home.
Pyke was out, but was expected shortly. Hugging himself for his luck,
French said that if he might, he would like to wait for Mr. Pyke. The
landlady remembered his previous visit and made no difficulty about
showing him up to her lodger’s sitting room.
Before the door closed behind her French saw that his lucky star was
still in the ascendant. There on the chimneypiece stood a note
addressed “Mr. Jefferson Pyke” in the same handwriting as that for
“Mr. James Hurley.”
French carried an old razor blade in his pocket and in less than a
minute the envelope was open. The note read:
“Danger. Meet me to-night at old time and place.”
French swore softly in high delight. He had them now! Here was
convincing proof of their guilt.
But it was insufficient to bring into court. He must get something
more definite. With skilful fingers he reclosed the envelope and put
it back where he had found it. Then he settled down to wait for Pyke.
In less than ten minutes the man appeared. French, smiling his
pleasant smile, greeted him apologetically.
“Sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Pyke, but I want to ask you for a
little further help in this Ashburton affair. I have made a discovery,
but first I must ask you to keep what I have to say to yourself.”
Pyke nodded.
“Of course, Mr. French. Sit down, won’t you, and tell me what I can do
for you.”
“All I want is a little information,” French declared, taking the
proffered chair. “I may tell you between ourselves that certain facts
suggest that Colonel Domlio may have been involved. Can you tell me
anything that might help me to a decision, anything that your cousin
told you or that Mr. Berlyn may have said in your presence?”
Pyke shook his head.
“Colonel Domlio?” he repeated. “Why, no! I never thought of such a
thing, and neither Stanley nor Berlyn ever said anything to suggest
it.”
French continued to question him long enough to convince him that this
was really the business on which he had called. Then he tried to
discount the effect which Mrs. Berlyn’s note would have when at last
the man had an opportunity to read it.
“I’ve been to see Mrs. Berlyn on this matter,” he explained. “I’m
afraid I was rather rude to her, but I just had to frighten her in
order to satisfy myself as to whether or not she suspected the
colonel. But at least I apologised afterward. I think she forgave me.”
“And did she suspect Domlio?”
“No, I’m sure she did not. And that counts in the colonel’s favour,
for she knew him pretty well. Aren’t you thankful you’re not a
detective, Mr. Pyke?”
They chatted easily for some moments and then French thinking that
some information about the other’s former movements might be useful,
turned the conversation to travel.
“You had a pleasant trip to the south of France with your late cousin,
I understand?” he remarked. “I wonder if you’d tell me something about
it? I’ve just done enough traveling myself to whet my appetite for
more, and the idea of the south of France absolutely fascinates me.
What part did you go to?”
“The Riviera and Provence,” Pyke answered, with a subtle change of
manner. Up to the present he had been polite; now he was interested.
“I can tell you, Inspector, that if you’re fond of travelling you
should try those districts. You’d enjoy every moment of it.”
“It’s not doubt of that which keeps me away. Money and time are my
trouble. Did you get as far as Italy?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you our itinerary if you care to hear it. We went
round to Marseilles by long sea. A jolly sail, that. Then——”
“Good weather?” French interposed. He wanted plenty of detail so that
he could check the statements up.
“It was dirty when we left Birkenhead and choppy in the Irish Sea. But
it quieted down as we got across the Bay, and from St. Vincent to Gata
the sea was like a mirror—an absolute flat calm without a ripple
showing. Glorious! Then after Gata we ran into fog, which wasn’t so
nice. But we got into Marseilles on time.”
“Birkenhead? That’s the Bibby Line, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we went on the _Flintshire_. Fine boat of 16,000 tons.”
“I’ve heard those boats well spoken of. I envy you, Mr. Pyke. Then
from Marseilles?”
“From Marseilles we went straight through to San Remo. We spent three
or four days there, then worked back to Grasse; that’s a small town
where they make perfume, between Nice and Cannes, but a bit inland.
I’m considering going into the flower trade and I wanted to see the
gardens. A wonderful sight all that country must be with flowers in
the season!”
“I’ve read about it,” French assured him. “It’s one of the places I’ve
got on my list. Flowers and pretty girls, eh?”
“That’s right. We had a dandy specimen to show us round the perfume
factory.”
“I guess I’ll see that factory,” French declared. “Are there good
hotels in a small place like that?”
“We stayed at the Metropole and it was quite all right. Then we worked
slowly up through Provence, staying a night in different
towns—Marseilles, Nîmes, Arles, Avignon, and so on to Paris. I’ve got
all mixed about the places, we saw so many. An interesting country
that, Inspector! There are buildings standing there for sixteen
hundred years and more. Wonderful! First chance you get you should go
down and see for yourself. But don’t do it as we did.”
“How do you mean?”
“Don’t go from place to place, staying in each for a night. Stay at a
centre. Avignon is a first rate one. There are day char-à-banc trips
that let you see all these places and you don’t have the nuisance of
packing and going to a fresh hotel every day.”
“That’s a point, certainly. Thanks for the tip. Where do you recommend
staying in Paris?”
If Pyke recognised that French was merely pumping him he gave no sign,
but replied, readily:
“We stayed at the Regina and found it quite good. But we just broke
the journey for a night. Next day we came on here.”
“To these rooms?”
“No. I hadn’t taken them then. We stayed a night at the Houston.
That’s the night I had such a joke on Stanley.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I don’t know how he did it, but while he was dressing he knocked the
basin off the stand and it broke and soaked his shoes and deluged the
room. You know they have old-fashioned separate basins there, not
running water as you get abroad. I imagine he must have set the basin
down on a corner of the towel, and when he picked up the towel it
twitched the basin off. The wretched thing must have been cracked, for
it went into two pieces. But they charged him for it, all right.”
“Rough luck, Mr. Pyke. And after that you both thought one night
enough to stay?”
Pyke laughed.
“I wanted rooms,” he explained. “Next day I found these and moved in.”
“I suppose your late cousin went back to Ashburton at the same time?”
“Not quite directly, I think. He went to see some people near Bath. I
believe he said for two days only, but I’m not sure.”
“Do you soon return to the Argentine, Mr. Pyke?”
“I’ve not made up my mind. I like this country and I’m half thinking
of settling down here and growing flowers for the London market. I’m
sick of ranching, anyway, and I’ve instructed my solicitors to begin
negotiations for the sale of my property. Of course I’ll have to go
out to see to that, but I think I’ll come back very soon.”
They continued chatting about the Roman remains in Provence until at
last French looked at his watch and said he must go.
He was jubilant as to his progress. He believed that he had accounted
for his presence and that Pyke suspected nothing. He had also obtained
enough information to check practically the whole of the man’s
movements from his departure with Stanley for his holiday down to the
present time. The end of the affair was in sight. And that evening, he
promised himself, should see him a step farther on his road.