to Mr. Gordon, and Gordon nodded and grinned. For after this
interruption the coroner handled May Weston much more gently, almost
indulgently, as a good man sorry for a woman’s weakness. And he was
soon done with her.
“Any questions?” He looked at the lawyers. Reggie bent forward and
whispered to the solicitor appearing for Miss Weston.
That large, bland man stood up. “Now, Miss Weston, about that
coffee.” He had his reward. Every one in the court, and Miss Weston
not least, stared surprise at him. Slowly he extracted from her (she
seemed bewildered at each question) the whole history of that
after-dinner coffee. Coffee had been brought to the boudoir just
before Mr. Ford came; no one but she had expected Mr. Ford; another
cup was brought for Mr. Ford; Mr. Ford and she had both drunk their
coffee. Miss Bolton--why, no, Miss Bolton had not. Miss Bolton had
been very gay, and in doing a few steps of a dance had upset her
coffee.
“No more questions, sir.” The large solicitor sat down smiling.
The coroner was visibly unable to understand him, and made a great
business with his papers. It was now long after tea-time. “I suppose
we shan’t finish to-day, gentlemen?” the coroner suggested.
“Quite impossible, sir,” said the large solicitor cheerfully. “I have
some long medical evidence. Dr. Fortune, Miss Bolton’s physician. The
first medical man who saw the lady. The first medical man who saw
Miss Weston.”
The court rose. Reggie, with Gordon at his heels, went out by the
solicitor’s door and found Superintendent Bell waiting for him. “Now
are you playing the game, doctor?” said Superintendent Bell sadly.
“For keeps,” Reggie laughed. “Come and dine with me. Bring Mordan.
He’s so genial.”
“We do have to take these little things so seriously,” the
Superintendent murmured.
But a party of four, the Superintendent and the large Inspector,
Reggie and the little Jew, packed themselves into a taxi-cab and
drove into town. Reggie was full of elegant conversation. He grew
iris, and told them all about iris, with appendices on the costumes
in revue.
Once or twice Superintendent Bell tried to turn his attention to
serious subjects. Vainly. At last Inspector Mordan broke out with, “I
say, doctor, what’s the wheeze about the coffee?”
“The Inspector touches the spot. Care not, all will be known ere
long. There’s a jolly little iris from the Himalayas----” Reggie
returned with enthusiasm to horticulture.
“Where are you taking us, doctor?” said the Superintendent. The taxi,
which had for some little time been running through the city, seemed
to intend coming out on the other side--a locality promising no good
dinner. As he spoke, it turned into Liverpool Street Station.
“Liverpool Street, by George!” the Inspector said. “This is a
bean-feast. Going to take us to Epping Forest, doctor?”
“We may have to go farther,” Reggie said, and Gordon laughed.
“Are you in this, sir?” The Inspector turned on him.
“Professional secret, dear boy.”
Reggie led the way to the station dining-room. “I don’t know the
cook. But let’s hope for the best. A tirin’ day, an active evening.
Strength is what we need. Strength without somnolence. Salmon, I see.
Lamb chops, I would add. One of your younger ducks would comfort me.
Do you sleep after Burgundy, Inspector? A warm night, as you say.
Larose is a genial claret. Let us all be genial.”
“Well, you’re a bit supercilious,” the Inspector complained.
“How can you say so? I am keeping all the glory for you. Glory on
ice. All ready for Inspector Mordan. So gather you roses while you
may. Talking of roses, what do you think of the hybrid Austrian
briers?” He explained what he thought of them to a silent audience,
sliding gracefully into an appreciation of salmon eaten at Waterford,
at Exeter, and at Berwick. Few are the men who will not talk about
food. The detectives produced much valuable experience of bourgeois
cookery, and the dinner went merrily. In its later stages Reggie
became silent and watched the clock. He seemed to grudge Inspector
Mordan his cheese, and as soon as it was swallowed made a move.
“Well, doctor, I did think we should have had some coffee,” the
Inspector chuckled.
But Reggie was already making for the door. By the door stood his
chauffeur looking for him. Reggie beckoned impatiently to the
detectives and followed the chauffeur out. He led them to the main
line departure platforms. It was near the time of the Harwich
boat-train. A dark, wiry man was registering some luggage for
Amsterdam. By his side stood a veiled woman of full figure. Both he
and she carried suit-cases. As the man turned round he bumped into
Reggie, who was looking the other way, and seemed to have some
difficulty in disentangling himself. He glared at Reggie and hurried
away. The woman was ahead of him.
Reggie grabbed Superintendent Bell. “See that pair. Take them both.
Picking my pocket. Get the bags.”
Bell and Mordan hurried after the pair. Bell tapped the man’s
shoulder, and he jumped round.
“I thought so. You’ll come with me to the station, my man,” said
Superintendent Bell, with admirable calm.
“What is it?” the man cried. His accent was slightly foreign. “What
station? What do you mean?”
“You know all right,” said the Superintendent. “I am Superintendent
Bell of Scotland Yard.”
“I do not know at all,” the man protested. “What do you want with me?”
The woman saw Reggie. She hissed something to the man in a foreign
argot, and turned to run. The Superintendent laid hold of her.
Inspector Mordan closed with the man. The Inspector was large and
brawny, but at the end of a moment he was on his back and the man
making off. Reggie dived for his legs in the manner of Rugby
football, and they went down together.
The railway police came on the scene. The man was handcuffed, and he
and the woman and the two detectives packed into a cab. Reggie and
Gordon followed in another to the police station in Old Jewry.
When they arrived, the two prisoners were already in the charge-room
and the woman was protesting vehemently, to the great edification of
the uniformed inspector at the desk and a plain-clothes friend of
his, and the embarrassment of Superintendent Bell and Inspector
Mordan. It was an outrage. Why did they assault her and her husband?
Why? They were respectable people. She would not endure it.
“Oh, Flora, Flora!” Reggie shook his head at her.
The woman whirled round on him. “You! Ah, it is you, then, the
doctor. You are a traitor. You are a wicked villain. I spit upon
you.” And she did. The man said something to her in the strange
foreign argot they seemed to use between themselves, and she was
silent.
The plain-clothes man came forward grinning. “Why, Bunco! It is my
dear old pal, Bunco! What have they got you for now, old thing?” The
man scowled. Dusty and bruised from the scuffle and in the ignominy
of handcuffs, he had still a certain arrogant dignity. He was well
made for all his slightness, and the strength which had upset Mordan
showed in his poise. It was a dark, aquiline face with a good brow,
but passionate and cruel.
“What is the charge, doctor?” said Superintendent Bell.
“Oh. On the seventh instant--murder of Wilhelmina, otherwise Birdie
Bolton,” Reggie drawled. “Better search them.”
“It is a lie!” Flora screamed; and continued to scream.
Reggie and Gordon were smoking in another room when Bell and Mordan
came back with the results of the search. A suit-case was put on the
table, opened, and seemed to be full of light, a mass of jewels.
“Can you identify, gentlemen?” Mordan said.
Superintendent Bell laid on the table a sheath knife. An unusual
knife, rather long, rather narrow, rather stiff. “I’ll identify
that,” Reggie said, and took it up. “That’s the thing that killed
her!”
“Coo!” said Mr. Gordon. “You’ve got a real head, doctor. This is
Birdie’s bunch all right. Swear to those rubies anywhere.”
“Who’s the man?” said Reggie.
Superintendent Bell sat down with a bump. “He asks me that.” He
appealed to the company. “I put it to you. He asks me that! The
woman--she’s Miss Bolton’s maid, of course. But the man----”
“Oh, he’s Ford’s chauffeur. I told you to watch Ford. But you only
sat on the steps of his flat. You’ve given me a lot of trouble, you
know. I was up all last night. Chauffeur doesn’t sleep in, of course.
But who is he?”
“We call him Bunco in the Force,” said the Superintendent meekly.
“He’s a jewel thief. Quite in the front of the profession.
American-Austrian, I think. I believe Nastitch is his name--Alexander
Nastitch or Supilo.”
“Croat, I think,” Reggie said. “This knife--they use ’em down that
way.”
“Coo! Tell us something you don’t know,” said the little Jew.
Reggie laughed. You may have noticed that he had his vanities. He
passed his cigar-case round. “Where will I begin?” said he.
“At the beginning, please.” Mordan grinned.
“The Inspector touches the spot as ever. Well, it hasn’t been quite
fair. I had the start of you. On the day before the murder Birdie
Bolton consulted me. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Heard noises at
night. Now you see your way, don’t you? No? Dear, dear. And I showed
you that broken rose! Well, well. These two beauties, Flora and
Nastitch, I suppose they got their situations to have a go for the
jewels. Nastitch, as Ford’s chauffeur, would have an excuse for
hanging round the house and a car to use. He’s had the car out of the
garage till the small hours several times. I think he got in by the
window last week--more than once, perhaps. And each time poor Birdie
stirred. Better for her if she hadn’t, poor girl. But they didn’t
mean murder, bless ’em. So they chose to drug her. There was morphia
in that coffee. As you heard to-day, Birdie didn’t drink hers.
Another rotten chance. So May Weston went to sleep while Birdie was
storming at her. Birdie raged off to her room. Whether she got out
that will and tore it, we’ll never know. It may have been Flora’s
little game. Nastitch came in, reckoning she was sure to be sound,
and Flora was with him, I think. Birdie was very wide awake. There
was a struggle and he stabbed her. He’s a hot-tempered devil, as you
saw to-day.”
“This is all very pretty, doctor, but it ain’t all evidence,” Mordan
said.
“You’re so hasty. When she was dead, they took her into the boudoir
where the Weston girl was asleep. They laid her on the couch and
stabbed at her with her scissors and the bodkin. Filthy trick. That
was what May Weston saw in the opium dream. Then I suppose they
cleared the safe, and Nastitch went off. Flora annexed the emerald
ring. Her perquisite, I suppose. Now, you shall have your evidence.
When I came to the body, I saw those scissors never did the business.
Ever tried killing anybody with scissors, Inspector? Poor game. No.
We wanted something like this.” He fingered the knife affectionately.
“Just like this. Also somebody had left his mark on Birdie--a queer
hand--a hand that wasn’t quite all there--long fingers with no top
joint. Did you notice Mr. Nastitch’s left hand?”
The detectives looked at each other.
“That was in a burglary in New York,” said the Superintendent. “He
escaped out of a window, and a constable smashed his hand on the
sill.”
“So I photographed the wound and the bruise. Well, when I saw Weston,
I saw she had really been drugged. Contracted pupils, bluish pallor.
Morphia. Same symptoms in Ford. Why should they drug themselves and
not drug Birdie? That ruled them out. Also, I surprised Flora in
Birdie’s bedroom doing something by the bed. When I browsed round
afterwards I found a wet bloodstain under a clean rug. When Flora
knew the Weston girl was arrested and the jewels had been missed, she
chucked the ring into Weston’s room. While you were searching the
house, I drifted into Miss Flora’s room. Several medicine bottles
about. One of ’em empty. That had carried a strong solution of
morphia. So I set my chauffeur to watch for Flora. And that night she
went off to the lodgings of Nastitch. She’s been buzzing round ever
since. Well?”
“Well, sir, it’s a good thing you didn’t take to crime,” said
Superintendent Bell.
“Oh, that’s much harder,” said Reggie.
CASE III
THE NICE GIRL
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness
thrust upon them. That was Dr. Reginald Fortune’s trouble. He had
become a specialist, and, as he told anybody who would listen,
thought it an absurd thing to be. For he was interested in
everything, but not in anything in particular. And it was just this
various versatility of mind and taste which had condemned him to be a
specialist. Obviously an absurd world.
The Criminal Investigation Department, solicitors, and others dealing
with those experiments in social reform which are called crimes, by
continually appealing to his multifarious knowledge and his
all-observant eye, turned Dr. Reginald Fortune, general practitioner
at Westhampton, into Mr. Fortune of Wimpole Street, specialist
in--what shall we say?--the surgery of crime. And Reggie Fortune,
though richer for the change, was not grateful. He liked ordinary
things, and any day would have gladly bartered a murder for a case of
chicken-pox. This accounts for his unequalled sanity of judgement.
Reggie was in that one of his clubs which he liked best, because no
member of it knew anything about his profession. He had just
completed an animated discussion on the prehistoric art of the French
Congo, and was going out, when the tape machine buzzed and clicked at
his elbow, and he stopped to look.
“Murder of Sir Albert Lunt,” said the tape and, “Oh, my aunt!” said
Reggie. The tape continued the conversation--thus: “Sir Albert Lunt,
the well-known mining magnate, was found dead this afternoon in the
deer park of his estate at Prior’s Colney, Bucks. The body was
discovered by an employee, in circumstances which suggested foul
play. A medical examination led to the conclusion that the deceased
had been shot. The local police have the case in hand, and search is
being actively prosecuted for----” Words failed the tape, and it
relapsed into a buzz.
Reggie stared at it with gloomy apprehension. “I believe the beggars
get murdered just to bother me,” he was reflecting, when a jovial
tea-merchant (wholesale--that club is a most respectable club)
clapped him on the shoulder, and asked what the news was. “They only
do it to annoy because they know it teases,” said Reggie, and held up
the tape.
“Albert Lunt!” said the tea-merchant, and whistled. “Well, he won’t
be missed!”
“Don’t you believe it,” Reggie groaned, and went out.
Upon his way home the passionate interest which the world, expressing
its emotions on newspaper placards, took in Sir Albert Lunt was
heaped upon him. When he let himself in, his factotum, Samuel Baker,
was hovering in the hall.
“Oh, don’t look so alert, Sam. It’s maddening,” Reggie complained.
Samuel Baker grinned. “You’ll want all the papers, sir?”
“I suppose so!”
“I’m getting each edition as they come along, sir. Would you like a
photograph of Sir Albert?”
“Go away, Sam.” Reggie waved at him. “Go quite away, Sam. Do you know
one reason why many fellows get murdered? It’s because other fellows
can’t live up to them.”
As he changed, Reggie looked through the papers. They were eloquent
upon Sir Albert Lunt. His career, even when treated with the delicacy
due to those who die rich, was a picturesque subject. Sir Albert
Lunt, with his surviving brother Victor, had gone out to South Africa
in the early days of diamonds. His first vocation was discreetly
veiled. Some references to his life-long passion for sport reminded
the knowing of the story that he and his brother had been in the
front rank of the profession which works with three cards, the
thimble, and the pea. Sir Albert, always in close alliance with
Victor, had come out into daylight in the second stage of the diamond
fields, when the business man was following in the steps of lucky
adventurers. It had been Sir Albert’s habit through life to appear in
the second stage of things. The polite newspaper biographies called
this prudence and sound judgment. He had always been fortunate in
reaping other people’s harvests. There were strange tales of his
devices at Kimberley and Johannesburg, and just a hint of a clash
with Cecil Rhodes, in which Rhodes had said what he thought of the
Brothers Lunt with a certain gusto.
So ways that were dark and tricks that were anything but vain in
Kimberley and Johannesburg made Albert Lunt a millionaire. He was not
satisfied. South Africa was too small for him. Or was it too hot for
him? He had spread his “operations” round the world. He was
“interested” in some Manchurian tin and the copper belt of the
Belgian Congo. “One of our modern Empire builders,” as the evening
papers sagely said.
How Sir Albert came by his title was a problem left in decent
obscurity. Much was said of the magnificence of his life in England,
his rococo palace not quite in Park Lane, his pantomime splendours at
Prior’s Colney--the ball-room which was in the lake, and the
dining-room which was panelled in silver. The knowing reader could
divine that Sir Albert had lived not only blatantly but hard and fast.
“Yah,” said Reggie Fortune.
Just as he was putting on his coat, Sam arrived with a photograph of
Sir Albert, and Reggie sat down to it. A plump man of middle height,
rather loudly dressed; a long, heavy face, rather like a horse’s, but
with protruding eyes--commonplace enough. It was only the expression
which made Reggie examine the fellow more closely. Under the
photographic smirk was a look of insolence and conceit of singular
force. The man who owned that would never allow any creature a right
against him. Behold the secret of Sir Albert Lunt’s success. And “Oh,
Peter, I don’t wonder some one murdered the animal,” said Reggie.
“Justifiable porcicide.”
On which he went off to dinner with his sister, who had married a man
in the Treasury, and gave him the pleasant somnolent evening you
would expect.
When he came back there were two telegrams waiting for him.
Number one: “Was called in to Lunt case. Desire consult you. Lady
Lunt also anxious your opinion.--GERALD BARNES.”
Number two: “Desire consult you Lunt case. Please see me Prior’s
Colney morning.--LOMAS.”
Reggie whistled. “Let ’em all come,” said he.
Gerald Barnes had been house surgeon when Reggie was surgical
registrar at St. Simon’s Hospital, and had gone into practice
somewhere in Buckinghamshire. The Hon. Stanley Lomas was the head of
the Criminal Investigation Department.
“Have they had a scrap?” Reggie smiled to himself. “Lots of zeal at
Prior’s Colney. Sam! The car after breakfast. We’ll go and see life.”
And he went to bed.
But in the morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he was told
that Nurse Dauntsey wanted to see him and said it was most urgent.
Nurse Dauntsey was at St. Simon’s Hospital and had a partiality for
Reggie, who (quite paternally) liked her for being gentle and kindly
and pretty. A trim figure, a pair of honest grey eyes, a wholesome
complexion, and an engaging red mouth were the best of Nurse
Dauntsey’s charms, but there was a simplicity about her which
commended them. “Types of English Beauty.--Third Prize, Nurse
Dauntsey,” somebody said once. And it was felt to be just.
On this morning Nurse Dauntsey’s nice face was troubled, and she had
lost her usual calm. “Oh, Mr. Fortune, will you help me?” She rushed
at Reggie. “It’s the Lunt case.”
“Now what in wonder have you to do with the Lunt case?”
Nurse Dauntsey blushed. “I’m engaged, Mr. Fortune,” she said.
“Well, he’s a very lucky man. And I hope you’re a lucky girl.”
“Oh, I am,” said Nurse Dauntsey, with conviction. “He has been
arrested. They say he murdered Sir Albert Lunt. Mr. Fortune, you will
help us?”
“Who in creation is the lucky man?”
“His name is Vernon Cranford. He’s a mining engineer. Oh, he’s been
everywhere. He’s a born explorer, you know. He discovered a copper
mine in Portuguese East Africa, one of the richest mines in the
world. He came home last year and told Sir Albert Lunt about it, and
Sir Albert sent him out to show the place. There was a sort of
expedition, you know. And then, somehow, on the way up country Vernon
was left behind. The other men tricked him. And when he got back to
Mozambique he found that the other men had claimed the place was
theirs. They had--what do you call it?--secured the concession, the
rights in it. Wasn’t it a shame? Vernon was just furious. I don’t
know quite how it happened. He only came back on Monday. I know he
thought it was Sir Albert Lunt’s fault. He said he was going to see
him and have it out with him. He was going to see him yesterday. And
then, last night, I had this note from him.” She held it out, then
couldn’t bear to let it out of her hands, and so read it to him.
“‘DEAR JO,--You mustn’t worry. Lunt’s been found shot, and the police
have pinched me. Take it easy and go slow, and we’ll comb it all
out.--Yours, V.’”
Nurse Dauntsey gazed at Reggie with very big eyes.
“Sounds as if he knew his own mind,” Reggie murmured. “And all this
bein’ thus, you want me to take up the case. Why?”
Nurse Dauntsey was startled. “But to get him off, of course--to
defend him.”
“Yes. But don’t let’s be previous. Speakin’ frankly, did he do it?”
Nurse Dauntsey stood up. “I am engaged to him, Mr. Fortune,” she said
with dignity.
“Quite. That’s the best thing I know about him. But I don’t know much
else.”
“And I am sure he’s not guilty.”
“That kind of man, is he?”
“Just that kind of man,” said Nurse Dauntsey, and her eyes glowed.
“He couldn’t do anything that wasn’t fair and clean.”
“Then he’d better have a solicitor. Do you suppose he’s got one?”
“He’d never think of such a thing.”
“Make him have Moss and Gordon. Ask for Donald Gordon, and say I sent
you.”
“But I want you, Mr. Fortune. You know there’s no one like you.”
“I blush. We both blush.” Reggie smiled at her. “Well, nurse, two
other people have called me into the Lunt case.” Nurse Dauntsey cried
out, and her nice face was piteous. “Take it easy and go slow, as V.
Cranford says. I’m going down to Prior’s Colney now to find out who
I’m acting for. Oh, my dear girl, don’t cry. I’m guessing it may be
you. Now you be a good girl, and take Donald Gordon to him.”
Nurse Dauntsey held out her hands. “Oh, Mr. Fortune, don’t go against
him,” she cried.
Safe in his car, Reggie communed with himself. “She’s a lamb. But
disturbing to the intellects. Well, well. I’ll have to make Brer
Lomas sit up and take notice.”
It was a clear cold morning of early spring, and Reggie shrank under
his rugs. He had no love for east winds. He thought that there should
be a close time for murders. He was elaborating a scheme by which the
murder and the cricket seasons should be conterminous, when, at about
twenty-five miles from London, they passed a horrible building. It
was some distance from the high road, perched on the top of a small
hill. It was of very red brick and very white stone, so arranged as
to suggest the streaky bacon which might be made of a pig who had
died in convulsions. It was ornate with the most improbable
decorations, colonnades, battlements, a spire or so, oriel windows, a
dome, Tudor chimneys, and some wedding-cake furbelows.
Reggie writhed and called to his factotum, who was sitting beside the
chauffeur. “Sam, who had that nightmare?”
“That must be Colney Towers, sir. Mr. Victor Lunt’s place.”
Reggie groaned. “And Victor yet lives!”
A mile or two farther on they ran into a village which, before
ruthless fellows stuck garden-city cottages on to it, must have been
placid and pretty. The car drew up at an honest Georgian lump of red
brick which bore the plate of Dr. Gerald Barnes.
Gerald Barnes was a ruddy young man who looked and dressed like a
farmer. “I say, this is very decent of you. Jolly day, isn’t it?” he
bustled.
“Have you a fire, Barnes--a large fire? Put me on it,” said Reggie.
“And don’t be so cheerful. It unnerves me.” Still in his fur coat,
Reggie planted himself in front of the consulting-room hearth. “Now,
what do you want me for?”