CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
When Naball left the two young men, he went straight to the Detective
Office in order to get some one to look after Keith Stewart, and see
that he did not leave Melbourne. Naball did not believe that he was
going to meet any one that night, and wanted to find out why he was
going to the station.
"If he wanted to give me the slip," he thought, "he wouldn't have told
me he was going to the railway station--humph! can't make out what
he's up to."
The gentleman who was to act as Mr. Stewart's shadow was a short,
red-nosed man with a humbled appearance and a chronic sniffle. He was
sparing of words, and communicated with his fellow-man by a series of
nods and winks which did duty with him for conversation.
"Tulch!" said Naball, when this extraordinary being appeared, "I want
you to go to Vance's boarding-house, Powlett Street, East Melbourne,
and keep your eye on a man called Keith Stewart."
An interrogatory sniff from Tulch.
"Ah, I forgot you don't know his personal appearance," said
Naball thoughtfully; "he's tall, with fair hair, wears a suit of
home-spun--humph;--that won't do, there are dozens of young men of
that description. Here!--tell you what, I'll give you a note to
deliver to him personally; muffle yourself up in an ulster when you
deliver it, so that he won't know you--understand?"
Mr. Tulch sniffed in the affirmative.
"Follow him wherever he goes, and tell me what he's up to," said
Naball, scribbling a note to Stewart and handing it to Tulch. "That's
all--clear out."
A farewell sniffle, and Tulch was gone.
"Humph," muttered Naball to himself, "now I'd like to know the meaning
of all this--I don't believe this cock-and-bull story about Stewart
having money left him in this mysterious manner--people don't do that
sort of thing now-a-days--I believe he's been robbing the old man for
some time and was found out--so silenced him by using his knife.
Knife," repeated Naball, "that's not been found yet--I must see about
this--now there's Villiers--I wonder if he could help me? It was
curious that he should have been about the shop at that special
time--he's a bad lot--gad, I'll go and see what I can find out from
him."
Knowing Mr. Villiers' habits, he had no difficulty in discovering his
whereabouts. Ah Goon's was where Villiers generally dwelt, so, after
Naball had partaken of a nice little dinner, he went off to Little
Bourke Street.
It was now between seven and eight o'clock, which was the time
Villiers generally dined, so, Naball not finding him at Ah Goon's,
betook himself to a cook-shop in the neighbourhood, to which he was
directed by a solid-looking Chinaman.
It was a low-roofed place, consisting of a series of apartments all
opening one into the other by squat little door-ways. The atmosphere
was dull and smoky, and the acrid smell of burning wood saluted
Naball's nostrils when he entered. Near the door-way a Chinaman was
rolling out rice bread to the thinness of paper; then, cutting it into
little squares, he wrapped each round a kind of sausage meat, and
placed the rolls thus prepared on a tray for cooking.
In the next apartment was a large boiler, with the lid off, filled
with water, in which ten or twelve turkeys, skewered and trussed, were
bobbing up and down amid the froth and scum of the boiling water. A
crowd of Chinese, all chattering in their high shrill voices, were
moving about half seen in the smoky atmosphere, through which candle
and lamp light flamed feebly.
Villiers, in a kind of little cell apartment, was having his supper
when the detective entered. Before him was a large bowl filled with
soup, and in this were squares of thin rice bread, and portions of
turkey and duck mixed up into a savoury mess, and flavoured with the
dark brown fluid which the Chinese use instead of salt.
"Oh, it's you," growled Villiers, looking up with a scowl, "what do
you want?"
"You, my friend," said Naball cheerfully, taking a seat.
"Oh, do you?" said Villiers, rubbing his bleared eyes, inflamed by the
pungent smoke of the wood-fire. "I s'pose you think I killed old
Lazarus?"
"No, I don't," retorted the detective, looking straight at him, "but I
think you know more than you tell."
"He! he!" grinned the other sardonically. "Perhaps I do--perhaps I
don't--it's my business."
"And mine also," said Naball, somewhat nettled. "You forget the case
is in my hands."
"Don't care whose hands it's in," retorted Villiers, finishing his
soup, "t'aint any trouble of mine."
The detective bit his lip at the impenetrable way in which Villiers
met his advances. Suddenly a thought flashed across his mind, and he
bent forward with a meaning smile.
"Got any more diamonds?"
Villiers pushed back his chair from the table, and stared at Naball.
"What diamonds?" he asked, in a husky voice.
"Come now," said Naball, with a wink, "we know all about that--eh? Ah
Goon is a good pawnbroker, isn't he?"
"Ah Goon!" gasped Villiers, turning a little pale.
"Yes; though he did only lend twenty pounds on those diamonds."
"Look here, Mr. Jack-o'-Dandy," said Villiers, bringing his fist down
on the table, "I don't want no beating about the bush, I don't. What
do you mean, curse you?"
"I mean that I know all about your little games," replied Naball,
leaning over the table.
"I know Caprice stole her own jewels for some purpose, and gave you
some of the swag to shut your mouth, and I know that you're going to
tell me all you know about this Russell Street business, or, by Jove,
I'll have you arrested on suspicion."
Villiers gave a howl like a wild beast, and, flinging himself across
the table, tried to grapple with the detective, but recoiled with a
shriek of wrath and alarm as he saw the shining barrel of a revolver
levelled at his head.
"Won't do, Villiers," said Naball smoothly; "try some other game."
Whereupon Villiers, seeing that the detective was too strong for him,
sat down sulkily in his chair, and after invoking a blessing on
Naball's eyes, invited him to speak out. The detective replaced the
revolver in his pocket, whence it could be easily seized if necessary,
and smiled complacently at his sullen-faced friend.
"Aha!" he said, producing a dainty cigarette, "this is much better.
Have you a light?"
Villiers flung down a lucifer match with a husky curse, which Naball,
quite disregarding, took up the match and lighted his cigarette.
Watching the blue smoke curling from his lips for a few moments, he
turned languidly to Villiers, and began to talk.
"You see, I know all about it," he said quietly; "you were too drunk
to remember that night when you tried to take a diamond crescent off
that woman, and I expect Ah Goon never told you!"
"It was you who took it, then," growled Villiers fiercely.
"In your own words, perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't," replied
Naball, in an irritating tone; "at all events, it's quite safe. You
had better answer all my questions, because you bear too bad a
character not to be suspected of the crime, particularly as you were
about Russell Street on that night."
"Yes, I was," said Villiers angrily; "and who saw me--Keith Stewart--a
mighty fine witness he is."
"Aha!" thought the astute Naball, "he does know something, then."
"I could put a spoke in Stewart's wheel," grumbled the other
viciously.
"I don't think so," replied the detective, fingering his cigarette,
"he is far above you--he's got money, is going to make a name by a
successful play, and, if report speaks truly, Caprice loves him.
"I don't care a farthing whether she does or not," said Villiers
loudly; "she'd love any one who has money. Stewart's got some, has he;
where did he get it?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"I do!"
"Indeed! where?"
"Never you mind," said Villiers suspiciously. "I know my own knowing."
"Remember what I said," observed Naball quietly, "and tell me all."
"If I tell you all, what will you do?" asked Villiers.
"I'll save your neck from the gallows," replied Naball smoothly.
"Not good enough."
"Oh, very well," said the detective rising, "I've no more to say. I'm
off to the magistrate."
"What for?"
Naball fixed his keen eyes on the bloated face of the other.
"To get a warrant for your arrest."
"You can't do that."
"Can't I--you'll see."
"No; wait a bit," said Villiers in alarm; "I can easily prove myself
innocent."
"Indeed; then you'd better do so now, before a warrant is out for your
arrest."
"You won't give me any money?"
"Not a cent--it's not a question of money with you, but life or
death."
Villiers deliberated for a moment, and then apparently made up his
mind.
"Sit down," he said sullenly. "I'll tell you all I know."
Naball resumed his seat, lighted a fresh cigarette, and prepared to
listen.
"I was rather drunk on the night of the murder," he said, "but not so
bad as Stewart thought me. He saw me at the shop-door at two o'clock,
but I was there a quarter of an hour before."
"Did you see anything?"
"I saw the gate which led into the alley open," replied Villiers. "No
one was about, so I walked in."
"What for?" asked Naball, glancing at him keenly.
"Oh, nothing," replied Villiers indifferently; "the fact was, I saw a
policeman coming along, and though I was pretty drunk, I'd sense
enough to know I might be run in, so I went into the alley and closed
the gate till he passed."
"And then you came out."
"No, I didn't. I walked to the back of the house just to see where it
led to. I saw the window wide open, and looked in and saw--"
"The murdered man?"
Villiers nodded.
"Yes; the moonlight was streaming in at the window, and I could see
quite plainly. I was in a fright, as I thought, seeing I had no
business on the premises, I might be accused, so I got down from the
window and went off, closing the gate of the alley after me."
"It wasn't wise of you to stay about the premises," said Naball.
"I know that," rejoined Villiers tartly; "but I couldn't get away,
because I saw Stewart coming up the street just as I was wondering
where to go; I then pretended to be drunk, so that I could get away
without suspicion."
"Why didn't you run?" asked Naball.
"Because he was too close, and besides, he might have given chase,
thinking I had been robbing the shop; then, with the open window and
the murdered man, it would have been all up with me."
"I don't know if it isn't all up with you now," said Naball drily.
"How do I know you are innocent!"
"Because I know who killed Lazarus."
"The deuce you do--who?"
"Stewart himself."
"Humph! that's what I thought; but what proof have you?"
Villiers put his hand in his pocket and brought out a large knife.
"I found this just under the window," he said, handing it to Naball.
"You'll see there's blood on the handle, so I'm sure it was with it
the crime was committed."
"But how do you know it's Stewart's knife?" asked Naball.
Villiers placed his finger on one side of the handle.
"Read that," he said briefly.
"From Meg," read Naball.
"Exactly," said Villiers. "Meg is Kitty Marchurst's child, and she
gave it to Keith Stewart."
"By Jove, it looks suspicious," said Naball. "He is in possession
of a large sum of money, and can't tell how he got it. He can't
account for his time on the night of the murder, and this knife with
his name on it is found close to the window through which the murderer
entered--humph!--things look black against him."
"I suppose you'll arrest him at once?" said Villiers malignantly.
"Then you suppose wrong," retorted Naball. "I'll have him looked after
so that he won't escape; but I'll hold my tongue about this, and so
will you."
"Until when?"
"Until I find out more about Stewart. I must discover if the knife was
in his possession on the night of the murder, and also if this story
about his money is true; again, I want to wait till some of these
stolen bank notes are in circulation, so as to get more evidence
against him."
"But what am I to do?" asked Villiers sulkily.
"You are to hold your tongue," said Naball, rising to his feet, "or
else I may make things unpleasant for you--it's a good thing for your
own sake you have told me all."
"Told you all," muttered Villiers, as Naball took his departure. "I'm
not so sure about that."