But why? We know all about Wilton. He’s run quite straight till
now--hospital career, military service, this private practice all
straightforward and creditable. How should he have enemies who stick
at nothing to get him out of the way? A man in a gang of criminals or
revolutionaries is sometimes involved in a sham crime by the others
to punish him, or for fear he should betray them. But that can’t be
Wilton’s case. His life’s all open and ordinary. I suppose a man
might have private enemies who would use such a trick, though I don’t
know another case.”
“Oh Lord, yes,” said Lomas, “there was the Buckler affair. I always
thought that was the motive in the Brendon murder.”
Eddis frowned. “Well--as you say. But Wilton has no suspicion of a
trumped-up case. He doesn’t know he has enemies.”
“No,” said Reggie. “I rather think Wilton don’t know what it is he
knows. Suppose he blundered on some piece of awkward evidence about
Mr. Witt or some of Mr. Witt’s friends. He don’t know it’s
dangerous--but they do.”
“Men have been murdered in a case like that and never knew why they
were killed,” said Lomas.
“I dare say,” Eddis cried. “It’s all quite possible. But it’s all in
the air. I have nothing that I can act upon.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Reggie. “You’re so modest.”
“Perhaps I am,” Eddis shrugged. “But I can’t recommend Wilton’s
sentence for revision on a provisional hypothesis.”
“Revision be damned,” Reggie cried. “I want him free.”
Eddis stared at him. “But this is fantastic,” he protested.
“Free and cleared. My God, think of the poor beggar in a convict gang
because these rascals found him inconvenient. To reduce his sentence
is only another wrong. He wants you to give him his life back.”
“It is a hard case,” Eddis sighed. “But what can I do? I can’t clear
the man’s character. If we let him out now, he’s a broken man.”
“My dear fellow, I’m saying so,” said Reggie mildly. “There’s also
another point. What is it Mr. Witt’s up to that’s so important? I
could bear to know that.”
“That’s not my job,” said Eddis with relief. “But you’re still in the
air, Fortune. What do you want to do? I must take some action.”
“And that’s very painful to any good official. I sympathize with you.
Lomas sympathizes with you more, don’t you, Lomas, old thing? And I’m
not sure that you can do any good.” Mr. Fortune relapsed into cigar
smoke and meditation.
“You’re very helpful,” said Eddis.
“The fact is, all the evidence against the man has gone phut,” said
Lomas. “It’s deuced awkward, but we have to face it. Better let him
out, Eddis.”
Eddis gasped. “My dear Lomas! I really can’t follow you. The only
evidence which is proved false is the tobacco, which wasn’t crucial.
The rest is open to suspicion, but we can’t say it’s false, and it
satisfied the judge and jury. It’s unprecedented to reduce the
sentence to nothing in such a case.”
“I’m not thinking of your troubles,” said Lomas. “I want to know what
Mr. Witt has up his sleeve.”
Reggie came out of his smoke. “Let Wilton out--have him watched--and
see what Witt and Co. get up to. Well, that’s one way. But it’s a
gamble.”
“It’s also out of the question,” Eddis announced.
Reggie turned on him. “What exactly are you for, Eddis?” he said.
“What is the object of your blessed existence?”
Eddis remarked coldly that it was not necessary to lose one’s temper.
“No. No, I’m not cross with you, but you puzzle my simple mind. I
thought your job was to see justice done. Well, get on with it.”
“If you’ll be so very good as to say what you suggest,” said Eddis,
flushing.
“You’ll say it’s unprecedented. Well, well. This is my little notion.
Tell the defence about the tobacco and say that that offers a ground
for carrying the case to the Court of Appeal. Then let it get into
the papers that there’s a doubt about the conviction, probability of
the Wilton case being tried again, and so on. Something rather
pompous and mysterious to set the papers going strong about Wilton.”
He smiled at Lomas. “I think we could wangle that?”
“I have known it done,” said Lomas.
“Good heavens, I couldn’t have any dealings with the press,” Eddis
cried.
“Bless your sweet innocence. We’ll manage it. It don’t matter what
the papers say so long as they say a lot. That’ll wake up Witt and
Co., and we’ll see what happens.”
Eddis looked horrified and bewildered. “I think it is clear the
defence should be advised of the flaw discovered in the evidence in
order that the conviction may be reviewed by the Court of Appeal,” he
said solemnly. “But of course I--I couldn’t sanction anything more.”
“That’s all right, my dear fellow,” Lomas smiled “Nobody sanctions
these things. Nobody does them. They only happen.” And Eddis was got
rid of.
“My country, oh my country!” Reggie groaned. “That’s the kind of man
that governs England.”
A day or two later saw Mr. Fortune shivering on an April morning
outside Princetown prison. He announced to the governor that he
wanted to get to know Dr. Wilton.
“I don’t think you’ll make much of him,” the governor shook his head.
“The man seems stupefied. Of course a fellow who has been in a good
position often is so when he comes here. Wilton’s taking it very
hard. When we told him there was a flaw in the evidence and he could
appeal against his sentence, he showed no interest. He was sullen and
sour as he has been all the time. All he would say was ‘What’s the
good? You’ve done for me.’”
“Poor devil,” Reggie sighed.
“It may be.” The governor looked dubious. “No one can judge a man’s
character on his first days in prison. But I’ve known men who gave me
a good deal more reason to believe them innocent.”
Dr. Wilton was brought in, a shred of a man in his prison clothes. A
haggard face glowered at Reggie. “My name’s Fortune, Dr. Wilton,”
Reggie held out his hand. It was ignored. “I come from Scotland Yard.
I found the mistake which had been made about the tobacco. It made me
very interested in your case. I feel sure we don’t know the truth of
it. If you can help me to that it’s going to help you.” He waited.
“The police can’t help me,” said Wilton. “I’m not going to say
anything.”
“My dear chap, I know that was a bad blunder. But there’s more than
that wants looking into. If you’ll give us a chance we might be able
to clear up the whole case and set you on your feet again. That’s
what I’m here for.”
And Wilton laughed. “No thanks,” he said unpleasantly.
“Just think of it. I can’t do you any harm. I’m looking for the
truth. I’m on your side. What I want to know is, have you got any
enemies? Anyone who might like to damage you? Anybody who wanted to
put you out of the way?”
“Only the police,” said Wilton.
“Oh, my dear chap!” Reggie brushed that away. “Did anything strange
ever happen to you before this charge?”
“What?” Wilton flushed. “Oh, I see. I’m an old criminal, am I? Better
look for my previous convictions. Or you can invent ’em. Quite easy.”
“My dear chap, what good can this do you?” said Reggie sadly. “The
police didn’t invent this charge. Your friend Mr. Witt made it. Do
you know anything about Mr. Witt? Did it ever occur to you he wanted
you off the scene--in the Dutch colonies--or in prison?”
“I’ve nothing against Witt,” said Wilton.
“Oh, my dear fellow! How did the diamonds get in your room?”
“Yes, how did they?” said Wilton savagely. “Ask your police
inspector. The man who said that was my tobacco. You’re a policeman.
You know how these jobs are done.”
“I wish I did,” Reggie sighed. “If I did I dare say you wouldn’t be
here.”
But he could get no more out of Dr. Wilton. He went away sorrowful.
He had not recovered his spirits when he sought Lomas next morning.
Lomas was brisk. “You’re the man I want. What’s the convict’s theory
of it?”
Reggie shook his head. “Lomas, old thing, do I ever seem a little
vain of my personal charm? The sort of fellow who thinks fellows
can’t resist him?”
“Nothing offensive, Fortune. A little childlike, perhaps. You do
admire yourself, don’t you?”
“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’ When you find me feeling fascinating
again, kindly murmur the name Wilton. I didn’t fascinate him. Not one
little damn. He was impossible.”
“You surprise me,” said Lomas gravely. “Nothing out of him at all?”
“Too much, too much,” Reggie sighed. “Sullen, insolent, stupid--that
was our young doctor, poor devil. It was the wicked police that did
him in, a put-up job by the force, the inspector hid the diamonds in
his room to spite him. Such was Dr. Horace Wilton, the common, silly
criminal to the life. It means nothing, of course. The poor beggar’s
dazed. Like a child kicking the naughty chair that he fell over.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Lomas. “The inspector has shot himself,
Fortune. We had him up here, you know, to inquire into the case. He
was nervous and confused. He went back home and committed suicide.”
Reggie Fortune huddled himself together in his chair. “Nothing
against the man before. There’s only this question of the tobacco
against him now. But it looks ugly, doesn’t it?”
“We know he said the tobacco was what it isn’t. If that made him kill
himself he was too conscientious for a policeman, poor beggar. Why
does it look ugly, Lomas? I think it’s pitiful. My God, if we all
shot ourselves when we made mistakes, there would be vacancies in the
force. Poor Wilton said the inspector put the diamonds in his room.
But that’s crazy.”
“It’s all crazy. You are a little confused yourself, Fortune. You say
it’s preposterous for the man to shoot himself merely because he made
a mistake, and equally preposterous to suppose he had any other
reason.”
“Poor beggar, poor beggar,” Reggie murmured. “No, Lomas, I’m not
confused. I’m only angry. Wilton’s not guilty and your inspector’s
not guilty. And one’s in prison and one’s dead, and we call ourselves
policemen. Shutting the stable door after the horse’s stolen, that’s
a policeman’s job. But great heavens, we don’t even shut the door.”
Lomas shook his head. “Not only angry, I fear, but rattled. My dear
Fortune, what can we do?”
“Witt hasn’t shown his hand?”
“Not unless he had a hand in the inspector’s suicide.”
“I suppose it was suicide?”
“Well, you’d better look at the body. The evidence is good enough.”
“Nothing in the papers?”
Lomas stared at him. “Columns of course. All quite futile. You didn’t
expect evidence in the papers, did you?”
“You never know, you know. You don’t put a proper value on the Press,
Lomas.”
It has been remarked of Mr. Fortune that when he is interested he
will do everything himself. This is considered by professional
critics a weakness. Yet in this case of the young doctor, where he
was continually occupied with details, he seems to have kept a clear
head for strategy.
He went to see the inspector’s body in the mortuary. He came out in
gloomy thought.
“Satisfied, sir?” said Superintendent Bell, who escorted him.
Reggie stopped and stared at him. “Oh, Peter, what a word!” he
muttered. “Satisfied! No, Bell, not satisfied. Only infuriated. He
killed himself all right, poor beggar. One more victim for Witt and
Company.”
“What’s the next move, sir?”
“Goodbye,” said Mr. Fortune. “I’m going home to read the papers.”
With all the London papers which had appeared since the news that
there was a doubt about the justice of Wilton’s conviction had been
given them, he shut himself into his study. Most of them had taken
the hint that there was a mystery in the case and made a lot of it.
The more rational were content to tell the story in detail, pointing
out the incongruity of such a man as Wilton and the crime. The more
fatuous put out wild inventions as to the theories held by the
police. But there was general sympathy with Dr. Wilton, a general
readiness to expect that he would be cleared. He had a good
press--except for the “Daily Watchman.”
The “Daily Watchman” began in the same strain as the rest of the
sillier papers, taking Wilton’s innocence for granted, and devising
crazy explanations of the burglary. But on the third day it burst
into a different tune. Under a full-page headline “The Wilton
Scandal,” its readers were warned against the manufactured agitation
to release the man Wilton. It was a trick of politicians and civil
servants and intellectuals to prevent the punishment of a rascally
criminal. It was another case of one law for the rich and another for
the poor. It was a corrupt job to save a scoundrel who had friends in
high places. It was, in fine, all sorts of iniquity, and the British
people must rise in their might and keep the wicked Wilton in gaol if
they did not want burglars calling every night.
Mr. Fortune went to sup at that one of his clubs used by certain
journalists. There he sought and at last found Simon Winterbottom,
the queerest mixture of scholarship, slang, and backstairs gossip to
be found in London. “Winter,” said he, having stayed the man with
flagons, “who runs the ‘Daily Watchman’?”
“My God!” Winterbottom was much affected. “Are you well, Reginald?
Are you quite well? It’s the wonkiest print on the market. All
newspapers are run by madmen, but the ‘Watchman’ merely dithers.”
“You said ‘on the market,’” Reggie repeated. “Corrupt?”
“Well, naturally. Too balmy to live honest. Why this moral fervour,
Reginald? I know you’re officially a guardian of virtue, but you
mustn’t let it weigh on your mind.”
“I want to know why the ‘Watchman’ changed sides on the Wilton case.”
Winterbottom grinned. “That was a giddy stunt, wasn’t it? The
complete Gadarene. I don’t know, Reginald. Why ask for reasons? Let
twenty pass and stone the twenty-first, loving not, hating not, just
choosing so.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “It’s the change of mind. The sudden
change of mind. This is rather a bad business, Winter.”
“Oh, simian,” Winterbottom agreed. His comical face was working. “You
are taking it hard, Reginald.”
“I’m thinking of that poor devil Wilton. Who got at the Watchman, old
thing? I could bear to know.”
On the next day but one Mr. Fortune received a letter.
DEAR R.,--
The greaser Kemp who owns the “Watchman” came in one bright day,
cancelled all instructions on the Wilton case and dictated the new
line. No known cause for the rash act. It leaks from his wretched
intimates that Kemp has a new pal, one Kuyper, a ruffian said by some
to be a Hun, certainly a City mushroom. This seems highly irrelevant.
You must not expect Kemp to be rational even in his vices. Sorry.
S. W.
Mr. Fortune went into the city and consumed turtle soup and oyster
patties with Tommy Owen, the young son of an ancient firm of
stockbrokers. When they were back again in the dungeon which is
Tommy’s office, “Thomas, do you know anything of one Kuyper?” he said.
“Wrong number, old bean,” Tommy Owen shook his round head. “Not in my
department. International finance is Mr. Julius Kuyper’s line.”
Reggie smiled. It is the foible of Tommy Owen to profess ignorance.
“Big business?” he said.
“Not so much big business as queer business. Mr. Julius Kuyper blew
into London some months ago. Yes, January. He is said to be
negotiating deals in Russian mining properties.”
“Sounds like selling gold bricks.”
“Well, not in my department,” said Tommy Owen again. “There’s some
money somewhere. Mr. Kuyper does the thing in style. He’s thick with
some fellows who don’t go where money isn’t. In point of fact, old
dear, I’ve rather wondered about Mr. Kuyper. Do you know anything?”
“Nothing that fits, Tommy. What does he want in London?”
“Search me,” said Tommy Owen. “I say, Fortune, when Russia went pop
some blokes must have laid their hands on a lot of good stuff. I
suppose you fellows at Scotland Yard know where it’s gone?”
“I wonder if your friend Kuyper’s been dealing in jewels.”
Tommy Owen looked wary. “Don’t that fit, old bean? There’s a blighter
that’s been busy with brother Kuyper blossomed out with a rare old
black pearl in his tiepin. They used to tell me the good black pearls
went to Russia.”
“What is Kuyper? A Hun?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. He might be anything. Lean beggar, oldish,
trim little beard, very well groomed, talks English well, says he’s a
Dutchman. You could see him yourself. He has offices in that ghastly
new block in Mawdleyn Lane.”
“Thanks very much, Thomas,” said Mr. Fortune.
“Oh, not a bit. Sorry I don’t know anything about the blighter,” said
Tommy Owen, and Mr. Fortune laughed.
As a taxi took him home to Wimpole Street he considered his evidence.
The mysterious Kuyper said he was Dutch. The vanished Witt also said
he was Dutch. Kuyper said he was selling Russian jewels. Witt also
dealt in jewels. Mr. Fortune went home and telephoned to Lomas that
Julius Kuyper of Mawdleyn Lane should be watched, and by men of
experience.
Even over the telephone the voice of Lomas expressed surprise.
“Kuyper?” it repeated. “What is the reference, Fortune? The Wilton
case. Quite so. You did say Julius Kuyper? But he’s political. He’s a
Bolshevik.”
Reggie also felt some surprise but he did not show it.
“Some of your men who’ve moved in good criminal society,” he said
firmly. “Rush it, old thing.”
After breakfast on the next day but one he was going to the telephone
to talk to Lomas when the thing rang at him. “Is that Fortune?” said
Lomas’s voice. “Speaking? The great Mr. Fortune! I looks towards you,
Reginald. I likewise bows. Come right on.”
Mr. Fortune found Lomas with Superintendent Bell. They lay back in
their chairs and looked at him. Lomas started up, came to him and
walked round him, eyeglass up.
“What is this?” said Mr. Fortune. “Dumb crambo?”
“Admiration,” Lomas sighed. “Reverence. Awe. How do you do these
things, Fortune? You look only human, not to say childlike. Yet you
have us all beat. You arrive while we’re still looking for the way.”
“I wouldn’t have said it was a case for Mr. Fortune, either,” said
Bell.
“No flowers, by request. Don’t be an owl, Lomas. Who is Kuyper?”
Lomas sat down again. “I hoped you were going to tell us that,” he
said. “What in the world made you go for Kuyper?”
“He calls himself Dutch and so did Witt. He deals in jewels and so
did Witt. And I fancy he set the ‘Daily Watchman’ howling that Wilton
must stay in prison.”
“And if you will kindly make sense of that for me I shall be
obliged,” said Lomas.
“It doesn’t make sense. I know that. Hang it all, you must do
something for yourselves. Justify your existence, Lomas. Who is
Kuyper?”
“The political branch have had their eye on him for some time. He’s
been selling off Russian jewels. They believe he’s a Bolshevik.”
“That don’t help us,” Reggie murmured.
“No. The connexion of Wilton with Bolshevism isn’t what you’d call
obvious. I did think you were hunting the wild, wild goose, Reginald.
All my apologies. None of our men recognized Kuyper. But one of them
did recognize Mr. Witt. Mr. Witt is now something in Kuyper’s office.
Marvellous, Reginald. How do you do it?”
“My head,” said Reggie Fortune. “Oh, my head! Kuyper’s a Bolshevik
agent and Kuyper employs a man to put Wilton out of the way. It’s a
bad dream.”
“Yes, it’s not plausible. Not one of your more lucid cases, Fortune.”
“I had thought,” said Bell diffidently, “if Dr. Wilton happened to
get to know of some Bolshevik plot, Mr. Fortune, they would be
wanting to put him out.”
“They would--in a novel,” Reggie shook his head. “But hang it all,
Wilton don’t know that he ever knew anything.”
“P’r’aps he’s a bit of a Bolshevik himself, sir,” said Bell.
Lomas laughed. “Bell has a turn for melodrama.”
“Yes. Yes, there is a lot of melodrama in the world. But somehow I
don’t fancy Kuyper, Witt and Co. play it. I think I’ll go and have a
little talk with the firm.”
“You?” Lomas stared at him.
“Not alone, I reckon, sir.” Bell stood up.
“Well, you come and chaperon me. Yes, I want to look at ’em, Lomas.
Wilton’s a medical man, you know. I want to see the patients, too.”
“You can try it,” Lomas said dubiously. “You realize we have nothing
definite against Witt, and nothing at all against Kuyper. And I’m not
sure that Kuyper hasn’t smelt a rat. He’s been staying at the
Olympian. He was there on Tuesday night, but last night our men lost
him.”
“Come on, Bell,” said Mr. Fortune.
Outside the big new block in Mawdleyn Lane Superintendent Bell
stopped a moment and looked round. A man crossed the road and made a
sign as he vanished into a doorway
“He’s in, sir,” Bell said, and they went up to the offices of Mr.
Julius Kuyper.
A pert young woman received them. They wanted to see Mr. Kuyper? By
appointment? Oh, Mr. Kuyper never saw anyone except by appointment.
“He’ll see me,” said Bell, and gave her a card. She looked him over
impudently and vanished. Another young woman peered round the glass
screen at them.
“Sorry.” The first young woman came briskly back. “Mr. Kuyper’s not
in. Better write and ask for an appointment.”
“That won’t do. Who is in?” said Bell heavily.
“Don’t you bully me!” she cried.
“You don’t want to get into trouble, do you?” Bell frowned down at
her. “You go in there and say Superintendent Bell is waiting to see
Mr. Witt.”
“We haven’t got any Mr. Witt.”
“You do as you’re told.”
She went. She was gone a long time. A murmur of voices was audible.
She came out again, looking flustered. “Well, what about it?” said
Bell.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. A door slammed, a bell
rang. She made a nervous exclamation and turned to answer it. Bell
went first and Reggie on his heels.
In the inner room an oldish man stood smoothing his hair. He was
flushed and at the sight of Bell he cried out: “But you intrude, sir.”
“Ah, here’s our old friend, Mr. Witt,” Bell smiled. “I should----”
“There is some mistake. You are wrong, sir. What is your name? Mr.
Superintendent--my name is Siegel.”
“I dare say it is. Then why did you call yourself Witt?”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“I don’t forget faces. I should know you anywhere. You’re the Mr.
Witt who prosecuted Dr. Horace Wilton. Come, come, the game’s up now.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?”
“Time to tell the truth,” said Reggie sweetly, “time you began to
think of yourself, isn’t it? We know all about the evidence in the
Wilton burglary. Why did you do it, Mr. Witt? It wasn’t safe, you
know.”
“What do you want?”
“Well, where’s your friend Mr. Kuyper? We had better have him in.”
“Mr. Kuyper has gone out, sir.”
Reggie laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’re not doing yourself
justice. I don’t suppose you wanted to trap Dr. Wilton. You’d better
consider your position. What is Mr. Kuyper’s little game with you?”
Mr. Witt looked nervously round the room. “You--you mustn’t--I mean
we can’t talk here,” he said. “The girls will be listening.”
“Oh, send the girls out to tea,” said Bell.
“No. I can’t do that. I had rather come with you, Mr. Superintendent.
I would rather indeed.”
“Come on then.”
Mr. Witt, who was shaking with nervous fear, caught up his hat and
coat. The farther door of the room was flung open. Two pistol shots
were fired. As Reggie sprang at the door it was slammed in his face
and locked. Mr. Witt went down in a heap. Bell dashed through the
outer office into the corridor. Reggie knelt by Mr. Witt.
“Kuyper,” Mr. Witt gasped. “Kuyper.”
“I know. I know. We’ll get him yet. Where’s he gone?”
“His yacht,” Mr. Witt gasped. “Yacht at Gravesend. He had it ready.”
He groaned and writhed. He was hit in the shoulder and stomach.
Reggie did what he could for the man, and went to the telephone. He
had finished demanding an ambulance when Bell came back breathless,
with policemen in uniform at his heels.
“The swine,” Bell gasped. “He’s off, sir. Must have gone down the
other staircase into Bull Court. We had a man there but he wouldn’t
know there was anything up, he’d only follow. Pray God he don’t lose
him. They lost him last night.”
“Send these girls away,” said Mr. Fortune. “Let the constables keep
the door. I want to use the telephone.” And when the ambulance had
come and taken Mr. Witt, happily unconscious at last, to hospital, he
was still talking into the telephone. “Is that clear?” he concluded.
“All right. Goodbye.” He hung up the receiver. “Come on, Bell. It’s
Gravesend now. This is our busy day.”
“Gravesend?” The superintendent stared.
But it was into a teashop that Reggie plunged when they reached the
street. He came out with large paper bags just as a big car turned
painfully into Mawdleyn Lane. “Good man,” he smiled upon the
chauffeur. “Gravesend police station. And let her out when you can.”
With his mouth full he expounded to Superintendent Bell his theory of
the evasion of Mr. Kuyper.
As the car drew up in Gravesend a man in plain clothes came out of
the police station. “Scotland Yard, sir?” Bell pulled a card out.
“Inspector’s down on the beach now. I was to take you to him.”
By the pier the inspector was waiting. He hurried up to their car.
“Got him?” said Bell.