He and Surefoot went down into Berkshire together. He had no difficulty
in recognising the rusted steel case which had once been a delicate
piece of mechanism. He left it to Surefoot Smith to make other and more
grisly identification.
Surefoot returned after visiting the place where the body had been
found, and he had further and convincing information. Jerry Dornford's
car had also been discovered less than a hundred yards from the place
where he had died. The car had evidently been driven over the heath land
and concealed in a small copse.
"It's Dornford's own property, and I don't think there will be much
difficulty in reconstructing the accident which put him out," said
Surefoot. "He had an evening newspaper in the car with him; it is dated
the day of old man Lyne's murder."
"Poor devil! How was he killed--or was it a natural death?" asked Dick.
Surefoot shook his head.
"An accident. The gun was loaded, wasn't it? Well, you'll be able to
take the thing to pieces and tell me if it is still loaded. I should say
it wasn't. Dornford stole the gun: there's no doubt about that. He
either got scared or couldn't sell it, and decided to take it into the
country and bury it. Very naturally, he chose a bit of land which is his
own property. He took a spade with him--we found that. When they found
him he was in his shirt sleeves. He had evidently dug the hole and was
in the act of pushing in the gun when it went off. The bullet went
through his body; we found it in a pine-tree that was immediately in the
line of fire. In his pocket we found a demand for the payment of a loan,
from Stelbey's, who did most of old Lyne's work. We also found a few
notes that are going to make it pretty uncomfortable for somebody called
Jules, when we can trace him."
"I can help you there," said Dick, who knew and rather disliked that
sleek young man.
They came back to town late in the evening, and Surefoot was rather
depressed.
"I always thought that Dornford had something to do with the murder, and
put him down as a 'possible.' But it's pretty clear that he couldn't
have done it, unless there were two bullets in the gun, or unless he
understood the mechanism."
Dick went in search of Mary that night to tell her the news. He had
never liked Gerald Dornford, but there were moments when he thought that
his dislike was not so actively shared by the girl; but here he did her
an injustice. A woman's instincts are keener than a man's, and she had
placed Jerry in the definite category of men to be avoided.
She did not get back to her flat till late that night, as he discovered
after repeated rings, and it was an unusually exhilarated voice that
answered him when eventually he reached her.
"I've had a marvellous day, Dick, and I'm going to surprise our friend
tomorrow--no, not tomorrow, the next day."
He tried to break the news gently about Jerry, and was surprised and a
little annoyed to find his sensation was discounted.
"I read it in the evening newspaper. Poor man!" she said.
Dick Allenby spent a disturbed night. He was getting very worried about
the girl and the risks she was taking. When he rang her in the morning
she had already gone out, but when he saw Surefoot that gentleman did
much to allay his anxiety.
"I've got the cleverest shadower at Scotland Yard following her night
and day; you needn't worry." And then, curiously: "She hasn't told you
what line she's following? The only thing I can find from my men is that
she's chasing round the suburbs of London, and that she's doing a lot of
shopping."
"Shopping?" repeated Dick incredulously. "What sort of shopping?"
"Pickles mostly," said Surefoot Smith, "though she's been after ham,
and took over an hour in the City the other day buying tea. She's being
scientific."
If the truth were told, Mr. Smith found it increasingly difficult to
avoid being very annoyed with his mysterious collaborator. He hated
mysteries.
Mary had gone a little outside of her usual orbit of enquiry that day.
She left early for Maidstone and spent the greater part of the morning
talking with a country bootmaker, an ancient and a prosy gentleman with
a poor memory and a defective system of book-keeping. She got back to
town about five, feeling tired, but a hot bath and two hours' rest
revivified her. She was bright and fresh when she buttoned up her long
coat and went out.
It was ten o'clock; the sky was overcast and a sprinkle of rain was
falling when she signalled a taxi and drove to King's Cross. She found
the disconsolate Binny waiting on the platform. Although the night was
warm he wore an overcoat and a muffler, and was a typical picture of
misery and loneliness when she came up to him. The detective who had
followed her watched them talking, and was slightly amused, for he had
been told something about the object of this northward journey of Mr.
Lyne's handyman.
If he was amused, Binny was sceptical.
"I don't suppose I'll remember her, miss. People change, especially
oldish people. She was only in the house about three weeks after I took
on the job."
"But you would recognise her?" insisted the girl.
He hesitated.
"I suppose I would. I must say, miss," he protested, "I don't like these
night journeys. I was in a railway accident once, and my nerves have
never got over it. What with poor Mr. Lyne's death and all the newspaper
reporters coming to see me, I've got in such a state that I don't know
whether I'm on my head or my heels."
She cut short his personal plaint with a repetition of her instructions.
"You will go to this house and ask to see Mrs. Morris--that is the name
she has taken, possibly because her son has been getting into
trouble----"
"Visiting the sins of the parents upon the children I've heard about;
visiting the sins of the children on the parents is something new."
"If it is Mrs. Laxby you are to send me a wire, but you must be
absolutely sure it _is_ Mrs. Laxby. You've got the photograph of her I
gave you?"
He nodded miserably.
"I got it. But ain't this a job for the police, miss?"
"Now, Binny," she said severely, "you're to do as you're told. I've got
you a nice sleeping car and it will be a very comfortable journey."
"They turn me out at four o'clock in the morning," said Binny; and
then, as though he realised he was probably going a little too far with
one who had such authority, he added, in a more cheerful tone: "All
right, miss, you leave it to me; I'll send you a wire."
She left the platform a few minutes before the train pulled out, and
took another taxi. The detective who followed her had no doubt that she
was going back to her flat, and contented himself with giving
instructions to his driver to follow the cab in front. Taxi-men are not
necessarily good detectives, and it was not until the cab he was
shadowing had set down an elderly man at a temperance hotel in
Bloomsbury that he realised he was on the wrong trail, and doubled back
to the flat to pick her up.
She had not returned, and, in a sweat, he began to cast round before
reporting his failure to his very unpleasant superior.
It was a quarter past eleven when he saw the girl walking quickly in the
opposite direction to which his cab was moving. He recognised Mary,
jumped out of the cab, paid the driver, and followed through the rain on
foot.