UNCLE ROB AND DICK ARGUE IT OUT.
"Is that in your line, Dick?" said Inspector Robson. "You were wishing
for something startling, and I should say you've got it."
"It is hardly startling enough yet," Dick replied, "but there's no
telling what it may lead to. Have you formed an opinion?"
"I haven't heard lately of any dead bodies being found that couldn't
be identified, but it looks to me as if the man has made away with
himself."
"No, uncle. I'll take his own word for it that he'd do his duty and
fight it out to the bitter end."
"Mightn't he have said so to his wife to quiet her? And even if it
wasn't in his mind then, it might have come suddenly afterwards. When
a man's in the state he was, there's no telling what he might do on
the spur of the moment. I don't throw doubt on Mrs. Death's story,
though I've heard some queer stories in my time and believed in them
at the time they were told, only to find out a little later that there
wasn't one word of truth in them. The lengths that people'll go to
whose minds are unsettled is astonishing. Astonishing!" he repeated
reflectively. "How often do you hear of men giving themselves up as
murderers when they're as innocent as the babe unborn!"
"Suppose we try and follow Mrs. Death's story out, uncle," said Dick.
"Go ahead. Upon my word, Dick, I almost fancy I hear that poor child's
cough now--the ghost of a cough travelling through the fog. It will
make a ghost of her, I'm afraid, before she's many weeks older."
"Poor little mite!" said Dick, and paused a moment. "Uncle Rob, you've
the kindest heart that ever beat."
"Pooh, pooh, my lad, the fog's got into your foolish noddle."
"You don't deserve," pursued Dick, very earnestly, "to have trouble
come upon you unaware----"
"Dick!" cried Inspector Robson, startled by the unusual earnestness
with which the words were spoken no less than by the words themselves.
"Trouble come upon me unaware! Do you know what you are saying, my
lad?"
"I was thinking," said Dick, in some confusion, "of the trouble that
comes unexpectedly to many people without their being prepared for
it."
"Oh, that! Well, when such trouble comes we've got to bear it and meet
it like men."
It was in Dick's mind, though not upon his tongue, "But if it comes
upon you through the one you hold most dear, through Florence, dear to
me as to you, how will you bear it then?"
"Go on with the story of Abel Death, Dick. The last we see of him is
when he sits at the table in his lodgings with his head in his hands,
and starts up to make one more appeal to Samuel Boyd. The first
question is, does he go straight to Catchpole Square, or does he go
into a public and get drunk?"
"He goes straight to Catchpole Square, and knocks at Samuel Boyd's
door."
"Admitted--for the sake of argument."
"The next question is, does he get into the house?"
"And there," said the Inspector, "we come to a full stop."
"Not at all. Let us consider the possibilities. There are a dozen
doors open."
"All opening on different roads, and leading to confusion. Better to
have one strong clue than a dozen to distract your mind."
"Granted," said Dick; "but in the absence of that one strong clue I
shall leave all the doors open till I see what is behind them. Let us
suppose that Abel Death gets into the house."
"Openly or secretly, Dick?"
"Openly. Samuel Boyd admits him. He takes delight in playing with
those whom he oppresses, in worrying and torturing them, in leading
them on to hope, and then plunging them into despair. Abel Death being
in the house, the question arises did he ever get out of it?"
"What are you thinking of, Dick? Murder?"
"The man is gone, and left no trace behind. If he had committed
suicide it is a thousand to one that his body would have been found
and identified."
"True."
"How do men commit suicide?" continued Dick. "I will confine myself to
four methods: by poison, by hanging, by shooting, by drowning. It
would have been difficult for Abel Death to purchase poison; his
nerves were unstrung, and an inquiry for poison across the counter
would have caused suspicion; the state of agitation he was in would
have prevented the invention of a plausible explanation. We put poison
aside. A pistol he could not have possessed, because of his poverty.
We put shooting aside. Hanging comes next; but if he had resorted to
that means of ending his life a very few hours would have sufficed to
make the matter public. There would be no mystery to clear up. This
reduces us to drowning. The water-ways of London do not hide many
secrets of this nature, and had he sought death in the river his body
would have been washed ashore."
"Therefore, Dick," said Inspector Robson, looking at his nephew in
admiration, "not suicide."
"Therefore, uncle, not suicide."
"He may have run away."
"With what object? His pockets were empty, and the idea of
unfaithfulness to his wife is preposterous."
"Very well. Let us get back to the main point. What has become of Abel
Death. We left him in Samuel Boyd's house, and we decide that he did
not come out of it. I am going to have my say now."
"Fire away."
"The man not coming out of the house, the natural conclusion is that
he is dead, and if he did not meet his death by suicide there has been
murder done. To be sure," he said, reflectively, "there are other
probabilities. He might have had heart disease--might have fallen down
in a fit which put an end to him. Assuming this, what course would
Samuel Boyd, or any sensible person, pursue? He would give
information--his own safety depended upon it. A doctor's certificate
as to the cause of death would clear him. He does nothing of the sort.
He keeps himself locked up in the house, and refuses to answer the
repeated knocks at his street door. I have heard you say he lives
alone, and that no servant sleeps in the house."
"That is so."
"Catchpole Square leads to nowhere. It is, in a certain sense, out of
the world. Can you tell me, of your own knowledge, whether Samuel Boyd
keeps sums of money in his house?"
"Of my own positive knowledge I cannot tell you; but I am convinced
that he does."
"What we've got to look to in these cases," said Inspector Robson,
sagely, "is motive--motive. The mainspring in a watch keeps it going;
motive is the mainspring in a man, and it keeps _him_ going. Now, what
motive had Samuel Boyd for murdering Abel Death--always supposing,
Dick, that there was a murder? He had nothing to gain by it, and it
was not he who went to Abel Death's house, but Abel Death who went to
his. And went with anger and despair in his heart. Put it the other
way----yes, by the Lord!" he cried, as if a light had suddenly broken
upon him. "Put it the other way. There was a motive for Abel Death
murdering Samuel Boyd. He was poor, and in desperate need of money;
his master was rich, and had refused to give it to him. The motive was
robbery, by fair means or foul. If this is what occurred Abel Death's
disappearance is explained. He's in hiding somewhere, or has managed
to get on board a ship bound for foreign parts." He broke off with a
laugh. "What nonsense am I talking? My wits are going wool-gathering.
You've fairly muddled me, Dick, by the serious way you've spoken of
this affair, in which, after all, I don't see anything mysterious.
I've known scores of cases where people have disappeared, and have
come back after a few days or weeks, or months even, in the most
natural manner possible. Be careful of what you do, my lad, or you're
likely to get yourself in a tangle."
"I'll be careful, uncle. You will see me at the magistrate's court in
the morning. Good night."
"Can't I persuade you to come home with me?" said Inspector Robson, in
his kindest tone.
"No; my mind's quite made up on that point."
He walked towards the door, Inspector Robson looking ruefully and
affectionately after him, when he turned and said,
"By the way, uncle, have you seen Mr. Reginald lately?"
"Not since last Sunday week, when he dropped in, as usual. Him and
Florence went out for a walk together."
"As usual," said Dick, lightly.
"As usual," said Inspector Robson, gravely. "He's a gentlemanly young
fellow."
"Yes."
"Been to France and Germany, and to good schools for education."
"Did he tell you that himself?"
"Florence told us."
"Dear little Florence!" Such wistful tenderness and regret in his
voice!
"Aunt Rob thinks all the world of him," said Inspector Robson, his
voice also charged with tenderness and regret.
"I know she does."
Inspector Robson stepped to Dick's side, and laid his hand caressingly
on the young man's shoulder. "Dick! Dick!"
"No nonsense of that sort, uncle," said Dick, gently shaking himself
free. "I've been going to ask you once or twice whether you put any
other name to Reginald."
"Now you mention it, Dick, I never have."
"Has Aunt Rob, or Florence?"
"Not that I'm aware of. We've always called him Mr. Reginald. It's not
a bad name, Dick."
"Not at all a bad name, but most people have two. Good night, uncle."
"Good night, Dick, if you _must_ go." Other words were struggling to
his lips, but before he could utter them Dick was off.
"It never struck me before," mused Inspector Robson, sadly. "Can that
be the reason----" He did not say the reason of what, and his
cogitation ended with, "Poor Dick! I hope not--I hope not!"