police, that there was no documentary proof of the obligations of his
clients. No bill or promissory notes were discovered in the office
or at his bank. Usually a moneylender lodges these, with his other
securities, in the bank’s vaults. Nor was his credit a very high one.
Though an enormous volume of business passed through his accounts, his
floating balance was never more than a few thousands, and the money he
paid in was, as soon as the cheques were cleared, withdrawn again. When
it was necessary for him to cover a cheque he had issued for any large
amount, it came to the bank manager in the shape of notes.
Here again it would seem impossible that this elusive man could have
escaped observation. He must have gone to the bank to open an account,
argued the police, but it proved to be that the account had been
transferred from a country branch, the manager of which was dead. Even
had he been alive, it is probable he would have failed to have given
any satisfactory testimony as to the identity of Abraham Selim.
To say that he had hidden his tracks would be untrue. He had made no
tracks to hide. He had come from nowhere unseen, and, unseen, had
vanished into the void from when he came.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE LADY FROM SANTA BARBARA
Scottie rarely went abroad in the daylight, not because of any
secretiveness on his own part, but in deference to the wishes of Andy.
If he were visible in the daylight, it was usually between one o’clock
and two in the afternoon, at which hour Beverley Green was usually
settled at lunch.
He came out by the side entrance of Nelsons’ house, his objective
being the guest house and Andy. Under his arm was the morning
newspaper, a report in which was the subject of his visit, for there
was a reference to himself which had made him uneasy. Some callow
reporter who had evidently not heard of the happy conclusion to what
Scottie euphemistically described as his “law suit” had written of a
“sensational arrest in this delightful backwater of life” prior to the
murder, and had evolved from this a conclusion unflattering to Scottie.
He had hardly taken a step upon the road when he stopped.
A big car blocked his way, being half on the road and half embedded in
the shrubbery which bordered the Green, and which, as Scottie knew, was
the pride of its inhabitants.
The red-faced chauffeur was making a frantic attempt to turn in the
narrow road, with deplorable results to the arboreal beauties of the
community. But it was not the chauffeur or the resplendent machine,
nor yet the flurry and the snort of engines in reverse, that absorbed
Scottie. It was the solitary occupant of the car.
She was a woman of uncertain age, stout and still comely. Under a toque
of silver tissue her hair shone with a metallic redness, from which hue
her black eyebrows rebelled. The red of her face was equally defiant
of the thick layer of powder with which she had overlaid her natural
heartiness of colouring. Her blue eyes bulged somewhat, giving the
impression that she was permanently surprised. All this Scottie saw
between an expert inspection of embellishments more substantial.
In the lobe of each ear was a diamond the size of a peanut; about
her neck were three strings of pearls of great size; and attached to
her person in this region was a diamond bar, a brilliant plaque that
flashed a thousand colours in his dazzled eyes, and a large emerald
clasp.
Scottie, looking at her glittering hands, concluded there were no rings
on her thumbs.
“Very sorry to make such a fuss, but why don’t you build your roads
wider?” She favoured Scottie with a friendly smile.
He started at the sound of the voice. It was so utterly unlike anything
that he had expected, and he gathered from her accent that she had
lived some years in America. It was that strange intonation which
English people acquire after a long sojourn in the United States.
And it was a voice that made Scottie wince, for this woman with the
diamonds was gutter-bred and gutter-reared, for all her obvious wealth.
“Common,” thought Scottie, and wondered how she had charmed the
diamonds.
“I ain’t—haven’t been around here for years,” she went on, naturally
mistaking her audience for a resident. “They tell me all about this
place at Bevereley. There’s been a murder here, hasn’t there?”
“There has,” said Scottie, and politely handed up his paper. “You’ll
find a very full account here if you’d like to read it, madam.”
“Didn’t bring my glasses,” she said briskly, but took the newspaper
from his hand. “A gentleman murdered! How shocking! They didn’t tell
me his name, and it wouldn’t have meant anything to me if they had.
Say, these murders are awful, ain’t they? We had one right near to
us in Santa Barbara, and the Senator, my dear late husband, wouldn’t
tell me anything about it. Thought it would upset me, I guess. Senator
Crafton-Bonsor. Maybe you’ve heard of him? His name was in the
newspapers a whole lot. Not that he worried about what newspapers said.”
Scottie judged that the newspapers had been unkind. But a United States
Senator? That was a stiff one to swallow. He knew little about American
public men, his experience being limited to a nodding acquaintance
with sundry District Attorneys; but he had an idea that Senators were
men of taste and discrimination.
“Well, I’ll get along, mister. My, it must be creepy living in a place
where a murder was committed! I’d never sleep at nights, mister——”
“My name is Bellingham, Professor Bellingham.”
She was impressed.
“Why, isn’t that fi-ne! It must be grand to be a professor. There was
one come to our house in Santa Barbara—I’d like you to see my house;
why, the lawn’s as big as this village—he was wonderful. Got rabbits
out of a plug hat, and he showed me the hat before and it was certainly
empty. Such a clever man. Well, I’ll get along, mister—professor, I
mean. I’m staying at the Great Metropolitan. My, they know how to
charge. And when I asked for a cantaloupe they’d no idea what I meant.
Good-bye.”
The car went on and out of sight, leaving Scottie a very thoughtful man.
“Did you see that car?” was the first question he put to Andy.
“No, I heard one. I thought it was a tradesman’s truck.”
“It was surely a truck,” agreed Scottie, “but, Macleod, you should have
seen the goods. About—well, I won’t attempt to give you an estimate. It
was fierce! And what a lady!”
Andy had other interests than chance visitors to Beverley Green.
“How is Miss Nelson?” he asked.
“Wonderful,” said Scottie. “She is going a long walk up the valley this
afternoon.”
Andy went red.
“Who said so?” he demanded.
“She did,” said Scottie coolly, “and she particularly reminded me to
tell you. There’s something highly intelligent about Miss Nelson,
that’s why she’s different to the majority of girls I’ve met. A lot of
that maidenly modesty you read about in books is punk.”
“I certainly am not going to discuss Miss Nelson’s sense of modesty,
Scottie,” said Andy haughtily, “and I see no particular reason why you
should draw any inferences from what Miss Nelson said. She probably
meant you to tell me that she is feeling well enough to take a solitary
walk.”
“Maybe,” agreed Scottie. “She told me that she’d be at the second golf
hut at three o’clock and she’d wait for you.”
Andy had no immediate explanation to offer.
“And talking of love,” Scottie went on, “I’d like you to see what
the _Post Herald_ reporter said about the arrest of a dangerous
criminal—meaning me—a few days before the murder.”
* * * * *
Andy had been waiting by the golf hut ten minutes before the girl came
into view.
“I was so afraid that you wouldn’t be able to get away,” she said when
she reached him. “The professor told you, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, he told me,” said Andy drily.
“Oh, and did he tell you what that queer-looking woman said?” she asked
eagerly. “He had quite a long conversation with her. Her car has broken
down two lovely lilac bushes. Really, people are careless, trying to
turn a big car in that narrow road!”
“What queer woman was this?” asked Andy. “Scottie made some reference
to her. A visitor?”
Stella nodded.
“I saw her through the window. She simply _blazed_! I haven’t had a
chance of speaking to Mr. Scottie. I was dressing when he came back.”
They were walking at a leisurely pace towards——Andy wasn’t quite sure
then or after which way they went, except that they came to the hedged
boundaries of Beverley Hall. He was out of the world, in a new and
tangible heaven. Attractive, pretty, beautiful? He had asked that
question before. The profile was perfect, the colouring as delicate in
the unromantic sunlight as it had been when the glamour of soft lights
might have played tricks with his eyesight.
“Arthur Wilmot cut me this morning,” she said.
“Oh. Why? I thought—people said——”
He did not finish his awkward sentence.
“That I was engaged to him?” she laughed softly. “They engage you
very—very fluently at Beverley. I never was engaged to him. I used to
wear a ring on the finger because—well, the ring fitted that finger.
Daddy gave it to me.”
He heaved a sigh, and she heard it, and glanced quickly sideways at
him, then looked as quickly in the opposite direction.
“What does Arthur Wilmot do for a living?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “He is something in the city. He never
talks about his business and nobody knows what he is. That is curious,
because most boys talk of their work—most of the boys I know. They’re
frightfully proud of their own cleverness, and there isn’t very much
more for them to talk about. You never talk about yourself, Doctor
Andrew.”
“I thought that I was unusually loquacious—Miss Nelson.”
“Don’t be silly. You called me Stella, and a fool, and a something
fool, almost the first time we met. It is rather wonderful, isn’t it?”
“I certainly had a nerve,” he confessed.
“I mean about—well, about our knowing each other so well, and liking
you. I don’t like people until I’ve known them for ever so long.
Perhaps it was the reaction. I used to hate you; you made me feel so
guilty when you looked at me. I used to think what a horrible man you
must be; just like a bloodhound that hunts poor wretched slaves.”
“So I made you feel like something out of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_?” he
smiled. “I rather enjoy that sensation. I suppose people think of
the police that way. But we flatter ourselves that the sight of a
policeman’s bright buttons brings a glow of joy to the good citizen’s
heart.”
“I’m not a good citizen,” she said shortly. “I’m a very bad citizen.
You don’t know how bad.”
“I can guess,” said he.
They went on for a long time after this, neither speaking a word.
“Stella,” he said suddenly, “when you saw Merrivan did he—well, did he
give you any idea of the future—where he was going to live?”
“In Italy,” she said with a shiver. “He told me that he would have a
lot of money and that he had bought a beautiful palace on Como.”
“He didn’t say that he _had_ the money?”
“No. I distinctly remember him saying ‘will have.’ He gave me the
impression that he was going to get it from somewhere. Please don’t let
us talk about it.”
Where was the money to come from? wondered Andy. From Abraham Selim?
Or had he already secured and hidden the money, and had Abraham Selim,
discovering his intention of living abroad, tried to get it back? Selim
never sued a man in court. That was a curious circumstance. It seemed
that he never lent money unless he had some sort of hold on his victim.
Crossing a stile, he took Stella’s hand and did not release it when he
had helped her over. Nor did she draw it away. She was peacefully happy
in the communionship. The touch of that strong hand that held hers
as lightly as though it were a piece of fragile china was especially
soothing. Something of his strength and equanimity had passed to
her when those hands had first gripped her shoulders. Now she was
invincible, could look to any future that Fate might send, without a
qualm.
“You’re very serious, aren’t you?” she asked as they were coming back.
“Andrew, I knew our walk would be just like this—lovely. This, and
nothing more. I don’t want any more—yet; it is perfect. And we can’t
repeat it to-morrow, because—well, it is like trying to repeat a party
that has been spontaneously happy. It falls flat the next time. Our
walks would never be that.”
They stopped by the second golf hut where their stroll had begun. There
was nobody in sight.
“I want you to kiss me,” she said simply.
Andy bent his head, and her quivering lips touched his.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A GAMEKEEPER WHO HEARD A SHOT
Mr. Boyd Salter was sitting at a small table drawn up near the open
window of his library, a window which commanded an extensive view
of the valley and a corner of Beverley Green. He was engaged in an
elaborate game of patience, yet he was not so completely absorbed
that he could not pause for lengthy periods and take an interest
in such trivial things as came into his range of vision. Once it
was a small flock of sheep that cropped their way slowly across the
meadowlands. Once it was the swift downward swoop of a greyish hawk,
and its disappearance with a limp victim. Then he saw a man in a long
dark coat, and him he watched for a time. The stranger was behaving
curiously, but he was too far away for the master of Beverley Hall to
distinguish exactly his business, for he was skirting a plantation from
which, apparently, he had emerged.
Mr. Salter pressed a bell at his elbow.
“Bring me my field-glasses, Tilling. Is there a keeper about?”
“Madding is in the servants’ hall, sir.”
“Send him, please, but bring my glasses first.”
Through the prismatics he saw the stranger, without then recognising
him. He seemed to be searching for something, for his progress was slow
and he followed a zigzag path.
Boyd Salter turned his head. A stout and red-faced man, in velveteen
coat and gaiters, had been ushered into the room.
“Madding, who is that walking by Spring Covert?”
The gamekeeper shaded his eyes.
“Looks to me like one of those Beverley Green gentlemen,” he said,
“name of Wilmot, I think.”
His employer looked again.
“Yes, I think it is. Go to him with my compliments, Madding, and ask
him if there is anything we can do for him. He may have lost something,
though how he lost it on this part of my estate is beyond me.”
Madding went out, and Mr. Salter resumed his game of patience. He
looked up to see the stout gamekeeper striding across the grounds and
returned to his cards. When he looked out again he saw Madding only;
the unauthorised visitor had disappeared.
“Tiresome,” said Mr. Boyd Salter, and, gathering up the cards, shuffled
and began all over again.
Some time after—
“Thank you, Madding. I saw that you had missed him.”
“I found this, sir, a little way beyond where the gentleman was
searching. I should think it was this he was looking for.”
He held out a gold cigarette case, from which he had wiped the yellow
mud, for Spring Covert was sited in marshland, and got its name from
the tiny river that had its source in the heart of the wood.
The Justice took the case in his hand and pressed it open. It contained
two damp cigarettes and a torn scrap of newspaper on which an address
had been scribbled in pencil.
“Thank you, Madding. I will see that it is restored to Mr. Wilmot.
There are his initials. I dare say he will reward you. I hear you
trapped a stoat yesterday—this morning was it? Good. They are pests
with the young birds. Are the birds plentiful this year? Good. Thank
you, Madding.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
The gamekeeper stood waiting, and Salter nodded to him to go on.
“About these murders, sir. I’ve got an idea that the man who did it
escaped through the park.”
“Good heavens! What makes you think so?”
“Well, sir, I was out that night looking after things. These fellows of
Beverley are poaching worse than ever. Mr. Golding’s head keeper told
me only to-day that he’d caught a fellow with six brace of pheasants
in his bag. Well, sir, I was out and wandering about when I heard a
shot, down by Valley Bottom, so off I went as fast as I could, though
poachers don’t usually work with guns around here. When I’d gone some
way I stopped and listened, and I’ll swear I heard somebody walking
on the hard path—the path that goes up to Spring Covert, where that
gentleman was. I called out ‘Hello!’ and then the sound stopped. ‘Come
on, the game’s up,’ I said, thinking it was a poacher, but I never
heard another sound, nor saw anybody.”
“Have you informed the police? We should have done so, Madding. It may
be a very important clue. Fortunately, Mr. Macleod is coming to see me
this afternoon.”
“I didn’t know what to do exactly. As a matter of fact, sir, I didn’t
connect the shot with the murder until I’d talked it over with my
wife—a rare head-piece my good lady’s got, sir—and she up and said ‘You
must tell the squire.’”
Mr. Boyd Salter smiled.
“Your wife is an intelligent woman, Madding. You had better be around
when Mr. Macleod calls. I think that that he is coming up the Long
Drive,” he said. “You had better wait.”
Andy, who had called in connection with the inquests, heard the
gamekeeper’s story with interest and questioned the man as to the time.
“Madding has also found a cigarette case belonging to Mr. Wilmot,”
said Boyd Salter, and related the story of Arthur Wilmot’s search. “I
tell you this, not because it has anything to do with the murder—thank
you, Madding, you need not wait, unless Mr. Macleod has any further
questions to ask you. No? Thank you, Madding.”
Andy was examining the case.
“How did he come to be near the Covert? Is it on a public road?”
“Nowhere near. He must have been trespassing, though I would not use
that harsh word about the wanderings of a neighbour. Our friends of
Beverley Green have a standing invitation to avail themselves of the
estate for picnics. I expect them to give notice to my head gamekeeper,
and, of course, they never come too near the coverts, and particularly
Spring Covert, which is not the most pleasant of places.”
Andy opened the case and took out the scrap of paper.
“An address, I think?” suggested Mr. Boyd Salter.
“It is an address—the address of Sweeny,” said Andy, “and it was given
to Wilmot on the day of the murder!”
He turned over the scrap of paper.
It had been torn from the edge of a Sunday news-sheet and the date line
ran: “... unday, 23rd. June.”
Obviously, thought Andy, the newspaper from which this scrap had been
torn was the property of Sweeny. As clearly, the address had been
written in the morning, because people do not as a rule carry about
Sunday newspapers in the afternoon. They had met and talked, these two
men, and, for some reason, Wilmot had decided that he had a use for
Abraham Selim’s clerk and had taken his address. The meeting would
hardly have taken place in Spring Covert, near where the case had been
found, so that either they met again after dark, or else, for some
purpose or other, Wilmot had made a furtive visit to the place after
nightfall. He accepted the first hypothesis as being the more likely.
Wilmot was in it, then—Wilmot, whose mysterious occupation Merrivan
had discovered, and whose announcement of his discovery had cowed his
hectoring nephew.
“What do you think?” asked Boyd Salter.
“I don’t know. It is curious. I’ll see Wilmot and restore his case, if
you will allow me.”
Certain coincidences occurred to him walking back to Beverley Green.
Every important incident which had marked his stay had been in
duplicate. He had heard the threat of Wilmot and the ravings of Nelson
from the outside of their houses. There were burnings of paper at
Merrivan’s and burnings at Nelsons. Now something had been picked up——
“We have found a valuable diamond ring—at least Mr. Nelson discovered
it when he was walking across the green,” were the inspector’s first
words. “I haven’t heard that any ring has been missing from Mr.
Merrivan’s house, but nobody in the village claims it.”
Really, Stella was the most careless of suspects! She strewed most
damning evidence behind her with the prodigality of a “hare” in a paper
chase.
“Somebody will claim it,” he said carelessly.
He overtook Wilmot that night as he was turning in at the gate.
“I think this belongs to you,” he said, and produced the case.
The man went red and white.
“I don’t think so,” he said loudly. “I haven’t lost——”
“Your monogram is on it,” insisted Andy, “and two people have already
identified it as yours.”
This was not exactly the truth.
“So it is. Thank you, Macleod. I’ve never missed it.”
Andy smiled.
“You were probably searching Spring Covert for something else,” he
said, and the last vestige of colour left Wilmot’s face.
“When did you take Sweeny’s address?”
Wilmot’s eyes blazed his hate of the man who was questioning him. This
manifestation was so unexpected that Andy was momentarily taken aback.
There could be two causes for such an attitude—guilt or jealousy. He
fancied that the second reason was the real one. He either guessed or
knew just how Andy felt towards Stella Nelson.
“I met him on Sunday morning,” said Wilmot suddenly. “He came to ask
me to recommend him for a job. I knew him when he was in my uncle’s
employ. I met him on the golf course and wrote down his address on a
piece of newspaper.”
“You did not tell me or Inspector Dane that you had met him.”
“I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t forgotten, but I did not want to come
into this case.”
“You met him again at night. Why at Spring Covert?”
Wilmot was silent, and the question was repeated.
“He had been turned away from Beverley Green and was anxious to see me.
He thought that I wouldn’t want to be seen speaking to him.”
“When did he think this? In the morning, when the second meeting must
have been arranged?”
“Yes,” reluctantly, and then: “Will you come in, Macleod?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, quite. Anyway, the servants never come into my room unless I send
for them, and they are out.”
Arthur Wilmot’s bachelor establishment was the smallest house in the
village, and it was furnished with exceptional taste. If it faulted, it
was because it was thought too finicky for a man.
And on a table in the room into which he was ushered was a woman’s
hat. Wilmot followed the direction of the glance and smothered an
exclamation. It was a hat in the course of creation—a glittering
needle-point, a festoon of coloured silk.
Their arrival had interrupted somebody, thought Andy, and pretended
that he had not seen the evidence of anything remarkable. Wilmot was
too flustered to leave well alone, and must needs explain.
“One of the servants, I expect,” he said, and flung the hat viciously
into a corner of the room.
The incident, which might well have increased his embarrassment, seemed
to have the opposite effect, and his voice was steady when he spoke.
“I met Sweeny on both occasions, and it was stupid of me not to admit
it. Sweeny hated my uncle, and came to me with a story—at least, with
the hint of a story that he said would give me a hold on Mr. Merrivan.
Even now I do not know what this great secret was. The second meeting
in Spring Covert was really to discuss the terms on which Sweeny would
impart this information. I wish I hadn’t gone, and certainly I did not
stay very long. I had placed myself in a false, and, to say the least,
an undignified position. I promised to write to him, and there the
matter ended.”
“What was this secret of Sweeny’s?”
Wilmot hesitated.
“Honestly, I don’t know. The impression I received was that Mr.
Merrivan was in Selim’s debt—Selim was the name of Sweeny’s employer.
But that, of course, was ridiculous. My uncle was a rich man when he
died.”
Andy was silent, pondering the possibilities of this story being true.
And then:
“Mr. Wilmot, have you, in your mind, any opinion as to who killed your
uncle?”
Wilmot’s brown eyes rose.
“Have you?” he asked.
Andy knew then the direction in which this man’s evidence would run if
there came the slightest hint of danger to himself.
“I have many theories,” he answered coolly, “but it would be a rash
proceeding to pin myself to any one of them. Which reminds me, Mr.
Wilmot. The last time you and I spoke together you talked about some
worthless girl. That interested me. You quarrelled over her, you told
me, quarrelled with your uncle. That is rather important, you know. Who
was she?”
It was a masterful challenge, well planned, and delivered at the most
propitious moment.