compliments to Miss Nelson and requested her to furnish his lawyer with
particulars of any financial transactions she may have had with the
late Mr. Darius Merrivan.
Andy read it through.
“As Scottie says, ‘What a lady!’” he said vulgarly.
They saw Arthur Wilmot the next morning at the golf club, and he
greeted them with a haughty little bow.
“Good morning, Arthur,” said Stella sweetly. “I had your note.”
He went very red.
“Perhaps you would discuss it with Vetch,” he said gruffly as he began
to move off to the first tee.
“Oh, Flora!” murmured the girl in a low voice, but not so low that Mr.
Arthur Wilmot did not hear her.
He played a bad game for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A MORNING AT SEA BEACH
Mr. Downer was passing the police station at Sea Beach on the way to
his bungalow when his eye was attracted to a notice that was pasted on
the board outside the station.
It occupied a central position amidst other advertisements dealing with
bodies found, absconding cashiers, and particulars of men wanted by the
police, and he had not read two words before he realised that he had
already perused the poster in town.
“INFORMATION IS REQUIRED CONCERNING ABRAHAM SELIM (_Alias_ WENTWORTH)
“Wanted in connection with the murders of Darius Merrivan and John
Albert Sweeny, on the night of the 24th. of June.
“Selim is a moneylender, and is believed to be a man of fifty-five.
He has a stoop and wears gold-rimmed glasses, and is clean-shaven. He
may endeavour to change cheques signed ‘Jos. Wentworth,’ but he is
probably in possession of large sums of money. Any information that
will lead to his detention will be rewarded, and should be laid with
Dr. A. Macleod, Police Headquarters, or with the inspector in charge
of this station.”
Mr. Downer read and was annoyed. Anything that reminded him of the
Beverley Green murder annoyed him. He had confidently believed that he
had found the solution when Arthur Wilmot had told him in the greatest
confidence (“You can trust me, my dear sir,” said the virtuous Downer)
that Stella Nelson had visited the house on the night of the murder.
If matters had followed the hoped-for course Mr. Downer would have
been as near to being a happy man as it was possible for him to reach.
He did not dislike Stella. In a faint, misty kind of way he admired
her. He knew what to admire in women as he knew what to admire in
architecture. Nor would it have given him any personal gratification if
he had ruined Andrew Macleod. He honestly liked Andy. Only in business
hours he had no friends. If Downer’s fiancée (supposing he had such
an appendage) had been murdered by his best friend his first instinct
would have been to estimate the news value of the occurrence. He would
have been bitterly unhappy, but he would have described the victim’s
funeral and the murderer’s execution with taste and judgment. He was an
ideal reporter, a model for all juniors, and deserved the respect he
had earned.
His bungalow was on the sea-shore. It consisted of a living-room, a
bedroom, bath, and kitchen. There was a broad wooden verandah with
hooks for a hammock, and a ten-by-twenty “garden” where chrysanthemums
grew wild in the autumn.
So he was told. He had never occupied the bungalow after summer, so
he did not know. He opened the windows, pulled a basket-chair on to
the stoop, and lit a gas-ring under a kettle. The rooms were furnished
plainly but comfortably, and twice a week (as arranged by contract) the
widow of a fisherman came in to dust and clean.
From his bag Mr. Downer produced a wad of copy-paper and certain
galley-proofs. He was at the moment completing his greatest work _Some
Theoretical Solutions of Undiscovered Crimes_ he called it, in the
manner of a scientist. His publisher, having a large family to keep and
being naturally anxious to make money from the work, had re-christened
it _Light on Mystery Murders_.
Amongst the manuscript there was a letter from the publisher received
by Mr. Downer that morning.
“If you could only include the Beverley murder the sales would be
immense. We want something hot and strong. The public would eat a good
theory in regard to that crime.”
Vulgarity in a publisher is rare, but such things have been known.
“Oh, damn the Beverley murder!” said Mr. Downer irritably.
He might thus condemn it, yet not evade its intrusive interruption to
his thoughts. When he sat on his wicker chair, and examined the sea
impartially (as he did), or when he strode determinedly along the hard
sand of the beach, the point of his umbrella leaving a miniature shaft
at every two paces, or when he lay in bed and glared at the text over
the door, the legacy of a former possessor which Mr. Downer had not
troubled to remove, it mattered little what subject occupied his mind,
whether it was the need for a new summer suit or the reckless calling
of his bridge partners, into the current of his meditations bobbed and
spun the crime of Beverley Green.
Two men had been murdered. Presumably the slayer was one Abraham
Selim, whose habits were unknown, whose very appearance was beyond
identification. Abraham or X—he could not be considered except as an
impersonality—could never be found, because for all practical purposes
he did not exist. Mr. Downer had dismissed all idea of Stella’s guilt.
Wise man that he was, he saw that the most suspicious feature so far as
she was concerned was Andy’s desire to shield her.
And—here he was, thinking about that infernal case, he told himself
irritably, and turned over in bed seeking yet another hour’s sleep,
although the sun was up and gilding the wall with rods of gold that
expanded and contracted as the sea-breezes moved the blind. But he had
done with sleep. He got up and, finding his slippers, went into the
kitchen and began the preparation of his breakfast. By the time he had
had his bath the kettle lid was rattling urgently and the bacon he had
left under the low-turned griller was curved and crisp.
It was only then that he went into the sitting-room and pulled up the
blinds.
“Good Lord!” said Mr. Downer.
Sitting in the basket-chair on the verandah, his back toward him, was a
man. He was well dressed; the one polished shoe that Downer could see
had the covering of a white spat, the hand nearest to him was gloved,
and rested on the golden head of a malacca cane. Mr. Downer unbolted
and unlocked his door and walked out. He had strong views of the
sanctity of property and the reprehensibility of trespass.
“Excuse _me_,” he said, in a tone which implied that if any excuse was
called for it was not from him. “You’ve made a mistake. Why, Mr. Boyd
Salter!”
Mr. Salter rose with his shrewd, cheerful smile and held out a gloved
hand.
“Will you forgive me for this liberty, Mr. Downer? Unpardonable of me,
I’m sure. But I remember that when you came to see me at the Hall—I
fear I kept you waiting a long time, but it was one of my bad days—you
said you had a bungalow at Sea Beach and I told you that—er—Sea Beach
belongs to my family—more than half the land.” He followed his host
indoors.
“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” said Mr. Downer with great
heartiness. “I must apologise for my scanty attire, but I’ve only just
got up.”
“Pray not a word.” Mr. Salter raised a protesting hand. “The apology
is due from me. It is a warm morning and green pyjamas harmonise so
perfectly with this charming little room. I was afraid I had come too
early, but—er—it is eleven o’clock, and Sea Beach is only an hour’s run
from Beverley.”
Whilst Mr. Downer sought a few articles of clothing his visitor
surveyed the room dispassionately.
“I was only saying to myself yesterday,” said Mr. Downer through the
half-opened door of his bedroom, “what a pity I shan’t have another
excuse for seeing Mr. Boyd Salter. I see a great many people in the
course of my professional duties, and very few impress me. That sounds
as if I am trying to flatter. I wouldn’t be such a fool as to butter a
man of your experience, and, if you don’t mind my saying so, your age.
But probably you have felt that yourself, Mr. Salter?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Salter earnestly, “and I assure you that I
should not have intruded into your delightful little home——”
“A mere rabbit-hutch,” said Mr. Downer disparagingly, “but I am a
simple man, with simple tastes.”
“A charming little _pied-à-terre_,” said the other graciously, “but
I should not have come if I had not recognised certain appealing
qualities in you, Mr. Downer.”
Mr. Downer had seldom in his life been flattered. It was a novel
experience for one whose chief asset was his skilful employment of
the flattering word to find himself smeared with a little of his own
oleaginous unguent. And he was more than interested, because this visit
meant business. Mr. Boyd Salter, for all his prejudice in his favour,
was not making an early morning call for the pleasure of looking upon
Mr. Downer’s hard features or listening to Mr. Downer’s soft phrases.
“I suppose you wonder why I have come?”
Mr. Downer did.
“In a sense, yes,” he said. “I can only hope that you want me to render
you some small service. If that is the case you are doubly welcome.”
“Not a small service.” Salter shook his head gently. “On the contrary,
a great service. The only thing I am worried about is whether I shall
offend you.”
Mr. Downer smiled so broadly that he had to refix his glasses.
“I am a difficult man to offend,” he said truly.
Mr. Boyd Salter pursed his lips and stroked his short-clipped grey
moustache.
“Well, it is this,” he said at last. “I am going to take the
unpardonable liberty of asking you to accept a commission which really
should be offered to a detective agency. Now I’ve offended you?”
“No, you haven’t,” said Mr. Downer. “You must remember that my work is
almost parallel with that of a private detective. He reports to his
employer; I report, in perhaps a little better English and at greater
length, to the public.”
“And with greater accuracy,” acknowledged Mr. Salter. “And that is why
I have come to you in preference to employing one of those agency
people. You are sure you are not offended?”
Mr. Downer was very sure.
“If you had told me that I was asking you to do something which you, as
a member of the great profession of letters, considered derogatory to
your dignity and your calling, I should have understood. Out of your
kindness, however, you have not repulsed me.”
He smiled and Mr. Downer smiled too.
“What I want you to do is this. You were engaged in investigating
the Beverley Green murder. For reasons which, I presume, were purely
professional you relinquished your work. I imagine that it was no
longer a profitable occupation. Forgive me if I adduce the lowest
motive for your retirement. You are a professional man living by your
pen, and I imagine that your movements and preoccupations are dictated
by the arbitrary will of your employers, your editors and publishers,
or whatever they are.”
Mr. Downer nodded. He remembered his curt letter of recall and the
distressing smallness of his cheque.
“Suppose I ask you to go down to Beverley Green and re-open your
enquiries? I want to know more than I know at present. Particularly”—he
spoke very deliberately—“do I wish to discover the secret of the
burglary at the Hall. What was behind it? Was our friend Dr. Macleod
privy to that—er—crime? What does Dr. Macleod know that I do not
know? Has he any information concerning Abraham Selim that he has not
communicated to his superiors? Where is Miss Stella Nelson?”
“Ah!” said Mr. Downer. “I think I can begin right away by imparting
information.”
He told the story of the house in Castle Street and Stella’s mysterious
visits thereto.
“Who is the invalid?” asked Boyd Salter, but here his new employee had
not pursued his enquiries.
“I think you will find that it is the man who broke into my house,”
said Salter, and the other glared at him through his glasses.
“Of course! Now why didn’t that occur to me?”
“Find out for certain. I may be wrong, but somehow, when I jump to
conclusions I am usually right, Mr. Downer. I do know that she and the
man—Scottie I think his name is—went away on the same day. Scottie is
probably the burglar. He is wounded if he is that rascal. But remember
this—I do not wish that Dr. Macleod should know that you are conducting
investigations. I don’t know how you will manage it, and I would not be
so impertinent as to offer you any suggestion.”
“You may rely upon me, Mr. Boyd Salter,” said Downer.
His employer took from his waistcoat pocket a folded paper and put it
on the table.
“There will be certain expenses incurred,” he said. “Regard this as on
that account, please.”
Mr. Downer came to the end of the verandah to watch his visitor enter
the car that was waiting for him on the Beach Road. Then he went back
to his room and unfolded the paper. It was a bank-note of considerable
value, and Mr. Downer smiled.
“I think I’ll go back to town,” he mused, and put the flat-iron on the
gas-ring. He always pressed his own trousers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MEETING MRS. BONSOR
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” said Scottie sternly.
“You haven’t grown religious too, have you, Mr. Scottie?” asked Big
Martin in some anxiety.
Scottie was sitting on his bed in the little house in Castle Street,
and his companion was that same attendant who had scuttled upstairs
at the sound of Andy’s knock. He was not naturally of a retiring
disposition, but before announcing the arrival of Andrew Macleod
he had, in his argot, taken a “dekko” at the visitor through the
front-room window. And the “dekko” had produced a slight palpitation of
heart.
He was called “Big” Martin because his height did not exceed four
feet six inches, and there was a time when there wasn’t a handier man
than Big Martin for getting through a small scullery window in the
profession.
Of late, however, good living had broadened him sideways and frontways,
and, like many another specialist, he found now that his special
qualities which had given him an advantage over his fellows had failed,
and he was wholly unfitted for the general practice of his calling.
Scottie he had served in many capacities. He was an indefatigable
reader of newspapers and a remarkable collector of information, and
could reconnoitre a house with greater acumen than anybody Scottie had
known in the course of a long and interesting career.
It was Big Martin who peddled buttons at kitchen doors and heard all
the domestic gossip which was so useful to his various employers.
Scottie was above this kind of work. He had specialised in dealers in
precious stones, and that required a more highly efficient intelligence
department than Big Martin could supply. Yet Big Martin was useful.
He maintained the establishment in Castle Street during Scottie’s
absences, he ran errands, made beds, and could at a pinch cook a simple
meal.
“No, I haven’t got religious,” admitted Scottie, breathing on his
spectacles and polishing them with a corner of the sheet, “but I have
got careful. Have you ever heard the tale about the pitcher and the
well?”
“No,” said Big Martin suspiciously. “Is there a catch in it?”
“There is a catch in it,” said the other grimly, and added: “I have
made enough money to live quietly.”
Mr. Martin wrinkled his face.
“If you don’t do it somebody else will,” he said. “She’s asking for it,
walking about with all them diamonds.”
It was Fate, thought Scottie.
“You needn’t tell me anything about her,” he interrupted the
intelligence department. “I’ve met her socially. Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,
near-American. Suite 907, Great Metropolitan Hotel.”
“A bank couldn’t buy her pearls,” urged Big Martin. “They’re as big as
that.” He made an “o” of his forefinger and thumb. “Diamonds! You never
saw anything like it, Mr. Scottie.”
“I know; but she keeps them in the hotel safe,” suggested Scottie, and
the other made a discouraging noise.
“Not she! My cousin’s in the kitchen there, that’s how I got to hear
about it. She peels potatoes.”
“Who, Mrs. Bonsor?”
“No, my cousin.”
Scottie was thoughtful. His fingers were busily playing a tune on his
knee and his gaze was absent.
“No, I don’t think so, Martin,” he said. “Macleod would know it was me,
and besides——” He hesitated and was about to speak, and changed his
mind.
Big Martin would not understand his views in relation to Stella Nelson.
It would be untrue to say that Scottie was reformed, or, if he was
reformed, that he harboured any penitence for his past ill-deeds. The
principal factor in whatever reformation had come about was the factor
of personal safety. There was really no reason why he should take the
risk. He was fairly well off. The Regent Street haul had sold well—one
of the purchasers was a witness who helped to prove his alibi—and
he had got another nest-egg which, together with his more recent
acquisitions, would keep him in comparative comfort all the days of his
life.
“I’ll go and have another look at this Mrs. Bonsor,” he said, and
Martin rubbed his hands joyously. “Not that I believe she’s such a
hell-fired fool as you make her out to be. Where does she come from?”
“Saint Barbara,” said the other.
“Santa Barbara, so she does,” corrected Scottie. “She told me—maybe
she knows some friends of mine on the Pacific slope. And talking of
friends, Big ’un, I saw you last night coming out of Finnagin’s with a
perfect gentleman.”
Big Martin looked uncomfortable.
“He’s a reporter,” he said.
“What a bit of news!” said Scottie sarcastically. “As if I didn’t know
he was a reporter. What did he want?”
“It was about a job I was on four years ago,” said Big Martin. “I got
eighteen months for it—Harry Weston’s job.”
“I know it, and if he hadn’t remembered it he would have looked it up.
Any cop would have given him particulars and saved him that trouble.
Well?”
“He was quite friendly; asked me what had become of Harry. We just
chatted.”
Scottie’s lip curled.
“As if he didn’t know that Harry is doing seven years in Parkhurst!
Well, you chatterer, what did you chat about?”
Big Martin was now thoroughly alarmed. What _had_ he said?
“If I die this minute I didn’t say anything about you. He knew you were
here and asked how your hand was.” Scottie groaned. “But I didn’t tell
him. He’s a good friend of yours, Scottie; said that if you was ever in
trouble to send for him. Those were his very words.”
“Take ’em, tie ’em up, and hand ’em to him,” said Scottie. “You didn’t
tell him that Macleod knew all about it, did you?”
“He didn’t want telling,” said the other with satisfaction.
“You never could hold anything in your head,” said Scottie, resigned,
and began to change.
He dressed himself with care, found at the bottom of a box a small case
filled with cards, and selected one. It described him as Professor
Bellingham, and the address was Pantagalla, Alberta. There was no such
town on the map as Pantagalla, but he had once lived in a suburban
boarding-house which bore that name, and it seemed sufficiently
Canadian.
The reception clerk at the Great Metropolitan discovered that Mrs.
Crafton-Bonsor was in and the bell-boy carried his card to her, during
which time Scottie sat in an easy chair, seemingly absorbed in his
thoughts, but in reality watching every man that entered or left
the vestibule. The hotel detective he spotted at once. He wore that
strained expression which all hotel detectives adopt, and is never
wholly absent from the face of any detective.
Presently the bell-boy came back and conducted him to the third floor,
ushering him into an expensive suite (Scottie knew exactly how much
_per diem_ that suite cost).
The lady who was standing by the window looking out turned at the
entrance of Scottie.
“Good-morning,” she said briskly, “Mr.——”
“Professor Bellingham,” said Scottie deferentially. “We met before, you
remember?”
“We surely did. I couldn’t read your card without my glasses,” she
said. “Sit down, Professor. Now, isn’t it nice of you to look me up?”
It was Scottie’s experience that nobody was quite like what they were
when he met them before, but he was not prepared for the surprising
sameness of Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor. If anything she was now more
expensively garnished than when he had seen her lolling in her large
car. Her jewels were magnificent. When she raised her hand it glittered
as a jeweller’s window display. There must have been a ring on every
finger, and there was certainly three diamond bracelets on one arm
which must have been worth a fortune.
All Scottie’s old predatory instincts were aroused. It was a sin and
a shame that this woman should have all these wonderful possessions,
whilst he eked out a bare existence.
“I thought I’d come along and see you, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” he
drawled. “I’m from Pantagalla, and seeing you were from Santa
Barbara, why, I thought it would be neighbourly to come along and say
how-do-you-do. I know Santa Barbara very well—knew it before you rich
people took it up and spoilt it. Ha, ha! My little joke, Mrs. Bonsor!”
“It’s real kind of you, Professor——”
“Bellingham,” he suggested.
“Professor Bellingham. It is such a nuisance, my maid has mislaid my
glasses, and I am as blind as a bat without them. It is a lonely city
this. I was here some years ago, but it is all new and strange to me
now, and I shall be glad to get back home again.”
“Have you been here long?”
“For a fortnight,” said the woman, “and I haven’t met a single nice
person since I have been here. They are a lot of stuck-up people. I
guess they haven’t a cent to their names. Why, I called on a woman I
met in San Francisco and the Senator was real nice to her, and they
didn’t ask me to stay to tea—not that I drink tea,” she added.
Scottie could well understand that Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor was not regarded
as a social acquisition in spite of her wealth.
They chatted about Santa Barbara, about people (whose names fortunately
Scottie knew) in San Francisco, and Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor returned to her
favourite topic, which was the inhospitable character of the people in
foreign countries and the deterioration of the servant class.
“Why, this room is supposed to have been dusted this morning,” she
said, flicking a piece of fluff from the chair on which she was
sitting. “Look at that—not a brush has touched it!”
Scottie was silent.
Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor could not read his card because of her defective
eyesight and yet she was picking minute specks of fluff from the chair
without any visible effort. Some curious eye disease, he decided, and
never gave the matter another thought.
He made himself agreeable to such an extent that he was invited to come
to dinner that night.
“I dine in my suite,” she said. “The trash that you find in hotel
dining-rooms certainly gets my goat.”
As he came down the steps of the hotel, a little jubilant with the
success of his preliminary visit, somebody tapped him on the arm, and
he looked round into a familiar face.
“Andy wants you,” said the detective. “He told me to ask you to step up
to headquarters.”
Scottie gave an impatient click of his lips but said nothing.
“Hullo, Scottie. Better? Take a seat, won’t you? One of my men saw you
were calling on Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor, the rich American woman at the
Great Metropolitan. What’s the idea?”
“Can’t a man have his social recreations?” said Scottie, grieved.
“All that you want, and more,” said Andy brightly, “but I am acting
in your own interests when I pull you in. This woman is a walking
Kimberley diamond mine, and I hate to see you fall into temptation. By
the way, I’ve just come back from Beverley Green,” he added carelessly.
“Miss Nelson was asking kindly after you.”
Scottie licked his lips.
“That is very good of Miss Nelson,” he said slowly, “and about this
diamond woman, Macleod. My intentions are strictly honourable. You
don’t know what a comfort it is to get near to so much money or you
wouldn’t grudge me these few emotions.”
“I grudge you nothing, Scottie,” said Andy quietly, “but we’ve had her
under observation since she came to town. We’ve already warned off two
old friends of yours, Harry Murton and Dutch John, and it wouldn’t
be fair to you if I let you think you were working free from the
observations of guardian angels.”
Scottie was silent.
“Does that mean I can’t go and see her again?”
“You can go and see her as often as you like,” said Andy, “but if
she comes here with a squeal about the diamond tiara that you were
admiring only a few minutes before you left, and which has mysteriously
disappeared, why, Scottie, I shall put you on the file!”
A slow smile dawned on Scottie’s face.