PART II--PARIS

Produced by Stephen Lins

THE CRIME CLUB

VOLUME 25

*

THE CASK

This is the Story

This book introduced to the public a new Master of Detective Fiction,

and Mr. Crofts is now a very famous name indeed to the many

enthusiastic students of detective novels. It has all the great

virtues; a mysterious murder cunningly conceived and carried out; the

strongest suspicion ingeniously thrown on an innocent man; a subtle

alibi brilliantly shattered by an unfaltering process of analysis.

The book is flawless in design and presents an intellectual problem

of supreme interest. The lover of detective stories can want nothing

better. As the _Outlook_ said, “In construction and invention Mr.

Crofts has no living equal.”

By the Same Author

THE BOX OFFICE MURDERS MYSTERY IN THE CHANNEL

SUDDEN DEATH DEATH ON THE WAY

THE SEA MYSTERY INSPECTOR FRENCH’S GREATEST CASE

THE STARVEL TRAGEDY THE GROOTE PARK MURDER

THE PONSON CASE THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE

THE CRIME AT GUILDFORD THE LOSS OF THE JANE VOSPER

INSPECTOR FRENCH AND THE CHEYNE MYSTERY

MAN OVERBOARD

THE CASK

by

FREEMAN WILLS

CROFTS

[Illustration: publisher's mark]

Published for

THE CRIME CLUB

by COLLINS FORTY-EIGHT PALL MALL

LONDON

First Impression - - - - June, 1920

Second ” - - - - December, 1921

Third ” - - - - January, 1922

Fourth ” - - - - February, 1923

Fifth ” - - - - May, 1924

Sixth ” - - - - April, 1925

Seventh ” - - - - December, 1926

Eighth ” - - - - January, 1927

Ninth ” - - - - October, 1928

Tenth ” - - - - January, 1931

Eleven ” - - - - September, 1934

Twelfth ” - - - - February, 1935

Thirteenth ” - - - - December, 1936

Fourteenth ” - - - - July, 1937

Fifteenth ” - - - - January, 1938

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

COLLINS CLEAR-TYPE PRESS : LONDON AND GLASGOW

COPYRIGHT

CONTENTS

PART I--LONDON

I. A STRANGE CONSIGNMENT

II. INSPECTOR BURNLEY ON THE TRACK

III. THE WATCHER ON THE WALL

IV. A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW

V. FELIX TELLS A STORY

VI. THE ART OF DETECTION

VII. THE CASK AT LAST

VIII. THE OPENING OF THE CASK

PART II--PARIS

IX. M. LE CHEF DE LA SÛRETÉ

X. WHO WROTE THE LETTER?

XI. MM. DUPIERRE ET CIE

XII. AT THE GARE ST. LAZARE

XIII. THE OWNER OF THE DRESS

XIV. M. BOIRAC MAKES A STATEMENT

XV. THE HOUSE IN THE AVENUE DE L’ALMA

XVI. INSPECTOR BURNLEY UP AGAINST IT

XVII. A COUNCIL OF WAR

XVIII. LEFARGE HUNTS ALONE

XIX. THE TESTING OF AN ALIBI

XX. SOME DAMNING EVIDENCE

PART III--LONDON AND PARIS

XXI. A NEW POINT OF VIEW

XXII. FELIX TELLS A SECOND STORY

XXIII. CLIFFORD GETS TO WORK

XXIV. MR. GEORGES LA TOUCHE

XXV. DISAPPOINTMENT

XXVI. A CLUE AT LAST

XXVII. LA TOUCHE’S DILEMMA

XXVIII. THE UNRAVELLING OF THE WEB

XXIX. A DRAMATIC DÉNOUEMENT

XXX. CONCLUSION

PART I--LONDON

CHAPTER I

A STRANGE CONSIGNMENT

Mr. Avery, managing director of the Insular and Continental Steam

Navigation Company, had just arrived at his office. He glanced at his

inward letters, ran his eye over his list of engagements for the day,

and inspected the return of the movements of his Company’s steamers.

Then, after spending a few moments in thought, he called his chief

clerk, Wilcox.

‘I see the _Bullfinch_ is in this morning from Rouen,’ he said. ‘I

take it she’ll have that consignment of wines for Norton and Banks?’

‘She has,’ replied the chief clerk, ‘I’ve just rung up the dock

office to inquire.’

‘I think we ought to have it specially checked from here. You

remember all the trouble they gave us about the last lot. Will you

send some reliable man down? Whom can you spare?’

‘Broughton could go. He has done it before.’

‘Well, see to it, will you, and then send in Miss Johnson, and I

shall go through the mail.’

The office was the headquarters of the Insular and Continental Steam

Navigation Company, colloquially known as the I. and C., and occupied

the second floor of a large block of buildings at the western end of

Fenchurch Street. The Company was an important concern, and owned a

fleet of some thirty steamers ranging from 300 to 1000 tons burden,

which traded between London and the smaller Continental ports. Low

freights was their specialty, but they did not drive their boats, and

no attempt was made to compete with the more expensive routes in the

matter of speed. Under these circumstances they did a large trade in

all kinds of goods other than perishables.

Mr. Wilcox picked up some papers and stepped over to the desk at

which Tom Broughton was working.

‘Broughton,’ he said, ‘Mr. Avery wants you to go down at once to the

docks and check a consignment of wines for Norton and Banks. It came

in last night from Rouen in the _Bullfinch_. These people gave us a

lot of trouble about their last lot, disputing our figures, so you

will have to be very careful. Here are the invoices, and don’t take

the men’s figures but see each cask yourself.’

‘Right, sir,’ replied Broughton, a young fellow of three-and-twenty,

with a frank, boyish face and an alert manner. Nothing loath to

exchange the monotony of the office for the life and bustle of the

quays, he put away his books, stowed the invoices carefully in his

pocket, took his hat and went quickly down the stairs and out into

Fenchurch Street.

It was a brilliant morning in early April. After a spell of cold,

showery weather, there was at last a foretaste of summer in the air,

and the contrast made it seem good to be alive. The sun shone with

that clear freshness seen only after rain. Broughton’s spirits rose

as he hurried through the busy streets, and watched the ceaseless

flow of traffic pouring along the arteries leading to the shipping.

His goal was St. Katherine’s Docks, where the _Bullfinch_ was

berthed, and, passing across Tower Hill and round two sides of the

grim old fortress, he pushed on till he reached the basin in which

the steamer was lying. She was a long and rather low vessel of some

800 tons burden, with engines amidships, and a single black funnel

ornamented with the two green bands that marked the Company’s boats.

Recently out from her annual overhaul, she looked trim and clean in

her new coat of black paint. Unloading was in progress, and Broughton

hurried on board, anxious to be present before any of the consignment

of wine was set ashore.

He was just in time, for the hatches of the lower forehold, in which

the casks were stowed, had been cleared and were being lifted off as

he arrived. As he stood on the bridge deck waiting for the work to be

completed he looked around.

Several steamers were lying in the basin. Immediately behind, with

her high bluff bows showing over the _Bullfinch’s_ counter, was the

_Thrush_, his Company’s largest vessel, due to sail that afternoon

for Corunna and Vigo. In the berth in front lay a Clyde Shipping

Company’s boat bound for Belfast and Glasgow and also due out that

afternoon, the smoke from her black funnel circling lazily up into

the clear sky. Opposite was the _Arcturus_, belonging to the I. and

C.’s rivals, Messrs. Babcock and Millman, and commanded by ‘Black

Mac,’ so called to distinguish him from the Captain M‘Tavish of

differently coloured hair, ‘Red Mac,’ who was master of the same

Company’s _Sirius_. To Broughton these boats represented links with

the mysterious, far-off world of romance, and he never saw one put to

sea without longing to go with her to Copenhagen, Bordeaux, Lisbon,

Spezzia, or to whatever other delightful-sounding place she was bound.

The fore-hatch being open, Broughton climbed down into the hold armed

with his notebook, and the unloading of the casks began. They were

swung out in lots of four fastened together by rope slings. As each

lot was dealt with, the clerk noted the contents in his book, from

which he would afterwards check the invoices.

The work progressed rapidly, the men straining and pushing to get the

heavy barrels in place for the slings. Gradually the space under and

around the hatch was cleared, the casks then having to be rolled

forward from the farther parts of the hold.

A quartet of casks had just been hoisted and Broughton was turning to

examine the next lot when he heard a sudden shout of ‘Look out, there!

Look out!’ and felt himself seized roughly and pulled backwards. He

swung round and was in time to see the four casks turning over out of

the sling and falling heavily to the floor of the hold. Fortunately

they had only been lifted some four or five feet, but they were heavy

things and came down solidly. The two under were damaged slightly and

the wine began to ooze out between the staves. The others had had

their fall broken and neither seemed the worse. The men had all

jumped clear and no one was hurt.

‘Upend those casks, boys,’ called the foreman, when the damage had

been briefly examined, ‘and let’s save the wine.’

The leaking casks were turned damaged end up and lifted aside for

temporary repairs. The third barrel was found to be uninjured, but

when they came to the fourth it was seen that it had not entirely

escaped.

This fourth cask was different in appearance from the rest, and

Broughton had noted it as not belonging to Messrs. Norton and Banks’

consignment. It was more strongly made and better finished, and was

stained a light oak colour and varnished. Evidently, also, it did not

contain wine, for what had called their attention to its injury was a

little heap of sawdust which had escaped from a crack at the end of

one of the staves.

‘Strange looking cask this. Did you ever see one like it before?’

said Broughton to the I. and C. foreman who had pulled him back, a

man named Harkness. He was a tall, strongly built man with prominent

cheekbones, a square chin and a sandy moustache. Broughton had known

him for some time and had a high opinion of his intelligence and

ability.

‘Never saw nothin’ like it,’ returned Harkness. ‘I tell you, sir,

that there cask ’as been made to stand some knocking about.’

‘Looks like it. Let’s get it rolled back out of the way and turned

up, so as to see the damage.’

Harkness seized the cask and with some difficulty rolled it close to

the ship’s side out of the way of the unloading, but when he tried to

upend it he found it too heavy to lift.

‘There’s something more than sawdust in there,’ he said. ‘It’s the

’eaviest cask ever I struck. I guess it was its weight shifted the

other casks in the sling and spilled the lot.’

He called over another man and they turned the cask damaged end up.

Broughton stepped over to the charge hand and asked him to check the

tally for a few seconds while he examined the injury.

As he was returning across the half-dozen yards to join the foreman,

his eye fell on the little heap of sawdust that had fallen out of the

crack, and the glitter of some bright object showing through it

caught his attention. He stooped and picked it up. His amazement as

he looked at it may be imagined, for it was a sovereign!

He glanced quickly round. Only Harkness of all the men present had

seen it.

‘Turn the ’eap over, sir,’ said the foreman, evidently as surprised

as the younger man, ‘see if there are any more.’

Broughton sifted the sawdust through his fingers, and his

astonishment was not lessened when he discovered two others hidden in

the little pile.

He gazed at the three gold coins lying in his palm. As he did so

Harkness gave a smothered exclamation and, stooping rapidly, picked

something out from between two of the boards of the hold’s bottom.

‘Another, by gum!’ cried the foreman in low tones, ‘and another!’ He

bent down again and lifted a second object from behind where the cask

was standing. ‘Blest if it ain’t a blooming gold mine we’ve struck.’

Broughton put the five sovereigns in his pocket, as he and Harkness

unostentatiously scrutinised the deck. They searched carefully, but

found no other coins.

‘Did you drop them when I dragged you back?’ asked Harkness.

‘I? No, I wish I had, but I had no gold about me.’

‘Some of the other chaps must ’ave then. Maybe Peters or Wilson. Both

jumped just at this place.’

‘Well, don’t say anything for a moment. I believe they came out of

the cask.’

‘Out o’ the cask? Why, sir, ’oo would send sovereigns in a cask?’

‘No one, I should have said; but how would they get among the sawdust

if they didn’t come out through the crack with it?’

‘That’s so,’ said Harkness thoughtfully, continuing, ‘I tell you, Mr.

Broughton, you say the word and I’ll open that crack a bit more and

we’ll ’ave a look into the cask.’

The clerk recognised that this would be irregular, but his curiosity

was keenly aroused and he hesitated.

‘I’ll do it without leaving any mark that won’t be put down to the

fall,’ continued the tempter, and Broughton fell.

‘I think we should know,’ he replied. ‘This gold may have been stolen

and inquiries should be made.’

The foreman smiled and disappeared, returning with a hammer and cold

chisel. The broken piece at the end of the stave was entirely

separated from the remainder by the crack, but was held in position

by one of the iron rings. This piece Harkness with some difficulty

drove upwards, thus widening the crack. As he did so, a little shower

of sawdust fell out and the astonishment of the two men was not

lessened when with it came a number of sovereigns, which went rolling

here and there over the planks.

It happened that at the same moment the attention of the other men

was concentrated on a quartet of casks which was being slung up

through the hatches, the nervousness caused by the slip not having

yet subsided. None of them therefore saw what had taken place, and

Broughton and Harkness had picked up the coins before any of them

turned round. Six sovereigns had come out, and the clerk added them

to the five he already had, while he and his companion

unostentatiously searched for others. Not finding any, they turned

back to the cask deeply mystified.

‘Open that crack a bit more,’ said Broughton. ‘What do you think

about it?’

‘Blest if I know what to think,’ replied the foreman. ‘We’re on to

something mighty queer anyway. ’Old my cap under the crack till I

prize out that there bit of wood altogether.’

With some difficulty the loose piece of the stave was hammered up,

leaving a hole in the side of the barrel some six inches deep by

nearly four wide. Half a capful of sawdust fell out, and the clerk

added to it by clearing the broken edge of the wood. Then he placed

the cap on the top of the cask and they eagerly felt through the

sawdust.

‘By Jehoshaphat!’ whispered Harkness excitedly, ‘it’s just full of

gold!’

It seemed to be so, indeed, for in it were no fewer than seven

sovereigns.

‘That’s eighteen in all,’ said Broughton, in an awed tone, as he

slipped them into his pocket. ‘If the whole cask’s full of them it

must be worth thousands and thousands of pounds.’

They stood gazing at the prosaic looking barrel, outwardly remarkable

only in its strong design and good finish, marvelling if beneath that

commonplace exterior there was indeed hidden what to them seemed a

fortune. Then Harkness crouched down and looked into the cask through

the hole he had made. Hardly had he done so when he sprang back with

a sudden oath.

‘Look in there, Mr. Broughton!’ he cried in a suppressed tone. ‘Look

in there!’

Broughton stooped in turn and peered in. Then he also recoiled, for

there, sticking up out of the sawdust, were the fingers of a hand.

‘This is terrible,’ he whispered, convinced at last they were in the

presence of tragedy, and then he could have kicked himself for being

such a fool.

‘Why, it’s only a statue,’ he cried.

‘Statue?’ replied Harkness sharply. ‘Statue? That ain’t no statue.

That’s part of a dead body, that is. And don’t you make no mistake.’

‘It’s too dark to see properly. Get a light, will you, till we make

sure.’

When the foreman had procured a hand-lamp Broughton looked in again

and speedily saw that his first impression was correct. The fingers

were undoubtedly those of a woman’s hand, small, pointed, delicate,

and bearing rings which glinted in the light.

‘Clear away some more of the sawdust, Harkness,’ said the young man

as he stood up again. ‘We must find out all we can now.’

He held the cap as before, and the foreman carefully picked out with

the cold chisel the sawdust surrounding the fingers. As its level

lowered, the remainder of the hand and the wrist gradually became

revealed. The sight of the whole only accentuated the first

impression of dainty beauty and elegance.

Broughton emptied the cap on to the top of the cask. Three more

sovereigns were found hidden in it, and these he pocketed with the

others. Then he turned to re-examine the cask.

It was rather larger than the wine-barrels, being some three feet six

high by nearly two feet six in diameter. As already mentioned, it was

of unusually strong construction, the sides, as shown by the broken

stave, being quite two inches thick. Owing possibly to the difficulty

of bending such heavy stuff, it was more cylindrical than barrel

shaped, the result being that the ends were unusually large, and this

no doubt partly accounted for Harkness’s difficulty in upending it.

In place of the usual thin metal bands, heavy iron rings clamped it

together.

On one side was a card label, tacked round the edges and addressed in

a foreign handwriting: ‘M. Léon Felix, 141 West Jubb Street,

Tottenham Court Road, London, W., via Rouen and long sea,’ with the

words ‘Statuary only’ printed with a rubber stamp. The label bore

also the sender’s name: ‘Dupierre et Cie., Fabricants de la Sculpture

Monumentale, Rue Provence, Rue de la Convention, Grenelle, Paris.’

Stencilled in black letters on the woodwork was ‘Return to’ in

French, English, and German, and the name of the same firm. Broughton

examined the label with care, in the half-unconscious hope of

discovering something from the handwriting. In this he was

disappointed, but, as he held the hand-lamp close, he saw something

else which interested him.

The label was divided into two parts, an ornamental border containing

the sender’s advertisement and a central portion for the address.

These two were separated by a thick black line. What had caught

Broughton’s eye was an unevenness along this line, and closer

examination showed that the central portion had been cut out, and a

piece of paper pasted on the back of the card to cover the hole.

Felix’s address was therefore written on this paper, and not on the

original label. The alteration had been neatly done, and was almost

unnoticeable. Broughton was puzzled at first, then it occurred to him

that the firm must have run out of labels and made an old one do duty

a second time.

‘A cask containing money and a human hand--probably a body,’ he

mused. ‘It’s a queer business and something has got to be done about

it.’ He stood looking at the cask while he thought out his course of

action.

That a serious crime had been committed he felt sure, and that it was

his duty to report his discovery immediately he was no less certain.

But there was the question of the consignment of wines. He had been

sent specially to the docks to check it, and he wondered if he would

be right to leave the work undone. He thought so. The matter was

serious enough to justify him. And it was not as if the wine would

not be checked. The ordinary tallyman was there, and Broughton knew

him to be careful and accurate. Besides, he could probably get a

clerk from the dock office to help. His mind was made up. He would go

straight to Fenchurch Street and report to Mr. Avery, the managing

director.

‘Harkness,’ he said, ‘I’m going up to the head office to report this.

You’d better close up that hole as best you can and then stay here

and watch the cask. Don’t let it out of your sight on any pretext

until you get instructions from Mr. Avery.’

‘Right, Mr. Broughton,’ replied the foreman, ‘I think you’re doing

the proper thing.’

They replaced as much of the sawdust as they could, and Harkness

fitted the broken piece of stave into the space and drove it home,

nailing it fast.

‘Well, I’m off,’ said Broughton, but as he turned to go a gentleman

stepped down into the hold and spoke to him. He was a man of medium

height, foreign-looking, with a dark complexion and a black pointed

beard, and dressed in a well-cut suit of blue clothes, with white

spats and a Homburg hat. He bowed and smiled.

‘Pardon me, but you are, I presume, an I. and C. official?’ he asked,

speaking perfect English, but with a foreign accent.

‘I am a clerk in the head office, sir,’ replied Broughton.

‘Ah, quite so. Perhaps then you can oblige me with some information?

I am expecting from Paris by this boat a cask containing a group of

statuary from Messrs. Dupierre of that city. Can you tell me if it

has arrived? This is my name.’ He handed Broughton a card on which

was printed: ‘M. Léon Felix, 141 West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court

Road, W.’

Though the clerk saw at a glance the name was the same as that on the

label on the cask, he pretended to read it with care while

considering his reply. This man clearly was the consignee, and if he

were told the cask was there he would doubtless claim immediate

possession. Broughton could think of no excuse for refusing him, but

he was determined all the same not to let it go. He had just decided

to reply that it had not yet come to light, but that they would keep

a look-out for it, when another point struck him.

The damaged cask had been moved to the side of the hold next the

dock, and it occurred to the clerk that any one standing on the wharf

beside the hatch could see it. For all he knew to the contrary, this

man Felix might have watched their whole proceedings, including the

making of the hole in the cask and the taking out of the sovereigns.

If he had recognised his property, as was possible, a couple of steps

from where he was standing would enable him to put his finger on the

label and so convict Broughton of a falsehood. The clerk decided that

in this case honesty would be the best policy.

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, ‘your cask has arrived. By a curious

coincidence it is this one beside us. We had just separated it out

from the wine-barrels owing to its being differently consigned.’

Mr. Felix looked at the young man suspiciously, but he only said:

‘Thank you. I am a collector of _objets d’art_, and am anxious to see

the statue. I have a cart here and I presume I can get it away at

once?’

This was what Broughton had expected, but he thought he saw his way.

‘Well, sir,’ he responded civilly, ‘that is outside my job and I fear

I cannot help you. But I am sure you can get it now if you will come

over to the office on the quay and go through the usual formalities.

I am going there now and will be pleased to show you the way.’

‘Oh, thank you. Certainly,’ agreed the stranger.

As they walked off, a doubt arose in Broughton’s mind that Harkness

might misunderstand his replies to Felix, and if the latter returned

with a plausible story might let the cask go. He therefore called

out:--

‘You understand then, Harkness, you are to do nothing till you hear

from Mr. Avery,’ to which the foreman replied by a wave of the hand.

The problem the young clerk had to solve was threefold. First, he had

to go to Fenchurch Street to report the matter to his managing

director. Next, he must ensure that the cask was kept in the

Company’s possession until that gentleman had decided his course of

action, and lastly, he wished to accomplish both of these things

without raising the suspicions either of Felix or the clerks in the

quay office. It was not an easy matter, and at first Broughton was

somewhat at a loss. But as they entered the office a plan occurred to

him which he at once decided on. He turned to his companion.

‘If you will wait here a moment, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll find the clerk

who deals with your business and send him to you.’

‘I thank you.’

He passed through the door in the screen dividing the outer and inner

offices and, crossing to the manager’s room, spoke in a low tone to

that official.

‘Mr. Huston, there’s a man outside named Felix for whom a cask has

come from Paris on the _Bullfinch_ and he wants possession now. The

cask is there, but Mr. Avery suspects there is something not quite

right about it, and he sent me to tell you to please delay delivery

until you hear further from him. He said to make any excuse, but

under no circumstances to give the thing up. He will ring you up in

an hour or so when he has made some further inquiries.’

Mr. Huston looked queerly at the young man, but he only said, ‘That

will be all right,’ and the latter took him out and introduced him to

Mr. Felix.

Broughton delayed a few moments in the inner office to arrange with

one of the clerks to take up his work on the _Bullfinch_ during his

absence. As he passed out by the counter at which the manager and Mr.

Felix were talking, he heard the latter say in an angry tone:--

‘Very well, I will go now and see your Mr. Avery, and I feel sure he

will make it up to me for this obstruction and annoyance.’

‘It’s up to me to be there first,’ thought Broughton, as he hurried

out of the dock gates in search of a taxi. None was in sight and he

stopped and considered the situation. If Felix had a car waiting he

would get to Fenchurch Street while he, Broughton, was looking round.

Something else must be done.

Stepping into the Little Tower Hill Post Office, he rang up the head

office, getting through to Mr. Avery’s private room. In a few words

he explained that he had accidentally come on evidence which pointed

to the commission of a serious crime, that a man named Felix appeared

to know something about it, and that this man was about to call on

Mr. Avery, continuing,--

‘Now, sir, if you’ll let me make a suggestion, it is that you don’t

see this Mr. Felix immediately he calls, but that you let me into

your private office by the landing door, so that I don’t need to pass

through the outer office. Then you can hear my story in detail and

decide what to do.’

‘It all sounds rather vague and mysterious,’ replied the distant

voice, ‘can you not tell me what you found?’

‘Not from here, sir, if you please. If you’ll trust me this time, I

think you’ll be satisfied that I am right when you hear my story.’

‘All right. Come along.’

Broughton left the post office and, now when it no longer mattered,

found an empty taxi. Jumping in, he drove to Fenchurch Street and,

passing up the staircase, knocked at his chief’s private door.

‘Well, Broughton,’ said Mr. Avery, ‘sit down there.’ Going to the

door leading to the outer office he spoke to Wilcox.

‘I’ve just had a telephone call and I want to send some other

messages. I’ll be engaged for half an hour.’ Then he closed the door

and slipped the bolt.

‘You see I have done as you asked and I shall now hear your story. I

trust you haven’t put me to all this inconvenience without a good

cause.’

‘I think not, sir, and I thank you for the way you have met me. What

happened was this,’ and Broughton related in detail his visit to the

docks, the mishap to the casks, the discovery of the sovereigns and

the woman’s hand, the coming of Mr. Felix and the interview in the

quay office, ending up by placing the twenty-one sovereigns in a

little pile on the chief’s desk.

When he ceased speaking there was silence for several minutes, while

Mr. Avery thought over what he had heard. The tale was a strange one,

but both from his knowledge of Broughton’s character as well as from

the young man’s manner he implicitly believed every word he had

heard. He considered the firm’s position in the matter. In one way it

did not concern them if a sealed casket, delivered to them for

conveyance, contained marble, gold, or road metal, so long as the

freight was paid. Their contract was to carry what was handed over to

them from one point to another and give it up in the condition they

received it. If any one chose to send sovereigns under the guise of

statuary, any objection that might be raised concerned the Customs

Department, not them.

On the other hand, if evidence pointing to a serious crime came to

the firm’s notice, it would be the duty of the firm to acquaint the

police. The woman’s hand in the cask might or might not indicate a

murder, but the suspicion was too strong to justify them in hiding

the matter. He came to a decision.

‘Broughton,’ he said, ‘I think you have acted very wisely all

through. We will go now to Scotland Yard, and you may repeat your

tale to the authorities. After that I think we will be clear of it.

Will you go out the way you came in, get a taxi, and wait for me in

Fenchurch Street at the end of Mark Lane.’

Mr. Avery locked the private door after the young man, put on his

coat and hat, and went into the outer office.

‘I am going out for a couple of hours, Wilcox,’ he said.

The head clerk approached with a letter in his hand.

‘Very good, sir. A gentleman named Mr. Felix called about 11.30 to

see you. When I said you were engaged, he would not wait, but asked

for a sheet of paper and an envelope to write you a note. This is it.’

The managing director took the note and turned back into his private

office to read it. He was puzzled. He had said at 11.15 he would be

engaged for half an hour. Therefore, Mr. Felix would only have had

fifteen minutes to wait. As he opened the envelope he wondered why

that gentleman could not have spared this moderate time, after coming

all the way from the docks to see him. And then he was puzzled again,

for the envelope was empty!

He stood in thought. Had something occurred to startle Mr. Felix when

writing his note, so that in his agitation he omitted to enclose it?

Or had he simply made a mistake? Or was there some deep-laid plot?

Well, he would see what Scotland Yard thought.

He put the envelope away in his pocket-book and, going down to the

street, joined Broughton in the taxi. They rattled along the crowded

thoroughfares while Mr. Avery told the clerk about the envelope.

‘I say, sir,’ said the latter, ‘but that’s a strange business. When I

saw him, Mr. Felix was not at all agitated. He seemed to me a very

cool, clear-headed man.’

It happened that about a year previously the shipping company had

been the victim of a series of cleverly planned robberies, and, in

following up the matter, Mr. Avery had become rather well acquainted

with two or three of the Yard Inspectors. One of these in particular

he had found a shrewd and capable officer, as well as a kindly and

pleasant man to work with. On arrival at the Yard he therefore asked

for this man, and was pleased to find he was not engaged.

‘Good morning, Mr. Avery,’ said the Inspector, as they entered his

office, ‘what good wind blows you our way to-day?’

‘Good morning, Inspector. This is Mr. Broughton, one of my clerks,

and he has got a rather singular story that I think will interest you

to hear.’

Inspector Burnley shook hands, closed the door, and drew up a couple

of chairs.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am always interested in a good

story.’

‘Now, Broughton, repeat your adventures over again to Inspector

Burnley.’

Broughton started off and, for the second time, told of his visit to

the docks, the damage to the heavily built cask, the finding of the

sovereigns and the woman’s hand, and the interview with Mr. Felix.

The Inspector listened gravely and took a note or two, but did not

speak till the clerk had finished, when he said:--

‘Let me congratulate you, Mr. Broughton, on your very clear

statement.’

‘To which I might add a word,’ said Mr. Avery, and he told of the

visit of Mr. Felix to the office and handed over the envelope he had

left.

‘That envelope was written at 11.30,’ said the Inspector, ‘and it is

now nearly 12.30. I am afraid this is a serious matter, Mr. Avery.

Can you come to the docks at once?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, don’t let us lose any time.’ He threw a London directory down

before Broughton. ‘Just look up this Felix, will you, while I make

some arrangements.’

Broughton looked for West Jubb Street, but there was no such near

Tottenham Court Road.

‘I thought as much,’ said Inspector Burnley, who had been

telephoning. ‘Let us proceed.’

As they reached the courtyard a taxi drew up, containing two plain

clothes men as well as the driver. Burnley threw open the door, they

all got in, and the vehicle slid quickly out into the street.

Burnley turned to Broughton. ‘Describe the man Felix as minutely as

you can.’

‘He was a man of about middle height, rather slightly and elegantly

built. He was foreign-looking, French, I should say, or even Spanish,

with dark eyes and complexion, and black hair. He wore a short,

pointed beard. He was dressed in blue clothes of good quality, with a

dark-green or brown Homburg hat, and black shoes with light spats. I

did not observe his collar and tie specially, but he gave me the

impression of being well-dressed in such matters of detail. He wore a

ring with some kind of stone on the little finger of his left hand.’

The two plain clothes men had listened attentively to the

description, and they and the Inspector conversed in low tones for a

few moments, when silence fell on the party.

They stopped opposite the _Bullfinch’s_ berth and Broughton led the

way down.

‘There she is,’ he pointed, ‘if we go to that gangway we can get down

direct to the forehold.’

The two plain-clothes men had also alighted and the five walked in

the direction indicated. They crossed the gangway and, approaching

the hatchway, looked down into the hold.

‘There’s where it is,’ began Broughton, pointing down, and then

suddenly stopped.

The others stepped forward and looked down. The hold was empty.

Harkness and the cask were gone!

CHAPTER II

INSPECTOR BURNLEY ON THE TRACK

The immediate suggestion was, of course, that Harkness had had the

cask moved to some other place for safety, and this they set

themselves to find out.

‘Get hold of the gang that were unloading this hold,’ said the

Inspector.

Broughton darted off and brought up a stevedore’s foreman, from whom

they learned that the forehold had been emptied some ten minutes

earlier, the men having waited to complete it and then gone for

dinner.

‘Where do they get their dinner? Can we get hold of them now?’ asked

Mr. Avery.

‘Some of them, sir, I think. Most of them go out into the city, but

some use the night watchman’s room where there is a fire.’

‘Let’s go and see,’ said the Inspector, and headed by the foreman

they walked some hundred yards along the quay to a small brick

building set apart from the warehouses, inside and in front of which

sat a number of men, some eating from steaming cans, others smoking

short pipes.

‘Any o’ you boys on the _Bullfinch’s_ lower forehold?’ asked the

foreman, ‘if so, boss wants you ’alf a sec.’

Three of the men got up slowly and came forward.

‘We want to know, men,’ said the managing director, ‘if you can tell

us anything about Harkness and a damaged cask. He was to wait with it

till we got down.’

‘Well, he’s gone with it,’ said one of the men, ‘lessn’ ’alf an hour

ago.’

‘Gone with it?’

‘Yes. Some toff in blue clothes an’ a black beard came up an’ give

’im a paper, an’ when ’e’d read it ’e calls out an’ sez, sez ’e,

‘’Elp me swing out this ’ere cask,’ ’e says. We ’elps ’im, an’ ’e

puts it on a ’orse dray--a four-wheeler. An’ then they all goes off,

’im an’ the cove in the blue togs walkin’ together after the dray.’

‘Any name on the dray?’ asked Mr. Avery.

‘There was,’ replied the spokesman, ‘but I’m blessed if I knows what

it was. ’Ere Bill, you was talking about that there name. Where was

it?’

Another man spoke.

‘It was Tottenham Court Road, it was. But I didn’t know the street,

and I thought that a strange thing, for I’ve lived off the Tottenham

Court Road all my life.’

‘Was it East John Street?’ asked Inspector Burnley.

‘Ay, it was something like that. East or West. West, I think. An’ it

was something like John. Not John, but something like it.’

‘What colour was the dray?’

‘Blue, very fresh and clean.’

‘Any one notice the colour of the horse?’

But this was beyond them. The horse was out of their line. Its colour

had not been observed.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Avery, as the Inspector signed that was all he

wanted, ‘we are much obliged to you. Here’s something for you.’

Inspector Burnley beckoned to Broughton.

‘You might describe this man Harkness.’

‘He was a tall chap with a sandy moustache, very high cheek-bones,

and a big jaw. He was dressed in brown dungarees and a cloth cap.’

‘You hear that,’ said the Inspector, turning to the plain-clothes

men. ‘They have half an hour’s start. Try to get on their track. Try

north and east first, as it is unlikely they’d go west for fear of

meeting us. Report to headquarters.’

The men hurried away.

‘Now, a telephone,’ continued the Inspector. ‘Perhaps you’d let me

use your quay office one.’

They walked to the office, and Mr. Avery arranged for him to get the

private instrument in the manager’s room. He rejoined the others in a

few minutes.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s all we can do in the meantime. A description

of the men and cart will be wired round to all the stations

immediately, and every constable in London will be on the look-out

for them before very much longer.’

‘Very good that,’ said the managing director.

The Inspector looked surprised.

‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘that’s the merest routine. But now I’m here I

would like to make some other inquiries. Perhaps you would tell your

people that I’m acting with your approval, as it might make them give

their information more willingly.’

Mr. Avery called over Huston, the manager.

‘Huston, this is Inspector Burnley of Scotland Yard. He is making

some inquiries about that cask you already heard of. I’ll be glad if

you see that he is given every facility.’ He turned to the Inspector.

‘I suppose there’s nothing further I can do to help you? I should be

glad to get back to the City again, if possible.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Avery, there’s nothing more. I’ll cruise round here a

bit. I’ll let you know how things develop.’

‘Right. Good-bye then, in the meantime.’

The Inspector, left to his own devices, called Broughton and, going

on board the _Bullfinch_, had the clerk’s story repeated in great

detail, the actual place where each incident happened being pointed

out. He made a search for any object that might have been dropped,

but without success, visited the wharf and other points from which

the work at the cask might have been overlooked, and generally made

himself thoroughly familiar with the circumstances. By the time this

was done the other men who had been unloading the forehold had

returned from dinner, and he interviewed them, questioning each

individually. No additional information was received.

The Inspector then returned to the quay office.

‘I want you,’ he asked Mr. Huston, ‘to be so good as to show me all

the papers you have referring to that cask, waybills, forward notes,

everything.’

Mr. Huston disappeared, returning in a few seconds with some papers

which he handed to Burnley. The latter examined them and then said:--

‘These seem to show that the cask was handed over to the French State

Railway at their Rue Cardinet Goods Station, near the Gare St.

Lazare, in Paris, by MM. Dupierre et Cie., carriage being paid

forward. They ran it by rail to Rouen, where it was loaded on to your

_Bullfinch_.’

‘That is so.’

‘I suppose you cannot say whether the Paris collection was made by a

railway vehicle?’

‘No, but I should think not, as otherwise the cartage charges would

probably show.’

‘I think I am right in saying that these papers are complete and

correct in every detail?’

‘Oh yes, they are perfectly in order.’

‘How do you account for the cask being passed through by the Customs

officials without examination?’

‘There was nothing suspicious about it. It bore the label of a

well-known and reputable firm, and was invoiced as well as

stencilled, ‘Statuary only.’ It was a receptacle obviously suitable

for transporting such goods, and its weight was also in accordance.

Unless in the event of some suspicious circumstance, cases of this

kind are seldom opened.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Huston, that is all I want at present. Now, can I see

the captain of the _Bullfinch_?’

‘Certainly. Come over and I’ll introduce you.’

Captain M’Nabb was a big, rawboned Ulsterman, with a hooked nose and

sandy hair. He was engaged in writing up some notes in his cabin.

‘Come in, sir, come in,’ he said, as Huston made the Inspector known.

‘What can I do for you?’

Burnley explained his business. He had only a couple of questions to

ask.

‘How is the trans-shipment done from the railway to your boat at

Rouen?’

‘The wagons come down on the wharf right alongside. The Rouen

stevedores load them, either with the harbour travelling crane or our

own winches.’

‘Would it be at all possible for a barrel to be tampered with after

it was once aboard?’

‘How do you mean tampered with? A barrel of wine might be tapped, but

that’s all could be done.’

‘Could a barrel be changed, or completely emptied and filled with

something else?’

‘It could not. The thing’s altogether impossible.’

‘I’m much obliged to you, captain. Good-day.’

Inspector Burnley was nothing if not thorough. He questioned in turn

the winch drivers, the engineers, even the cook, and before six

o’clock had interviewed every man that had sailed on the _Bullfinch_

from Rouen. The results were unfortunately entirely negative. No

information about the cask was forthcoming. No question had been

raised about it. Nothing had happened to call attention to it, or

that was in any way out of the common.

Puzzled but not disheartened, Inspector Burnley drove back to

Scotland Yard, his mind full of the mysterious happenings, and his

pocket-book stored with all kinds of facts about the _Bullfinch_, her

cargo, and crew.

Two messages were waiting for him. The first was from Ralston, the

plain-clothes man that he had sent from the docks in a northerly

direction. It read:--

‘Traced parties as far as north end of Leman Street. Trail lost

there.’

The second was from a police station in Upper Head Street:--

‘Parties seen turning from Great Eastern Street into Curtain Road

about 1.20 p.m.’

‘H’m, going north-west, are they?’ mused the Inspector taking down a

large scale map of the district. ‘Let’s see. Here’s Leman Street.

That is, say, due north from St. Katherine’s Docks, and half a mile

or more away. Now, what’s the other one?’--he referred to the

wire--‘Curtain Road should be somewhere here. Yes, here it is. Just a

continuation of the same line, only more west, say, a mile and a half

from the docks. So they’re going straight, are they, and using the

main streets. H’m. H’m. Now I wonder where they’re heading to. Let’s

see.’

The Inspector pondered. ‘Ah, well,’ he murmured at last, ‘we must

wait till to-morrow,’ and, sending instructions recalling his two

plain-clothes assistants, he went home.

But his day’s work was not done. Hardly had he finished his meal and

lit one of the strong, black cigars he favoured, when he was summoned

back to Scotland Yard. There waiting for him was Broughton, and with

him the tall, heavy-jawed foreman, Harkness.

The Inspector pulled forward two chairs.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said, when the clerk had introduced his

companion, ‘and let me hear your story.’

‘You’ll be surprised to see me so soon again, Mr. Burnley,’ answered

Broughton, ‘but, after leaving you, I went back to the office to see

if there were any instructions for me, and found our friend here had

just turned up. He was asking for the chief, Mr. Avery, but he had

gone home. Then he told me his adventures, and as I felt sure Mr.

Avery would have sent him to you, I thought my best plan was to bring

him along without delay.’

‘And right you were, Mr. Broughton. Now, Mr. Harkness, I would be

obliged if you would tell me what happened to you.’

The foreman settled himself comfortably in his chair.

‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘I think you’re listening to the biggest fool

between this and St. Paul’s. I ’ave been done this afternoon, fairly

diddled, an’ not once only, but two separate times. ’Owever, I’d

better tell you from the beginning.

‘When Mr. Broughton an’ Felix left, I stayed an’ kept an eye on the

cask. I got some bits of ’oop iron by way o’ mending it, so that none

o’ the boys would wonder why I was ’anging around. I waited the best

part of an hour, an’ then Felix came back.

‘“Mr. ’Arkness, I believe?” ’e said.

‘“That’s my name, sir,” I answered.

‘“I ’ave a letter for you from Mr. Avery. P’raps you would kindly

read it now,” ’e said.

‘It was a note from the ’ead office, signed by Mr. Avery, an’ it said

that ’e ’ad seen Mr. Broughton an’ that it was all right about the

cask, an’ for me to give it up to Felix at once. It said too that we

’ad to deliver the cask at the address that was on it, an’ for me to

go there along with it and Felix, an’ to report if it was safely

delivered.

‘“That’s all right, sir,” said I, an’ I called to some o’ the boys,

an’ we got the cask swung ashore an’ on to a four-wheeled dray Felix

’ad waiting. ’E ’ad two men with it, a big, strong fellow with red

’air an’ a smaller dark chap that drove. We turned east at the dock

gates, an’ then went up Leman Street an’ on into a part o’ the city I

didn’t know.

‘When we ’ad gone a mile or more, the red-’aired man said ’e could do

with a drink. Felix wanted ’im to carry on at first, but ’e gave in

after a bit an’ we stopped in front o’ a bar. The small man’s name

was Watty, an’ Felix asked ’im could ’e leave the ’orse, but Watty,

said “No,” an’ then Felix told ’im to mind it while the rest of us

went in, an’ ’e would come out soon an’ look after it, so’s Watty

could go in ’an get ’is drink. So Felix an’ I an’ Ginger went in, an’

Felix ordered four bottles o’ beer an’ paid for them. Felix drank ’is

off, an’ then ’e told us to wait till ’e would send Watty in for ’is,

an’ went out. As soon as ’e ’ad gone Ginger leant over an’ whispered

to me, “Say, mate, wot’s ’is game with the blooming cask? I lay you

five to one ’e ’as something crooked on.”

‘“Why,” said I, “I don’t know about that.” You see, sir, I ’ad

thought the same myself, but then Mr. Avery wouldn’t ’ave written wot

it was all right if it wasn’t.

‘“Well, see ’ere,” said Ginger, “maybe if you an’ I was to keep our

eyes skinned, it might put a few quid in our pockets.”

‘“’Ow’s that?” said I.

‘“’Ow’s it yourself?” said ’e. “If ’e ’as some game on wi’ the cask

’e’ll not be wanting for to let any outsiders in. If you an’ me was

to offer for to let them in for ’im, ’e’d maybe think we was worth

something.”

‘Well, gentlemen, I thought over that, an’ first I wondered if this

chap knew there was a body in the cask, an’ I was going to see if I

couldn’t find out without giving myself away. Then I thought maybe ’e

was on the same lay, an’ was pumping me. So I thought I would pass it

off a while, an’ I said:--

‘“Would Watty come in?”

‘Ginger said “No,” that three was too many for a job o’ that kind,

an’ we talked on a while. Then I ’appened to look at Watty’s beer

standing there, an’ I wondered ’e ’hadn’t been in for it.

‘“That beer won’t keep,” I said. “If that blighter wants it ’e’d

better come an’ get it.”

‘Ginger sat up when ’e ’eard that.

‘“Wots wrong with ’im?” ’e said. “I’ll drop out an’ see.”

‘I don’t know why, gentlemen, but I got a kind o’ notion there was

something in the air, an’ I followed ’im out. The dray was gone. We

looked up an’ down the street, but there wasn’t a sign of it nor

Felix nor Watty.

‘“Blow me, if they ’aven’t given us the slip,” shouted Ginger. “Get a

move on. You go that way an’ I’ll go this, an’ one of us is bound to

see them at the corner.”

‘I guessed I was on to the game then. These three were wrong ’uns,

an’ they were out to get rid o’ the body, an’ they didn’t want me

around to see the grave. All that about the drinks was a plan to get

me away from the dray, an’ Ginger’s talk was only to keep me quiet

till the others got clear. Well, two o’ them ’ad got quit o’ me right

enough, but I was blessed if the third would.

‘“No, you don’t, ol’ pal,” I said. “I guess you an’ me’ll stay

together.” I took ’is arm an’ ’urried ’im on the way ’e ’ad wanted to

go ’imself. But when we got to the corner there wasn’t sign o’ the

dray. They ’ad given us the slip about proper.

‘Ginger cursed an’ raved, an’ wanted to know ’oo was going to pay ’im

for ’is day. I tried to get out of ’im ’oo ’e was an’ ’oo ’ad ’ired

’im, but ’e wasn’t giving anything away. I kept close beside ’im, for

I knew ’e’d ’ave to go ’ome some time, an’ I thought if I saw where

’e lived it would be easy to find out where ’e worked, an’ so likely

get ’old o’ Felix. ’E tried different times to juke away from me, an’

’e got real mad when ’e found ’e couldn’t.

‘We walked about for more than three hours till it was near five

o’clock, an’ then we ’ad some more beer, an’ when we came out o’ the

bar we stood at the corner o’ two streets an’ thought wot we’d do

next. An’ then suddenly Ginger lurched up against me, an’ I drove

fair into an old woman that was passing, an’ nearly knocked ’er over.

I caught ’er to keep ’er from falling--I couldn’t do no less--but

when I looked round, I’m blessed if Ginger wasn’t gone. I ran down

one street first, an’ then down the other, an’ then I went back into

the bar, but never a sight of ’im did I get. I cursed myself for

every kind of a fool, an’ then I thought I’d better go back an’ tell

Mr. Avery anyway. So I went to Fenchurch Street, an’ Mr. Broughton

brought me along ’ere.’

There was silence when the foreman ceased speaking, while Inspector

Burnley, in his painstaking way, considered the statement he had

heard, as well as that made by Broughton earlier in the day. He

reviewed the chain of events in detail, endeavouring to separate out

the undoubted facts from what might be only the narrator’s opinions.

If the two men were to be believed, and Burnley had no reason for

doubting either, the facts about the discovery and removal of the

cask were clear, with one exception. There seemed to be no adequate

proof that the cask really did contain a corpse.

‘Mr. Broughton tells me he thought there was a body in the cask. Do

you agree with that, Mr. Harkness?’

‘Yes, sir, there’s no doubt of it. We both saw a woman’s hand.’

‘But might it not have been a statue? The cask was labelled

‘Statuary,’ I understand.’

‘No, sir, it wasn’t no statue. Mr. Broughton thought that at first,

but when ’e looked at it again ’e gave in I was right. It was a body,

sure enough.’

Further questions showed that both men were convinced the hand was

real, though neither could advance any grounds for their belief other

than that he ‘knew from the look of it.’ The Inspector was not

satisfied that their opinion was correct, though he thought it

probable. He also noted the possibility of the cask containing a hand

only or perhaps an arm, and it passed through his mind that such a

thing might be backed by a medical student as a somewhat gruesome

practical joke. Then he turned to Harkness again.

‘Have you the letter Felix gave you on the _Bullfinch_?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the foreman, handing it over.

It was written in what looked like a junior clerk’s handwriting on a

small-sized sheet of business letter paper. It bore the I. and C.’s

ordinary printed heading, and read:--

‘_5th April, 1912_.

‘MR. HARKNESS,

on s.s. _Bullfinch_,

St. Katherine’s Docks.

‘Re Mr. Broughton’s conversation with you about cask for Mr. Felix.

‘I have seen Mr. Broughton and Mr. Felix on this matter, and am

satisfied the cask is for Mr. Felix and should be delivered

immediately.

‘On receipt of this letter please hand it over to Mr. Felix without

further delay.

‘As the Company is liable for its delivery at the address it bears,

please accompany it as the representative of the Company, and report

to me of its safe arrival in due course.

‘For the I. and C. S. N. Co., Ltd.,

‘X. Avery,

‘per X. X.,

‘Managing Director.’

The initials shown ‘X’ were undecipherable and were apparently

written by a person in authority, though curiously the word ‘Avery’

in the same hand was quite clear.

‘It’s written on your Company’s paper anyway,’ said the Inspector to

Broughton. ‘I suppose that heading is yours and not a fake?’

‘It’s ours right enough,’ returned the clerk, ‘but I’m certain the

letter’s a forgery for all that.’

‘I should imagine so, but just how do you know?’

‘For several reasons, sir. Firstly, we do not use that quality of

paper for writing our own servants; we have a cheaper form of

memorandum for that. Secondly, all our stuff is typewritten; and

thirdly, that is not the signature of any of our clerks.’

‘Pretty conclusive. It is evident that the forger did not know either

your managing director’s or your clerks’ initials. His knowledge was

confined to the name Avery, and from your statement we can conceive

Felix having just that amount of information.’

‘But how on earth did he get our paper?’

Burnley smiled.

‘Oh, well, that’s not so difficult. Didn’t your head clerk give it to

him?’

‘By Jove! sir, I see it now. He got a sheet of paper and an envelope

to write to Mr. Avery. He left the envelope and vanished with the

sheet.’

‘Of course. It occurred to me when Mr. Avery told me of the empty

envelope. I guessed what he was going to do, and therefore I hurried

to the docks in the hope of being before him. And now about that

label on the cask. You might describe it again as fully as you can.’

‘It was a card about six inches long by four high, fastened on by

tacks all round the edge. Along the top was Dupierre’s name and

advertisement, and in the bottom right-hand corner was a space about

three inches by two for the address. There was a thick, black line

round this space, and the card had been cut along this line so as to

remove the enclosed portion and leave a hole three inches by two. The

hole had been filled by pasting a sheet of paper or card behind the

label. Felix’s address was therefore written on this paper, and not

on the original card.’

‘A curious arrangement. How do you explain it?’

‘I thought perhaps Dupierre’s people had temporarily run out of

labels and were making an old one do again.’

Burnley replied absently, as he turned the matter over in his mind.

The clerk’s suggestion was of course possible, in fact, if the cask

really contained a statue, it was the likely one. On the other hand,

if it held a body, he imagined the reason was further to seek. In

this case he thought it improbable that the cask had come from

Dupierre’s at all and, if not, what had happened? A possible

explanation occurred to him. Suppose some unknown person had received

a statue from Dupierre’s in the cask and, before returning the

latter, had committed a murder. Suppose he wanted to get rid of the

body by sending it somewhere in the cask. What would he do with the

label? Why, what had been done. He would wish to retain Dupierre’s

printed matter in order to facilitate the passage of the cask through

the Customs, but he would have to change the written address. The

Inspector could think of no better way of doing this than by the

alteration that had been made. He turned again to his visitors. ‘Well

gentlemen, I’m greatly obliged to you for your prompt call and

information, and if you will give me your addresses, I think that is

all we can do to-night.’

Inspector Burnley again made his way home. But it was not his lucky

night. About half-past nine he was again sent for from the Yard. Some

one wanted to speak to him urgently on the telephone.

CHAPTER III

THE WATCHER ON THE WALL

At the same time that Inspector Burnley was interviewing Broughton

and Harkness in his office, another series of events centring round

the cask was in progress in a different part of London.

Police Constable Z76, John Walker in private life, was a newly-joined

member of the force. A young man of ideas and of promise, he took

himself and his work seriously. He had ambitions, the chief of which

was to become a detective officer, and he dreamed of the day when he

would have climbed to the giddy eminence of an Inspector of the Yard.

He had read Conan Doyle, Austin Freeman, and other masters of

detective fiction, and their tales had stimulated his imagination.

His efforts to emulate their heroes added to the interest of life

and, if they did not do him very much good, at least did him no harm.

About half-past six that evening, Constable Walker, attired in plain

clothes, was strolling slowly along the Holloway Road. He had come

off duty shortly before, had had his tea, and was now killing time

until he could go to see the second instalment of that thrilling

drama, ‘Lured by Love,’ at the Islington Picture House. Though on

pleasure bent, as he walked he kept on practising observation and

deduction. He had made a habit of noting the appearance of the people

he saw and trying to deduce their histories and, if he did not

succeed in this so well as Sherlock Holmes, he hoped he would some

day.

He looked at the people on the pathway beside him, but none of them

seemed a good subject for study. But as his gaze swept over the

vehicles in the roadway it fell on one which held his attention.

Coming along the street to meet him was a four-wheeled dray drawn by

a light brown horse. On the dray, upended, was a large cask. Two men

sat in front. One, a thin-faced, wiry fellow was driving. The other a

rather small-sized man, was leaning as if wearied out against the

cask. This man had a black beard.

Constable Walker’s heart beat fast. He had always made it a point to

memorise thoroughly the descriptions of wanted men, and only that

afternoon he had seen a wire from Headquarters containing the

description of just such an equipage. It was wanted, and wanted

badly. Had _he_ found it? Constable Walker’s excitement grew as he

wondered.

Unostentatiously he turned and strolled in the direction in which the

dray was going, while he laboured to recall in its every detail the

description he had read. A four-wheeled dray--that was right; a

single horse--right also. A heavily made, iron-clamped cask with one

stave broken at the end and roughly repaired by nailing. He glanced

at the vehicle which had now drawn level with him. Yes, the cask was

well and heavily made and iron clamped, but whether it had a broken

stave he could not tell. The dray was painted a brilliant blue and

had a Tottenham Court Road address. Here Constable Walker had a blow.

This dray was a muddy brown colour and bore the name, John Lyons and

Son, 127 Maddox Street, Lower Beechwood Road. He suffered a keen

disappointment. He had been getting so sure, and yet---- It certainly

looked very like what was wanted except for the colour.

Constable Walker took another look at the reddish-brown paint.

Curiously patchy it looked. Some parts were fresh and more or less

glossy, others dull and drab. And then his excitement rose again to

fever heat. He knew what that meant.

As a boy he had had the run of the small painting establishment in

the village in which he had been brought up, and he had learnt a

thing or two about paint. He knew that if you want paint to dry very

quickly you flat it--you use turpentine or some other flatting

instead of oil. Paint so made will dry in an hour, but it will have a

dull, flat surface instead of a glossy one. But if you paint over

with flat colour a surface recently painted in oil it will not dry so

quickly, and when it does it dries in patches, the dry parts being

dull, the wetter ones glossy. It was clear to Constable Walker that

the dray had been recently painted with flat brown, and that it was

only partly dry.

A thought struck him and he looked keenly at the mottled side. Yes,

he was not mistaken. He could see dimly under the flat coat, faint

traces of white lettering showing out lighter than the old blue

ground. And then his heart leaped for he was sure! There was no

possible chance of error!

He let the vehicle draw ahead, keeping his eye carefully on it while

he thought of his great luck. And then he recollected that there

should have been four men with it. There was a tall man with a sandy

moustache, prominent cheekbones, and a strong chin; a small, lightly

made, foreign-looking man with a black beard and two others whose

descriptions had not been given. The man with the beard was on the

dray, but the tall, red-haired man was not to be seen. Presumably the

driver was one of the undescribed men.

It occurred to Constable Walker that perhaps the other two were

walking. He therefore let the vehicle draw still farther ahead, and

devoted himself to a careful examination of all the male

foot-passengers going in the same direction. He crossed and recrossed

the road. But nowhere could he see any one answering to the

red-haired man’s description.

The quarry led steadily on in a northwesterly direction, Constable

Walker following at a considerable distance behind. At the end of the

Holloway Road it passed through Highgate, and continued out along the

Great North Road. By this time it was growing dusk, and the constable

drew slightly closer so as not to miss it if it made a sudden turn.

For nearly four miles the chase continued. It was now nearly eight,

and Constable Walker reflected with a transient feeling of regret

that ‘Lured by Love’ would then be in full swing. All immediate

indications of the city had been left behind. The country was now

suburban, the road being lined by detached and semidetached villas,

with an occasional field bearing a ‘Building Ground to Let’ notice.

The night was warm and very quiet. There was still light in the west,

but an occasional star was appearing eastwards. Soon it would be

quite dark.

Suddenly the dray stopped and a man got down and opened the gate of a

drive on the right-hand side of the road. The constable melted into

the hedge some fifty yards behind and remained motionless. Soon he

heard the dray move off again and the hard, rattling noise of the

road gave place to the softer, slightly grating sound of gravel. As

the constable crept up along the hedge he could see the light of the

dray moving towards the right.

A narrow lane branched off in the same direction immediately before

reaching the property into which the dray had gone. The drive, in

fact, was only some thirty feet beyond the lane and, so far as the

constable could see, both lane and drive turned at right angles to

the road and ran parallel, one outside and the other inside the

property. The constable slipped down the lane, thus leaving the thick

boundary hedge between himself and the others.

It was nearly though not quite dark, and the constable could make out

the rather low outline of the house, showing black against the sky.

The door was in the end gable facing the lane and was open, though

the house was entirely in darkness. Behind the house, from the end of

the gable and parallel to the lane, ran a wall about eight feet high,

evidently the yard wall, in which was a gate. The drive passed the

hall door and gable and led up to this gate. The buildings were close

to the lane, not more than forty feet from where the constable

crouched. Immediately inside the hedge was a row of small trees.

Standing in front of the yard gate was the dray, with one man at the

horse’s head. As the constable crept closer he heard sounds of

unbarring, and the gate swung open. In silence the man outside led

the dray within and the gate swung to.

The spirit of adventure had risen high in Constable Walker, and he

felt impelled to get still closer to see what was going on.

Opposite the hall door he had noticed a little gate in the hedge, and

he retraced his steps to this and with infinite care opened it and

passed silently through. Keeping well in the shadow of the hedge and

under the trees, he crept down again opposite the yard door and

reconnoitred.

Beyond the gate, that is on the side away from the house, the yard

wall ran on for some fifty feet, at the end of which a cross hedge

ran between it and the one under which he was standing. The constable

moved warily along to this cross hedge, which he followed until he

stood beside the wall.

In the corner between the hedge and the wall, unobserved till he

reached it in the growing darkness, stood a small, openwork, rustic

summer-house. As the constable looked at it an idea occurred to him.

With the utmost care he began to climb the side of the summer-house,

testing every foothold before trusting his weight on it. Slowly he

worked his way up until, cautiously raising his head, he was able to

peep over the wall.

The yard was of fair length, stretching from where he crouched to the

house, a distance of seventy or eighty feet, but was not more than

about thirty feet wide. Along the opposite side it was bounded by a

row of out-offices. The large double doors of one of these,

apparently a coach-house, were open, and a light shone out from the

interior. In front of the doorway and with its back to it stood the

dray.

The coach-house being near the far end of the yard, Constable Walker

was unable to see what was taking place within. He therefore raised

himself upon the wall and slowly and silently crawled along the

coping in the direction of the house. He was aware his strategic

position was bad, but he reflected that, being on the southeast side

of the yard, he had dark sky behind him, while the row of trees would

still further blacken his background. He felt safe from observation,

and continued till he was nearly opposite the coach-house. Then he

stretched himself flat on the coping, hid his face, which he feared

might show white if the lantern shone on it, behind the dark sleeve

of his reddish brown coat, and waited.

He could now see into the coach-house. It was an empty room of fair

size with whitewashed walls and a cement floor. On a peg in the wall

hung a hurricane lamp, and by its light he saw the bearded man

descending a pair of steps which was placed in the centre of the

floor. The wiry man stood close by.

‘That hook’s all right,’ said the bearded man, ‘I have it over the

tie beam. Now for the differential.’

He disappeared into an adjoining room, returning in a moment with a

small set of chain blocks. Taking the end of this up the steps, he

made it fast to something above. The steps were then removed, and

Constable Walker could just see below the lintel of the door, the

hook of the block with a thin chain sling hanging over it.

‘Now back in,’ said the bearded man.

The dray was backed in until the cask stood beneath the blocks. Both

men with some apparent difficulty got the sling fixed, and then

pulling on the chain loop, slowly raised the cask.

‘That’ll do,’ said the bearded man when it was some six inches up.

‘Draw out now.’

The wiry man came to the horse’s head and brought the dray out of the

building, stopping in front of the yard gate. Taking the lantern from

its hook and leaving the cask swinging in mid-air, the bearded man

followed. He closed the coach-house doors and secured them with a

running bolt and padlock, then crossed to the yard gates and began

unfastening them. Both men were now within fifteen feet of Constable

Walker, and he lay scarcely daring to breathe.

The wiry man spoke for the first time.

‘’Arf a mo,’ mister,’ he said, ‘what abaht that there money?’

‘Well,’ said the other, ‘I’ll give you yours now, and the other

fellow can have his any time he comes for it.’

‘I don’t think,’ the wiry man replied aggressively. ‘I’ll take my

pal’s now along o’ my own. When would ’e ’ave time to come around

’ere looking for it?’

‘If I give it to you, what guarantee have I that he won’t deny

getting it and come and ask for more?’

‘You’ll ’ave no guarantee at all abaht it, only that I just tells

yer. Come on, mister, ’and it over an’ let me get away. And don’t yer

go for to think two quid’s goin’ for to settle it up. This ain’t the

job wot we expected when we was ’ired, this ain’t. If you want us for

to carry your little game through on the strict q.t., why, you’ll

’ave to pay for it, that’s wot.’

‘Confound your impertinence! What the devil do you mean?’

The other leered.

‘There ain’t no cause for you to swear at a poor workin’ man. Come

now, mister, you an’ me understands each other well enough. You don’t

want no questions asked. Ten quid apiece an’ me an’ my pal we don’t

know nothin’ abaht it.’

‘My good man, you’ve gone out of your senses. I have nothing to keep

quiet. This business is quite correct.’

The wiry man winked deliberately.

‘That’s orl right, mister, it’s quite c’rrect. And ten quid apiece’ll

keep it that way?’

There was silence for a moment, and the bearded man spoke:--

‘You suspect there is something wrong about the cask? Well, you’re

wrong, for there isn’t. But I admit that if you talk before Thursday

next I’ll lose my bet. See here, I’ll give you five pounds apiece and

you may have your mate’s.’ He counted out some coins, chinking them

in his hands. ‘You may take it or leave it. You won’t get any more,

for then it would be cheaper for me to lose the bet.’

The wiry man paused, eyeing the gold greedily. He opened his mouth to

reply, then a sudden thought seemed to strike him. Irresolutely he

stood, glancing questioningly at the other. Constable Walker could

see his face clearly in the light of the lantern, with an evil,

sardonic smile curling his lips. Then, like a man who, after weighing

a problem, comes to a decision, he took the money and turned to the

horse’s head.

‘Well, mister,’ he said, as he put his vehicle in motion, ‘that’s

straight enough. I’ll stand by it.’

The bearded man closed and bolted the yard gates and disappeared with

his lantern into the house. In a few seconds the sounds of the

receding wheels on the gravel ceased and everything was still.

After waiting a few minutes motionless, Constable Walker slipped off

the coping of the wall and dropped noiselessly to the ground.

Tiptoeing across to the hedge, he passed silently out of the little

gate and regained the lane.

CHAPTER IV

A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW

The constable paused in the lane and considered. Up to the present he

felt he had done splendidly, and he congratulated himself on his

luck. But his next step he did not see clearly at all. Should he find

the nearest police station and advise the head constable, or should

he telephone, or even go to Scotland Yard? Or more difficult still,

should he remain where he was and look-out for fresh developments?

He paused irresolutely for some fifteen minutes pondering the

situation, and had almost made up his mind to telephone for

instructions to his own station, when he heard a footstep slowly

approaching along the lane. Anxious to remain unseen, he rapidly

regained the small gate in the hedge, passed inside and took up a

position behind the trunk of one of the small trees. The sounds grew

gradually nearer. Whoever was approaching was doing so exceedingly

slowly, and seemed to be coming on tiptoe. The steps passed the place

where the constable waited, and he could make out dimly the form of

what seemed to be a man of medium height. In a few seconds they

stopped, and then returned slowly past the constable, finally coming

to a stand close by the little gate. It was intensely still, and the

constable could hear the unknown yawning and softly clearing his

throat.

The last trace of light had gone from the sky and the stars were

showing brightly. There was no wind but a sharpness began to creep

into the air. At intervals came the disconnected sounds of night, the

bark of a dog, the rustle of some small animal in the grass, the rush

of a motor passing on the high road.

The constable’s problem was settled for him for the moment. He could

not move while the other watcher remained. He gave a gentle little

shiver and settled down to wait.

He began reckoning the time. It must, he thought, be about half-past

eight o’clock. It was about eight when the dray had turned into the

drive and he was sure half an hour at least must have passed since

then. He had leave until ten and he did not want to be late without

authority, though surely, under the circumstances, an excuse would be

made for him. He began to picture the scene if he were late, the cold

anger of the sergeant, the threat to report him, then his

explanation, the sudden change of manner. . . .

A faint click of what seemed to be the entrance gate of the drive

recalled him with a start to his present position. Footsteps sounded

on the gravel, firm, heavy footsteps, walking quickly. A man was

approaching the house.

Constable Walker edged round the tree trunk so as to get it between

himself and any light that might come from the hall door. The man

reached the door and rang.

In a few seconds a light appeared through the fanlight, and the door

was opened by the bearded man. A big, broad-shouldered man in a dark

overcoat and soft hat stood on the steps.

‘Hallo, Felix!’ cried the new-comer heartily. ‘Glad to see you’re at

home. When did you get back?’

‘That you, Martin? Come in. I got back on Sunday night.’

‘I’ll not go in, thanks, but I want you to come round and make up a

four at bridge. Tom Brice is with us, and he has brought along a

friend of his, a young solicitor from Liverpool. You’ll come, won’t

you?’

The man addressed as Felix hesitated a moment before replying.

‘Thanks, yes. I’ll go, certainly. But I’m all alone and I haven’t

changed. Come in a minute till I do so.’

‘And, if it’s a fair question, where did you get your dinner if

you’re all alone?’

‘In town. I’m only just home.’

They went in and the door was closed. Some few minutes later they

emerged again and, pulling the door behind them, disappeared down the

drive, the distant click of the gate signifying their arrival at the

road. As soon as this sounded, the watcher in the lane moved rapidly,

though silently, after them, and Constable Walker was left in

undisputed possession.

On the coast becoming clear he slipped out on to the lane, walked

down it to the road and turned back in the direction of London. As he

did so a clock struck nine.

Entering the first inn he came to, he called for a glass of ale and,

getting into conversation with the landlord, learnt that he was near

the hamlet of Brent, on the Great North Road, and that Mr. Felix’s

house was named St. Malo. He also inquired his way to the nearest

public telephone, which, fortunately, was close by.

A few minutes later he was speaking to Scotland Yard. He had to wait

for a little time while Inspector Burnley, who had gone home, was

being fetched, but in fifteen minutes he had made his report and was

awaiting instructions.

The Inspector questioned him closely about the position of the house,

finally instructing him to return to his post behind the tree and

await developments.

‘I will go out with some men now, and will look for you by the little

gate in the hedge.’

Constable Walker walked rapidly back, and as he did so the same clock

struck ten. He had been gone exactly an hour. In the meantime,

Inspector Burnley got a taxi and, after a careful examination of his

route and the district on a large scale map, started for St. Malo

with three other men. He called on his way at Walpole Terrace, Queen

Mary Road, where Tom Broughton lived and delighted that young man by

inviting him to join the party. On the way, he explained in detail

the lie of the house and grounds, where he wanted each man to stand,

and what was to be done in various eventualities. The streets were

full of people and motoring was slow, but it was still considerably

before eleven when they entered the Great North Road.

They ran on till the Inspector judged they were not far from the

house, when the car was run up a side road and the engine stopped.

The five men then walked on in silence.

‘Wait here,’ whispered Burnley, when they had gone some distance, and

slipped away into the dark. He found the lane, walked softly down it

until he came to the little gate, slipped inside and came up to

Constable Walker standing behind his tree.

‘I’m Inspector Burnley,’ he whispered. ‘Has any one come in or out

yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, wait here until I post my men.’

He returned to the others and, speaking in a whisper, gave his

directions.

‘You men take up the positions I explained to you. Listen out for a

whistle to close in. Mr. Broughton, you come with me and keep silent.’

The Inspector and his young acquaintance walked down the lane,

stopping outside the little gate. The other three men posted

themselves at various points in the grounds. And then they waited.

It seemed to Broughton that several hours must have passed when a

clock in the distance struck twelve. He and the Inspector were

standing beside each other concealed under the hedge. Once or twice

he had attempted whispered remarks, but Burnley was not responsive.

It was rather cold and the stars were bright. A light breeze had

risen and it rustled gently through the hedge and stirred the

branches of the trees. An insistent dog was barking somewhere away to

the right. A cart passed on the road, the wheels knocking on their

axles annoyingly. It took ages to get out of earshot, the sounds

coming in rotation through nearly a quarter of the compass. Then a

car followed with a swift rush, the glare of the headlights glancing

along through the trees. And still nothing happened.

After further ages the clock struck again--one. A second dog began

barking. The breeze freshened, and Broughton wished he had brought a

heavier coat. He longed to stamp up and down and ease his cramped

limbs. And then the latch of the road gate clicked and footsteps

sounded on the gravel.

They waited motionless as the steps came nearer. Soon a black shadow

came into view and moved to the hall door. There was a jingling of

keys; the rattling of a lock, the outline of the door became still

darker, the shadow disappeared within and the door was closed.

Immediately Burnley whispered to Broughton:--

‘I am going now to ring at the door, and when he opens it I will

flash my light in his face. Take a good look at him and if you are

sure--absolutely positive--it is Felix, say ‘yes,’ just the one word

‘yes.’ Do you understand?’

They went in through the small gate, no longer taking any precautions

against noise, walked to the door, and Burnley knocked loudly.

‘Now, remember, don’t speak unless you are sure,’ he whispered.

A light flickered through the fanlight and the door was opened. A

beam from the Inspector’s dark lantern flashed on the face of the man

within, revealing the same dark complexion and black beard that had

attracted Constable Walker’s attention. The word ‘Yes’ came from

Broughton and the Inspector said--

‘Mr. Léon Felix, I am Inspector Burnley from Scotland Yard. I have

called on rather urgent business, and would be glad of a few minutes’

conversation.’

The black-bearded man started.

‘Oh, certainly,’ he said, after a momentary pause, ‘though I don’t

know that it is quite the hour I would have suggested for a chat.

Will you come in?’

‘Thanks. I’m sorry it’s late, but I have been waiting for you for a

considerable time. Perhaps my man might sit in the hall out of the

cold?’

Burnley called over one of his men who had been stationed near the

summer-house.

‘Wait here till I speak to Mr. Felix, Hastings,’ he said, giving him

a sign to be ready if called on. Then, leaving Broughton outside with

Constable Walker and the other men, he followed Felix into a room on

the left of the hall.

It was fitted up comfortably though not luxuriously as a study. In

the middle of the room stood a flat-topped desk of modern design. Two

deep, leather-covered arm-chairs were drawn up on each side of the

fireplace, in which the embers still glowed. A tantalus stood on a

small side table with a box of cigars. The walls were lined with

bookshelves with here and there a good print. Felix lighted a

reading-lamp which stood on the desk. He turned to Burnley.

‘Is it a sitting down matter?’ he said, indicating one of the

arm-chairs. The Inspector took it while Felix dropped into the other.

‘I want, Mr. Felix,’ began the detective, ‘to make some inquiries

about a cask which you got from the steamer _Bullfinch_ this

morning--or rather yesterday, for this is really Tuesday--and which I

have reason to believe is still in your possession.’

‘Yes?’

‘The steamboat people think that a mistake has been made and that the

cask that you received was not the one consigned to you, and which

you expected.’

‘The cask I received is my own property. It was invoiced to me and

the freight was paid. What more do the shipping company want?’

‘But the cask you received was not addressed to you. It was invoiced

to a Mr. Felix of West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road.’

‘The cask was addressed to me. I admit the friend who sent it made a

mistake in the address, but it was for me all the same.’

‘But if we bring the other Mr. Felix--The West Jubb Street Mr.

Felix--here, and he also claims it, you will not then, I take it,

persist in your claim?’

The black-bearded man moved uneasily. He opened his mouth to reply,

and then hesitated. The Inspector felt sure he had seen the little

pitfall only just in time.

‘If you produce such a man,’ he said at last, ‘I am sure I can easily

convince him that the cask was really sent to me and not to him.’

‘Well, we shall see about that later. Meantime, another question.

What was in the cask you were expecting?’

‘Statuary.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘Why, of course I’m sure. Really, Mr. Inspector, I’d like to know by

what right I am being subjected to this examination.’

‘I shall tell you, Mr. Felix. Scotland Yard has reason to believe

there is something wrong about that cask, and an investigation has

been ordered. You were naturally the first person to approach, but

since the cask turns out not to be yours, we shall----’

‘Not to be mine? What do you mean? Who says it is not mine?’

‘Pardon me, you yourself said so. You have just told me the cask you

expected contained statuary. We know the one you received does not

contain statuary. Therefore you have got the wrong one.’

Felix paled suddenly, and a look of alarm crept into his eyes.

Burnley leant forward and touched him on the knee.

‘You will see for yourself, Mr. Felix, that if this matter is to blow

over we must have an explanation of these discrepancies. I am not

suggesting you can’t give one. I am sure you can. But if you refuse

to do so you will undoubtedly arouse unpleasant suspicions.’

Felix remained silent, and the Inspector did not interrupt his train

of thought.

‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I have really nothing to hide, only one

does not like being bluffed. I will tell you, if I can, what you want

to know. Satisfy me that you are from Scotland Yard.’

Burnley showed his credentials, and the other said:--

‘Very good. Then I may admit I misled you about the contents of the

cask, though I told you the literal and absolute truth. The cask is

full of plaques--plaques of kings and queens. Isn’t that statuary?

And if the plaques should be small and made of gold and called

sovereigns, aren’t they still statuary? That is what the cask

contains, Mr. Inspector. Sovereigns. £988 in gold.’

‘What else?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘Oh, come now, Mr. Felix. We knew there was money in the cask. We

also know there is something else. Think again.’

‘Oh, well, there will be packing, of course. I haven’t opened it and

I don’t know. But £988 in gold would go a small way towards filling

it. There will be sand or perhaps alabaster or some other packing.’

‘I don’t mean packing. Do you distinctly tell me no other special

object was included?’

‘Certainly, but I suppose I’d better explain the whole thing.’

He stirred the embers of the fire together, threw on a couple of logs

and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

CHAPTER V

FELIX TELLS A STORY

‘I am a Frenchman, as you know,’ began Felix, ‘but I have lived in

London for some years, and I run over to Paris frequently on both

business and pleasure. About three weeks ago on one of these visits I

dropped into the Café Toisson d’Or in the rue Royale, where I joined

a group of acquaintances. The conversation turned on the French

Government lotteries, and one of the men, a M. Le Gautier, who had

been defending the system, said to me, “Why not join in a little

flutter?” I refused at first, but afterwards changed my mind and said

I would sport 500 francs if he did the same. He agreed, and I gave

him £20 odd as my share. He was to carry the business through in his

name, letting me know the result and halving the profits, if any. I

thought no more about the matter till last Friday, when, on my return

home in the evening, I found a letter from Le Gautier, which

surprised, pleased, and annoyed me in equal measure.’

Mr. Felix drew a letter from a drawer of his writing-table and passed

it to the Inspector. It was in French, and though the latter had a

fair knowledge of the language, he was not quite equal to the task,

and Mr. Felix translated. The letter ran as follows:--

‘Rue de Vallorbes, 997,

‘Avenue Friedland,

‘Paris.

‘Thursday, _1st April, 1912._

‘MY DEAR FELIX,--I have just had the most wonderful news! _We have

won!_ The lottery has drawn trumps and our 1000 francs has become

50,000--25,000 francs each! I shake both your hands!

‘The money I have already received, and I am sending your share at

once. And now, old chap, do not be very annoyed when I tell you I am

playing a little trick on you. I apologise.

‘You remember Dumarchez? Well, he and I had an argument about you

last week. We were discussing the ingenuity and resource of criminals

in evading the police. Your name happened to be mentioned, and I

remarked what a splendid criminal a man of your inventive talents

would make. He said “No,” that you were too transparently honest to

deceive the police. We got hot about it and finally arranged a little

test. I have packed your money in a cask, in English

sovereigns--there are 988 of them--and am booking it to you, carriage

paid, by the Insular and Continental Steam Navigation Company’s boat

from Rouen, due in London about Monday, 5th April. But I am

addressing it to “M. Léon Felix, 141 West Jubb Street, Tottenham

Court Road, London, W.,” and labelling it “Statuary only,” from

Dupierre et Cie., the monumental sculptors of Grenelle. It will take

some ingenuity to get a falsely addressed and falsely described cask

away from the steamer officials without being suspected of theft.

That is the test. I have bet Dumarchez an even 5000 francs that you

will do it. He says you will certainly be caught.

‘I send you my best congratulations on the greatness of your coup, of

which the visible evidence goes to you in the cask, and my only

regret is that I shall be unable to be present to see you open it.

‘With profound apologies,

‘Yours very truly,

‘ALPHONSE LE GAUTIER.

‘PS.--Please excuse the typewriter, but I have hurt my hand.’

‘I don’t know whether pleasure at the unexpected windfall of nearly

£1000, or annoyance at Le Gautier’s test with the cask was my

strongest emotion. The more I thought of this part of it, the more

angry I became. It was one thing that my friends should amuse

themselves by backing their silly theories it was quite another that

I should be the victim and scapegoat of their nonsense. Two things

obviously might lead to complications. If it came out that a cask

labelled “Statuary” contained gold, suspicion would be aroused, and

the same thing would happen if any one discovered the address to be

false. The contents of the cask might be questioned owing to the

weight--that I did not know; the false address might come to light if

an advice note of the cask’s arrival was sent out, while there was

always the fear of unforeseen accidents. I was highly incensed, and I

determined to wire early next morning to Le Gautier asking him not to

send the cask, and saying I would go over and get the money. But to

my further annoyance I had a card by the first post which said that

the cask had already been despatched.

‘It was clear to me then that I must make arrangements to get it away

as soon as possible after the boat came in, and before inquiries

began to be made. I accordingly made my plans and, as I did so, my

annoyance passed away and I got interested in the sporting side of

the affair. First, I had a few cards of the false address printed.

Then I found an obscure carting contractor, from whom I hired a

four-wheeled dray and two men, together with the use of an empty shed

for three days.

‘I had found out that the Steam Navigation boat would be due on the

following Monday, and on the preceding Saturday I brought the men and

the dray to the shed and prepared them for what I wanted done. To

enlist their help and prevent them becoming suspicious, I gave the

former a qualified version of Le Gautier’s story. I told them I had

made a bet and said I wanted their help to pull it off. A certain

cask was coming in by the Rouen boat, addressed to a friend of mine,

and he had bet me a large sum that I could not get this cask from the

steamer people and take it to my house, while I held that I could.

The point was to test the effectiveness of the ordinary business

precautions. In order, I told the men, that no real trouble should

arise and that I should not, in the event of failure, be charged with

theft, my friend had given me a written authorisation to take the

cask. This I had written out previously and I showed it to them.

Finally, I promised them two pounds each if we succeeded.

‘I had got a couple of pots of quick-drying blue and white paint, and

I altered the lettering on the dray to that of the address my Paris

friend had put on the cask. I am skilful at this kind of work and I

did it myself.

‘On Monday morning we drove to the docks, and I found the _Bullfinch_

had just come in with the Paris goods aboard. She was discharging

casks from the forehold, and I strolled along the wharf and had a

look at the work. The casks coming ashore were wine-casks, but I

noticed one at the side of the hold, over which one of the dockers

and a young man who looked like a clerk were bending. They seemed

very engrossed, and of course I wondered, “Is this my cask, and have

they discovered the gold?” I spoke to the young man, found that the

cask was mine, and asked him if I could get it away at once.

‘He was quite polite, but would not help me, referring me to the quay

office and offering to take me there and find a clerk to attend to

me. As we were leaving he called out to the man at the cask, “You

understand, Harkness, to do nothing till you hear from Mr. Avery.”’

At the wharf office the young man left me in the outer office while

he went, as he said, to get the proper clerk for my work. But he

returned with a man that was evidently the manager, and I knew at

once that something was wrong. This opinion was confirmed when the

manager began raising objection after objection to letting the cask

go.

‘Some judicious questions elicited the fact that “Mr. Avery” was the

managing director in the head office in Fenchurch Street. I left the

wharf office, sat down on some boxes, and thought out the situation.

‘It was clear that something had aroused the suspicions of the clerk

and the docker, Harkness, and the former’s remark to the latter to do

nothing without instructions from Mr. Avery seemed to mean that the

matter was to be laid before that gentleman. To “do nothing”

evidently meant to hold on to the cask. If I were to get my property

it was clear I must see to the supplying of those instructions myself.

‘I went to Fenchurch Street and asked for Mr. Avery. Fortunately for

me he was engaged. I said I could not wait, and asked for a sheet of

paper and envelope on which to write him a note. By the simple

expedient of sealing and addressing the empty envelope, I thus

provided myself with a sheet of paper bearing the firm’s heading.

‘I dropped into a bar and, ordering some ale, borrowed a pen and ink.

Then I composed a letter from Mr. Avery to Harkness, instructing him

to hand over the cask at once to me.

‘While I was writing this it occurred to me that if this man’s

suspicions were really seriously aroused, he would probably follow

the cask and thus trace me to my house. I lost another quarter of an

hour pondering this problem. Then an idea occurred to me, and I added

a paragraph saying that as the Navigation Company had contracted to

deliver the cask at an address in the city, he, Harkness, was to

accompany it and see that it reached its destination safely.

‘I wrote the letter in the round hand of a junior clerk, signing it

“The I. and C. S. N. Co., Ltd., per” in the same hand, and “Avery”

with an undecipherable initial in another kind of writing, and

another “per,” and then two not very clear initials. I hoped in this

way to mislead Harkness, if he happened to know the genuine signature.

‘It was my design to get Harkness away from the ship with the cask

and my own men, when I hoped to find some way of giving him the slip.

This I eventually did by instructing one of the men to clamour for a

drink, and the other, a man named Watty, to refuse to leave the horse

when I invited the party to a bar for some beer. On the plea of

relieving Watty, I left Harkness and the other man drinking in the

bar, and slipped away with Watty and the dray. Then he and I went

back to the shed and I ran a coat of paint over the dray, restoring

it to its original brown and painting out the fictitious name. In the

evening we brought the dray home, timing ourselves to arrive here

after dark, and unloaded the cask in one of the out-houses, where it

now is.’

When Felix ceased speaking, the two men sat in silence for several

minutes while Burnley turned the statement over in his mind. The

sequence of events was unusual, but the story hung together, and, as

he went over it in detail, he could see no reason why it should not,

from Felix’s point of view, be true. If Felix believed his friend’s

letter, as he appeared to, his actions were accounted for, and if the

cask really contained a statue, the letter might explain the whole

thing. On the other hand, if it held a corpse, the letter was a

fraud, to which Felix might or might not be party.

Gradually, as he pondered, the matter shaped itself into three main

considerations.

First, there was Felix’s general bearing and manner. The Inspector

had a long and varied experience of men who told the truth and of men

who lied, and all his instincts led him to believe this man. He was

aware that such instincts are liable to error--he had himself erred

on more than one occasion in the past--yet he could not overlook the

fact that Felix’s bearing, as far as his impression went, was that of

a sincere and honest man. Such a consideration would not be a

decisive factor in his conclusion, but it would undoubtedly weigh.

Secondly, there was Felix’s account of his actions in London. Of the

truth of this the Inspector had already received considerable

independent testimony. He reviewed the chain of events and was

surprised to find how few statements of Felix were unsupported. His

first visit to the _Bullfinch_ had been described in almost similar

terms by Broughton and by Huston in the wharf office. His call at the

Fenchurch Street office and the ruse by which he obtained the

shipping company’s headed notepaper had been testified to by Mr.

Avery and his chief clerk, Wilcox. His description of the letter he

had written to Harkness was certainly accurate from the Inspector’s

own knowledge. His account of the removal of the cask and the shaking

off of Harkness was in agreement with the statement of the latter and

finally, Felix’s description of the removal of the cask to its

present resting place was fully corroborated by Constable Walker.

There was practically no part of the statement unsupported by outside

evidence. In fact, Inspector Burnley could not recall any case where

so much confirmation of a suspect’s story was forthcoming. Weighing

the matter point by point, he came to the deliberate conclusion that

he must unreservedly believe it.

So much for Felix’s actions in London. But there was a third

point--his actions in Paris, culminating in the letter of his friend.

The letter. That was the kernel of the nut. Was it really written

under the circumstances described? Had Le Gautier written it? Was

there even such a man as Le Gautier? All this, he thought, it should

not be difficult to find out. He would get some more information from

Felix and if necessary slip across to Paris and put the statements to

the test. He broke the silence.

‘Who is M. Le Gautier?’

‘Junior partner in the firm of Le Gautier, Fils, wine merchants, in

the rue Henri Quatre.’

‘And M. Dumarchez?’

‘A stockbroker.’

‘Can you give me his address?’

‘I don’t know his home address. His office is, I think, in the

Boulevard Poissonière. But I could get you the address from M. Le

Gautier.’

‘Please give me an account of your relations with these gentlemen.’

‘Well, I have known them both for years and we are good friends, but

I cannot recall ever having had any money transactions with either

until this matter of the lottery.’

‘The details of that mentioned in the letter are correct?’

‘Oh, perfectly.’

‘Can you remember where precisely the conversation about the lottery

took place?’

‘It was in the ground floor room of the café, at the window to the

right of the entrance, looking inwards.’

‘You say other gentlemen were present?’

‘Yes, a group of us were there and the conversation was general.’

‘Was your arrangement to enter the lottery heard by the group?’

‘Yes, we had quite a lot of good-natured chaff about it.’

‘And can you remember who were present?’

Mr. Felix hesitated.

‘I’m not sure that I can,’ he said at last. ‘The group was quite a

casual one and I only joined it for a few moments. Le Gautier was

there, of course, and a man called Daubigny, and Henri Boisson, and I

think, Jaques Rôget, but of him I’m not sure. There were a number of

others also.’

Felix answered the questions readily and the Inspector noted his

replies. He felt inclined to believe the lottery business was

genuine. At all events inquiries in Paris would speedily establish

the point. But even if it was all true, that did not prove that Le

Gautier had written the letter. A number of people had heard the

conversation, and any one could have written it, even Felix himself.

Ah, that was an idea! Could Felix be the writer? Was there any way of

finding that out? The Inspector considered and then spoke again.

‘Have you the envelope this letter came in?’

‘Eh?’ said Felix, ‘the envelope? Why, no, I’m sure I haven’t. I never

keep them.’

‘Or the card?’

Felix turned over the papers on his desk and rummaged in the drawers.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘I can’t find it. I must have destroyed it, too.’

There was then no proof that these communications had been received

by Felix. On the other hand there was no reason to doubt it. The

Inspector kept an open mind as he turned again to the letter.

It was typewritten on rather thin, matt surfaced paper and, though

Burnley was not an expert, he believed the type was foreign. Some

signs of wear were present which he thought might identify the

typewriter. The n’s and the r’s were leaning slightly to the right,

the t’s and the e’s were below alignment, and the l’s had lost the

horizontal bar at the top of the down-stroke. He held the paper up to

the light. The watermark was somewhat obscured by the type, but after

a time he made it out. It was undoubtedly French paper. This, of

course, would not weigh much, as Felix by his own statement, was

frequently in Paris, but still it did weigh.

The Inspector read the letter again. It was divided into four

paragraphs and he pondered each in turn. The first was about the

lottery. He did not know much about French lotteries, but the

statements made could at least be verified. With the help of the

French police it would be easy to find out if any drawings and

payments had recently been made, and he could surely get a list of

the winners. A winner of 50,000 francs, living in or near Paris,

should be easily traced.

The second and third paragraphs were about the bet and the sending of

the cask. Burnley turned the details over in his mind. Was the whole

story a likely one? It certainly did not strike him as such. Even if

such an unusual bet had been made, the test was an extremely poor

one. He could hardly believe that a man who could invent the plan of

the cask would not have done better. And yet it was undoubtedly

possible.

Another idea entered the Inspector’s mind. He had, perhaps, been

thinking too much of the £988, and too little of the woman’s hand.

Suppose there really was a corpse in the cask. What then?

Such an assumption made all the circumstances more serious and

explained partly the sending of the cask, but it did not, so far as

the Inspector could see, throw light on the method of doing so. But

when he came to the fourth paragraph he saw that it might easily bear

two meanings. He read it again:--

‘I send you my best congratulations on the greatness of your coup, of

which the visible evidence goes to you in the cask, and my only

regret is that I shall be unable to be present to see you open it.’

This seemed at first sight obviously to mean congratulations on

winning the lottery, the ‘visible evidence’ of which, namely £988 in

gold, was in the cask. But did it really mean this? Did a more

sinister interpretation not also offer itself? Suppose the body was

the ‘visible evidence’? Suppose the death was the result, possibly

indirect, of something that Felix had done. If money only was being

sent, why should Le Gautier experience regret that he could not see

the cask opened? But if a corpse was unexpectedly hidden there, would

not that statement be clarified? It certainly looked so. One thing at

least seemed clear. If a corpse had been sent to Felix, he must know

something of the circumstances leading up to it. The Inspector spoke

again:--

‘I am obliged for your statement, Mr. Felix, which, I may be allowed

to say, I fully accept so far as it goes. But I fear you have not

told me everything?’

‘I have told you everything material.’

‘Then I am afraid we are not in agreement as to what is material. At

all events, it all goes back to my original question, “What is in the

cask?”’

‘Do you not accept my statement that it is money?’

‘I accept your statement that you believe it to be money. I do not

necessarily accept your authority for that belief.’

‘Well,’ said Felix, jumping up, ‘the cask’s in the coach-house and I

see there is nothing for it but to go and open it now. I did not want

to do so to-night, as I did not want to have all that gold lying

loose about the house, but it’s clear nothing else will satisfy you.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Felix, I wanted you to make the suggestion. It is, as

you say, the only way to settle the matter. I’ll call Sergeant

Hastings here as a witness and we’ll go now.’

In silence, Felix got a lantern and led the way. They passed through

a back-door into the yard and paused at the coach-house door.

‘Hold the light, will you, while I get the keys.’

Burnley threw a beam on the long running bolt that closed the two

halves of the door. A padlock held the handle down on the staple.

Felix inserted a key, but at his first touch the lock fell open.

‘Why, the thing’s not fastened!’ he cried, ‘and I locked it myself a

few hours ago!’

He removed the padlock and withdrew the running bolt, swinging the

large door open. Burnley flashed in the lantern.

‘Is the cask here?’ he said.

‘Yes, swinging there from the ceiling,’ answered Felix, as he came

over from fastening back the door. Then his jaw dropped and he stared

fixedly.

‘My heavens!’ he gasped, in a strangled tone, ‘it’s gone! The cask’s

gone!’

CHAPTER VI

THE ART OF DETECTION

Astonished as Burnley was himself at this unexpected development, he

did not forget to keep a keen watch on Felix. That the latter was

genuinely amazed and dumbfounded he could not doubt. Not only was his

surprise too obviously real to be questioned, but his anger and

annoyance at losing his money were clearly heartfelt.

‘I locked it myself. I locked it myself,’ he kept on repeating. ‘It

was there at eight o’clock, and who could get at it since then? Why,

no one but myself knew about it. How could any one else have known?’

‘That’s what we have to find out,’ returned the Inspector. ‘Come back

to the house, Mr. Felix, and let us talk it over. We cannot do

anything outside until it gets light.’

‘You may not know,’ he continued, ‘that you were followed here with

your cask by one of our men, who watched you unloading it in the

coach-house. He waited till you left with your friend Martin, a few

minutes before nine. He then had to leave to advise me of the matter,

but he was back at the house by ten. From ten till after eleven he

watched alone, but since then the house has been surrounded by my

men, as I rather expected to find a gang instead of a single man.

Whoever took the cask must therefore have done so between nine and

ten.’

Felix stared at his companion open-mouthed.

‘By Jove!’ he said. ‘You amaze me. How in thunder did you get on my

track?’

Burnley smiled.

‘It is our business to know these things,’ he answered, ‘I knew all

about how you got the cask away from the docks also.’

‘Well, thank Heaven! I told you the truth.’

‘It was the wise thing, Mr. Felix. I was able to check your

statements as you went along, and I may say I felt really glad when I

heard you were going to be straight. At the same time, sir, you will

realise that my orders prevent me being satisfied until I have seen

the contents of the cask.’

‘You cannot be more anxious to recover it than I am, for I want my

money.’

‘Naturally,’ said Burnley, ‘but before we discuss the matter excuse

me a moment. I want to give my fellows some instructions.’

He went out and called the men together. Sergeant Hastings and

Constable Walker he retained, the rest he sent home in the car with

instructions to return at eight o’clock in the morning. To Broughton

he bade ‘Good-night,’ thanking him for his presence and help.

When he re-entered the study Felix made up the fire and drew forward

the whisky and cigars.

‘Thank you, I don’t mind if I do,’ said the detective, sinking back

into his chair. ‘Now, Mr. Felix, let us go over every one that knew

about the cask being there.’

‘No one but myself and the carter, I assure you.’

‘Yourself, the carter, myself, and my man Walker--four to start with.’

Felix smiled.

‘As far as I am concerned,’ he said, ‘I left here, as you appear to

know, almost immediately after the arrival of the cask and did not

return till after one o’clock. All of that time I was in the company

of Dr. William Martin and a number of mutual friends. So I can prove

an alibi.’

Burnley smiled also.

‘For me,’ he said, ‘I am afraid you will have to take my word. The

house was watched by Walker from ten o’clock, and we may take it as

quite impossible that anything could have been done after that hour.’

‘There remains therefore the carter.’

‘There remains therefore the carter, and, as we must neglect no

possibilities, I will ask you to give me the address of the cartage

firm and any information about the man that you may have.’

‘John Lyons and Son, 127 Maddox Street, Lower Beechwood Road, was the

contractor. The carter’s name, beyond Watty, I don’t know. He was a

rather short, wiry chap, with a dark complexion and small black

moustache.’

‘And now, Mr. Felix, can you not think of any others who may have

known about the cask?’

‘There was no one,’ replied the other with decision.

‘I’m afraid we can’t assume that. We certainly can’t be sure.’

‘Who could there be?’

‘Well, your French friend. How do you know he didn’t write to others

beside you?’

Felix sat up as if he had been shot.

‘By Jove!’ he cried, ‘it never entered my head. But it’s most

unlikely--most unlikely.’

‘The whole thing’s most unlikely as far as that goes. Perhaps you are

not aware that some one else was watching the house last evening?’

‘Good God, Inspector! What do you mean?’

‘Some one came to the lane shortly after your arrival with the cask.

He waited and heard your conversation with your friend Martin. When

you and your friend left, he followed you.’

Felix passed his hand over his forehead. His face was pale.

‘This business is too much for me,’ he said. ‘I wish to heaven I was

out of it.’

‘Then help me to get you out of it. Think. Is there any one your

friend knows that he might have written to?’

Felix remained silent for some moments.

‘There is only one man,’ he said at length in a hesitating voice,

‘that I know he is friendly with--a Mr. Percy Murgatroyd, a mining

engineer who has an office in Westminster. But I don’t for one moment

believe he had anything to say to it.’

‘Let me have his name and address, anyway.’

‘Four St. John’s Mansions, Victoria Street,’ said Felix, on referring

to an address book.

‘You might write it down, if you please, and sign it.’

Felix looked up with a smile.

‘You generally write notes yourself, I should have thought?’

Burnley laughed.

‘You’re very quick, Mr. Felix. Of course it’s your handwriting I want

also. But I assure you it’s only routine. Now please, think. Is there

any one else?’

‘Not a living soul that I know of.’

‘Very well, Mr. Felix. I want to ask just one other question. Where

did you stay in Paris?’

‘At the Hotel Continental.’

‘Thanks, that’s everything. And now, if you will allow me, I will

take a few winks here in the chair till it gets light, and if you

take my advice you will turn in.’

Felix looked at his watch.

‘Quarter-past three. Well, perhaps I shall. I’m only sorry I cannot

offer you a bed as the house is absolutely empty, but if you will

take a shakedown in the spare room----?’

‘No, no, thanks very much, I shall be all right here.’

‘As you wish. Good night.’

When Felix had left, the Inspector sat on in his chair smoking his

strong black cigars and thinking. He did not sleep, though he

remained almost motionless, only at long intervals rousing up to

light another cigar, and it was not until five had struck that he got

up and looked out of the window.

‘Light at last,’ he muttered, as he let himself quietly out of the

back-door into the yard.

His first care was to make a thorough search in the yard and all the

out-houses to ensure that the cask was really gone and not merely

hidden in some other room. He was speedily satisfied on this point.

Since it was gone it was obvious that it must have been removed on a

vehicle. His next point was to see how that vehicle got in, and if it

had left any traces. And first as to the coach-house door.

He picked up the padlock and examined it carefully. It was an

ordinary old-fashioned four-inch one. The ring had been forced open

while locked, the hole in the opening end through which the bolt

passes being torn away. Marks showed that this had been done by

inserting some kind of lever between the body of the lock and the

staple on the door, through which the ring had been passed. The

Inspector looked round for the lever, but could not find it. He

therefore made a note to search for such a tool, as if it bore marks

which would fit those on the door, its evidence might be important.

There was next the question of the yard gate. This opened inwards in

two halves, and was fastened by a wooden beam hinged through the

centre to the edge of one of the half gates. When it was turned

vertically the gates were free, but when horizontally it engaged with

brackets, one on each half gate, thus holding them closed. It could

be fastened by a padlock, but none was fitted. The gate now stood

closed and with the beam lying in the brackets.

The Inspector took another note to find out if Mr. Felix had locked

the beam, and then stood considering. It was clear the gate must have

been closed from the inside after the vehicle had gone out. It must

have been opened similarly on the latter’s arrival. Who had done

this? Was Felix lying, and was there some one else in the house?

At first it seemed likely, and then the Inspector thought of another

way. Constable Walker had climbed the wall. Why should not the person

who opened and shut the gate have also done so? The Inspector moved

slowly along the wall scrutinising it and the ground alongside it.

At first he saw nothing out of the common, but on retracing his steps

he noticed, about three yards from the gate, two faint marks of mud

or dust on the plaster. These were some six feet from the ground and

about fifteen inches apart. On the soft soil which had filled in

between the cobble stones in this disused part of the yard, about a

foot from the wall and immediately under these marks, were two

sharp-edged depressions, about two inches long by half an inch wide,

arranged with their longer dimensions in line. Some one had clearly

used a short ladder.

Inspector Burnley stood gazing at the marks. It struck him they were

very far apart for a ladder. He measured the distance between them

and found it was fifteen inches. Ladders, he knew, are about twelve.

Opening the gate he went to the outside of the wall. A grass plot ran

alongside it here and the Inspector, stooping down, searched for

corresponding marks. He was not disappointed. Two much deeper

depressions showed where the ends of the ladder-like apparatus had

sunk into the softer ground. These were not narrow like those in the

yard, but rectangular and of heavier stuff, three inches by two, he

estimated. He looked at the plaster on the wall above, but it was not

till he examined it through his lens that he was satisfied it bore

two faint scratches, corresponding in position to the muddy marks on

the opposite side.

A further thought struck him. Scooping up a little soil from the

grass, he went again into the yard and compared with his lens the

soil and the dry mud of the marks on the plaster. As he had

anticipated, they were identical.

He could now dimly reconstruct what had happened. Some one had placed

a peculiar kind of ladder against the outside of the wall and

presumably crossed it and opened the gate. The ladder had then been

carried round and placed against the inside of the wall, but,

probably by accident, _opposite end up_. The outside plaster was

therefore clean but scraped, while that on the inside bore traces of

the soil from the ends that had stood on the grass. In going out

after barring the gate, he imagined the thief had pulled the ladder

after him with a cord and passed it over the wall.

The Inspector returned to the grass and made a further search. Here

he found confirmation of his theory in a single impression of one of

the legs of the ladder some two feet six out from the wall. That, he

decided, had been caused by the climber throwing down the ladder when

leaving the yard. He also found three footmarks, but, unfortunately,

they were so blurred as to be valueless.

He took out his notebook and made a sketch with accurate dimensions

showing what he had learnt of the ladder--its length, width, and the

shape of the legs at each end. Then bringing out the steps Felix had

used to hang the chain blocks, he got on the wall. He examined the

cement coping carefully, but without finding any further traces.

The yard, being paved, no wheel or footmarks were visible, but

Burnley spent quite a long time crossing and recrossing it, examining

every foot of ground in the hope of finding some object that had been

dropped. Once before, in just such another case, he had had the luck

to discover a trouser button concealed under some leaves, a find

which had led to penal servitude for two men. On this occasion he was

disappointed, his search being entirely unsuccessful.

He went out on the drive. Here were plenty of marks, but try as he

would he could make nothing of them. The surface was covered thickly

with fine gravel and only showed vague disturbances with no clear

outlines. He began methodically to search the drive as he had done

the yard. Every foot was examined in turn, Burnley gradually working

down towards the gate. After he left the immediate neighbourhood of

the house the gravel became much thinner, but the surface below was

hard and bore no marks. He continued perseveringly until he got near

the gate, and then he had some luck.

In the lawn between the house and the road some work was in progress.

It seemed to Burnley that a tennis or croquet ground was being made.

From the corner of this ground a recently filled in cut ran across

the drive and out to the hedge adjoining the lane. Evidently a drain

had just been laid.

[Illustration: Footprint]

Where this drain passed under the drive the newly filled ground had

slightly sunk. The hollow had been made up in the middle with gravel,

but it happened that a small space on the lane side which had not

gone down much was almost uncovered, the clay showing through. On

this space were two clearly defined footmarks, pointing in the

direction of the house.

I have said two, but that is not strictly correct. One, that of a

workman’s right boot with heavy hobnails, was complete in every

detail, the clay holding the impression like plaster of Paris. The

other, some distance in front and to the left and apparently the next

step forward, was on the edge of the clay patch and showed the heel

only, the sole having borne on the hard.

Inspector Burnley’s eyes brightened. Never had he seen better

impressions. Here was something tangible at last. He bent down to

examine them more closely, then suddenly sprang to his feet with a

gesture of annoyance.

‘Fool that I am,’ he growled, ‘that’s only Watty bringing up the

cask.’

All the same he made a careful sketch of the marks, showing the

distance between them and the size of the clay patch. Watty, he felt

sure, would be easy to find through the carting establishment, when

he could ascertain if the footsteps were his. If it should chance

they were not, he had probably found a useful clue to the thief. For

the convenience of the reader I reproduce the sketch.

Burnley turned to go on, but his habit of thinking things out

reasserted itself, and he stood gazing at the marks and slowly

pondering. He was puzzled that the steps were so close together. He

took out his rule and re-measured the distance between them. Nineteen

inches from heel to heel. That was surely very close. A man of

Watty’s size would normally take a step of at least thirty inches,

and carters were generally long-stepping men. If he had put it at

thirty-two or thirty-three inches he would probably be nearer the

thing. Why, then, this short step?

He looked and pondered. Then suddenly a new excitement came into his

eyes and he bent swiftly down again.

‘Jove!’ he murmured. ‘Jove! I nearly missed that! It makes it more

like Watty, and, if so, it is conclusive! Absolutely conclusive!’ His

cheek was flushed and his eyes shone.

‘That probably settles that hash,’ said the evidently delighted

Inspector. He, nevertheless, continued his methodical search down the

remainder of the drive and out on the road, but without further

result.

He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.

‘Two more points and I’m through,’ he said to himself in a satisfied

tone.

He turned into the lane and walked slowly down it, scrutinising the

roadway as he had done the drive. Three separate times he stopped to

examine and measure footmarks, the third occasion being close by the

little gate in the hedge.

‘Number one point done. Now for number two,’ he muttered, and

returning to the entrance gate stood for a moment looking up and down

the road. Choosing the direction of London he walked for a quarter of

a mile examining the gateways at either side, particularly those that

led into fields. Apparently he did not find what he was in search of,

for he retraced his steps to where a cross road led off to the left

and continued his investigations along it. No better luck rewarding

him, he tried a second cross road with the same result. There being

no other cross roads, he returned to the lane and set out again, this

time with his back to London. At the third gateway, one leading into

a field on the left-hand side of the road, he stopped.

It was an ordinary iron farm gate set in the rather high and thick

hedge that bounded the road. The field was in grass and bore the

usual building ground notice. Immediately aside the gate was a patch

of low and swampy looking ground, and it was a number of fresh wheel

marks crossing this patch that had caught the Inspector’s attention.

The gate was not padlocked, and Burnley slipped the bolt back and

entered the field. He examined the wheel marks with great care. They

turned sharply at right angles on passing through the gate and led

for a short distance along the side of the fence, stopping beside a

tree which grew in the hedge. The hoof marks of a horse and the

prints of a man’s hobnailed boots leading over the same ground also

came in for a close scrutiny.

It was a contented looking Burnley that turned out of the field and

walked back to St. Malo. He was well satisfied with his night’s work.

He had firstly succeeded in getting a lot of information out of

Felix, and had further turned the latter into a friend anxious to

help in the clearing up of the mystery. And though an unexpected

check had arisen in the disappearance of the cask, he felt that with

the information he had gained in the last three hours it would not be

long before he had his hands on it again.

As he approached the door Felix hailed him.

‘I saw you coming up,’ he said. ‘What luck?’

‘Oh, not so bad, not so bad,’ returned the other. ‘I’m just going

back to the city.’

‘But the cask? What about it?’

‘I’ll start some inquiries that may lead to something.’

‘Oh, come now, Inspector, don’t be so infernally close. You might

tell me what you’ve got in your mind, for I can see you have

something.’

Burnley laughed.

‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind. I’ll tell you what I found; you

see what you make of it.

‘First, I found your coach-house padlock had been forced with a

lever. There was nothing of the kind lying about, therefore whatever

theory we adopt must account for this lever’s production and

disposal. It may quite likely bear marks corresponding to those on

the padlock, which evidence might be valuable.

‘I then found that your visitor had arrived at the yard gate with a

vehicle and had climbed the wall with the aid of a very peculiar

ladder. He had, presumably, opened the gate and, after loading up the

cask and drawing his vehicle out on to the drive, had closed the

gate, leaving by the same means. There is evidence to show that he

lifted the ladder over after him, probably pulling it up by a cord.

‘I have said the ladder was a peculiar one. Here is a sketch of its

shape so far as I could learn it. You will see that it is short and

wide with the ends shaped differently.

‘I may remind you, in passing, how easy it would have been to load up

the cask in spite of its weight. All that was necessary was to back

the vehicle under it and lower out the differential pulley, a thing a

man could do with one hand.

‘I examined the drive, but could find nothing except at one place

where there was a most interesting pair of footmarks. You must really

see these for yourself, and if you will stroll down now I will point

them out. There is reason to believe they were made by Watty when he

was approaching the house with the dray, but I cannot be positive as

yet.

‘I then examined the lane and found in three places other footmarks

by the same man. Finally, about 200 yards along the main road to the

north, I found wheel marks leading into a grass field beside which he

had walked.

‘Now, Mr. Felix, put all these things together. You will find them

suggestive, but the footmarks on the drive are very nearly

conclusive.’

They had by this time reached the marks.

‘Here we are,’ said Burnley. ‘What do you think of these?’

‘I don’t see anything very remarkable about them.’

‘Look again.’

Felix shook his head.

‘See here, Mr. Felix. Stand out here on the gravel and put your right

foot in line with this first print. Right. Now take a step forward as

if you were walking to the house. Right. Does anything occur to you

now?’

‘I can’t say that it does, unless it is that I have taken a very much

longer step.’

‘But your step was of normal length.’

‘Well then, conversely, the unknown must have taken a short one.’

‘But did he? Assume it was Watty, as I think it must have been. You

were with him and you saw him walking.’

‘Oh, come now, Inspector. How could I tell that? He didn’t normally

take very short steps or I should have noticed it, but I couldn’t

possibly say that he never took one.’

‘The point is not essential except that it calls attention to a

peculiarity in the steps. But you must admit that while possible, it

is quite unlikely he would take a step of that length--nineteen

inches as against a probable thirty-three--without stumbling or

making a false step.’

‘But how do you know he didn’t stumble?’

‘The impression, my dear sir, the impression. A false step or a

stumble would have made a blurred mark or shown heavier on one side

than the other. This print shows no slip and is evenly marked all

over. It was clearly made quite normally.’

‘That seems reasonable, but I don’t see how it matters.’

‘To me it seems exceedingly suggestive though, I agree, not

conclusive. But there is a nearly conclusive point, Mr. Felix. Look

at those prints again.’

‘They convey nothing to me.’

‘Compare them.’

‘Well, I can only compare the heels and there is not much difference

between them, just as you would expect between the heels of a pair of

boots.’ Felix hesitated. ‘By Jove! Inspector,’ he went on, ‘I’ve got

you at last. They’re the same marks. They were both made by the same

foot.’

‘I think so, Mr. Felix; you have it now. Look here.’ The Inspector

stooped. ‘The fourth nail on the lefthand side is gone. That alone

might be a coincidence, but if you compare the wear of the other

nails and of the leather you will see they are the same beyond doubt.’

He pointed to several little inequalities and inaccuracies in the

outline, each of which appeared in both the marks.

‘But even if they are the same, I don’t know that I see what you get

from that.’

‘Don’t you? Well, look here. How could Watty, if it was he, have

produced them? Surely only in one of two ways. Firstly, he could have

hopped on one foot. But there are three reasons why it is unlikely he

did that. One is that he could hardly have done it without your

noticing it. Another, that he could never have left so clear an

impression in that way. The third, why should he hop? He simply

wouldn’t do it. Therefore they were made in the second way. What was

that, Mr. Felix?’

Felix started.

‘I see what you’re after at last,’ he said. ‘He walked up the drive

twice.’

‘Of course he did. He walked up first with you to leave the cask. He

walked up the second time with the empty dray to get it. If the

impressions were really made by Watty that seems quite certain.’

‘But what on earth would Watty want with the cask? He could not know

there was money in it.’

‘Probably not, but he must have guessed it held something valuable.’

‘Inspector, you overwhelm me with delight. If he took the cask it

will surely be easy to trace it.’

‘It may or it may not. Question is, Are we sure he was acting for

himself.’

‘Who else?’

‘What about your French friend? You don’t know whom he may have

written to. You don’t know that all your actions with the cask may

not have been watched.’

‘Oh, don’t make things worse than they are. Trace this Watty, won’t

you?’

‘Of course we will, but it may not be so easy as you seem to think.

At the same time there are two other points, both of which seem to

show he was at least alone.’

‘Yes?’

‘The first is the watcher in the lane. That was almost certainly the

man who walked twice up your drive. I told you I found his footmarks

at three points along it. One was near your little gate, close beside

and pointing to the hedge, showing he was standing there. That was at

the very point my man saw the watcher.

‘The second point concerns the horse and dray, and this is what leads

me to believe the watcher was really Watty. If Watty was listening up

the lane where were these? If he had a companion the latter would

doubtless have walked them up and down the road. But if he was alone

they must have been hidden somewhere while he made his

investigations. I’ve been over most of the roads immediately

surrounding, and on my fourth shot--towards the north, as I already

told you--I found the place. It is fairly clear what took place. On

leaving the cask he had evidently driven along the road until he

found a gate that did not lead to a house. It was, as I said, that of

a field. The marks there are unmistakable. He led the dray in behind

the hedge and tied the horse to a tree. Then he came back to

reconnoitre and heard you going out. He must have immediately

returned and brought the dray, got the cask, and cleared out, and I

imagine he was not many minutes gone before my man Walker returned.

What do you think of that for a working theory?’

‘I think it’s conclusive. Absolutely conclusive. And that explains

the queer-shaped ladder.’

‘Eh, what? What’s that you say?’

‘It must have been the gangway business for loading barrels on the

dray. I saw one hooked on below the deck.’

Burnley smote his thigh a mighty slap.

‘One for you, Mr. Felix,’ he cried, ‘one for you, sir. I never

thought of it. That points to Watty again.’

‘Inspector, let me congratulate you. You have got evidence that makes

the thing a practical certainty.’

‘I think it’s a true bill. And now, sir, I must be getting back to

the Yard.’ Burnley hesitated and then went on: ‘I am extremely sorry

and I’m afraid you won’t like it, but I shall be straight with you

and tell you I cannot--I simply dare not--leave you without some kind

of police supervision until this cask business is cleared up. But I

give you my word you shall not be annoyed.’

Felix smiled.

‘That’s all right. You do your duty. The only thing I ask you is to

let me know how you get on.’

‘I hope we’ll have some news for you later in the day.’

It was now shortly after eight, and the car had arrived with the two

men sent back the previous evening. Burnley gave them instructions

about keeping a watch on Felix, then with Sergeant Hastings and

Constable Walker he entered the car and was driven rapidly towards

London.

CHAPTER VII

THE CASK AT LAST

Inspector Burnley reached Scotland Yard, after dropping Constable

Walker at his station with remarks which made the heart of that

observer glow with triumph and conjured up pictures of the day when

he, Inspector Walker, would be one of the Yard’s most skilled and

trusted officers. During the run citywards Burnley had thought out

his plan of campaign, and he began operations by taking Sergeant

Hastings to his office and getting down the large scale map.

‘Look here, Hastings,’ he said, when he had explained his theories

and found what he wanted. ‘Here’s John Lyons and Son, the carriers

where Watty is employed, and from where the dray was hired. You see

it’s quite a small place. Here close by is Goole Street, and here is

the Goole Street Post Office. Got the lay of those? Very well. I want

you, when you’ve had your breakfast, to go out there and get on the

track of Watty. Find out first his full name and address, and wire or

phone it at once. Then shadow him. I expect he has the cask, either

at his own house or hidden somewhere, and he’ll lead you to it if

you’re there to follow. Probably he won’t be able to do anything till

night, but of that we can’t be certain. Don’t interfere or let him

see you if possible, but of course don’t let him open the cask if he

has not already done so, and under no circumstances allow him to take

anything out of it. I will follow you out and we can settle further

details. The Goole Street Post Office will be our headquarters, and

you can advise me there at, say, the even hours of your whereabouts.

Make yourself up as you think best and get to work as quickly as you

can.’

The sergeant saluted and withdrew.

‘That’s everything in the meantime, I think,’ said Burnley to

himself, as with a yawn he went home to breakfast.

When some time later Inspector Burnley emerged from his house, a

change had come over his appearance. He seemed to have dropped his

individuality as an alert and efficient representative of Scotland

Yard and taken on that of a small shop-keeper or contractor in a

small way of business. He was dressed in a rather shabby suit of

checks, with baggy knees and draggled coat. His tie was woefully

behind the fashion, his hat required brushing, and his boots were

soiled and down at heel. A slight stoop and a slouching walk added to

his almost slovenly appearance.

He returned to the Yard and asked for messages. Already a telephone

had come through from Sergeant Hastings: ‘Party’s name, Walter

Palmer, 71 Fennell Street, Lower Beechwood Road.’ Having had a

warrant made out for the ‘party’s’ arrest, he got a police motor with

plain-clothes driver, and left for the scene of operations.

It was another glorious day. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky of

clearest blue. The air had the delightful freshness of early spring.

Even the Inspector, with his mind full of casks and corpses, could

not remain insensible of its charm. With a half sigh he thought of

that garden in the country which it was one of his dearest dreams

some day to achieve. The daffodils would now be in fine show and the

primroses would be on, and such a lot of fascinating work would be

waiting to be done among the later plants. . . .

The car drew up as he had arranged at the end of Goole Street and the

Inspector proceeded on foot. After a short walk he reached his

objective, an archway at the end of a block of buildings, above which

was a faded signboard bearing the legend, ‘John Lyons and Son,

Carriers.’ Passing under the arch and following a short lane, he

emerged in a yard with an open-fronted shed along one side and a

stable big enough for eight or nine horses on the other. Four or five

carts of different kinds were ranged under the shed roof. In the

middle of the open space, with a horse yoked in, was a dray with

brown sides, and Burnley, walking close to it, saw that under the

paint the faint outline of white letters could be traced. A youngish

man stood by the stable door and watched Burnley curiously, but

without speaking.

‘Boss about?’ shouted Burnley.

The youngish man pointed to the entrance.

‘In the office,’ he replied.

The Inspector turned and entered a small wooden building immediately

inside the gate. A stout, elderly man with a gray beard, who was

posting entries in a ledger, got up and came forward as he did so.

‘Morning,’ said Burnley, ‘have you a dray for hire?’

‘Why, yes,’ answered the stout man. ‘When do you want it and for how

long?’

‘It’s this way,’ returned Burnley. ‘I’m a painter, and I have always

stuff to get to and from jobs. My own dray has broken down and I want

one while it’s being repaired. I’ve asked a friend for the loan of

his, but he may not be able to supply. It will take about four days

to put it right.’

‘Then you wouldn’t want a horse and man?’

‘No, I should use my own.’

‘In that case, sir, I couldn’t agree, I fear. I never let my vehicles

out without a man in charge.’

‘You’re right in that, of course, but I don’t want the man. I’ll tell

you. If you let me have it I’ll make you a deposit of its full value.

That will guarantee its safe return.’

The stout man rubbed his cheek.

‘I might do that,’ he said. ‘I’ve never done anything like it before,

but I don’t see why I shouldn’t.’

‘Let’s have a look at it, anyway,’ said Burnley.

They went into the yard and approached the dray, Burnley going

through the form of examining it thoroughly.

‘I have a lot of small kegs to handle,’ he said, ‘as well as drums of

paint. I should like to have that barrel loader fixed till I see if

it’s narrow enough to carry them.’

The stout man unhooked the loader and fixed it in position.

‘Too wide, I’m afraid,’ said the Inspector, producing his rule. ‘I’ll

just measure it.’

It was fifteen inches wide and six feet six long. The sides were of

six by two material, with iron-shod ends. One pair of ends, that

resting on the ground, was chisel-pointed, the other carried the

irons for hooking it on to the cart. The ends of these irons made

rectangles about three inches by two. Burnley looked at the

rectangles. Both were marked with soil. He was satisfied. The loader

was what Watty had used to cross the wall.

‘That’ll do all right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see, do you carry a box for

hay or tools?’ He opened it and rapidly scanned its contents. There

was a halter, a nosebag, a small coil of rope, a cranked spanner, and

some other small objects. He picked up the spanner.

‘This, I suppose, is for the axle caps?’ he said, bending down and

trying it. ‘I see it fits the nuts.’ As he replaced it in the box he

took a quick look at the handle. It bore two sets of scratches on

opposite sides, and the Inspector felt positive these would fit the

marks on the padlock and staple of the coach-house door, had he been

able to try them.

The stout man was regarding him with some displeasure.

‘You weren’t thinking of buying it?’ he said.

‘No, thanks, but if you want a deposit before you let me take it, I

want to be sure it won’t sit down with me.’

They returned to the office, discussing rates. Finally these were

arranged, and it was settled that when Burnley had seen his friend he

was to telephone the result.

The Inspector left the yard well pleased. He had now complete proof

that his theories were correct and that Watty with that dray had

really stolen the cask.

Returning to Goole Street he called at the Post Office. It was ten

minutes to twelve, and there being no message for him he stood

waiting at the door. Five minutes had not elapsed before a street

arab appeared, looked him up and down several times, and then said:--

‘Name o’ Burnley?’

‘That’s me,’ returned the Inspector. ‘Got a note for me?’

‘The other cove said as ’ow you’ld give me a tanner.’

‘Here you are, sonny,’ said Burnley, and the sixpence and the note

changed owners. The latter read:--

‘Party just about to go home for dinner. Am waiting on road south of

carrier’s yard.’

Burnley walked to where he had left the motor and getting in, was

driven to the place mentioned. At a sign from him the driver drew the

car to the side of the road, stopping his engine at the same time.

Jumping down, he opened the bonnet and bent over the engine. Any one

looking on would have seen that a small breakdown had taken place.

A tall, untidy looking man, in threadbare clothes and smoking a short

clay, lounged up to the car with his hands in his pockets. Burnley

spoke softly without looking round,--

‘I want to arrest him, Hastings. Point him out when you see him.’

‘He’ll pass this way going for his dinner in less than five minutes.’

‘Right.’

The loafer moved forward and idly watched the repairs to the engine.

Suddenly he stepped back.

‘That’s him,’ he whispered.

Burnley looked out through the back window of the car and saw a

rather short, wiry man coming down the street, dressed in blue

dungarees and wearing a gray woollen muffler. As he reached the car,

the Inspector stepped quickly out and touched him on the shoulder,

while the loafer and the driver closed round.

‘Walter Palmer, I am an inspector from Scotland Yard. I arrest you on

a charge of stealing a cask. I warn you anything you say may be used

against you. Better come quietly, you see there are three of us.’

Before the dumbfounded man could realise what was happening, a pair

of handcuffs had snapped on his wrists and he was being pushed in the

direction of the car.

‘All right, boss, I’ll come,’ he said as he got in, followed by

Burnley and Hastings. The driver started his engine and the car

slipped quietly down the road. The whole affair had not occupied

twenty seconds and hardly one of the passers-by had realised what was

taking place.

‘I’m afraid, Palmer, this is a serious matter,’ began Burnley.

‘Stealing the cask is one thing, but breaking into a man’s yard at

night is another. That’s burglary and it will mean seven years at

least.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking abaht, boss,’ answered the prisoner

hoarsely, licking his dry lips, ‘I don’t know of no cask.’

‘Now, man, don’t make things worse by lying. We know the whole thing.

Your only chance is to make a clean breast of it.’

Palmer’s face grew paler but he did not reply.

‘We know how you brought out the cask to Mr. Felix’s about eight

o’clock last night, and how, when you had left it there, you thought

you’d go back and see what chances there were of getting hold of it

again. We know how you hid the dray in a field close by, and then

went back down the lane and waited to see if anything would turn up.

We know how you learnt the house was empty and that after Mr. Felix

left you brought the dray back. We know all about your getting over

the wall with the barrel loader, and forcing the coach-house door

with the wheel-cap wrench. You see, we know the whole thing, so

there’s not the slightest use in your pretending ignorance.’

During this recital the prisoner’s face had grown paler and paler

until it was now ghastly. His jaw had dropped and great drops of

sweat rolled down his forehead. Still he said nothing.

Burnley saw he had produced his impression and leant forward and

tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Look here, Palmer,’ he said. ‘If you go into court nothing on earth

can save you. It’ll be penal servitude for at least five, and

probably seven, years. But I’m going to offer you a sporting chance

if you like to take it.’ The man’s eyes fixed themselves with painful

intentness on the speaker’s face. ‘The police can only act if Mr.

Felix prosecutes. But what Mr. Felix wants is the cask. If you return

the cask at once, unopened, Mr. Felix might--I don’t say he will--but

he might be induced to let you off. What do you say?’

At last the prisoner’s self-control went. He threw up his manacled

hands with a gesture of despair.

‘My Gawd!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘I can’t.’

The Inspector jumped.

‘Can’t?’ he cried sharply. ‘What’s that? Can’t? What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know where it is. I don’t, I swear. See ’ere, boss,’ the

words now poured out of his mouth in a rapid stream, ‘I’ll tell you

the truth, I will, swelp me Gawd. Listen to me.’

They had reached the City and were rapidly approaching Scotland Yard.

The Inspector gave instructions for the car to be turned and run

slowly through the quieter streets. Then he bent over to the now

almost frantic man.

‘Pull yourself together and tell me your story. Let’s have the whole

of it without keeping anything back, and remember the truth is your

only chance.’

Palmer’s statement, divested of its cockney slang and picturesque

embellishments was as follows:--

‘I suppose you know all about the way Mr. Felix hired the dray,’

began Palmer, ‘and painted it in the shed, and about my mate Jim

Brown and me?’ The Inspector nodded, and he continued: ‘Then I don’t

need to tell you all that part of it, only that Jim and I from the

first were suspicious that there was something crooked about the

whole business. Mr. Felix told us he had a bet on that he could get

the cask away without being caught, but we didn’t believe that, we

thought he was out to steal it. Then when he told us that stevedore

fellow was to be fixed so he couldn’t follow us, we were both quite

sure it was a do. Then you know how Felix and I left Jim and him in

the bar and went back to the shed and repainted the dray? You know

all that?’

‘I know,’ said Burnley.

‘We waited in the shed till it was getting on towards dusk, and then

we got the cask out to Felix’s, and left it swinging in a set of

chain blocks in an out-house. Well, sir, I asked more than twice the

pay he’d promised, and when he gave it without a word I was certain

he was afraid of me. I thought, “There’s some secret about that cask

and he’ld be willing to pay to have it kept quiet.” And then it

occurred to me that if I could get hold of it, I could charge him my

own price for its return. I didn’t mean to steal it. I didn’t, sir,

honest. I only meant to keep it for a day or two till he’d be willing

to pay a reward.’

The man paused.

‘Well, you know, Palmer, blackmail is not much better than theft,’

said Burnley.

‘I’m only telling you the truth, sir; that’s the way it was. I

thought I’d try and find out what part of the house Felix slept in

and if there were others about, so as to see what chances there’d be

of getting the dray up again without being heard, so I hid it in a

field as you know, and went up the lane. I don’t think I would have

done anything only for Felix going away and saying the house was

empty. Then it came over me so strongly how easy everything would be

with the coast clear and the cask swinging in the chain blocks. The

temptation was too strong for me, and I went back and got in as you

said. I suppose you must have been there all the time watching me?’

The Inspector did not reply, and Palmer went on:--

‘It happened that for some time I had been going to change my house.

There was an empty one close by I thought would suit. I’d got the key

on Saturday and looked over it on Sunday. The key was still in my

pocket, for I hadn’t had time to return it.

‘I intended to drive the dray down the lane behind this house and get

the cask off it, then run round and get in from the front, open the

yard door, roll the cask in, lock up again and return the dray to the

yard. I would make an excuse with the landlord to keep the key for a

day or two till I could get the money out of Felix.

‘Well, sir, I drove down the lane to the back of the house, and then

a thing happened that I’d never foreseen. I couldn’t get the cask

down. It was too heavy. I put my shoulder to it, and tried my utmost

to get it over on its side, but I couldn’t budge it.

‘I worked till the sweat was running down me, using anything I could

find for a lever, but it was no good, it wouldn’t move. I went over

all my friends in my mind to see if there was any one I could get to

help, but there was no one close by that I thought would come in, and

I was afraid to put myself in any one’s power that I wasn’t sure of.

I believed Jim would be all right, but he lived two miles away and I

did not want to go for him for I was late enough as it was.

‘In the end I could think of no other way, and I locked the house and

drove the dray to Jim’s. Here I met with another disappointment. Jim

had gone out about an hour before, and his wife didn’t know where he

was or when he’d be in.

‘I cursed my luck. I was ten times more anxious now to get rid of the

cask than I had been before to get hold of it. And then I thought I

saw a way out. I would drive back to the yard, leave the cask there

on the dray all night, get hold of Jim early in the morning, and with

his help take the cask back to the empty house. If any questions were

asked I would say Felix had given me instructions to leave it

overnight in the yard and deliver it next morning to a certain

address. I should hand over ten shillings and say he had sent this

for the job.

‘I drove to the yard, and then everything went wrong. First, the boss

was there himself, and in a vile temper. I didn’t know till

afterwards, but one of our carts had been run into by a motor-lorry

earlier in the evening and a lot of damage done and that had upset

him.

‘“What’s this thing you’ve got?” he said, when he saw the cask.

‘I told him, and added that Felix had asked me to take it on in the

morning, handing him the ten shillings.

‘“Where is it to go?” he asked.

‘Now this was a puzzler, for I hadn’t expected there’d be any one

there to ask questions and I had no answer ready. So I made up an

address. I chose a big street of shops and warehouses about four

miles away--too far for the boss to know much about it, and I tacked

on an imaginary number.

‘“133 Little George Street,” I answered.

‘The boss took a bit of chalk and wrote the address on the blackboard

we have for such notes. Then he turned back to the broken cart, and I

unyoked the horse from the dray and went home.

‘I was very annoyed by the turn things had taken, but I thought that

after all it would not make much difference having given the address.

I could go to the empty house in the morning as I had arranged.

‘I was early over at Jim’s next morning and told him the story. He

was real mad at first and cursed me for all kinds of a fool. I kept

on explaining how safe it was, for we were both sure Felix couldn’t

call in the police or make a fuss. At last he agreed to stand in with

me, and it was arranged that he would go direct to the empty house,

while I followed with the cask. He would explain his not turning up

at the yard by saying he was ill.

‘The boss was seldom in when we arrived, but he was there this

morning, and his temper was no better.

‘“Here, you,” he called, when he saw me, “I thought you were never

coming. Get the big gray yoked into the box cart and get away to this

address”--he handed me a paper--“to shift a piano.”

‘“But the cask,” I stammered.

‘“You mind your own business and do what you’re told. I’ve settled

about that.”

‘I looked round. The dray was gone, and whether he’d sent it back to

Felix or to the address I’d given, I didn’t know.

‘I cursed the whole affair bitterly, particularly when I thought of

Jim waiting at the house. But there was nothing I could do, and I

yoked the box cart and left. I went round by the house and told Jim,

and I never saw a madder man in all my life. I could make nothing of

him, so I left him and did the piano job. I just got back to the yard

and was going for dinner when you nabbed me.’

When the prisoner had mentioned the address in Little George Street,

Burnley had given a rapid order to the driver, and the statement had

only just been finished when the car turned into the street.

‘No. 133, you said?’

‘That’s it, sir.’

No. 133 was a large hardware shop. Burnley saw the proprietor.

‘Yes,’ the latter said, ‘we have the cask, and I may say I was very

annoyed with my foreman for taking it in without an advice note or

something in writing. You can have it at once on your satisfying me

you really are from Scotland Yard.’

His doubts were quickly set at rest, and he led the party to his yard.

‘Is that it, Palmer?’ asked Burnley.

‘That’s it, sir, right enough.’

‘Good. Hastings, you remain here with it till I send a dray. Get it

loaded up and see it yourself to the Yard. You can then go off duty.

You, Palmer, come with me.’

Re-entering the car, Burnley and his prisoner were driven to the same

destination, where the latter was handed over to another official.

‘If Mr. Felix will consent not to prosecute,’ said Burnley as the man

was being led off, ‘you’ll get out at once.’

The Inspector waited about till the dray arrived, and, when he had

seen with his own eyes that the cask was really there, he walked to

his accustomed restaurant and sat down to enjoy a long deferred meal.

CHAPTER VIII

THE OPENING OF THE CASK

It was getting on towards five when Inspector Burnley, like a giant

refreshed with wine, emerged once more upon the street. Calling a

taxi, he gave the address of St. Malo, Great North Road.

‘Now for friend Felix,’ he thought, as he lit a cigar. He was tired

and he lay back on the cushions, enjoying the relaxation as the car

slipped dexterously through the traffic. Familiar as he was with

every phase of London life, he never wearied of the panorama of the

streets, the ceaseless movement, the kaleidoscopic colours. The

sights of the pavement, the sound of pneus upon asphalt, the very

smell of burnt petrol--each appealed to him as part of the alluring

whole he loved.

They passed through the Haymarket and along Shaftesbury Avenue,

turned up Tottenham Court Road, and through Kentish Town out on the

Great North Road. Here the traffic was less dense and they made

better speed. Burnley removed his hat and allowed the cool air to

blow on his head. His case was going well. He was content.

Nearly an hour had passed before he rang the bell at St. Malo. Felix

opened the door, the visage of Sergeant Kelvin, his watchdog,

appearing in the gloom at the back of the hall.

‘What luck, Inspector?’ he cried, when he recognised his visitor.

‘We’ve got it, Mr. Felix. Found it a couple of hours ago. I’ve got a

taxi here, and, if convenient for you, we’ll go right in and open the

thing at once.’

‘Right. I’m sure I am ready.’

‘You come along too, Kelvin,’ said the Inspector to his subordinate,

and when Felix had got his hat and coat the three men walked up to

the taxi.

‘Scotland Yard,’ called Burnley, and the car swung round and started

citywards.

As they sped swiftly along, the Inspector gave an account of his day

to his companion. The latter was restless and excited, and admitted

he would be glad to get the business over. He was anxious about the

money, as it happened that a sum of £1000 would just enable him to

meet a mortgage, which otherwise would press rather heavily upon him.

Burnley looked up sharply when he heard this.

‘Did your French friend know that?’ he asked.

‘Le Gautier? No, I’m sure he did not.’

‘If you take my advice, Mr. Felix, you won’t count too much on the

cask. Indeed, you should prepare yourself for something unpleasant.’

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Felix. ‘You hinted that you thought the

cask contained something besides the money. What was it?’

‘I’m sorry I can’t answer you. The thing was only a suspicion, and we

shall learn the truth in so short a time it’s not worth discussion.’

Burnley having to make a call on some other business, they returned

by a different route, coming down to the river near London Bridge.

Already the day was drawing in, and yellow spots of light began to

gleam in the windows of the palace hotels, and from the murky

buildings on the south side. On the comparatively deserted Embankment

they made good speed, and Big Ben was chiming the quarter after seven

as they swung into the Yard.

‘I’ll see if the Chief’s in,’ said Burnley, as they reached his

office. ‘He wanted to see the cask opened.’

The great man was getting ready to go home, but decided to wait on

seeing the Inspector. He greeted Felix politely.

‘Singular set of circumstances, Mr. Felix,’ he said, as they shook

hands. ‘I trust they will remain only that.’

‘You’re all very mysterious about it,’ returned Felix. ‘I have been

trying to get a hint of the Inspector’s suspicions but he won’t

commit himself.’

‘We shall see now in a moment.’

Headed by Burnley, they passed along a corridor, down some steps and

through other passages, until they emerged in a small open yard

entirely surrounded by a high, window-pierced building. Apparently in

the daytime it acted as a light well, but now in the growing dusk it

was itself illuminated by a powerful arc lamp which threw an intense

beam over every part of the granolithic floor. In the centre stood

the cask, on end, with the damaged stave up.

The little group numbered five. There were the Chief, Felix, Burnley,

Sergeant Kelvin, and another nondescript looking man. Burnley stepped

forward.

‘This cask is so exceedingly strongly made,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a

carpenter to open it. I suppose he may begin?’

The Chief nodded, and the nondescript man advancing set to work and

soon lifted out the pieces of wood from the top. He held one up.

‘You see, gentlemen, it’s nearly two inches thick, more than twice as

heavy as an ordinary wine cask.’

‘That’ll do, carpenter. I’ll call you if I want you again,’ said

Burnley, and the man, touching his cap, promptly disappeared.

The four men drew closer. The cask was filled up to the top with

sawdust. Burnley began removing it, sifting it carefully through his

fingers.

‘Here’s the first,’ he said, as he laid a sovereign on the floor to

one side. ‘And another! And another!’

The sovereigns began to grow into a tiny pile.

‘There’s some very uneven-shaped thing here,’ he said again. ‘About

the centre the sawdust is not half an inch thick, but it goes down

deep round the sides. Lend a hand, Kelvin, but be careful and don’t

use force.’

The unpacking continued. Handful after handful of dust was taken out

and, after being sifted, was placed in a heap beside the sovereigns.

As they got deeper the operation became slower, the spaces from which

the tightly packed dust was removed growing narrower and harder to

get at. Fewer sovereigns were found, suggesting that these had been

placed at the top of the cask after the remainder of the contents had

been packed.

‘All the sawdust we can get at is out now,’ Burnley said presently,

and then, in a lower tone, ‘I’m afraid it’s a body. I’ve come on a

hand.’

‘A hand? A body?’ cried Felix, his face paling and an expression of

fear growing in his eyes. The Chief moved closer to him as the others

bent over the cask.

The two men worked silently for some moments and then Burnley spoke

again,--

‘Lift now. Carefully does it.’

They stooped again over the cask and, with a sudden effort lifted out

a paper-covered object and laid it reverently on the ground. A sharp

‘My God!’ burst from Felix, and even the case-hardened Chief drew in

his breath quickly.

It was the body of a woman, the head and shoulders being wrapped

round with sheets of brown paper. It lay all bunched together as it

had done in the cask. One dainty hand, with slim, tapered fingers

protruded from the paper, and stuck stiffly upwards beside the

rounded shoulder.

The men stopped and stood motionless looking down at the still form.

Felix was standing rigid, his face blanched, his eyes protruding,

horror stamped on his features. The Chief spoke in a low tone,--

‘Take off the paper.’

Burnley caught the loose corner and gently removed it. As it came

away the figure within became revealed to the onlookers.

The body was that of a youngish woman, elegantly clad in an evening

gown of pale pink cut low round the throat and shoulders, and trimmed

with old lace. Masses of dark hair were coiled round the small head.

On the fingers the glint of precious stones caught the light. The

feet were cased in silk stockings, but no shoes. Pinned to the dress

was an envelope.

But it was on the face and neck the gaze of the men was riveted. Once

she had clearly been beautiful, but now the face was terribly black

and swollen. The dark eyes were open and protruding, and held an

expression of deadly horror and fear. The lips were drawn back

showing the white, even teeth. And below, on the throat were two

discoloured bruises, side by side, round marks close to the windpipe,

thumb-prints of the animal who had squeezed out that life with

relentless and merciless hands.

When the paper was removed from the dead face, the eyes of Felix

seemed to start literally out of his head.

‘God!’ he shrieked in a thin, shrill tone. ‘It’s Annette!’ He stood

for a moment, waved his hands convulsively, and then, slowly turning,

pitched forward insensible on the floor.

The chief caught him before his head touched the ground.

‘Lend a hand here,’ he called.

Burnley and the sergeant sprang forward and, lifting the inanimate

form, bore it into an adjoining room and laid it gently on the floor.

‘Doctor,’ said the Chief shortly, and the sergeant hurried off.

‘Bad business, this,’ resumed the Chief. ‘He didn’t know what was

coming?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. My impression has been all through that he

was being fooled by this Frenchman, whoever he is.’

‘It’s murder now, anyway. You’ll have to go to Paris, Burnley, and

look into it.’

‘Yes, sir, very good.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s eight o’clock. I

shall hardly be able to go to-night. I shall have to take the cask

and the clothing, and get some photos and measurements of the corpse

and hear the result of the medical examination.’

‘To-morrow will be time enough, but I’d go by the nine o’clock train.

I’ll give you a personal note to Chauvet, the chief of the Paris

police. You speak French, I think?’

‘Enough to get on, sir.’

‘You shouldn’t have much difficulty, I think. The Paris men are bound

to know if there are any recent disappearances, and if not you have

the cask and the clothing to fall back on.’

‘Yes, sir, they should be a help.’

Footsteps in the corridor announced the arrival of the doctor. With a

hasty greeting to the Chief, he turned to the unconscious man.

‘What happened to him?’ he asked.

‘He has had a shock,’ answered the Chief, explaining in a few words

what had occurred.

‘He’ll have to be removed to hospital at once. Better get a

stretcher.’

The sergeant disappeared again and in a few seconds returned with the

apparatus and another man. Felix was lifted on to it and borne off.

‘Doctor,’ said the Chief, as the former was about to follow, ‘as soon

as you are through with him I wish you’ld make an examination of the

woman’s body. It seems fairly clear what happened to her, but it

would be better to have a post-mortem. Poison may have been used

also. Burnley, here, is going to Paris by the nine o’clock in the

morning to make inquiries, and he will want a copy of your report

with him.’

‘I shall have it ready,’ said the doctor as, with a bow, he hurried

after his patient.

‘Now, let’s have a look at that letter.’

They returned to the courtyard and Burnley unpinned the envelope from

the dead woman’s gown. It was unaddressed, but the Chief slit it open

and drew out a sheet of folded paper. It bore a single line of

typing:--

‘Your £50 loan returned herewith with £2 10s. 0d. interest.’

That was all. No date, address, salutation, or signature. Nothing to

indicate who had sent it, or whose was the body that had accompanied

it.

‘Allow me, sir,’ said Burnley.

He took the paper and scrutinised it carefully. Then he held it up to

the light.

‘This is from Le Gautier also,’ he continued. ‘See the watermark. It

is the same paper as Felix’s letter. Look also at the typing. Here

are the crooked n’s and r’s, the defective l’s and the t’s and e’s

below alignment. It was typed on the same machine.’

‘Looks like it certainly.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Come to my room for

that letter to M. Chauvet.’

They traversed the corridors and the Inspector got his introduction

to the Paris police. Then returning to the little yard, he began the

preparations for his journey.

First he picked up and counted the money. There was £31 10s. in

English gold and, having made a note of the amount, he slipped it

into his pocket as a precaution against chance passers-by. With the

£21 handed by Broughton to Mr. Avery, this made the £52 10s. referred

to in the typewritten slip. Then he had the body moved to the

dissecting-room and photographed from several points of view, after

which it was stripped by a female assistant. The clothes he went

through with great care, examining every inch of the material for

maker’s names, initials, or other marks. Only on the delicate cambric

handkerchief was his search rewarded, a small A. B. being embroidered

amid the tracery of one corner. Having attached a label to each

garment separately, as well as to the rings from the fingers and a

diamond comb from the luxuriant hair, he packed them carefully in a

small portmanteau, ready for transport to France.

Sending for the carpenter, he had the end boards of the cask

replaced, and the whole thing wrapped in sacking and corded.

Labelling it to himself at the Gare du Nord, he had it despatched to

Charing Cross with instructions to get it away without delay.

It was past ten when his preparations were complete, and he was not

sorry when he was free to go home to supper and bed.

PART II--PARIS