"He knew--he said you had told him. He knew because he was outside
your flat all night and photographed her as she went out."
The blood of the listener froze with horror. "I--I don't know what
you're talking about--who is the 'she'?"
"Beryl Merville."
"It is a lie--absurd--Miss Merville--! Here?"
He found his breath insufficient for his speech. Something inside
him was paralyzed: his words were disjointed.
"It is true--she was here. She told me."
"You--you're mad! Told you! It is a damned lie. She was never
here. If Moropulos said that, I'm glad you've killed him!"
"He took a photograph and wrote a statement; you know about that
because he spoke to you and you admitted it all."
"I swear before God that Moropulos has never spoken to me. I would
have killed him if he had. The story of the photograph is a lie--he
invented it. That was his way--where is this picture?"
Ambrose did not answer. Was this man speaking the truth? His
version was at least plausible. He must go at once to the house in
Paddington and get the envelope--it must be destroyed. How would he
know if Ronnie was speaking the truth? Ronald Morelle, his teeth
biting into his lip, saw judgment wavering. He was fighting for his
life; he knew that Sault had come to kill him and his soul quivered.
"Where is that picture--? I tell you it is an invention of that
swine. He guessed-- Even to you I will not admit that there is a
word of truth in the story."
He had won. The hand that was thrust into the overcoat pocket
returned empty.
"I will come back," said Sault.
When he reached the street he saw a man looking at the number plate
of his car. He took no notice, but drove off. He had to break a
window to get into the house at Paddington. He had forgotten to
bring his keys. That delayed his entrance for some while. He was in
the room, and his fingers on the dial of the combination, when three
men walked through the door.
He knew who they were. "I have a revolver in my pocket, gentlemen,"
he said. "I have killed Paul Moropulos, the owner of this house."
They snapped handcuffs upon his wrists.
"Do you know the combination of this safe, Sault?" asked the tall
inspector in charge. He had been reading a typewritten notice
affixed to the top.
"Yes, sir," said Ambrose Sault.
"What is it?"
"I am not at liberty to say."
"What is in it--money?"
No answer. The officer beckoned forward one of the uniformed men who
seemed to fill the hall.
"This safe is not to be touched, you understand? By anybody. If you
allow the handle to be turned, there will be trouble. Come along,
Sault."
The handcuffs were unnecessary. They were also inadequate. In the
darkness of the car--
"I am very sorry, inspector--I have broken these things--I was
feeling for a handkerchief and forgot."
They did not believe him, but at the police station they found that
he had spoken the truth. The bar of the cuff had been wrenched open,
the steel catch of the lock torn away.
"I did it absentmindedly," said Ambrose shamefaced.
They put him into a cell where he went instantly to sleep. The
handcuffs became a famous exhibit which generations of young
policemen will look upon with awe and wonder.