The very morning after the inquest a piece of news reached London that
made the Chief Inspector jump for his hat. A wealthy American named
Beale had been found bound and gagged in one of the leading Brussels
hotels. The room where he was discovered belonged to another American
named Green. Mr. Beale, on his release, had described to the reporters
how he had been lured to the room under the pretext of purchasing a
rare painting, robbed, and left tied up and gagged. The description of
his assailant tallied with the man wanted by the Yard as Cox, or
Carter. Pointer flew across within a couple of hours after opening his
morning paper, and found Mr. Beale surrounded by a knot of reporters.
Beale looked up at him with a saturnine grin.
“Yes, it's me, Chief. I'm too young and inexperienced for this wicked
world. Have a drink?” The American dismissed the reporters
good-naturedly but firmly. Then he smiled, showing his teeth in an
apparent merriment which never touched his eyes—cold and keen.
“Well, I guess I'll come across with the story. That man who called
himself Green is one of our cleverest crooks. He certainly doesn't
live up to his name! I was after him in London when I stumbled into
that queer story of Eames. Oh, I'm on my vacation all right, but
there's no holiday that would do me the good that getting my hands on
Green would. Personal reasons—always the toughest, eh, Chief?”
Evidently Mr. Beale had not yet had time to read the London news, for
the “Eames Case” had now become the “Erskine Murder.”
“By the way”—again came that swift baring of the teeth—“you haven't
asked me yet”—he underscored the “yet” with a glance—“how I came to
run away from the Enterprise without saying good-bye to anyone. Well,
I'll tell you. I had just got up from my cosy armchair and made a
start for bed when who should pass the window—I had opened it—but
Green. Yes, Green, the man my paper had tried so hard to get in N'York
and fallen flat over. He had an overcoat on his arm, and his grip in
his hand, so I just whipped out of the window and followed him to a
garage. Went in after him and arranged for a faster car than his
little two-seater. Picked up his trail without any effort, for he had
hired the machine and driver in Dover, and the man was to drive him
back for the boat. I did the same. We crossed together, and I followed
him here to Brussels. He doesn't know me by sight, so I laid what I
thought was a first class trap for him. Everything went according to
plan—except the end.” He made a grimace. “Behold me minus the crook,
my diamond ring, my pocket-book and my reputation for brains, to say
nothing of my night's sleep. You see, Green knew all the time who I
was, and I'm bound to say he's a hustler.”
“Why do you call him Green?” asked Pointer slowly.
“Why shouldn't I? It's as much his name as any of the others he uses,
I guess.”
“What others, for instance?”
“Well-l,—Shepherd, Smith, are two others.”
“What about Cox, or Carter?”
Just for a second Pointer saw a contraction of the American's pupils.
“Carter? Cox? Do you know him, too, at Scotland Yard?”
“Mr. Beale, may I ask you for the fullest possible details of the man
you call Green?”
“Better search our police files. A cleverer criminal doesn't snap his
fingers at our detectives.”
“Any murders to his name?”
“Well-l, I don't know about murders, but for robbery with or without
violence he's a master.”
“Will you describe him, sir?”
“My language might pain you, Chief, but here's the police docket of
him from N'York.” He handed the Chief Inspector a typewritten numbered
slip, which described one Henry Green, alias Arthur Shepherd, alias——
The description tallied exactly with the man Carter. The snapshot
appended was that of a clever face, full of daring and with a resolute
chin. The specimen handwriting was that familiar to Pointer both from
the Hotel Marvel and from the register below in the Lion Blanc.
He studied the slip very carefully. He noted that Carter, or Green,
had never yet been actually captured or stood his trial. All the
evidence against him seemed to be held back in the police hands.
“You can keep that if you like, Chief.”
“Thank you, sir. That's a great help. And now, sir, what made you
choose the Enterprise Hotel in the first place?”
“I had information that Green had been seen a couple of days before
going in there. Mistaken information, I guess. The fool mixed it up
with another hotel lower down.”
“You had never seen Eames before?”
“_Eames?_ Never. My reason for suspecting that something was wrong in
the room was exactly what I told you.”
He looked the police-officer squarely in the eye. Pointer had received
excellent witness of Mr. Beale's character and reputation, and yet—he
was sure that the other had recognised the corpse. He decided to blurt
out Eames' real name. “We have found out that Eames was really a
Scotsman named Erskine living in Canada; and to the best of our belief
the man you call Green, and speak of as a well-known crook who goes
under many aliases, is his partner, John Carter. Both are wanted for
embezzlement, we are told, though so far no particulars have come in.”
Mr. Beale looked the picture of surprise.
“You don't say!” There was a short pause. Pointer wondered whether Mr.
Beale was choosing his next words with care.
“Partner in what? Safe-opening? What kind of a business did this
Eames, I forget what you called him, run?”
“We hear that he was manager of the Toronto Silk Mills.”
Mr. Beale made no comment except to give a cluck of amazement. There
was a little pause, then the Englishman came back to the case in hand.
“May I ask, sir, why you didn't write and let us know where you were?
Your evidence was greatly wanted at the last inquest, and will be
absolutely necessary in two weeks' time.”
Mr. Beale raised his eyebrows. “It may be quite impossible for me to
come over,” he said coldly; “and as to writing—the American Embassy
was informed of my whereabouts, I guess.”
The police-officer rose.
“Then, sir, if I can be of no use here, I wish you a good-morning,” he
began formally; but Mr. Beale, having shown his superiority to any
police regulations, pressed him down into his chair with an affable
hand, and this time insisted on ordering a drink. Pointer chose tea,
which seemed to the other originality verging on eccentricity, and
took his leave as soon as he could escape. He made no mention of the
green and white striped paper. Mr. Beale was not the kind of man of
whom to ask too many explanations, but the Chief Inspector was
closeted for some time with a Brussels _confrère_, and if the Belgium
police were openly to hunt for the missing Green, the Yard received
the private assurance that they would also not forget to keep an
unobtrusive eye on the wealthy, well-documented Mr. Beale, who still
puzzled Pointer. That astute officer never for a moment forgot the
sketchy alibi, the cigar ashes over Erskine's tie, the emptied basin,
and various other puzzling odds and ends, such as the scrap of green
and white wrapping paper picked up in a room where he had spent many
hours. It was still Mr. Beale who struck Pointer as not fitting into
the picture. He thought that the American's presence gave an unreal
effect. That where he showed, an impartial scrutiny could dimly detect
different outlines and other colours beneath.
The adjourned inquest was duly held. Mr. Beale did not appear, but the
evidence against Carter, alias Cox, was given by Pointer and Watts, as
well as by the Enterprise manager and employés. Carter's photograph
was identified by the Marvel Hotel as that of Cox. There was the
motive as shown in Erskine's will, the purchase by him of the
medicine—the vehicle in which the poison was given—there was Carter's
flight and silence, and, lastly, his desperate effort in Brussels to
throw any pursuer off his track. There were the mud marks on the
balcony, and the wax vestas.
A verdict was brought in against the Canadian for the murder of his
partner, and his portrait was published in the papers, so that all
honest men could be on the watch for him. But Pointer was not
satisfied.
“I wonder if the whole investigation is on the wrong line—whether the
points have been missed somewhere, but where?” He asked O'Connor, who
only shook his head in silence, and left his friend to sit up smoking
and thinking long after he himself had gone to bed.
From the Brussels police came the news that they had not been able to
discover any trace of Green, but that Beale had gone to Lille, and so
was out of their jurisdiction. Watts was despatched post-haste to the
French town to pick up the American's trail, but before he came on it
a wire reached Pointer from the Editor himself.
“Located Green-Carter. Come immediately.”
Pointer crossed that night. He had a little talk with a Frenchman in
plain clothes who seemed to be expecting him at the station before
Lille, and, descending on the platform of that prosperous town, was
met by the impatient Mr. Beale and by Watts.
“I thought you would never get here. Train's an hour late. He's
staying in a room in the Rue Sentier near here under the name of
Thompson. He's out just now, and we can wait for him there. The maid
thinks I'm a friend of his.”
The Chief Inspector nodded briefly and followed Mr. Beale to a corner
shop in a quiet street. A side entrance took them up a flight of
stairs to the first floor. Here beside the door of a flat was another
smaller one.
“That's his room.” Mr. Beale rang the bell of the larger door.
A French woman opened. Mr. Beale asked for his friend. Mr. Thompson
was out again, he was informed, but he would be in shortly. If
messieurs his friends cared to wait she would unlock the door for
them. She smilingly inserted a key. Pointer thought that the American
made as if to shut the door behind him a trifle quickly, but the maid
came on into the room and altered a chair.
“_Tiens!_ Mr. Thompson is leaving us? Ah, no; there is his trunk. It
is only his hand-bag that has gone.” And she left them alone.
“Want to examine the trunk?” asked the American. “I suppose your
warrant justifies that?”
“Quite. Funny about the bag, isn't it?”
“That's what startled me. We don't want to slip up on him again.”
Pointer thought that Mr. Beale had looked annoyed rather than startled
by the maid's question. He himself walked slowly around the room.
Watts had been left on duty below. He looked at a box of vestas on the
mantelpiece. They were the same as those found in No. 14 of the
Enterprise. Certainly for an expert crook the room was strangely bare.
A step sounded on the stairs. Mr. Beale jumped behind the door, ready
to close it. The police-officer seated himself facing the door. A key
was inserted, the door was flung widely open, and a young man with a
couple of heavy parcels in his arms entered with a decided limp, but
swung the door shut with one agile foot. It was the face Pointer had
seen photographed as Green. A resolute, strong face, set on a powerful
rangy frame.
He caught sight of the impassive figure by the table with the steady
eyes fixed on him and stopped. For a second he stood staring, a
curious grey creeping under his tan.
“I'm not alone, Mr. Carter, and even if I were, violence wouldn't help
you,” said the Chief Inspector, rising to his feet. He knew what that
tightened jaw meant. “I have a warrant here for your arrest charging
you with the murder of Robert Erskine in London on August 4. Of
course, as you know, if you wish it I must call in the French
authorities; but the end will be the same. It will save time if you
come quietly with me back to England and let me arrest you at Dover. I
must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against
you.”
The young man made no reply; his eyes were now fixed on the table. He
was evidently thinking hard. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
“A French prison is very uncomfortable, but please yourself.” Pointer
hoped the young man would take it sensibly.
Carter—to give him the name under which his warrant had been
issued—looked around the room. A flash came into his eyes as he caught
sight of Mr. Beale bolting the door.
“Pity I didn't kill _you_ when I had the chance!” he spat out between
clenched teeth.
Mr. Beale looked pointedly at the police-officer.
“You had better take it quietly. Talk of that kind won't help your
case,” that official warned, phlegmatically.
Carter sat down.
“May I smoke?”
“A cigarette of mine, or here's my pouch if you'll let me have a look
at your pipe first.” Pointer looked through the bowl and handed his
briar back to Carter, who filled it, and then, hunching his shoulders,
puffed away with his feet stuck straight out in front of him, his eyes
on his boots. The Chief Inspector looked at him keenly. The man really
was engrossed in calculations of some kind. Concentration oozed from
him. The police-officer was on the alert. He had seen something like
this once before, when a man had been arrested on a capital charge,
and the result had been a swift suicide.
“It's a pretty average frowst in here; can the window be opened?”
Pointer flung it open and stood squarely in the opening.
Carter gave a harsh laugh, like a bark.
“Suicide? Me? Not on your life!”
The other did not move away. “Well?” he asked. “Do you want an
extradition order?”
“I'll come. Got to. Handcuffs, I suppose?” His voice was suddenly
weary.
Pointer did not reply. He never permitted himself to have any emotion
towards a prisoner, but he felt sure that O'Connor would have been
sorry for the chap in front of him. He cut the strings of the package
on the table. Mr. Beale pressed forward.
“Ah, ha! Electrical plant. Something new in the safe-breaking line,
eh, Green?”
Carter bared two rows of strong teeth. He did not look pleasant. The
Englishman was conscious of an undertone as of a secret duel going on.
Was it merely that the Editor had run the criminal to earth, who for
so long had evaded justice, and evidently on some occasion tricked
him? He looked as keenly at Mr. Beale as at Carter. The Editor's eyes
were alight with triumph. Carter watched him dully, looking years
older than the young man who had flung the door open. He strolled over
to the window, and Pointer tensed himself, but Carter merely shot out
a long, thin hand and pulled the curtain across the shut half.
Mr. Beale, with a wonderfully agile spring—all things
considered—switched it back.
“No signalling to your accomplices, Green!”
Carter swore at him, and swore strongly.
“Come, come,” the Chief Inspector interposed sternly, “none of that!
Mr. Beale, may I trouble you to call up my man who's down below; and
where would you like me to meet you afterwards?”
Mr. Beale gave a half-shrug.
“Considering that I put the case in your hands, Chief, instead of the
French authorities, I think that I'm hardly being treated quite
fairly. Surely there can be no objection to my being present at the
search of the room. Remember I'm in a very responsible position.”
“Quite so, sir, and I'm sure I'm much obliged to you,” the other
bowed, “but I'm afraid routine work has to be done as routine.”
“I shall report what you say to the proper quarter.” Mr. Beale spoke
very quietly.
For a second Pointer hesitated. The case did owe Mr. Beale a
tremendous lot. He had notified the finding of Erskine's dead body. In
some equally mysterious way he had found the “wanted” man. But Pointer
thought that the American's _flair_ for discoveries betokened some
private knowledge which might alter many obscurities if he would
speak. So he contented himself with merely bowing.
Mr. Beale shot him one of his steely glances.
“I shall expect you at the depôt,” he said briefly. “I suppose you are
taking the four twenty-five back.” He strode off with as much dignity
as his short stature allowed. On the whole, the police-officer was
rather glad that he was annoyed, as he might be the less likely to
notice the French detective to whom Pointer had spoken on his way in
to Lille, and who was to follow the Editor's every step.
When the door closed, Carter flung a bunch of keys down on the table.
“You've got the grip. I suppose you didn't find in it what you are all
looking for! You won't find it in the trunk either.” His tone was
rough. His whole intonation had changed from that of a well-educated
man to something coarser.
Pointer signed to Watts to open the trunk. Leaving him to guard the
prisoner, the Chief Inspector himself searched it. One of the first
things he picked up was a London telephone directory; after that came
a list of Paris bankers. Just the literature to expect from a man of
“Green's” reputation. He ran his fingers among the clothes. His
practised tips encountered something in the lining of a coat. He drew
it out, made a slit, and, inserting a finger, brought out a long
string of pearls with an antique emerald fastening. He laid it beside
him without a word. Carter had risen from his chair and was watching
intently. When the pearls lay on the table he made a curious gesture
with his hands, and, sinking back on to his chair, covered his face,
which had turned livid. Pointer went on methodically. Several rings, a
diamond necklace, and a jewelled pendant were discovered. Finally the
trunk was turned upside down, and on the very bottom he pounced on a
twist of newspaper. Inside were a few screws. The two officers
examined them closely, then the Chief Inspector took out an envelope
and fastened them carefully inside.
“Any explanation you wish to offer, Carter? I have cautioned you
already?”
Carter shook his head.
The police finished their work, and in silence, arm in arm, like the
best of friends, the three walked to the station in plenty of time to
catch the Calais express. Pointer left Mr. Beale and Watts to sit
beside Carter in the reserved compartment Mr. Beale had ordered, and
went off to have a cup of coffee. A man selling postcards approached
him and saluted with an odd little jerk. The Englishman glanced over
his wares and picked out two. “Can you put them in an envelope for
me?”
“But yes, monsieur, but yes,” and the man slipped the cards into one
and passed on. Outside the café the Chief Inspector drew out a sheet
of thin paper. It was a record of Mr. Beale's movements from the time
he left Carter's room. “X went from Rue Sentier to the post. Sent
telegram to ‘M. Garnier, Notaire, Rue Bizet, Genève’: ‘Series
accepted. Editor.’ After that, X lounged the time away till he joined
you at the station.”
Pointer wired to Geneva for full particulars as to M. Garnier, and
took his seat in the train. Carter would be tried first in London for
the murder of Erskine, and, if acquitted, would be sent to Canada to
stand his trial there for embezzlement and, doubtless, robbery. The
young man seemed quite conscious of his position. For the most part he
sat with his eyes closed, only the tense look of his jaw and the pulse
hammering in his temples showing that he was not asleep. As for Mr.
Beale, Pointer would have gladly dispensed with his company, for there
was a gloating triumph in the American's whole attitude which seemed
to the police-officer positively indecent.
Back at the Yard, where he reported at once to the
Assistant-Commissioner, he found a cable identifying the photographs
of both Robert Erskine and John Carter as that of the two men,
respectively, who were wanted under a warrant taken out in New York by
the President of the Amalgamated Silk Mills, a huge concern which
practically held a monopoly of the silk spinning and weaving industry.
Defalcations extending over many years were spoken of, and cooked
balance-sheets, but up to the present the exact amount supposed to
have been taken by the Toronto manager and his assistant was not
known.
The Chief Inspector filed the information, and made his way to his
rooms, where, as he hoped, he found another cable, a private one from
a friend of his in the Canadian police. It was in answer to a long
cable from himself asking him to find out all he could about the
warrant for Erskine and Carter. Pointer raised his eyes at its length.
Wright was absolutely reckless of expense when he wanted to be clear.
The cable read:
“We must stand well with Yank police because of coming Burton
affair. Warrant issued New York on Heilbronner's sworn deposition.
Heilbronner millionaire chairman of Amalg. Spotty reputation.
Warrant gives no facts. Can. police passive. If Carter arrested by
Yanks or you, and sent here, proofs of defalcations, etc., will be
demanded before Can. police hand him over.”
The Burton affair, as Pointer knew, concerned a murderer who had
escaped into the United States and was very much “wanted” in his home.
So, like the robberies in which Carter, as Green, was supposed to be
implicated, there were no actual proofs of embezzlement made public.
Pointer had very little to say that night even to O'Connor, and early
next morning visited Carter in his cell. The Canadian had refused as
yet to see a lawyer. The long vacation was on, and his case could not
come up till the autumn. He seemed sunk in depression. And the case
against him was certainly black enough. The screws found in his trunk
were the mates of those which fixed the screwed-on panels to the
wardrobe. He gave no explanation of them. He gave no explanation of
anything, not even of the jewellery, which was to be identified by a
couple of American detectives who were coming over on purpose. The
Heads at the Yard were quite certain of his guilt on both counts,
murder and theft, but the Chief Inspector said as little as possible.
He had asked the Canadian to at least help him to trace what might
have been wrapped up by Erskine in that strip of green and white
paper, but after a second's flash of hope in the accused's sombre eyes
he had shaken his head and refused to speak.
Pointer had no sympathy whatever with this kind of an attitude. He
considered it not fair to the accused and not fair to the police. It
was all very well for his superiors to be so certain of Carter's
guilt. When the case came up for trial it was he and not they who
would have to pay for any mistake, and apart from this personal
consideration, the Chief Inspector had a high standard of fair play,
and the idea that he might be a party to injustice was intolerable to
him. Not that he by any means thought Carter innocent. As the Canadian
would not give any alibi, he apparently had had the opportunity to
commit the murder. The will was considered to be an additional motive,
besides wanting to get rid of an inconvenient accomplice, but what had
Erskine to leave? Mr. Russell had not been able to trace any
“available” funds. Yet the dead man would hardly have alluded to a
stolen hoard without giving any indications as to where such a hoard
might be found.
“And where does Beale come in, and what of the manager, whose back
garden you've been digging up so carefully?” O'Connor demanded
rhetorically one night, after enduring his friend's silence as long as
he could.
“The manager—humph! Mr. Beale?—He certainly must have a very strong
feeling against Carter. Yet he looks the last man to let his feelings
alone carry him very far. And why is he so keen on seeing Carter? He
makes every sort of an effort to get an order. I think he was amazed
when he found out that even a letter from his ambassador wouldn't be
of any use if Carter refused to see him, and refuse he does. You know,
O'Connor, I'd give a good deal to place Mr. Beale in all this.”
“You surprise me!” murmured the Irishman sarcastically.
“What gain is it of his if Carter is hung or locked up in gaol? I've
tried to get to the bottom of his game—for that he's playing one I'm
still as certain as ever, but I can't find a hook to hang anything on.
I've had report after report about him from America. He seems to be
beyond suspicion. He is on the board of that Silk Company which owned
Erskine's Toronto Mills, but that doesn't throw any light on his
feeling towards Carter.”
“Didn't he say that he had his knife into him because of some family
jewels Carter had stolen?”
“He did. Mr. Beale always has an explanation for anything. Why doesn't
he write to Carter if he's so keen on seeing him? He won't. Of course,
he may be quite straight in all this. That telegram of his to Geneva,
now—the man he sent it to is one of the most respected solicitors in
the town. I've absolutely nothing to go on——”
“What about Watts' idea that the crime might be political?”
Pointer shook his head. “Not a shred of evidence to bear that out.
Quite the other way. Well, I'm thinking of taking my holiday, which is
due this month, abroad. I shouldn't wonder if it led me to Geneva and
home by way of Nice.”
“Do you think you could pick up anything there?”
“Doubtful. Still, I like to cover the whole ground.”
But before the time for Pointer's well-earned leave, on an early
evening in September his landlady announced a young lady to see him.
The Chief Inspector laid down his pipe. O'Connor was away, and he
wheeled up his friend's capacious armchair for his caller.
An exceedingly good-looking, well-dressed young woman entered.
Undoubtedly a lady, and yet to his keen eyes with a something about
her he found difficult to place.
“Chief Inspector Pointer?” Her accent told him what it was that had
puzzled him. She was from the other side of the ocean. He bowed in his
most friendly manner, and pulled O'Connor's chair still more into the
light. She sank into it, and gave him the longest, keenest look the
police-officer had ever had from a woman. Obviously she was weighing
him carefully. Then she smiled.
“I'm glad I came. I made the manager of the Enterprise Hotel give me
your private address. My name is Christine West; I'm a sort of adopted
niece of Mr. Ian Erskine of Calgary. Here is my passport, and here is
a letter with another photo in it of mine from the Head of the Toronto
police. I got him to certify that I really am Miss West.”
The Chief Inspector was even more on the alert than before, if
possible, when he handed her back her papers and photographs.
“Uncle Ian was a bachelor, you know, and my mother kept house for him
after father died. That was twenty-three years ago, and Four Winds was
my home till Uncle Ian's death. A dear and happy home it was, too.”
Her eyes grew soft. “I saw about poor Rob's death in the papers a
little over a month ago, and about John Carter's arrest. My mother is
dead, so I'm my own mistress, and I set out right away to see what can
be done. For something has got to be done.”