Christine had not accepted Mrs. Erskine's invitation to stay for
another fortnight, but decided that another week at the villa would be
the utmost she could afford to waste in futile efforts to learn some
clue in a past to which no one referred. She was glad of her caution
when one morning towards the close of her stay she found a letter for
her at the shop where she had all her correspondence delivered. It was
from Mr. Meukes. She tore it open with a beating heart, and read:
“Dear Miss West,
I have had an interview with our friend. He was well, and sends you
the following message which I have taken down word for word:—‘Please
be in Lille by September twenty-fourth. Do you remember my little
contribution to your Toronto flat-warming party years ago? Go to
that street. The number of the street you want is the age you were
that birthday when we all got upset in the river. Go at midnight.
Secrecy is vital, for the house may be watched. On the third floor
ring the bell. Give no name, but ask for M. Meunier. He knows why I
cannot come, and has instructions, left with him for just such an
emergency when Rob died. In them I stated that in the event of my
death you are my sole legatee, and that if I am incapacitated or
prevented in any way from being present in the house at Lille on
September 24th, you have full power to sign any documents for me. I
enclosed your photo and a sample of your signature. He agreed to
accept you as my proxy. For your further identification I wrote a
password in the letter. It is the name we three gave our island at
Four Winds, and he is to reply with the name of the rock on it. You
can sign any papers M. Meunier hands you without reading them; there
will probably be only two. M. Meunier will then give you a slip of
paper on which he will have written “Yes” or “No.” Enclose this in a
letter, but send me (Meukes) a wire to say which word has been
handed you. If all goes as I hope, I may soon be able to clear
myself of at least one of the charges hanging over me. If you are
detained, wire Meunier at the address and sign yourself “Minuit.”’
There, Miss West, is the message he sends you. He is still as
obstinately silent on what interests us as ever, but I do not wonder
that you are fond of him. He has a way with him. Will you allow me
to wish you good luck in your errand? I shall be glad to have a wire
from you to say that this is received and burned.
Very truly yours,
Mortimer Meukes.”
Christine read the note very carefully. Entered a few notes in her
shopping diary under the heading of last January, and as though they
concerned dress items, and burned the letter in the shop woman's stove
before she turned back towards the town itself and the villa.
To-day was the eighteenth. Her visit would be up on the twentieth. She
decided to spend the days between its end and the twenty-third at
Avignon, among antiquities which would well explain any lingering
should eyes be on her. She would have liked to go direct to Lille, but
in a town she did not know she doubted her ability to remain unnoticed
for so long.
Of Mrs. Erskine and the inmates of the villa she took a friendly
farewell on the twentieth, and caught the train to Avignon as she had
mentioned in conversation. Here she browsed among its Roman remains
and suffered its Roman wind till the twenty-third, when she motored
out to the next station on the P.L.M. beyond Avignon and caught the
Paris express, and on to Lille. Arrived at Lille early in the
forenoon, she took a tram and saw the sights like any stranger. Only
for lunch did she allow herself to drift into the Rue des Muguets. A
café-restaurant almost opposite to No. 15 was her choice. She seated
herself discreetly in an obscure corner, and had hardly finished a
very good meal—Christine was no believer in a poached-egg day—when in
walked Mr. Beale. She had his photograph inside her note-book at the
moment. He paid no attention to her, but took a window-seat facing No.
15, and not only faced the large building but watched it intently.
Once or twice he looked around, included her in his casual glance, and
returned to his close watch. She laid down her paper.
“Isn't that M. Voiron?” She named a popular cinema actor as she paid
her bill. Her tip made the waiter willing to linger.
“No, Madame,” he obviously regretted to shatter an illusion, “that is
un Anglais. He comes here lately daily and always to that table.”
Christine seemed to be barely listening. That the house was also kept
under observation by others for the rest of the twenty-four hours was
obvious. She emptied her letter-case under the table into her
hand-bag. It was a plain black leather case.
“I ask, because I saw him ahead of me in Rue Albert just now. He
dropped this case. Will you please give it him at”—she glanced at the
clock. It was exactly five minutes to two o'clock—“at two o'clock
precisely. I do not want him to thank me personally, so please wait
till two.”
“As it strikes!” The waiter assured her heartily, “Madame can count on
me.”
Christine saw that her watch and the clock were to the second
together.
At exactly one minute past two she crossed the street and entered the
door of No. 15, a door with many signs chiefly of insurance companies,
and the men of the law in black and gold outside the handsome portals.
She had noted how far into its open throat anyone on the opposite side
could see. Just beyond this she flashed a glance backward. As she had
hoped, Mr. Beale's head, with its fringe of reddish hair, was turned
quite away from the window to the black-haired waiter standing beside
him—her waiter.
She passed up the stairs in her silent galoshes. On the third floor
was a sign: “Beauregard et Fils.”
She looked at the landing from above. There was only one large door on
each floor. No one was about. It was the sacred hour of noon repose.
She tried the top floor. This, too, belonged to a business firm, but a
trap door on to the roof gave her her chance. It was a very dirty
roof, but it had a high coping all round, and there was a place where
she could sit down. She fastened down the trap-door, and made herself
as comfortable as possible, with a novel she had with her, under her
umbrella. At seven o'clock she lifted the flap gingerly and listened.
Feet clattered down the stone stairs below her. Bang, bang! went the
house doors far in the depths. The clerks were leaving. At eight
o'clock she carefully crawled to the top landing and bent over the
banisters. All was silent. She crept below. From the third floor came
the sound of a typewriter. It was very dark inside the building, and
she decided to remain on the fourth floor landing, at any rate for the
present.
A little before nine o'clock she heard a key inserted in the hall door
and steps ascending—cautious steps. They stopped at M. Beauregard's
and out of the darkness came a gentle tap. Only one. Christine dared
not risk a glance over the banisters. She was back against the wall
above, listening intently. The door opened and shut swiftly.
She heard a man's voice say in English with a foreign accent: “The old
idiot's working late, but he'll soon be gone. Everything is ready.”
“The men understand their job, do they? Sure?” asked another voice
with a distinct twang to it.
“If you come at twelve-thirty, monsieur, you will find that their job
has been understood and perfectly carried out. Your birds will be
trussed and waiting.”
“You're still certain that you are not suspected?”
“Who, I? But no, monsieur, but no! A temporary clerk who is open to
reason will witness the signatures as well as myself. All goes well,
allez!”
The men separated, one letting himself back into the flat and the
other moving softly and slowly down the stairs.
Like a shadow Christine slipped after him. Near the house door she
heard a click, and Mr. Beale switched on an electric torch for a
second which gave her a glimpse of his face, before he swung open the
door and shut it noiselessly behind him.
Another half-hour passed and she heard M. Beauregard's door again
opened. This time it closed with a bang, and firm steps echoed down
the stairs—no conspirator this apparently.
The minutes dragged by, till at exactly a quarter to twelve the front
door was again unlocked, someone with an electric torch was coming up.
A tall man, well muffled up, for the night was fresh. Christine
slipped down to the door of the third floor flat, but keeping out of
the ray of his steady light. The stranger come on, evidently making
for the same goal. He got to the mat and extended his hands towards
the little push button.
“Ne sonnez pas, monsieur, ne sonnez pas!” she murmured, touching his
right arm.
“Hein?” He wheeled to face her, at the same moment the door was flung
open and a clerk stood there bowing courteously.
“Come in, monsieur and madame. We did not expect a lady, but pray come
in. I am M. Beauregard's head clerk.”
M. Meunier entered briskly. For a second Christine hesitated. But what
might be the effect of calling in the police? She stepped in, too. The
door shut.
“This way”—and the clerk bowed them into a cheery office. “I go for
the other witness.”
Christine had exhausted her stock of French. She whispered hurriedly
in English.
“M. Meunier, I am Christine West. There is something wrong. That man
has confederates and a Mr. Beale is in it, too. After the signing——”
He gave her a reassuring glance.
“We, too, are prepared. The password, mademoiselle?”
“Suneverup. And yours?”
“Piratekeep.”
The silly names from out her childhood seemed doubly incongruous just
then, but as she looked him over, she guessed that M. Meunier would be
a good man in a scrap. Tall, resolute, grey at the temples, and a bit
red in the face, but with an eye like a boy's, and every short hair on
his head bristling with vitality. Without a word he fastened his
electric torch to the wall over by the door. She followed his example,
hanging hers where he silently pointed beside a second door. She lit a
candle which stood ready with matches and sealing wax on a desk in the
middle of the room.
The head clerk entered, with a big stout German-looking man.
“M. Kaufmann, who will witness the signatures with me.” The head clerk
looked in surprise at the extra lights.
“It is said that there may be a strike of the electricians quite
suddenly to-night,” said M. Meunier shortly.
“Tiens!” muttered the head clerk, who did not seem to find the
arrangements particularly welcome.
M. Meunier drew out two long papers from an inner pocket.
“We will sign now, mademoiselle, if you are ready. These are
duplicates of one another. I shall keep the one, and the other will in
due course reach our friend. I will sign first, and then if you will
write your name here in this blank and then here”—he pointed out two
blanks—“these gentleman will witness them both.”
Christine watched his firm signature flourish. “Charles Bonnot”—the
name of a member of the famous Lyons Silk house.
Then he handed her a pen and drew out a chair for her.
“Do not be nervous, mademoiselle,” and his hand pressed her shoulder
for a second to reinforce his meaning.
Christine felt her heart beating violently. It was all very well for
him to reassure her, but they were but two against unknown odds.
She signed, and made way for the head clerk, who stood waiting for his
turn, with one hand pressed on his waistcoat, and with a face now red,
now white.
He, too, signed twice, and then moved away to the other side of the
room. The burly M. Kaufmann bent over the table. Christine stared down
at the first neat signature.
“You can go now, Kaufmann.” The head clerk nodded to the door of an
inner room on which his eyes had been riveted.
“Bon!” said the stout man obediently, “bonsoir madame, bonsoir
monsieur.” He held out his hand to the chief clerk, who snatched at it
automatically.
There was a click, an oath from the head clerk, who stood twisting his
wrists with handcuffs on them.
“Don't be alarmed, Miss West. It's me, Chief Inspector Pointer. I saw
you read my name. M. Meunier and I thought we would let this gang hang
themselves. As for the chaps he's shouting for, they're safely under
lock and key in one of the cupboards, out of sight and sound. I can't
have them taken away yet because of our friend, Mr. Beale. He's such a
suspicious customer, and it's especially him I'm after.” He turned to
the clerk.
“Now look here.” Pointer spoke excellent French—a war benefit. “If you
want a lighter sentence assist the law now.”
The man was utterly cowed. He burst into a flood of protests, excuses,
and accusations of Beale, whose money had corrupted an honest man.
“Now look here,” Pointer said again. “When Mr. Beale comes, open the
door to him exactly as if nothing had happened. Close and bolt it
behind him, and leave the rest to us. If you do this M. Meunier may
put in a word for you to the police.”
M. Meunier, who evidently believed in not interfering with another
man's job, now nodded assent.
The clerk tremblingly assured them that he would do his very best.
M. Meunier again nodded. “It will be a question of twenty years for
you if you do not,” he threw in.
The Chief Inspector went on to amplify his instructions.
“When Mr. Beale comes, show him in as I said. This room will be empty.
I want him to talk before witnesses. Say that both messieurs—Mr. Beale
need not know anything about this lady till afterwards—are tied up and
are being guarded by the other men. Ask him for payment before you let
him have the papers. Be sure and tell him explicitly that these are
the papers taken by force from M. Meunier. You are a lawyer's clerk
and understand what is wanted. We wish Mr. Beale to incriminate
himself hopelessly before witnesses. We shall be listening with the
door ajar. I shall open it wider when you are to hand the papers to
the American. You understand?”
The frightened man said that he did and would do his best.
“It may make all the difference in your life how good your best is,”
M. Meunier warned him grimly.
Christine took an impulsive step forward.
“Oh, Mr. Pointer, what have you found out? Will it free John? Will it
free him?”
“As to freeing him, that depends on himself, as you know, Miss West.
If a man _won't_ speak, _won't_ give an alibi——”
“Ah, but he will now,” put in M. Meunier; “the brave Carter! He can
speak now. He signalled to me by means of the half-drawn curtain when
he was arrested that he would say nothing till I gave the word. It was
part of our contract, and vitally necessary, but the time for silence
will have passed once these papers are in safe keeping, as they will
be before morning. See, here is ‘Yes’”—he handed her a slip of paper
from his pocket-book—“that means just that to our friend—‘Yes, you can
speak. Yes, a great, an immense fortune is yours. Yes, all is well,
and if we get M. Beale——’”
“Hush!”
A light ring sounded at the door.
Pointer glanced at his watch.
“That's him. Now, then, Daru, see that you play your part well.”
The man nodded eagerly. The three took their places inside the room
which opened out of the one they had been in.
“But why aren't they in here? And the papers—the papers, where are
they? Quick!”
“I have them,” the head clerk answered calmly. He was acting most
convincingly. “I have the papers, monsieur, but I think we should have
a little further understanding before I hand them over. I think you
should raise the price you promised if all went well. All has gone
well. What do you suggest?”
Mr. Beale looked at him a moment in silence.
“Not one cent more will I pay. You don't know whom you're talking to.
I'm not a man to browbeat. Our terms were generous and you accepted
them. I don't say that we won't add an extra something if the papers
are what we think, but that will be after they are in our hands, not
before. And now, no nonsense, my man; I'm armed.”
“Here are the papers, then,” the clerk said sulkily.
Mr. Beale snatched them from him, then he spun around on his heel.
“Who signed—what—” his eyes had fallen on the signature of the second
witness, “Alfred Pointer, Chief Inspector, New Scotland Yard, London.”
“Evening, Mr. Beale.” The signatory in person stepped into the room,
bowed civilly, and passed on through the other door. “Come this way,
Daru. M. Meunier wishes to talk with the gentleman.”
Christine made a motion to follow, but the Frenchman stopped her.
“By no means, mademoiselle. You represent the interests of your
friend. Pray be seated here. Now, monsieur, let us have an
understanding. These papers belong to me. Thank you”—as he took them
over—“They are worth much to you?”
“It's a trap.” Mr. Beale looked dangerous. “I see! It's a damned
trap.”
“But exactly! And behold you in it! In the very middle of it; and the
trap, my friend, is a good one, very strong. Now, to begin again—on
the one hand there is the 'phone there by mademoiselle, and the
Préfecture, and a French prison——”
“I guess not! I'm an American, an editor of——”
The Frenchman shrugged amused shoulders.
“You may be an American, Monsieur, but I am a Frenchman, and this is
France. I can assure you that we are no respector of persons here. You
have broken French laws, and in a French prison you will assuredly
stay for an unpleasantly long term unless you are shrewd enough to
accept my terms.”
“Well?” jerked out Mr. Beale.
“Mademoiselle, do you understand the position?”
“Not in the least.”
“This man is a director in a very large silk spinning and weaving
concern in America. Your fiancé has made a marvellous discovery—an
invention, epoch making, of an electric shuttle and a circular loom
which permits of silk being turned out at about one-tenth of its
present cost. When the first step of the idea came to him, he offered
his patent to the Amalgamated Society. They did not understand its
importance then, neither did he. They what you call ‘turned it down.’
He went on from that first step to other steps, and offered the patent
to us. We could not believe it possible at first, but accepted it
provisionally, provided it worked out as claimed. Meanwhile the
Amalgamated had learnt something of the new discovery. Some tracing of
a part must have fallen into their hands. They decided to kill it, for
it is a revolution, this idea of Mr. Carter's. Mr. Carter met me
secretly in Brussels and worked at a loom I built to his instructions.
At first there were hitches, now here, now there, but at last has come
absolute success. That was when Mr. Beale stepped in, and had him
arrested for robbery. Diamond rings—pendants—bah! A huge fortune was
already all but assured Mr. Carter. My firm could not finally sign,
however, until a full trial at our own works had gone off
successfully, and until we had had time to dispose of our existing
stocks of silk. All this needed absolute secrecy. Mr. Beale, being in
silk, knew this too. Part of the plans he may have, but the vital
parts he could not be in possession of: Carter always kept those
himself. Hence this night's planned robbery. He has had me watched, he
has bribed my own secretary—so I have learnt from that clever police
officer of yours, and now he thought the prize would be his; but,
thanks again to Inspector Pointer, it is not so, but quite different.
Now, Mr. Beale, here is my offer:—To forget this night's scene in
return for a signed confession, given of your own free will, of
course, that the jewels were being taken care of by Mr. Carter at your
own request, which you had forgotten. That”—M. Meunier referred to his
note-book—“M. Heilbronner withdraws his accusations and”—again he
searched his notes—“and his warrant. That you both acknowledge that
you have nothing against Mr. Carter in any way. Refuse this offer, and
mademoiselle will ring up the Préfecture de Police.”
Mr. Beale glared at his finger tips as though he would have liked to
bite them.
“We have witnesses of the best,” purred M. Meunier.
“I'll write it.” Mr. Beale sat down at the desk, and rapidly filled a
sheet of blue and white crossed paper which M. Meunier handed him. It
was a clever piece of writing. Facts had just come to light, so wrote
Mr. Beale, which entirely altered the case against Mr. Carter as far
as the accusations of theft or embezzlement were concerned. The
jewellery found in his trunk had been handed to him for disposal by a
member of his (Beale's) family, unbeknown to that gentleman, and a
careful examination of the books of the Toronto Mills showed that,
though there had been errors in the book-keeping, there was none
whatever in the percentages paid to the Amalgamated, which therefore
gladly withdrew all claims against the managers, Robert Erskine,
deceased, and John Carter, and were cancelling the warrants taken out
mistakenly against them.
“Heilbronner'll sign it, of course, if I tell him to,” Mr. Beale
observed laconically. “One copy goes to our New York police, and one
to Scotland Yard. Is that what you want?” Mr. Beale was certainly a
good loser.
“_Parfaitment._” The Frenchman opened the door and called in the Chief
Inspector, who witnessed the American's signature, together with Daru.
Mr. Beale rose. “There, I'm through. I guess I'll go to my hotel.”
“To mine, Monsieur, to mine, until Mr. Heilbronner signs these—you can
post these to him to-night with a letter explaining your plight. Till
then you stay with me, and M. the Chief Inspector he stays, too,
_hein_?”
“I'm on my holiday,” assented Pointer equably, “and Lille is quite an
interesting town. Go on ahead, Monsieur: Watts is below; he'll get a
taxi for mademoiselle.”
“Why didn't you stay and hear what M. Meunier had to tell about Jack,
and the Amalgamated, and his wonderful discovery. To think he thought
that he was no good at engineering!” Christine had asked Pointer to
breakfast with her. She looked the ghost of herself after the
excitements of the past night, but her eyes were alight.
“I didn't dare to go to sleep for fear it should be a dream.”
“My dear Miss West, I haven't the faintest idea of what M. Meunier
talked to you and Mr. Beale about,” the Chief Inspector said very
seriously. “Mr. Beale's written retraction was given quite freely, an
all-important point which we, none of us, must forget.”
Christine digested this in silence.
“But how did you come to be there—how did you know about it all?”
“Routine,” Pointer explained blandly; “routine took me to Geneva,
where lived the _avocat_ to whom Mr. Beale had once telegraphed, and
where I found Mr. Heilbronner. From information which came to hand”—a
vision of himself piecing together minute scraps from a dustbin made
Pointer speak with unction—“which came to hand, I found that Mr. Beale
and he were extremely interested in a M. Meunier. I followed up this
and that clue, and found that M. Meunier was M. Charles Bonnot of
Lyons. More information coming to hand led to the belief that Mr.
Beale, and incidentally Mr. Heilbronner, meditated getting hold of
some important papers from M. Bonnot and yourself in Lille last night.
M. Beauregard—one of M. Bonnot's men of business—took me on two days
ago as an extra clerk for some special late work. Being an Alsatian
explained my French, and no one suspected me.”
“But—how did you know that _I_ should be there?”
“I couldn't think of any better or firmer friend of Mr. Carter's.” The
Chief Inspector gave a little laugh, and Christine laughed too, and
plied him with questions.
“What are you going to do when Mr. Heilbronner has signed? I suppose
he will sign the papers?”
“I fancy he will. Mr. Beale is the strong man in that team.” And
Christine did not notice that he left the first part of her sentence
unanswered.
“And what about that clerk?”
“Daru? Oh! M. Bonnot is letting him off very well. He will have to
leave his present post, of course, but a place will be found for him
at Lyons, where he can work up again. Mr. Beale offered what was a
fortune to him, and he has a wife in hospital, so altogether M. Bonnot
inclined to a very merciful view of things.”
Christine herself waited in desperate anxiety. She could not go to
England without knowing. The slip with “Yes” had been despatched to
Carter, but she had been told to say nothing of the unexpected turn of
events which Mr. Beale's detection had brought about.
The next day's post brought the papers signed by Mr. Heilbronner. Mr.
Beale delivered the papers to M. Meunier with a wry smile.
“Satisfied now? Can I go to my hotel and leave this blank, blanked
country?”
M. Meunier nodded, and Mr. Beale stalked from the room and drove off
to his own suite in the Meurice. As he entered his sitting-room a
figure rose from a chair. It was Pointer.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Beale.”
“What does this mean? What the devil are you doing in my rooms?” There
was no mistaking the fact that Mr. Beale's nerves were getting frayed.
“A few questions that we want cleared up,” said Pointer imperturbably.
“Shut the door, Watts. These papers, Mr. Beale, were found in your
flat at Lyons.”
“Well, suppose they were?”
“May I ask how they came into your possession, sir?”
“Bought 'em.”
“From whom, sir?”
Mr. Beale's eyes travelled slowly from the papers to the officers and
back from them to the papers.
“Off an agent of mine. His name would mean nothing to you.”
“I must ask for it all the same, sir.”
“Godard.”
“I think not. Godard—Levinsky is his real name—told us, when we
interviewed him at Lyons, that the papers in question were shown him
by you, and that he made copies of them from which he worked.”
Mr. Beale looked sallower than usual.
“I suppose it's got to be the truth. I took them out of Carter's bag.”
“We have been in telegraphic communication with Carter about them. He
says that these papers belonged to Robert Erskine.”
“Quite possibly. But I got them out of Carter's bag just the same.”
“Carter denies that absolutely. Mr. Beale, your situation seriously
calls for frankness, as I'm sure you see for yourself. Things are very
awkward. You have no satisfactory alibi for the hours from four to six
on August fourth. Those screws which were found in Carter's box must
have been put there by you. M. Meunier and two of his engineers give
Mr. Carter an absolutely satisfactory alibi. They were with him all
that Saturday afternoon and went down to Ostend in the train with him
and saw him off on the boat. Those screws, these papers of Erskine's,
and his note-book, look very ugly, taking into consideration the
reason your firm had for getting Carter and Erskine out of the way,
and the fact that you and the manager, together or separately, were in
No. 14 for a considerable time on that Saturday afternoon.”
Mr. Beale's sallowness became tinged with green.
“It's like a Sunday-school story,” he said after a pause,
“illustrating the way of the transgressor. I guess I know when the ice
won't bear me. Chief, those papers and that note-book are Erskine's.
You're right there. But I didn't get them off his dead body, nor yet
kill him, either before or after. I bought them from the manager. Yes,
sir, from the manager, and for one thousand five hundred pounds in
notes. I had the sum on me, for I hoped to meet Carter and do a deal
with him. Now, as to the motive—you're talking nonsense and you must
know it. Carter was our man. Erskine staked him, but Erskine's death
wouldn't have helped us any. It did quite the other way. We didn't
want all that limelight turned on us, I do assure you. As to the
screws—well-l, possibly I did let them drop into Carter's box by
mistake. We wanted him fixed up a bit, as he wouldn't deal. Mind you,
he only had to speak out to've left his prison the next day. If he
chose to stay there that wasn't my fault. I guess he was afraid to
speak, for if you _really_ think Carter had no hand in Erskine's
death—well, your brains aren't what I assess them at. As to my
alibi . . . I spent the time exactly as I told you. Trying to locate
Carter, who was in one of the Southampton Street hotels. I gave up
trying to find his name, guessed that he was using another, and,
acting on a belief of my man's that he had seen him go into the
Enterprise, tried there. I took room number fourteen without an idea
as to whose it really was, and the rest happened exactly as I told
you, except that I lifted the top off the wardrobe after what I had
seen through that knot-hole, but I couldn't see Erskine's face because
it was turned sideways and downwards, as you remember. Also my torch
had given out. Had I guessed whose corpse was in—but there . . . The
match I lit I took from those vestas on the mantelpiece, and I dropped
one into the wardrobe. I saw you salvage it, Chief.”
“Did you wash your hands in the basin?”
“Sure, and threw the water on to the balcony. It looked as though I
had washed my boots in it. The top of that wardrobe would have made a
first rate flower-bed. Well, to continue my tale of sin, curiosity
made me have a look among the dead man's effects. I carry a pass key
because of that damned Carter. I saw nothing interesting, and went for
the manager, whom I found prowling about outside in the corridor. He
seemed fairly knocked off his perch, but I sometimes wonder—However,
he certainly would have had to have a nerve to put me into a room with
a murdered man, if he knew anything about it. Yet—well, I don't quite
know what to think; he and Carter may have had an understanding of
some sort.”
“Humph!” There was a long silence. “You hadn't been to the hotel
earlier in the day, then?”
“No.”
“Did you step out on to the balcony at all?”
“Not once, but I thought I heard someone moving outside the window
while the manager and I were talking, just before you arrived, and I
pulled up the blind. As I did so I think a window clicked shut beside
me.”
“Beside you? Which side?”
“The Enterprise side. It sounded like the next room, but I couldn't
swear to that.”
“Humph! How did you come to buy those papers from the manager?”
Mr. Beale thought a while.
“He offered them to me. I said that though I didn't know Eames
personally yet I knew that he was mixed up in a business swindle. Said
I'd be mighty glad, had I known who he was, to've had a look through
his papers. He sat still a moment, then went out and came back with
that pocket-book and those papers you have there, done up in a neat
little green and white packet. Didn't say how he got them, and I
didn't ask. No, sir, I didn't ask!”
“Humph! Well, Mr. Beale, you've only yourself to thank for your
position. I shall leave two of my men to accompany you till we look
into matters a little more, and you'll have to stay in England.”
“Under arrest, am I?”
“Not at all, sir. Under close supervision—at present. Of course, if
you were to try to escape . . .” The Chief Inspector left the
consequences to Mr. Beale's alert imagination; “but you'll find Watts
here and Duncan know their work, and will cause you as little
inconvenience as possible.”
“I see. Well, I know when a game's lost,” the American retorted
bitterly. “Say, you spoke of Carter's alibi just now. I suppose he's
free, and all that?”
“He will be by to-morrow”; and Pointer, after reading over Mr. Beale's
account and getting it signed, made off for the nearest telegraph
office, while the American looked after him with an ironical smile.
“Carter to be set free to-morrow. Well, well, the brains of the
British police!”
Christine was the first to arrive in London, where she was met by a
pale, gaunt-faced young man. Pointer, carrying the signed paper which
Mr. Beale had staked so much to obtain, followed, and with him, though
in a different compartment, travelled Mr. Beale and his valet.
The Chief Inspector, after an interview with the authorities at the
Yard, went on to the Enterprise Hotel. The manager was in, and he
practically repeated his opening words to Mr. Beale.
The manager might or might not be made of better stuff than the
American, but he certainly was of softer. He sank back into his chair,
looking as though he saw the hangman already entering his cell.