CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH A FRIENDSHIP PROCEEDS VERY RAPIDLY, BUT SUPERINTENDENT

WILSON HAS TO BE COMFORTED BY HIS WIFE

Arthur Wharton renewed his friendship with John Pasquett during the few

days following his return to London. Pasquett hardly knew England, and

it was Arthur's turn to act as guide. But Pasquett was, for the most

part, in no mood to amuse himself. He liked Arthur's company, and they

discussed many things together. Arthur knew that his friend--for so he

had already learnt to think of Pasquett--was hard at work on the case,

and once or twice he attempted to discuss with him the circumstances

of Hugh Radlett's murder. But he found that Pasquett, though he would

talk of nothing but the case to Wilson or Lord Ealing, was reluctant

to discuss it with him. "No, Arthur," he said (they slipped quickly

into calling each other by their Christian names), "don't talk to me

about this horrible affair. I want to talk with you about other things.

It helps my mind somehow." So they talked of all manner of things--of

everything in heaven and earth--except the Radlett affair.

That was till Pasquett, in pursuit of a clue which he told Arthur he

had picked up from a "comrade" in King Street, went to Glasgow. He

believed, he said, that the mysterious Rosenbaum was, or had been,

there. Arthur missed him when he was gone. Lord Ealing, who had done

all he could to encourage his nephew's friendship with Pasquett,

laughed at him for mooning about like a girl that has lost her lover.

Arthur first blushed, and then said that really he did feel a bit like

that. "All the better, my boy," said Lord Ealing. "I only hope John

Pasquett feels the same."

Time sped. A week had passed since Pasquett had turned detective, and

beyond the fact that he had gone to Glasgow and was staying at the

Central Hotel, following, as he told the police, a faint clue, the case

had practically stood still. Further bills had been posted offering

increased rewards to any person who could throw light on Rosenbaum's

movements after he left Charing Cross Station, or offer any information

that might lead to his apprehension. For several days these produced

no result, save a further crop of persons whose evidence proved to be

utterly worthless and untrustworthy. The police were quite in despair

of getting any further clue, when at last two men came forward to say

that to the best of their belief they had seen Rosenbaum--at least,

a man of similar appearance--alight from a taxi at the door of 99

Grosvenor Walk, Chelsea, and, with the driver's help, carry a heavy

trunk, answering the right description, into the house. The police then

searched the house, which was empty, though furnished, and found marks

in the thick dining-room carpet as if a trunk had been dragged in or

out. But Blaikie could discover no other trace; nor could any one be

found who had seen Rosenbaum or the trunk leave the house. An agent's

board outside announced that it was to be let furnished for a few

months. Inquiries at the agent's office brought a surprising fact to

light. On the afternoon before the crime, Hugh Radlett himself, giving

the name of Restington, and Lord Ealing as a reference, had borrowed

the keys, in order to look over the house on the following morning. He

wanted, he said, a furnished house for a temporary residence in London.

The keys had been returned through the post on the following day, and

no more had been heard of Mr. Restington. The agent admitted that he

ought to have informed the police of this, but the matter had seemed to

him of no importance. He had not connected it in any way with Rosenbaum

or with the murder.

So far the affair seemed clear enough. Radlett had meant to look over

the house, and had told his secretary of his intention. Rosenbaum had

then conceived the idea of taking his incriminating burden to the empty

building. But what had he then done with it? Very likely he had taken

advantage of being alone to disguise himself, and had left the house

with a different appearance. But the trunk could not be discovered

anywhere in the house; it must therefore have been taken away. But

how? The trunk, rather than Rosenbaum's personal description, was now

the clue to follow. But all inquiries failed to bring news of any one

who had seen a man with a trunk, or indeed a man without one, leaving

the house. There was, indeed, a back entrance into a little-frequented

alley behind, and Rosenbaum could easily have slipped out unnoticed

by that way. But he could not possibly have carried the trunk with

him. It was too heavy to carry any distance without a vehicle, and the

alley was only a footpath. Even if he had an accomplice, it would have

been highly dangerous to carry it openly down the alley to the street.

He must, therefore, have left by the front way, but by bad luck the

police could not get on his track. This was Blaikie's conclusion, and

Superintendent Wilson had to admit that he was probably right.

But Wilson was not satisfied. He made up his mind to see for himself.

The whole house had already been turned topsy-turvy by the police in

their search for the trunk, but still it was just possible they might

have missed it. There was a curious piece of evidence which made him

suspect that somewhere the trunk, with its gruesome contents, must be

still in the house. A firm of furniture warehousers--Hollis's in King's

Cross Road--came forward and stated that, on the day before the crime,

they had received a letter, typewritten and signed "John Smith," asking

them to call at ten o'clock on the following morning at 99 Grosvenor

Walk, in order to fetch away a package to be warehoused. John Smith,

who gave his address as 99 Grosvenor Walk, said that they must call

punctually at ten o'clock, as he was leaving town and the house was

being locked up at that hour. He enclosed £3 in Treasury notes to cover

warehousing expenses for a year, and asked that any balance should be

retained to cover future charges. Hollis's carman had duly called, but

there had been no reply to his knocks, and he had gone away. A letter

written by the firm to John Smith had been returned through the post

marked "not known." John Smith's letter, Wilson found, had undoubtedly

been typed on the typewriter found in Radlett's rooms.

This was a curious circumstance. It looked to the Superintendent as if

Rosenbaum had meant to put the trunk and its contents away, for the

time--at least, until he had got securely away--in Hollis's depository.

But, as he had not done this, he must have found some better way of

disposing of it. What if he had, after all, hidden it somewhere in the

house?

Wilson went to Grosvenor Walk. Where could a man hide a trunk in a

furnished house so that it would escape the expert searching of the

police? Under the floor? The floorboards had already been taken up. He

might have chopped it up small and hidden it somewhere; but then what

had become of its contents? It was a bulky and a heavy object that

needed hiding.

He searched long from roof to cellar before he hit on Rosenbaum's plan.

At last he noticed a possible hiding-place. The stairs came down in

a curve from the first landing to the ground floor, and the basement

stairs ran under these in an opposite curve. Cupboards occupied the

space under the basement stairs, full of household crockery; but the

space under the lower stairs of the flight leading to the first landing

was boarded over. It was a useless space, well over Wilson's head as

he descended the basement stairs. The boarding looked quite natural,

corresponding to the panelling which lined the walls all the way down.

But, on climbing up, Wilson saw that some of the boards had been

recently removed and replaced. The marks of recent, and hasty, nailing

were plainly to be seen.

Within a few minutes he had the boards down, and was rewarded by a

sight he had hardly dared to expect. Inside was the trunk, wedged into

a space just big enough to hold it. With some difficulty he drew it

out, but, as he did so, a sharp feeling of disappointment swept over

him. It was too light: it was empty.

Carrying it up to the ground floor, he opened it. There was nothing at

all inside. But on the bottom was a biggish bloodstain, and there were

spots of dry blood on other parts of the lining. The body, then, had

been in the trunk. But where was the body, now? And how, in heaven's

name, had Rosenbaum managed to walk off in broad daylight with a dead

body, leaving behind the trunk which had concealed it from view?

"Worse and worse," thought Wilson. The more one discovered, the worse

became the confusion of the case. But suppose Radlett had not been

dead, after all. Suppose Rosenbaum had packed him up in the trunk,

alive and drugged. And suppose he had got him to the house, and there

revived him. Bah! That didn't make sense either. For in that case it

meant that Radlett had quietly walked off with the man who had wounded

and drugged him, and had then completely disappeared. Such an idea was

merely fantastic.

No. The body, like the trunk, must surely be hidden somewhere in the

house. Wilson 'phoned to Scotland Yard for help, and an even more

energetic search began. There would be a pretty bill for compensation

to the absent owners by the time the police had done pulling the place

about. The search was now even extended to the neighbouring houses on

each side, in case Rosenbaum might have been aided by an accomplice in

disposing of the body. But the outraged house-holders of 101 and 97

Grosvenor Walk seemed to be quite above suspicion. The most meticulous

search revealed nothing further at all.

Superintendent Wilson returned to Scotland Yard from this abortive

body-hunt to find a wire from Pasquett awaiting him. "On R.'s track,"

it ran. "Has been here. Leaving for Aberdeen after him. Pasquett."

He at once put through a trunk call to the Aberdeen police, telling

them to be on the look-out for Rosenbaum, and to give Pasquett any

help he wanted. And he determined to send Inspector Blaikie at once to

Aberdeen with orders to get directly into touch with Pasquett and bring

Rosenbaum to London if he could be found. Then he waited for news with

what patience he could muster.

It came on the following day, in the form of a wire from Blaikie.

"R. escaped. Returning at once with P. to report." And, on the next

morning, Pasquett and Inspector Blaikie told him their story.

"I began," said Pasquett, "as you know, by getting myself into the

confidence of the Bolshevik fellows down here. That was easy enough, I

found, where I showed them letters from Lenin, and a few other things

like that. Then I told them I was going to Glasgow, offered to do some

speaking up there, and got introductions to the local 'comrades.'

In Glasgow I got on Rosenbaum's track by a pure stroke of luck. The

fellows there, seeing my introductions, thought I was a real 'comrade,'

on a secret mission from Russia--I made them think that--and I told

them I had to get in touch with a man from the Third International who

was also in this country. They said, did I mean Hetherington? I drew a

bow at a venture, and said I did, though, of course, that wasn't his

real name. In conversation, I soon made sure he was our man. They said

he had gone to Aberdeen, on his way back to Russia. You can be sure I

scuttled after him at full speed, and got the Aberdeen police on his

track. They had just had your message, and did all they could to help.

Well, to cut a long story short, we found this chap had started, a week

before I got there, on a Russian timber ship belonging to the Soviet

Government. He was shipped as a member of the crew--the ship had gone

straight to Cronstadt. Of course, we made inquiries about where she

was; but it seems that, barring accidents, she's in port by now, and

Rosenbaum's safe back somewhere in Russia. Not much chance of getting

at him there, I'm afraid?"

"Very little, I fear. You see, Russia's not recognised. Of course, we

can make unofficial representations, but they will only swear they've

never heard of him, I expect."

"So that's that, is it?" Pasquett sighed. "If only I'd been here

sooner," he said. "But, you see, I knew nothing about it. I came at

once when I knew."

"It's not your fault, Mr. Pasquett. You have done wonders in getting

on his track. It is our people who have let him slip through their

fingers. And what we've found out while you've been away doesn't help

us now the fellow's gone."

Wilson then gave Pasquett an account of the discovery of the trunk, and

of the careful search they had made for the body. Pasquett listened,

clutching the table before him. "My God," he said, "does it mean Hugh's

alive? It must mean that. This villain's carried him off."

Wilson explained the strong objection to such a view of the case. "No,"

he said, "I fear it means that Rosenbaum somehow got out of the house

with the body, and disposed of it. How, I confess I don't know. It's

not in the house. Our search has been absolutely exhaustive."

"It can't rest there, Superintendent. Look here. I offer a reward of

£10,000, or more, if you like, for the discovery of the body, or of

Hugh Radlett himself, if he's still alive. I can't bear not knowing.

You've got so far, you must be able to find out more."

* * * * *

But there the case ended. Pasquett's offer of £10,000 reward was given

the widest publicity, and brought in many people who thought they had

information to offer. Rosenbaum was reported to have been seen in a

dozen places: half a dozen persons were detained on false suspicions,

and had to be released. Unofficial representations were made in Moscow,

but the Soviet authorities blandly denied that any such person as

Rosenbaum had been on a mission to England with their knowledge, or

that they had any means of laying hands on the man, if he existed at

all. Pasquett, after an attempt, through Lord Ealing, to stir the

Foreign Office to action, finally gave up the struggle, and consented

to talk business again with Lord Ealing and with a member of the firm

of lawyers who were Radlett's agents. The lawyer had come over on

purpose from New York, and he and Mr. Franklin were closeted for long

hours with Pasquett, who spent other busy hours in the offices of the

Anglo-Asiatic Corporation. The business of the concession was seriously

resumed, with no change of plan, except that John Pasquett had stepped

into Radlett's shoes.

* * * * *

"The most bothersome case I ever had in my life," said Wilson to Mrs.

Wilson on the evening of the day when he had finally given up hope, and

sent the papers away to be filed.

"Yes, dear," said his wife. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

"Oh, it's no use, I'm afraid. Even you can't help me this time. All the

same, I should like to try to sort it out in my mind before I put it

away for good.

"It's like this, my dear. This man Radlett came to stay with his

secretary at Sugden's Hotel. Early in the morning, the secretary, who

had ordered a taxi the night before, went away with a large trunk. Lord

Ealing arrived to breakfast with Radlett, but when they went to find

him all they found at first was an empty room with bloodstains and

traces of a struggle all over the place."

"Did they never find the body?"

"No; but when they searched the secretary's bedroom they found an

absurd little man called Culpepper bound and gagged in a cupboard.

He said he had seen the murderer actually with the body in his arms,

when he was carrying it so as to pack it up in the trunk. Rosenbaum

threatened Culpepper with a revolver, and made him--he's a miserable

little creature--help him pack up the body. Then he drugged Culpepper

and tied him up."

"How did this man Culpepper come to be there in the middle of the

night, dear?"

"Oh, he was a friend of Radlett's who had been there in the evening. He

had missed his last train home, and Radlett had given him a shake-down

on the sofa. That was after Rosenbaum had gone to bed, so that he had

no idea Culpepper was there."

"Who was Culpepper? What sort of man, I mean?"

"He's a merchant in a middling way of business. He lives in Paris. He's

a friend of Pasquett's, too. Pasquett was staying in France with his

wife and daughter when it happened. He was in London on business. Fine

girl, his daughter. I went over and saw her."

"Then this man Culpepper actually saw the murderer pack the body in the

trunk."

"Yes, helped him do it. Then this Rosenbaum--who turned out, by the

way, to be a notorious Bolshevik agitator, who had somehow got into

Radlett's confidence, having murdered his employer----"

"I suppose Culpepper was sure the man was dead."

"He said he was sure. But, of course, it's not absolutely certain.

It's just possible this Rosenbaum drugged Radlett, and carried him off

alive. But I don't think so. He'd have turned up by now in that case,

unless he killed him afterwards. What I want to know is why on earth

the fellow ever took the body away. It doesn't make sense."

"Could he have wanted the body for anything?"

"Nothing I can conceive. If you can think of a plausible reason I won't

despair of the case. I just can't think of one."

"Perhaps he meant you to believe Radlett had only disappeared."

"In that case, he ought to have removed the other traces of the crime.

But he didn't. However, he may have meant to do so, and not had time.

Well, then we had the devil of a job tracing Rosenbaum and his infernal

trunk all over London. At last, we tracked him to a house in Chelsea,

and there, in the end, I found the trunk, with bloodstains in it, but

empty."

"You didn't find the body?"

"No. It had clean vanished, and so had the man. Then this chap

Pasquett, who was Radlett's partner and was in France at the time of

the murder--I've confirmed that; been out myself to make sure--did a

bit of private detecting on his own, and got on Rosenbaum's track,

only to find that he had sailed for Russia from Aberdeen in a Russian

vessel."

"What a pity. But wasn't it very clever of Mr. Pasquett to find him out

at all?"

"Yes; he did very well, but, unfortunately, he was too late. The fellow

had got clean away."

"Mr. Radlett was very rich, was he not?"

"Immensely--he was a millionaire a good many times over."

"Who gets his money, my dear?"

"Oh, Pasquett gets pretty nearly all of it. You mean, I suppose, that

he had the motive."

"Well, hadn't he?"

"Certainly; but he was in France when it happened; and, besides,

there's no reasonable doubt this fellow Rosenbaum did it."

"I suppose Mr. Pasquett did really trace Rosenbaum to Aberdeen. Could

he not have just pretended to trace him? So as to put you off the

track?"

"No, that's impossible. We have proved positively that Rosenbaum was

in Aberdeen. Quite apart, I mean, from Pasquett's evidence. At least,

there was a Bolshie agitator there who got away clean to Russia, and we

proved he had used the name Rosenbaum and been in London before he went

to Scotland. He called himself 'Hetherington' after the crime."

"Could Mr. Pasquett have bribed Rosenbaum to kill Mr. Radlett, and then

have helped him to get out of the country?"

"No. Impossible. He didn't get to Aberdeen till a week after Rosenbaum

had left. No, my dear, I've given all possible weight to the suggestion

that, since Pasquett profits by the crime, he may have instigated it.

But there's not a shadow of an imputation that points to Pasquett.

Besides, I've seen the man, and I'll stake my reputation he's no

murderer--directly or indirectly. He was really fond of Radlett. No, if

you had met Pasquett, you would be as sure as I am."

"Then, dear, I suppose you're quite right to give the case up. This man

Rosenbaum did it, and he's got away."

"Yes; but how the devil did he get rid of the body? He didn't leave it

at that house in Chelsea, and I don't see how he could have taken it

away from there. Of course, we didn't trace him there directly, so he

may have got rid of it before that. But how? And why did he keep the

trunk after he got rid of the body? There's a mystery there, and we

haven't got to the bottom of it. I suppose we never shall."

"I'm sorry, dear. I know you don't like being beaten. But it's time for

bed. You must try to put the whole thing out of your mind."

Wilson obediently tried, but he lay long awake, turning the case over

and trying to make the parts fit. Blaikie, on the other hand, slept

peacefully enough. Unsolved riddles of justice annoyed him, and he did

not like being beaten any better than his superior. But he did not lose

sleep over it.

PART II

CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH THE CITY'S DOUBTS ARE RESOLVED, AND TWO FRIENDS START FOR

SIBERIA

Anglo-Asiatics were booming. Not merely had they recovered from their

recent slump; they had leapt up to the top of the market; and were

still soaring. There was a positive scramble in the City to get hold

of them. Those who had held on during the slump praised God and bought

a new motor-car, or planned to move into larger houses, or buy a

bigger place in the country: those who had sold out cursed their luck,

and prophesied that, despite the boom, the Anglo-Asiatic Corporation

would come to a bad end. Few heeded their prophecies: the City was as

optimistic about Anglo-Asiatics now as it had been pessimistic a brief

while ago. Vanzetti might go about black as a thunder-cloud, and curse

Lord Ealing for not giving him the tip. All Lord Ealing answered was,

"My dear fellow, I never advised you to sell. I told you I was holding

on. And I knew no more than you how it would turn out."

All this, of course, was since Pasquett had at length publicly

signified his intention of taking up the great Siberian concession

jointly with Lord Ealing and his associates. But this was not the

only cause for jubilation. It appeared that, now the concession

had been taken up and guarantees given, the Soviet Government was

prepared to treat the Anglo-Asiatic very generously in respect of its

other properties in Russia. Not one concession, but several, were in

prospect, and it was already certain that the Anglo-Asiatic's proposed

issue of fresh capital would be heavily oversubscribed. Every one

wanted to be in it. Pasquett's holding back, and then coming forward

when the shares were nearly worthless, had produced the maximum of

effect. The City is extraordinarily susceptible to influences of this

sort.

Pasquett, after his final interview with Superintendent Wilson, seemed

to have given up hope of catching Rosenbaum. He had gone straight to

Lord Ealing, and taken up his quarters at that nobleman's fine house

in Berkeley Square. There they had, after dinner on the evening of

Pasquett's return, their first business conversation, apart from the

little talk we have noted already.

"Well, Pasquett," said Lord Ealing, as they sat together over their

wine, "is the ban lifted? May I talk business now?"

"By all means," said Pasquett. "Since I'm coming in, it can't be done

too soon."

Thereafter the two men had speedily settled the broad outlines of their

plan, including the methods to be used in raising the new capital

required. Pasquett said he would go out at once with Arthur Wharton and

the expert appointed by the Anglo-Asiatic to survey the ground and make

the necessary preparations. The financial arrangements at home he would

leave in the hands of his lawyer and of Mr. Culpepper, whom, in view

of Radlett's death, he proposed to make his partner in the enterprise.

Lord Ealing readily agreed to these suggestions, and, between them,

they worked out a complete plan for submission to the leaders of the

Anglo-Asiatic. There was to be a new company, with a composite Board

of four--Lord Ealing and Sir James Vanzetti, Pasquett and Culpepper.

Lord Ealing was to be Chairman, and Pasquett, Managing Director.

Franklin was to be solicitor to the Board, and Pasquett agreed that

Arthur Wharton should be appointed as secretary to the new company. An

essential feature of the scheme was that full and immediate publicity

was to be given, both to the terms of the concession, and to the

advantages secured by the Anglo-Asiatic in respect of its other Russian

properties. In the unlikely event of Radlett being alive, he would,

of course, join the Board, and little Mr. Benjamin was to be added in

order to equalise the representation of the two groups.

A glow of satisfaction came over Lord Ealing as they talked. He could

see that Pasquett had his business head screwed on the right way, and

would make an admirable partner. And he was confident that Pasquett had

no inkling of the little scheme by which he had already realised quite

a fortune.

It was when everything was settled that Pasquett said carelessly,

"By the way, I hope you did pretty well out of that little affair we

arranged here when we first met."

Lord Ealing stared, and sat up suddenly. "What do you mean?" he said.

"I don't understand."

"I mean," said Pasquett, laughing, "that it was a cute move, getting

people to think I wasn't coming in, and bringing the shares down so

that you could buy them cheap, without any one knowing. And I'm glad

you didn't tell Vanzetti. I understand he was selling hard. It would

have been a pity to bring him into it."

"Really, Pasquett, I don't know what you're driving at."

"My dear Lord Ealing," said Pasquett pleasantly, "you and I are going

to be partners, and it is best we should understand one another fully.

You got me to promise you I would come in, and you were very particular

I should not tell any one else. Then the rumour was very well spread

that I was not coming in. Such a rumour was clearly calculated to cause

a fall in the price of your shares. Very well ... the shares did fall.

Isn't the inference obvious? You were buying when they were down. I

spotted your game as soon as you didn't want me to tell. And, when the

shares began to rise in spite of the rumour, it was clear as daylight

you were buying. Now, wasn't it?"

Lord Ealing looked at Pasquett and sighed. "I give in," he said.

"You're quite right. Between ourselves, I was buying."

"My dear chap, so was I. And if you've done as well as I have, you have

nothing to complain of."

Lord Ealing gasped. "You were the other buyer?" he said. "And I never

had an idea you suspected."

Pasquett laughed. "Well, there's no harm done," he said. "We've both

made a tidy bit of money by it, and now we understand each other. Two

very desirable things."

"But I imagined you were far too much concerned about Radlett to think

of business."

Pasquett became serious at once. "I was cut up, thoroughly cut up," he

said, "but it wasn't in human nature to let you have a little game like

that all to yourself."

"So that's why the shares rose a bit. You and I were buying against

each other."

"That's so. But we've both done well enough not to complain. Shake

hands on it."

Lord Ealing shook hands, but he felt--humbled. This unknown man had

seen through his astute game at a glance, and had the audacity to

welcome him as a brother swindler. Well, it wasn't quite swindling;

but it was sharp practice. He would need all his wits in dealing with

Pasquett. But, after all, that made him all the better as a partner.

Thenceforward, Lord Ealing thought of Pasquett as his business equal.

There were few men of whom he would admit as much.

* * * * *

The flotation of the new company, and all the other preliminaries

connected with the concession, took longer than either Pasquett or Lord

Ealing had anticipated, and several months passed before Pasquett was

ready to start on his journey to Siberia. There were Radlett's affairs

in New York to be cleared up, and ready money to be made available for

the work of development. Pasquett's presence, and frequent exercise

of his power of attorney, was indispensable, and he had even to pay a

flying visit to the United States in order to place some of Radlett's

assets in a more liquid form and comply with certain legal formalities.

When he returned, one of the partners in the New York firm of lawyers

which had served Radlett accompanied him, partly on business, but also

with the intention, as he put it, of seeing little Europe (with the

accent on the final syllable) while he was about it. There were many

consultations in Franklin's office, countless papers to be signed,

endless and irritating legal delays.

The actual proving of Radlett's will was, indeed, deferred until

the mystery surrounding his death was either solved or given up as

insoluble. But the power of attorney gave Pasquett ample scope, and he

had already realised a substantial sum for himself by his fortunate

purchases of Anglo-Asiatic shares. There was no lack of ready money,

and, though the formalities were sometimes annoying, they did not

seriously hold back the progress of the concession.

The delays in getting the legal business of the concession settled up

gave Pasquett an opportunity of developing his knowledge, personal

as well as commercial, of his new associates. He made, as we have

seen, an excellent first impression, but he also improved on further

acquaintance. He was no longer staying with Lord Ealing in Berkeley

Square, having been lucky enough to rent a large and comfortable

furnished flat in the Adelphi, with big windows overlooking the river.

There he entertained quietly, rapidly building himself up a body of

friends who were enthusiastic in his praise.

He made one enemy--Vanzetti. The big man never forgave him for the

rebuff administered at their first meeting. Vanzetti had lost heavily

through selling out at the worst time a big block of his shares in the

Anglo-Asiatic, and he had somehow conceived the idea--not so far from

the truth, as we know--that Pasquett had deliberately forced the shares

down in order to buy when they were cheap, and that this had been the

reason for his refusal to come to terms sooner with the directors

of the Anglo-Asiatic. Vanzetti had never seriously suspected Lord

Ealing of having invented this little plot. Nor did he now. But he did

suspect Pasquett, and hated him for it. Pasquett did his best to charm

Vanzetti by putting out all his powers to please, but, though the

big man was polite for business reasons, his dislike of Pasquett was

hardly concealed. Lord Ealing tried to laugh him out of it in vain. He

returned again and again to his grievance about the sale of his shares,

though, with the subsequent rise of values, he stood to gain by what he

had held more than enough to balance his loss.

Arthur Wharton, who suspected nothing of the little wangles out of

which Pasquett and his uncle had done so well, saw a good deal of

Pasquett during these months of waiting, and the two men became fast

friends. Whenever the Canadian was in London, he and Arthur were

inseparable. They corresponded during his absence in the United States,

and Arthur became his confidant in the matter which shared his heart

with the affairs of the Anglo-Asiatic.

Little Mr. Culpepper, as we know, had a daughter. Wilson, when he went

to Paramé, had been struck as much by her beauty as by her obvious

capacity and self-possession. Arthur had actually seen Norah Culpepper

for a few minutes, without knowing who she was, on the occasion when he

and Pasquett were fellow-travellers by air from Paris to Warsaw. He had

been struck with her even then, and now he heard a great deal of Norah

Culpepper from his new friend, and he was not surprised when, after one

of his many week-end visits to the Culpepper villa at Paramé, Pasquett

announced that he and Norah had made a match of it. John Pasquett

laughed at himself as he told Arthur the news. "An old bachelor like

me," he said, "ought to have no business getting engaged."

"You seem very pleased about it, all the same, my baby-snatcher," said

Arthur, "and I must tell you I'm not a bit surprised. You've thought

of nothing but Norah Culpepper and the concession ever since I got to

know you. I wonder which you love the more."

"Norah, of course," said Pasquett; but who knows whether he spoke

the truth? "She's just the wife for me," he said. "She'll enjoy this

Siberian business as much as I shall."

"Are you taking her with you?" asked Arthur, secretly a little alarmed

at the prospect of female companionship on their expedition.

"Not this time," said Pasquett. "I must get things ready for her first.

I'll come back and get married in a few months, and then bring her out

with me. She wants to come. How's that for a wife?"

"Magnificent!" said Arthur. "Will you introduce me to the charmer? Our

first meeting hardly constitutes an introduction."

The next time Pasquett went to Paramé he took Arthur with him, and

gave him the opportunity of getting to know the girl whose looks and

carriage he had so admired when she saw Pasquett off from Paris on

the day following the discovery of the crime. Arthur spent a very

pleasant week-end at Paramé. Culpepper himself was away in London,

greatly to Arthur's relief, for he neither liked nor trusted the

little man. But he did like Norah very much, though he told Pasquett

that he found it difficult to make her out. He had proof of her

courage during his stay. The chief ornament of the Culpepper villa

was a magnificently-equipped motor-boat, very fast and seaworthy, and

obviously Norah's hobby and delight. In this, on the Sunday, they

made a long trip, visiting Mont St. Michel and other places along the

coast, and running far out to sea. It came on very rough, and Arthur

was seriously alarmed, especially when a heavy fog descended on them.

But Norah Culpepper seemed to enjoy the fog and the heavy sea. Danger

was her element. Arthur forgot his fears in marvelling at the skill

with which she handled her boat, assuming naturally the position of

captain, and ordering him and Pasquett about with a perfect command of

the situation. Arthur was glad when at last, well after nightfall, they

got back to Paramé. From that moment he regarded Norah as a somewhat

formidable young woman--as formidable as she was charming and clever.

He said as much to Pasquett.

"Lord bless you, yes," said his friend. "She'll boss me, though I

flatter myself I have a will of my own too. I like her for it. I

can't abide the clinging kind of young lady, who looks up to you for

protection and expects to be kept like a pet dog."

Arthur was rather amused at the lovers when he watched them together.

They did not behave like lovers of the conventional sort. He had rather

feared, when he accepted Norah's invitation, issued in her mother's

name, that he would be in the way, and that Pasquett would want to

be alone with her. But he soon found out his mistake. Their idea

of love-making was to do things together. They spent half Saturday

building a summer-house in the garden, while Arthur patiently fetched

and carried at Norah's command. In the evening they went across the

river to Dinard, and made merry at the Casino. But not for a moment did

Arthur feel that he was in the way, or that they wished him elsewhere.

They were like three good friends together. When they went back to

London on Monday, Norah seriously proposed running them right across

the Channel in her motor-boat, but Pasquett dissuaded her. "I often

do it, you know, Mr. Wharton," she said. Arthur could not make out the

look that passed from Pasquett to her as she said this. He seemed to

be warning her not to say more. When Arthur expressed his astonishment

that she should venture to cross the sea in an open boat, she abruptly

changed the subject. No more was said of her proposal to take them

across to England. But it remained in Arthur's mind.

Alfred Culpepper himself was much in London during these months, but

his wife and daughter preferred to remain in France, occasionally at

their flat in Paris, but for the most of the time at Paramé. Culpepper

told Arthur that he had urged them to come and take a house with him

in London, but Norah absolutely refused, and Mrs. Culpepper always did

what her daughter commanded. So Culpepper passed much of his time with

his sister in London, though he still kept his Paris business in being.

This was only a small affair, but he had ideas of developing it, in

connection with the new company--the Anglo-Yenisei--which could be so

worked as to throw a deal of fresh trade in his way.

So Pasquett went to and fro between France and London, and between his

two loves--Norah and the concession. Arthur paid other visits with him

later, both to Paramé and to Paris, and got to know Norah Culpepper

well. He liked her the more the better he knew her, but he never lost

his impression that she was both essentially formidable and a little

mysterious. Pasquett laughed when he called her mysterious. "What you

mean," he said, "is that she's like no one else in the world. That's

why I'm going to marry her."

Arthur's friendship with Pasquett was growing all this time firmer

and closer. He found in his new friend a satisfaction of impulses and

aspirations of his own that had never become articulate. In Oxford,

he had protected himself with a veneer of cynical comment against

the sense of boredom and unprofitable security which the life of the

University gave him. He had left Oxford and entered the service of

the Anglo-Asiatic in search of he hardly knew what, but certainly of

adventure in some form. Modern business, he had told himself, was a

piratical filibustering affair; in it he would surely find an outlet

for his buccaneering instincts. But a few months had convinced him that

the business world was as dull as the academic, and that there was no

romance to be found even in the tangled financial operations of his

uncle's company.

Arthur envied Pasquett his capacity for getting a savour out of

everyday affairs. When he talked of his doings in Russia, the spirit

of adventure came to life in every tale. But no less when he talked

of ordinary business concerns, Pasquett seemed to extract from them,

too, an essence of romantic enjoyment. He was, and was conscious of

being, a born adventurer, a man who would never settle down. Even

Radlett's millions would not turn him into an ordinary, humdrum

capitalist, content to sit at home and manipulate high finance while

his subordinates did the actual work of setting men to production.

Pasquett was eager to get back to Siberia, and himself to take the lead

in getting the concession under weigh. He would manage the affair with

excellent business capacity. Arthur was sure of that. But he would also

enjoy managing it, enjoy the inevitable hardships and difficulties,

and enjoy, above all, carrying the whole thing off with a swing.

It was because he found in Pasquett qualities hitherto latent in

himself that Arthur was eager to accept his leadership and to make

him a friend. They made their preparations for their journey together

to Siberia like two friends arranging for a pleasant travel. Sandy

Alison, chief mining expert of the Anglo-Asiatic, who was to go with

them, poked his dry fun at them again and again. The little, stocky,

middle-aged Scotsman, with his Glasgow accent and his queer, humorous

ways, would remind them very solemnly that it was not a picnic on which

they were bound, but a great business expedition. "Ye'll need," he

would say, "to hae a mind to the widows and orphans who ha' pu' their

bit of money into yon concession." According to him, they were behaving

like a pair of children, quite unfit to be trusted with great business

affairs.

They knew, however, that Alison was looking forward to the expedition

just as keenly as they. He had begun his career as a miner in the

Australian gold-fields, and there had been no dearth of adventures in

his earlier life. Once, growing confidential, he told them that he

had been rusting at home for years, and was spoiling for a job with a

spice of excitement to it. But usually he maintained a dour, critical

attitude, betraying himself only by a twinkle in the eye and an

occasional phrase of dry humour. "Amn't I promising Lord Ealing to be a

father to you," he would say, "and keep ye both out of mischief? I'll

hae my hands full, ye say? I will that."

At length all was ready for a start. A ship was fitted out with an

abundant supply of tools and machinery required for the first processes

of development. As early in the year as the passage was likely

to be clear of ice, the three men, with a good company of skilled

subordinates, sailed from Aberdeen for the River Yenisei, by way of

the Kara Sea. They had chosen the all-sea route in order to avoid

the complications of overland travel across Europe with their heavy

equipment. Lord Ealing and Culpepper saw them off at Aberdeen.

CHAPTER XXII

IN WHICH AN INCONSIDERATE RUSSIAN RAISES A GHOST

The voyage was uneventful. After some delays, the _Arbiter_, in which

Pasquett and his companions sailed, found safe passage round North Cape

and got through the Kara Strait and the dangerous sea beyond without

being once ice-bound or suffering a single misadventure. It was a warm

spring, and the passage had cleared early in the year. The _Arbiter_

anchored in the mouth of the Yenisei River well before her time, and

had several days' waiting before the arrival of the river steamer and

barges to which she was to transfer her cargo.

A voyage, in a ship carrying few passengers, is a testing time for

human friendships. But the three leaders of the expedition had no

quarrels, and never once became bored with one another's society. All

three had excellent tempers, and plenty to say. The friendship between

Arthur and John Pasquett ripened into close affection.

From the time when they arrived in the river there was plenty of

occupation, for the business of convoying the barges up the river, past

a dozen difficult points, with quite inadequate charts and an awkward

cargo, demanded all their attention. Alison as well as Pasquett could

speak Russian, and most of the work therefore devolved on them. Arthur

had already set himself to learn the language before leaving England,

but he found it hard to get into the way of talking it fluently, and

few of the Russians he had to deal with could speak either French or

German.

At length they reached the area of the concession, a barren tract some

distance above Lusino, populated only by a few nomadic tribesmen, save

for a deserted monastery, which they occupied as a headquarters. At

once Pasquett and Alison, using the old notes compiled by Pasquett and

Radlett some years before, began a full survey of the area, verifying

every particular, and proving up to the hilt the eminently satisfactory

forecasts which Pasquett had made. It was Arthur's business, meanwhile,

to superintend, with the skilled men they had brought out, the erection

of the camp, and to make full and regular reports of progress to Lord

Ealing. It was also his task, with Pasquett, to conduct the necessary

negotiations with the Soviet representatives on the points of detail

which were constantly arising.

At length, the whole of the survey was complete, and preliminary mining

operations definitely begun. But, before the work could be extended, it

was necessary to clear up a number of points connected with the supply

and conditions of labour. It became evident that one of them must make

the long journey to Moscow, in order to conclude a subsidiary agreement

with the central Soviet authorities.

Pasquett was clearly the man best fitted, as an original holder of

the concession, and the most familiar with Russian conditions, for

this task, and it was soon decided that he should go. Arthur had some

thoughts of making the journey with him, but his presence at the

workings seemed to be indispensable, as Alison could not be left to

manage everything alone. So Pasquett went. Arthur missed him greatly,

though he had too much to do to find time for being bored.

It was during Pasquett's absence that a very odd thing happened. Arthur

had by this time learnt to speak Russian fluently--far better than

Alison, who was a bad linguist, would ever speak it. So much of the

dealing with outsiders, including the local Soviet authorities, fell

into his hands. He had charge, too, of the provisioning of the camp,

under an arrangement with the Co-operative Societies which flourish in

Siberia. The odd thing arose out of a visit from an agent of one of

these societies, from whom Arthur was purchasing a big consignment of

meat.

The business being concluded, Arthur and the agent fell into talk. The

man was an old Russian from Petrograd, formerly a political exile, who

had settled down permanently in Siberia and been one of the pioneers of

Siberian Co-operation. Pasquett's name came up in the course of their

conversation. Arthur mentioned that the leader of their party, John

Pasquett, was away in Moscow.

"I came across a John Pasquett," said the agent, "some time ago, when I

was down in Turkestan. I wonder if your friend is any relation of his."

"I expect it was the man himself," said Arthur. "Mr. Pasquett has spent

many years in Siberia."

The old man shook his head. "No," he said, "the John Pasquett I mean

died two years ago. Is Pasquett a common name in your country?"

"I never met it until I was introduced to Mr. Pasquett. A most uncommon

name, I should say. You must be mistaken."

"No. I remember the circumstances well. John Pasquett had

been imprisoned in Turkestan, under suspicion of being a

counter-revolutionary."

"Why," said Arthur, "it's the same man. He has told me all about it.

But he's very far from being dead, I assure you."

"My John Pasquett died," said the Russian. "I know, because I signed

his death certificate. I was a Soviet Commissary in Turkestan at the

time."

"Well, all I can say is John Pasquett is very much alive now. I don't

think I ever met any one who was more alive."

"He was with an American named Radlett," said the Russian. "They were

both in prison together, and they both escaped. Radlett, I believe, got

clean away in the end. I heard of his being in Moscow afterwards. But

Pasquett died of exposure up on the Pamir Plateau. He was trying to get

away to India."

"You've got half the story right," said Arthur. "Only they did both get

away. They were both living in Reval till a few months ago."

"And you say Pasquett has been here with you?"

"Yes. The government granted this concession to him and Radlett, and

my firm took it up jointly with him. Mr. Pasquett is at the head of it

now, since Radlett's death."

"Radlett is dead, then?"

"He was murdered in London a few months ago."

"But Pasquett is alive. No, Mr. Wharton, there is something wrong here.

Let me tell you exactly what I know."

The old Russian had a perfectly circumstantial tale to tell. Pasquett

and Radlett had planned to escape together from prison. Pasquett had

got away, but Radlett had been recaptured. He had allowed himself to

be taken in order to enable his friend to make good his escape. So far

the story tallied with Radlett's own narrative, told in the manuscript

which had been found among his papers. Then, a while later, Radlett had

also escaped, with help from outside, rendered by Pasquett, who had

remained in the neighbourhood, instead of making for India. The two

men had then got away clear to the mountains. A week later a peasant

had delivered at the prison a note which had been given to him by a

man he had met up in the mountains. It was from Radlett. The note said

that Pasquett had died of exposure, and asked the prison authorities

to give his body burial. Radlett explained in the note where the body

was to be found, and said that he himself would be safe in India before

the news could reach them. A search party had gone up the hills and

buried Pasquett's body, bringing back the few things found at the camp,

including Pasquett's clothes. He himself had seen the clothes, and

other effects, and had countersigned the certificate of death drawn up

by the prison doctor.

"You never actually saw the body?" asked Arthur.

"No; but my friend Dr. Borsin, who accompanied the expedition, saw it,

and certified that it was his."

"Did Dr. Borsin know Pasquett?"

"He knew all the prisoners."

"Yet I can swear to you that Pasquett is alive."

"It is no business of mine, but may it not be that the gentleman who

now calls himself Pasquett is some one quite different?"

Arthur laughed at the suggestion as absurd. "I'll ask Pasquett to

tell me what happened when he gets back," he said. "He'll be able to

explain it all, I've no doubt. Either your man just made a mistake in

identifying the body, or Pasquett and Radlett deliberately misled you,

as part of their scheme for escape."

The Russian shook his head. "No," he said, "or why did Mr. Radlett,

when I met him a month or two later in India, get me to write him out a

copy of Pasquett's death certificate? He said he wanted it to show to

his relatives."

Arthur looked his amazement. "You met Mr. Radlett in India, and he

asked you for Pasquett's death certificate? Incredible.... How did you

come to be in India?"

"I was on a confidential mission. We met wholly by accident. Of course,

I did not want to be recognised as a Russian agent. Radlett promised

not to give me away if I would get him a signed copy of the death

certificate and have his papers from Turkestan sent for and handed over

to him. He had been compelled to leave them behind in his flight."

"You sent them?"

"Yes. I did not recognise Mr. Radlett. I had only seen him among a

number of prisoners. But he knew me at once."

"It can't have been Radlett. He was with Pasquett afterwards. The whole

thing makes nonsense."

"I'm only telling you what happened. Perhaps the gentleman who calls

himself Pasquett will be able to offer some explanation."

"I give it up," said Arthur. "I'll ask Pasquett what it all means when

he comes back."

* * * * *

Pasquett returned a few days after this talk, and he and Arthur sat

talking far into the night, after Alison had gone to bed. "By the way,"

said Arthur, "I heard a very curious story here the other day. It

appears that you are dead."

Pasquett jumped. "Dead? My dear chap, what on earth do you mean?"

"Well, anyhow, I had a chap here who says he signed your death

certificate down in Turkestan."

"My death certificate?"

"Yes, yours," said Arthur, laughing. "He told me all about how you and

Radlett escaped from prison. It was just the same about your escape as

Radlett had written in that story of his, and as you have told me. He

said you had stayed behind and helped Radlett to escape, too, but then

he went on to say the prison people had a note from Radlett saying you

had died up in the hills, and asking them to bury your body. He said

they did bury you, and he signed your death certificate."

Pasquett said nothing until Arthur paused. Then he put in a word. "What

an extraordinary tale," he said. "Is the man likely to come back?"

"No," said Arthur, "he has left this part of the country, I believe."

"What a pity," said Pasquett lightly. "I'm sorry to miss meeting so

fluent a liar. All Russians are liars, you know. It's the national

vice."

"You did stay behind and help Radlett escape, didn't you?"

"Yes. My arrangement with him was that, if either of us got away, he

was to make straight for India and get back to Europe, leaving a letter

at the Governor's in Bombay to say where he had gone. But, when it came

to the point, I found I couldn't go away and leave him. So I went back

and managed to help him to get away."

"But the rest of the story's just nonsense, is it?"

"Entirely. Of course, we both escaped afterwards, and came to Europe

together."

"I'm sure the man who told me thought he was telling the truth."

"Perhaps he did, but he wasn't, or I shouldn't be here. That's plain."

"He said he had an actual note from Radlett saying you were dead, and

that Radlett, when he met him in India later, specially asked him for a

copy of the certificate of your death from the prison returns."

"My dear fellow, the whole thing makes nonsense, unless----"

"Unless what?"

"Well, unless Radlett played some trick on them and never told me about

it. But I can't see what on earth he could have gained by pretending I

was dead. No, the story's absurd, my dear chap."

"But some one did die. There was a body."

"Very likely some one did. But it wasn't I, and it wasn't poor Hugh."

"It's an odd story for any one to have made up, Jack, isn't it?"

"I agree; but these Russians are queer birds. Why, in Moscow the other

day----" And Pasquett tactfully changed the subject.

* * * * *

Arthur's Russian acquaintance had not expected to pay another visit to

the camp. He had told Arthur he was leaving that part of the country.

But a few days later, when Arthur had nearly forgotten his strange

story, he met him again in the hotel at Yeniseisk whither he had

gone to make some arrangements about the supply of stores for the

concession. It was not Arthur who returned to the subject of their late

conversation, as they sat talking together in the evening.

"You remember that story I told you about John Pasquett," said the

Russian. "As it happens, I was going through some old papers the other

day, and I found that letter of Radlett's I mentioned to you, telling

us about Pasquett's death, and where to find the body. I had kept it

because I had made some notes of my own on the back of it. Here it is,

if you'd like to have a look at it." He withdrew a dirty piece of paper

from his pocket-book.

Arthur read the note, which was in Russian, and dated nearly two years

before. It was signed "Hugh Radlett," and appeared to be in Radlett's

own writing, of which Arthur had seen a number of examples. He read the

note, and asked if he might keep it. The Russian readily agreed.

"And by the way," he said, "I met Dr. Borsin the other day, and he

confirms absolutely my recollections. It was he who made out the

certificate of death. He says he had often seen Pasquett in the prison,

and that he identified the body. Have you seen Pasquett since I spoke

to you?"

"Yes."

"What does he say about it?"

"He says he thought it was all a cock-and-bull story."

The Russian shrugged his shoulders, and said no more for a full minute.

Then he smiled.

"I should like to see this John Pasquett of yours," he said.

"He'll be here to-morrow," said Arthur. "You shall see him."

* * * * *

Pasquett arrived at Yeniseisk on the following day. The Russian was

out when he came, but was to call in the evening. "You remember," said

Arthur, "that story I told you about the man who said you were dead.

I've seen him again, and he gave me this." Arthur threw the letter

across the table.

Pasquett looked sharply at him, and went red as he looked at the letter.

"That's Radlett's writing, isn't it?" said Arthur. "Look here, Jack,

there must be some explanation of this. Did you tell me the truth the

other day? Or is there something you want to hide? I want to know what

there is behind this story. Come, now, are you John Pasquett, or aren't

you? You're my friend, and I think I have a right to ask you."

For once in his life Pasquett seemed at a loss. There was a silence

before he replied. "Arthur," he said, "I swear to you I am John

Pasquett. Do you believe me?"

"Yes, Jack, I believe you; but all the same I want to know why Hugh

Radlett wrote that letter, and whose body they took for yours, and

why you didn't tell me the truth. For I believe, Jack, you do know

the story that's behind this. Can you look me in the face and say you

don't?"

Pasquett was again slow in answering. "I did tell you the truth," he

said. "I don't know anything at all about it." But this time Arthur did

not believe him.

"Look here, Jack, isn't that Radlett's writing?"

"If it is, he never said a word about it to me. It's as much a mystery

to me as it is to you."

"Jack, that Russian fellow, who knew you down in Turkestan, is coming

back here to meet you this evening. I asked him to."

At this news Pasquett was plainly flustered. "Didn't I tell you," he

said, "I must start back this afternoon? They're at a critical stage

now with the sinkings, and I must get back to take charge. I wouldn't

have come to-day unless I'd promised you."

"I'm sorry, Jack, but you must really stay and meet this man--or else

tell me all about it. Why don't you want to meet him? You're only

making an excuse to get away."

"Look here, Arthur. We're good friends, but I don't know by what right

you are putting me through this catechism. Suppose I don't want to meet

this man, why should I meet him? Mayn't I have reasons of my own? What

is it to do with you?"

It was Arthur now who paused before answering. He had to think. "I

don't like saying it, Jack, but because--because I'm not sure of you

any longer. It's your manner--the way you've taken this. I'm not even

sure now you are John Pasquett."

"Well, my lad, I didn't expect this from you, and I'm not used to being

mistrusted like this. I shan't stay to meet your friend. If you are

my friend, I have a right to ask you to trust me. I am John Pasquett,

Arthur, I swear it to you. Now, does that satisfy you?"

"Stay and meet him, Jack," said Arthur. "No, don't, only promise to

tell me why you won't."

"Perhaps ... not now," said Pasquett. "I must be going."

As he turned to go, a third man entered the room. Mutual recognition

was immediate. The newcomer spoke first, in Russian. "Good-evening, Mr.

Radlett," said he.

CHAPTER XXIII

SHOWS HOW ONE MAY SOMETIMES WISH OLD FRIENDS ELSEWHERE

At this strange recognition, Arthur Wharton fell back a pace, and

stared in amazement at the two men. "A very natural mistake, M.

Smerloff," he heard Pasquett answer, "but my name is not Radlett, but

John Pasquett." But the words were stammeringly spoken; Pasquett had

been thrown manifestly off his balance by the encounter.

"It is, of course, entirely your affair by what name you are called,"

said the Russian. Then he turned to Arthur. "In the circumstances, it

would perhaps be best if I left you."

"No," cried Arthur. "There must be some explanation of this

extraordinary affair, and I mean to hear it. Do you agree, Jack? May I

ask M. Smerloff some questions?"

Pasquett--if that was his name (let us go on calling him by it till we

make sure)--nodded. "Ask him," he said, "and then I will tell you all

about it."

Arthur turned to the Russian. "Why did you address my friend as

Radlett?" he asked.

"Because to the best of my belief that is his name."

"Why do you think that?"

"He is the man I met in India, as I told you. He said then he was Hugh

Radlett, and he got Hugh Radlett's papers from me. I recognised him as

a man whom I had seen in the prison in Turkestan. If he is not Hugh

Radlett, who is he?"

"You are sure he is not John Pasquett?"

"I have told you. John Pasquett is dead."

"But this man and Hugh Radlett have been together since in Reval.

Radlett was murdered in London some months ago."

"Then I don't know who he is. I only know that he told me he was Hugh

Radlett." The Russian turned to Pasquett. "Didn't you?" he asked.

"I did," was the answer, "but I'm John Pasquett for all that."

Arthur made an appeal. "Jack, if you have an explanation, for God's

sake tell me. Why on earth did you pretend to be Radlett?"

"Isn't it obvious, Arthur? Hugh and I escaped from prison. We were

compelled to leave all our papers behind, including those valuable

plans of the concession. Then I met this fellow by accident in the

streets of Bombay. I could have given him away to the Indian Government

as a Bolshie agent. But I wanted those papers, so I came to terms

with him. I promised that if he would leave the country at once after

getting me the papers, I wouldn't tell on him. He agreed. But he

wouldn't have let me have Radlett's papers unless he had believed that

I was Radlett. So I pretended to be Radlett. Hugh fully approved when I

told it to him afterwards."

"Where was Radlett when this happened?"

"Away from Bombay up at Simla seeing some Government chap."

Arthur thought a minute. "Yes," he said then, "but why did you want a

copy of your own death certificate?"

This question again found Pasquett without a ready answer. Then he

laughed. "Oh," he said, "I thought I might as well play out my little

joke to the end."

"Your little joke?"

"Yes, pretending to be dead. Of course, it wasn't either Radlett's body

or mine Dr. Borsin found."

"Whose was it, then?"

"Another poor devil's, who escaped with us. I pretended it was mine,

and Hugh Radlett wrote that note you've got in order to make M.

Smerloff think so."

"But," said Smerloff, "no one else escaped with you."

"Oh, yes, they did," said Pasquett, "even if you were never told. It

was a Russian fellow, called something like Skitaletz, or Skerovic. I

forget the exact name."

Smerloff shrugged his shoulders. "You have a ready imagination," he

said, "but it is no business of mine."

"It is of mine, though," said Arthur. "Jack, do you swear all this is

true? I ask you again. Are you John Pasquett?"

"Arthur, I swear to you that I am John Pasquett, and, if you don't

believe me, I can easily prove it to you--when we get back to

civilisation. There are plenty of people in America who knew me years

ago."

"But aren't there some people who knew you here in Siberia, before you

went to prison? Or who knew you in prison, as Pasquett?"

"I dare say; but no one I could find. Come, Arthur, take my word for

it. Haven't I explained the whole mistake? Be friends, do."

"Jack, I'm your friend, whoever you are, and I think I do believe

you. M. Smerloff, I am sorry to have dragged you in this way into our

affairs."

The Russian bowed. "I wish you good-night, gentlemen," he said.

"You are at liberty to call yourselves what you like so far as I am

concerned. But pardon me if I find your habits a little confusing.

However, it is not my way to meddle with other people's business. I

shall say nothing about our little encounter." Bowing gravely, he left

them together.

* * * * *

"Let's have a breath of fresh air, Jack," said Arthur. Pasquett

said nothing, and the two men strolled out to the door of the hotel

together. As they stood beneath the lamp in the entrance a man passed

them. He caught sight of Pasquett's face, and stopped. A smile of

pleased recognition came into his face. "Hallo, Jack," he said, "where

on earth have you been in all these years?" A great surge of relief

swept through Arthur's mind as he heard this greeting. An old friend

had turned up to identify Pasquett in the nick of time.

* * * * *

Pasquett looked at the stranger and laughed--a short, cynical laugh.

"Hallo, Billy," he said. "The same to you. I'm mining again--up the

river. What are you doing?"

"Same old game," said the newcomer. "Got a dinky little mine out

towards Krasnoyarsk. I'm manager now, old chap, under these Soviet

blighters. Same slavedriver, I don't think, in this blinking land of

the free. Come in and have a drink."

"Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Arthur Wharton," said Pasquett.

"Arthur, this is Mr. Billy Southern, who used to be my under-manager in

my old mine. You'll join us, won't you?"

Arthur shook Billy Southern warmly by the hand, and expressed his

pleasure at the meeting. He was, indeed, inexpressibly relieved. The

three men went back togther into the hotel.

Inside he sat still and listened, taking little part in the

conversation, while the two old friends exchanged their reminiscences.

Billy Southern, it appeared, had left the mines at the beginning of the

war, and taken service as an engineer in the Russian army. He had been

through the war and the revolutions, and had come back to the mines as

the servant of the Soviet Government. He had no politics: he treated

the whole change in Russia as a matter of no concern, save as it had

affected him as soldier and industrial manager. He found labour easier

to manage under Soviet conditions than under capitalist enterprise

before the war. The Bolshies, he said, were "funny guys," but they did

seem to mean business.

Pasquett and Southern talked long. They were both good talkers,

and they had a lot to say to each other. Arthur was an interested

listener. Every now and then one or other of them brought him into the

conversation by asking his opinion, but he knew little of the things

of which they were speaking. He listened eagerly, feeling that he

got to know and like Jack Pasquett better with every fresh light on

his character that was revealed. Billy Southern had evidently a vast

admiration for his old chief. It was late when at length he rose to go.

"Well, so long, Jack Pearson," he said, "it's like old times to have

had this crack with you again." He turned to Arthur to say good-bye,

and noticed that he was not himself. "Why, what's the matter?" he said.

Arthur, who had been completely reassured by the conversation, had

suddenly been plunged into consternation by hearing Southern address

his friend, not as Jack Pasquett, or even as Hugh Radlett, but by a

totally new and unexpected name.

"Mr. Southern," he said, "I must ask you a question. Why do you call my

friend 'Jack Pearson'?"

Southern stared at him in surprise. "Why," he said, "Jack Pearson's his

name. Ain't it, Jack? What in hell is he driving at?"

Pasquett answered swiftly. "It's like this, Billy. You see, my real

name is John Pasquett, though you always knew me as 'Jack Pearson.'

Arthur here knows me only by my real name. So he's naturally a bit

perplexed."

"I get you. But I don't see why he need make all that fuss about it.

Any chap might want to change his name, and why not? That's what I say."

"Well, anyway, Arthur, that's the truth," said Pasquett. "So long,

Billy. _Au revoir._" The two men shook hands, and then John Pasquett

turned back to face Arthur again.

* * * * *

"Now, Jack," said Arthur, "I've made up my mind. No, don't interrupt.

I hope we're as good friends as ever, but I don't believe you're John

Pasquett, and I don't believe you've got any right to Radlett's money

or to the concession. I'm sorry, old chap, but it's best to be plain.

I'm glad your name is Jack, whatever else it is."

"My dear Arthur, you're really quite wrong. I am John Pasquett, though

I was working under a false name in Siberia before the war. You wonder

why. Well, I left America in a hurry--under a charge--a false charge.

It's all cleared up now, but for the time I thought it best to change

my name. I wanted to bury the past. Hugh Radlett used a false name,

too. Come, now, you don't think any the worse of him for it. Lots of

people use names that aren't their own."

"You've got too many _aliases_, Jack. I can't really swallow it all.

Sorry, but there it is. And I shall have to tell my uncle what I

think. You do see, don't you, I can't go on working the concession as

if nothing had happened. If you aren't John Pasquett, our right--the

Anglo-Asiatic's I mean--to the concession lapses. I'm responsible here

for the Anglo-Asiatic's interests. You see, I must tell him."

"Oh, hell!" said Pasquett. Then, seeing Arthur's melancholy expression,

he added, "It's all right, really." He laid his hand on Arthur's. "I've

sworn to you, Arthur, that I am Pasquett, and it's quite true. But I

won't get angry with you for doubting me. I'm not surprised. Any one

might. There's only one thing for it. You must hold your hand till the

work is far enough advanced for us to leave old Alison in charge here,

and go to fetch Norah. Wait till then, Arthur.

"I can _prove_ to you--_prove_, mind--when I get there, that I am

Pasquett. Will you promise to do nothing till then? It really is quite

all right. Honour bright!"

"Sorry, Jack, I can't. That'll mean the Anglo-Asiatic will go on

spending money on the concession. No, I must cable to my uncle telling

him. I mean I must tell him there is doubt about the soundness of the

concession, and get him to stop expenditure as far as he can till the

thing is cleared up. I won't tell him I doubt your identity, till you

have a chance to prove it."

Pasquett thought. Then he said, "It will be worst of all if you

imperil the concession like that. Such a message from you, if it came

out, would send the shares down with a run, and ruin everything. If you

must tell, you had much better tell him the whole thing--in confidence.

Tell him you doubt whether I am John Pasquett, and on what grounds.

Then leave him to judge what he had better do."

"You want me to do that?" exclaimed Arthur, thoroughly surprised.

"Yes, just that or nothing. And I shall also write to Lord Ealing

at once, if you write, and put my side of the case. Really, Arthur,

you are being absurd. If we were in Paris or London I could prove my

identity to you in five minutes. But I can't possibly leave here till

the early autumn."

"It won't do, Jack. I must go home at once, and report to Lord Ealing.

And you must come with me."

"No; I won't leave the work here. My dear fellow, I know it's perfectly

O.K., and you'll find that out as soon as we get back to England and

you see my proofs."

"Alison could manage here well enough. Come with me, Jack."

"No, I'm not going to be taken from my work over a _canard_ like this."

On that day, Arthur's entreaties failed to move Pasquett, as Pasquett's

failed to move him. He agreed indeed to sleep on the whole question,

and to put off writing to Lord Ealing till the following day. But

sleeping on it only confirmed his determination. He told Pasquett

definitely that he had decided to write to his uncle telling his

doubts, and to start for London at once, whether or not Pasquett chose

to accompany him. He could not bear, he said, to go on living with

Pasquett with the whole question unsettled, and he could not take the

responsibility of letting expenditure on the concession go on without

an attempt to clear matters up at once. Lord Ealing would have to take

the responsibility of either carrying on or stopping the work until

his arrival. He asked Pasquett, if he could prove his identity, to

place in his hands the means of verifying his proofs--introductions to

old friends who had known him in earlier days, access to any relevant

papers, and anything else that would be of use. He must go; didn't Jack

see that he had no alternative?

Pasquett heard him out without interruption. When Arthur had done, he

said, "No, I don't see at all. I think you might trust me enough to

wait. But, if you have made up your mind, I know you won't change it.

So I suppose I shall have to come back with you, though it will play

the deuce with the work here."

"I can't tell you, Jack," said Arthur, "how glad I am you're coming

with me. It makes me much more inclined to believe this is all a

ghastly mistake."

"Not enough to put it off, I suppose? Look here, Arthur, if you insist

on going, I'll come too. But for the last time I ask you to put it off."

Arthur Wharton, however, stuck to his point. Some of his friends were

in the habit of saying he was a pig-headed fellow, when he once made up

his mind. After a few days of preparation, the two men set off overland

together for Europe. There was a constraint between them now, but

their friendship remained as strong as ever. Several times on the long

journey it seemed to Arthur that Pasquett was on the point of making

some revelation. He kept on, as it were, trying Arthur to see how he

would be likely to take something, if he made up his mind to tell. But,

when it came to the point, Pasquett always sheered off, and the fact

that Arthur was conscious of these half-approaches to a revelation

inevitably deepened his suspicions that something was seriously wrong.

He made all sorts of wild surmises. Was his friend, whom he loved well

in spite of his suspicions, really a swindler who had cleverly got

possession of Hugh Radlett's fortune? It looked like that, and, if

he was, might there not be even worse things behind? His uneasy mind

suggested to him all manner of dark suspicions. He put them from him,

but they thronged back to haunt him. And yet, the worse his thoughts of

Pasquett, somehow the greater his affection grew. Arthur was thoroughly

unhappy during that journey, whereas John Pasquett seemed in the best

of spirits, and made many an ineffectual effort to cheer his friend.

Was it that he was conscious of innocence, or that he was going to see

Norah again, or merely that he was confident of pulling off a gigantic

bluff? Arthur could not tell. He groaned in spirit, perplexed between

fear and love.

CHAPTER XXIV

"IT MUST BE FEARFULLY DIFFICULT TO BE A GOOD DETECTIVE"

Superintendent Wilson chose to take his holidays in August--he was in a

position to choose, while lesser men like Blaikie had to adjust their

holidays to their superior's convenience. For a reason which he never

made clear, even to himself, Wilson's fancy lighted on a holiday in

France, and on Dinard as his place of sojourn--not the greater Dinard,

but its neighbour, St. Enogat, where, for a moderate sum, he hired from

the big hotel a pleasant little villa with a tiny garden and steps of

its own leading down to the shore. He would have said, if you had asked

him, that he was going simply for a holiday, and why not? But it was

certainly in his mind that Dinard was not far from Paramé, on the other

side of the broad estuary of the Rance. What could be more natural

than that Wilson, staying at Dinard, should go to have another look at

Paramé, where Mr. Culpepper and his family rented that other pleasant

little villa he had visited a few months before?

For Wilson had not succeeded in putting the Radlett case thoroughly

out of his mind. It continued to haunt him. It was not merely that the

criminal had escaped out of his grasp; he was enough of a philosopher

to bear such occasional defeats without any loss of tranquillity. It

was that he was not satisfied that he had got to the bottom of the

mystery. Everything had pointed to Rosenbaum, but was Rosenbaum really

the guilty man? He kept saying to himself that there was something

"fishy" about the whole case. He turned to other cases, and solved

them; but the Radlett murder stayed in his mind, a latent source of

uneasiness and self-criticism.

Mrs. Wilson, though she said nothing to her husband on the point, was

perfectly aware of the reasons for his sudden enthusiasm for a holiday

in France--at Dinard, or somewhere along that bit of coast. She did not

even remind him that he had cursed Dinard heartily the year before,

when she had tentatively suggested a visit. She accepted placidly what

her fate dispensed, well knowing that, if her husband had set his

heart on going there, she had better let him have his way, unless she

wanted him to fret and fume all through a holiday taken elsewhere. That

sensible woman knew also that the great detective, her husband, needed

looking after, like the rest of her children, in all matters involving

arrangements of a personal character. He would plan the business

of Scotland Yard with perfect efficiency down to the last detail,

but he was quite incapable of making in good time even the simplest

arrangements for the family holidays.

It was Mrs. Wilson, therefore, who hired the little villa at St.

Enogat, took the tickets, and did the packing for her family when the

time came. As soon as the journey was actually begun, Wilson came to

himself. He managed things on the boat, at the customs house, at the

hotel in whose grounds the villa lay, with as much skill and energy as

if they had been vital steps in a murder case. It was not that he was

inefficient, even in his family affairs, only his head was too full of

other things to bother about them till the last moment.

St. Enogat has admirable bathing--you run down straight from the little

villas to the sea, and dry yourself unashamedly in the sun--a fine

beach, a rocky headland where one can scramble, with just the necessary

risk of being caught by the tide--in short, the attractions needed

to make it an ideal place for children with not too nervous parents.

Mrs. Wilson could sit on the beach and knit, receiving visits from her

children between their expeditions. She could say to her husband that

she knew he wanted to see the surrounding country, but she was far too

comfortable on the _plage_ to go with him. She could dismiss him with a

smile, well aware that the only bit of country likely to interest him

for the time was Paramé, on the opposite side of the river, but quickly

to be reached by the little ferry-boat that plied regularly across the

mouth of the Rance to St. Malo.

Wilson took the eldest boy with him, leaving the girl and the two

younger boys behind, with a promise of splendid expeditions to come.

Noon found him in Paramé, walking along the seashore, as he had walked

in the winter, past the endless plantation of the break-waters. But it

was no part of his plan to visit the Culpepper _ménage_--at least, at

present. He had come to spy out the land. Probably there was nothing to

find out, but he had an instinct that the place would repay study.

Wilson's boy, immensely proud of his father and his father's

profession, of which he told already great tales at school, vowing

to be the master-detective when he grew up, sleuthed along at the

Superintendent's side. He could have wished his father to approach

the house with more circumspection, for Wilson's hint that "There's a

house along here I wanted to have a bit of a look at," had been quite

enough to give that sharp young gentleman an idea that the expedition

was one of business as well as pleasure. Wilson, however, went along

quite openly till he was within a hundred yards of the villa, and could

command a clear view both of its front door, and of the gate leading

down to the sea. Then he pulled his son gently into the shadow of a

boat drawn high up on the beach, and sat down with him to do nothing

but watch for the time being.

"Father, what are you looking for?" asked the boy.

"I don't know, Robin. I'm just spying out the land a bit."

The house was evidently occupied. There was smoke coming out of a

chimney, the veranda windows were open to the sea, the whole place

looked bright and fresh under the noonday sun. They had lain there

a quarter of an hour, and young Wilson was getting restless, when

a middle-aged lady came out of the villa and passed within a short

distance of them, going in the direction of the town. It was Mrs.

Culpepper. They saw her turn back and speak to some one inside the

house before she came out of the garden gate.

There was another pause of inaction. Then Wilson heard quite near at

hand the chuff-chuffing of a motor-boat, and, looking seaward, saw the

boat itself running along, close inshore.

"Is it going to land here, father?" asked the boy.

The boat ran on till it reached the little river opening just beyond

the house. Up this it disappeared. They heard the engines for a minute

or two longer, then they stopped. A couple of minutes later a young

woman appeared round the far side of the house, which she entered

quickly through the open French windows.

"Who's that, father?" asked the boy.

"Norah Culpepper, that's her name, my boy. Any the wiser?"

"Why, father, wasn't it Mr. Culpepper you found in the cupboard?" He

had often told the tale at school.

"You know too much, young man," said his father. "Now, shut up, and

we'll go a bit nearer. I want to have a look at that boat."

Wilson did not go straight towards the house. Instead, he turned

inland, and made his way round to the back of the little stream a short

way above its mouth. There was a coppice reaching to its bank. Through

this father and son made their way, until they saw the boathouse a yard

or two ahead of them, on the very edge of the coppice. Wilson found a

crack and applied his eye to it, so as to get a view of the interior.

"Father, lift me up. I want to see, too," said his son, and was duly

lifted.

There was nothing remarkable about the interior of the boathouse,

except that it was very well kept and excellently fitted. In the centre

lay a trim little motor launch, painted in bright colours, and with

her metal-work bright and shining--evidently well cared for and in

perfect condition. Wilson admired her lines: the boat looked as if she

possessed both exceptional speed and strength. "So the girl runs that

all alone, does she?" he said to himself. "Only wish I had one like

her"--the boat, he meant, not the lady.

"Father," began the boy.

"Hush," said Wilson, softly, for the door on the other side of the

boathouse was opening. Norah Culpepper came in, quite unconscious that

there were eyes upon her. "Not a sound," whispered Wilson, bending down

to his son's ear. He speedily resumed his place at the crack, and the

boy, having at length found another suited to his height, glued his

eyes to that, and watched.

Norah Culpepper was stowing something away in the boat--something

wrapped up in little parcels, which she was placing in what looked like

a narrow secret drawer under the thwart. And she had brought provisions

with her, enough, it seemed, to last for quite a voyage. What could she

be up to? Wilson was thoroughly puzzled as he watched her. There was

something quick and furtive about her movements, though she thought

herself quite alone.

Suddenly the boy beside him stumbled, dislodging a stone and bumping

gently against the wall of the boathouse. Wilson turned sharply round

and caught him, holding him tight lest he should make a further sound.

This compelled him for an instant to remove his eye from the crack.

When he looked again, he saw Norah Culpepper, manifestly alarmed,

standing bolt upright in the boat, listening intently. Wilson held his

breath, and tightened his grip on his son. After a minute, the girl,

hearing no further sound, apparently made up her mind that there was

nothing to fear. Her pose lost its appearance of anxiety, and she

resumed her work, stowing food away in the boat. In a few minutes,

having done her task, she left the boathouse. They heard her steps

receding towards the house along the gravel path.

Wilson waited a few minutes, considering the situation. The girl had

locked the door of the boathouse on her departure, and it might be hard

to open it with his skeleton keys. Nor could he see an easy prospect

of entering it from the water-side, as the walls protruded well out

into the stream. Moreover, if he did enter the boathouse, there would

be small chance of getting away unobserved if any one should come while

he was there. He decided, regretfully, to postpone his examination of

the place, though he very much wanted to see what Norah Culpepper had

been concealing.

Motioning to the boy, whom he had by now released, he began to make his

way back through the coppice, striking upstream away from the house. He

meant to find a comfortable place where he and the boy could eat the

sandwiches they had brought before resuming their explorations.

But, when he came to the edge of the wood, the first thing he saw was

Norah Culpepper, standing on a little hillock, from which she could get

a view of any one emerging from the copse on either of its two open

sides. The house garden bordered it on the third side, the stream on

the fourth.

Wilson saw the girl before they were actually out of the copse, and

before she had a chance of seeing them. He had to decide at once

whether to show himself, or to remain a prisoner in the copse until she

chose to go away. He pulled the boy back deeper among the trees, while

he considered the position. Miss Culpepper had evidently been alarmed

by the sound she had heard, and had hurried round to the edge of the

copse in order to make sure if any one had been spying on her. Perhaps

she had even seen his eye at the crack, and her resumed self-possession

had been deliberately assumed. What had he better do?

He was not long in making up his mind. The girl could not watch the

copse and the boathouse at the same time. If she would only stay where

she was, he had the best of all opportunities of studying it from the

inside with little risk of interruption; for the other inmates of the

house were not very likely to go there. Hastily he told the boy what to

do--to show himself plainly outside the copse, and to keep the young

woman in sight. If she questioned him, he could say he had been playing

in the copse, or even that he had been looking at the boathouse. If

he lost sight of her, or she made for the boathouse, he was to cut in

quickly and give his father warning.

The boy entered eagerly into the plot, while Wilson hurried back to the

boathouse. He had seen just a chance of climbing in by the water-side,

at some risk of a ducking. That was preferable to tampering with the

lock, which might be noticed later, even if he were able to open

it. Moreover, it would be difficult to get round to the door of the

boathouse unobserved from the windows of the villa.

Wilson had to act quickly. With great care, he crawled along the face

of the boathouse wall, getting precarious foothold on a slightly

protruding joist which ran along the bottom of the woodwork. Suspended

over the water, he managed to creep through the opening at the end,

only tearing his coat a little on an inconvenient nail. As he stood up

at last inside the little building, he heaved a sigh of relief.

There was no time to be lost. In a minute he was in the boat, hunting

for the hidden drawer under the thwart in which Norah Culpepper had

stowed away her mysterious packages. It took him some minutes to find

the trick of it, but at length he pressed in the right two places, and

revealed a long, narrow cavity, stuffed full of the little packets he

had seen the girl hide. They were carefully sealed: he could not open

one without betraying that he had been meddling with it.

Wilson held the packet in his hand for a minute. Then hardly knowing

why, he put it to his ear. Unconsciously, he had heard. Now he heard

quite plainly the steady tick of a watch--of more than one watch.

He put the packet back hastily into its place and tried another and

another, with no result. No other packet gave back any sound. But he

had formed his conclusion. Watches, he remembered, were subject to

an _ad valorem_ duty of 33 1/3 per cent. In looking for the clue to

a murder mystery, he had stumbled on something very different. Miss

Culpepper was a smuggler, engaged in introducing watches and perhaps

other articles into England without payment of duty. What luck that one

of the watches had been going!

But how did it all fit in? Did it fit in at all? Wilson had barely

asked himself these questions when there came a rap on the side of the

boathouse, and a voice whispering, "Father, are you there?"

He answered, and the boy whispered again that the lady had gone back

to the house. Wilson hastily removed the traces of his visit, and

clambered out again round the end of the boathouse, and so rejoined his

son. "Come away quickly," he said. "I've seen what I wanted. I'll tell

you presently," he added, as the boy began to ask questions. "We must

get away first of all."

Following the same course as before, they emerged from the coppice.

There was no sign of Norah Culpepper this time; no one was in sight.

Wilson struck inland a good distance, and then turned in the direction

of the town. Soon, they sat down under some friendly trees, and ate

their lunch. Wilson asked the boy how he had fared.

"Oh, father, the lady spoke to me. She asked me what I was doing there.

I said I was just playing. She asked was there no one with me, and I

said there was no one, but some one was coming for me soon. Was that

right?"

Wilson nodded.

"Then she asked me my name, and said she was English, too. I said my

name was--oh, father, I thought you wouldn't want them to know my name,

and I tried to think of another, and--I made such a mess of it."

"Why, what did you say it was?"

"I said my name was Robin. Then she asked what my other name was, and

oh--I said Pasquett. You know, I remembered that gentleman you brought

to see us at home."

Wilson whistled. "And what did she say then?"

"She stared at me stupid-like, and repeated the name after me. I could

see I had said the wrong thing and frightened her. I don't know why it

was wrong. Father, I'm sorry."

"Never mind, Robin. You see, she knows Mr. Pasquett. It must have

startled her. What did she say then?"

"She looked at me a minute, as if she didn't know what to say. I didn't

either. Then she started running towards the house, and I ran as hard

as I could run through the trees till I got to you. I made sure she was

going straight to the boathouse. She was frightened, father."

"I don't think there's much harm done, Robin. She won't find any trace

of me in that boathouse, I hope, and when she doesn't, she'll think

your name really is Pasquett, and it was just a coincidence. Do you

think she suspected you weren't telling her your real name? From the

way you said it, I mean."

The boy thought for a moment, very solemnly.

"I don't know, father," he said.

"Well, we'll hope she didn't, and you got me out of that boathouse

jolly well, Robin. Well done, my boy, though you did make that one

slip."

They munched in silence for a few minutes. Then, "Father," said the

boy, "it must be frightfully difficult to be a good detective."

"It's not too easy to be a good anything, Robin. But it's largely

practice and patience."

Then as they resumed their walking, Wilson told the boy what he had

found in Norah Culpepper's boat. Robin was highly delighted at the idea

that he was taking part in the detection of a smuggler--it seemed to

him much better fun than a murder case. He prattled on about it all

the way home to St. Enogat. But Wilson, while he kept up the talk with

his son, was thinking hard. How did it fit in? Clearly, these watches

were meant for smuggling--probably for smuggling into England. Then did

Norah Culpepper really cross the Channel in her motor-boat, and land

her cargo on some spot on the English coast? It would be a dangerous

game, especially if she managed the boat alone, but it was just

possible. That must be it; for it was hardly likely that she passed the

watches on to a waiting ship. Of course, she might have confederates--a

crew. There was further watching to be done.

But had Miss Culpepper and her motor-boat any connection with the case

in which he was mainly interested--the crime committed at Sugden's

Hotel? Catching smugglers was all very well in its way, but Wilson's

main interest was in the major crime. And what he had found was a

boat, well equipped for making secret journeys across the Channel, and

probably in the habit of making such journeys under Norah Culpepper's

expert guidance. Had that, or had it not, any connection with the

murder of Hugh Radlett, or with the curious disappearance of his

body? Wilson thought hard, but as yet he could find no answer to his

question. He must find out more about Miss Culpepper and her boat.

CHAPTER XXV

PROVES HOW IMPORTANT IT IS FOR THE REVENUE SERVICE THAT

PHILOSOPHERS SHOULD HAVE WIVES

Superintendent Wilson paid his next visit to Paramé on the following

day, but this time he went alone, despite the lamentations of his

eldest son. Robin felt that he had a right to share in the later stages

of the adventure in which he had played a part. But his father pointed

out to him that Miss Culpepper now knew him by sight, and would be on

her guard against him.

"But she knows you, too, father," said the boy, full of discontent.

"She does, and quite possibly I may even call on her, and pay my

respects. But she does not, and must not, connect me with you. If I

call on her, it is simply a friendly call because I happen to be making

holiday in these parts. If I take you with me, she will know at once

that I have been spying on her."

So Robin was left behind, to work off his discontent by tyrannising

over his brothers and sister, and detecting them red-handed in the

commission of unutterable crimes.

This time, Wilson started early, and was at the Culpepper house by ten

o'clock. The boat, he found, was not in the boathouse. Presumably, it

had departed on its smuggling expedition and had not returned. That

looked as if it went all the way to England, and did not merely hand

over its freight to some other vessel a few miles off land.

Having satisfied himself of the absence of the boat, Wilson took up his

post, just inside the copse, at a point from which he could see the

front door of the house. A middle-aged woman, whom he recognised as

Mrs. Culpepper, was sitting in a comfortable chair outside the door,

reading an English newspaper. He saw the old servant, Marie, come out

and speak to her, and then go back into the house. He could even hear

most of what they said. Mrs. Culpepper asked if Etienne had said when

they would be back. Marie's reply was less easy to hear, but it sounded

like an assertion that it would not be till to-morrow, if then. "They

worry me always, these voyages," said Mrs. Culpepper, to which Marie

replied only with a grunt.

This brief conversation settled one of Wilson's doubts. Norah Culpepper

did not man her boat alone; there was also some one called Etienne. Who

Etienne was he would have to find out later.

Wilson saw no point in calling on Mrs. Culpepper in her daughter's

absence, or in watching the villa further on that day. So he directed

his steps back through Paramé, and stopped at the first houses he

reached, a row of pleasant, whitewashed cottages, which looked as if

they were inhabited by fisher folk. Boats were drawn up below them on

the beach, and a young man, in the dress of a fisherman, was sitting

ruminatively on an upturned rowing boat. Wilson went towards him, and

passed the time of day.

By discreet stages the Superintendent led the young man on to talk.

By-and-by, he asked him if there were any English living in the

neighbourhood. This inquiry produced a jerk of the thumb towards the

Culpeppers' villa, and the remark that there were some queer folk in

that house--but then, all the English were queer. "How queer?" Wilson

asked him, and got the reply that there was a young woman who was

always about in her motor-boat. "Alone?" Wilson asked, as if surprised.

"Sometimes alone, sometimes with Etienne--he is the husband of their

servant." Wilson supposed that they went short trips sight-seeing along

the coast. The young man closed one eye, and looked at him curiously.

"But no; often they go far upon the open sea." He spread out his arms

with an indicative gesture. "One voyages far, from that house. Monsieur

perhaps has a purpose in these questions."

The young man's purpose was clear enough: he wanted money in return

for his information. Wilson was annoyed that his own purpose had been

perceived, but it seemed best to go on. "In effect, yes," he said, "I

shall be glad to learn what you may know--and to pay, if you keep your

tongue still."

"As for me, I do not love these Culpeppers," said the young man; "and,

for Etienne--bah! There are queer things done in that house, monsieur,

or why do they voyage so far at night? Last night, they started, and

they are not yet returned. It is often so."

"Does Miss Culpepper always take Etienne with her?"

"On her long journeys, yes; but she often goes in the day-time in the

boat alone."

"It is a long time ago. I suppose you do not remember whether she was

making these journeys last November--just about the 17th?"

The young man started; but all he said was, "Monsieur, then, is

particularly anxious to know."

Wilson gathered that the time had come to cross the fisherman's palm

with money, and a note changed hands as he said, "Six weeks or so

before Christmas, what is it that happened?"

"My faith, it is so. It was then she made her long voyage alone,

leaving Etienne behind. Then, and then only. And she was away the

night, and came back on the next day."

"You mean she went right out to sea alone? Do you know where?"

"No, I know not; but upon the broad sea. She got Etienne away by giving

him a holiday, and she did not tell him she was going away. He went

into St. Malo, and got drunk, the pig. He, too, did not come back till

the next day."

"How do you know she went away?"

"Because I saw her, monsieur, with these eyes. I watched her quite out

of sight. It was late when she went, but I could see her light--far."

Again he spread out his arms.

"Did you tell Etienne, or any one else, you had seen her?"

"Where one knows a thing, monsieur, the wise man keeps his mouth tight,

until there comes a generous gentleman. Generosity, monsieur, unlocks

the lips."

"You mean you have more to tell."

"Perhaps, monsieur," said the young man dreamily. "Who knows?"

"I will give you a hundred francs for all you know more." Wilson saw

the man hesitate, and added, "No more, no less. It is good pay."

The fisherman sighed. "We are in the hands of God," he said. "Well,

monsieur, when she came back she was not alone."

"Who was with her?" said Wilson sharply.

"A gentleman. I do not know his name. But he has stayed with the

Culpeppers more than once."

"What sort of a gentleman?"

"A tall, fair man of about forty. He is the friend of M. Culpepper--and

of his daughter."

"This man?" asked Wilson, taking a small photograph of Pasquett from

his pocket-book.

"The same, monsieur."

"But this gentleman was staying with the Culpeppers both before and

after the day you mention. You are sure he had not merely been out for

a short trip with Miss Culpepper in the boat."

"He had not, monsieur. Mlle. Culpepper drove him away in her car two

days before, and returned without him."

"You seem to be a very observant person."

"I am a philosopher, monsieur. It pleases me to observe. It is dull

here otherwise."

"What do you do for a living?" asked Wilson.

"But monsieur, I am a philosopher. My wife--loves work. I observe; she

labours. It is only fair."

"What if I told you that Marie says the gentleman was staying there all

the time?" asked Wilson.

"Bah, Marie, she is an idiot. She says what she is told. I say only

what I have seen. There was no gentleman in the boat when Miss

Culpepper left."

"But she may have returned the same night, and taken him out for a trip

in the morning."

"No, monsieur, the boat was not in the boathouse in the morning. I rise

early. I went to look."

"What day did all this happen?"

"What day? That is difficult. Let me see, then." The young man

pondered. "It was one, two, three, four days before the Sunday when the

priest died. And from then it was five Sundays to Christmas. That was

when she went away."

Wilson made a quick calculation. "Hm, that tallies," he said. "And she

came back the following day? When? In the morning?"

"Late in the afternoon. She and the gentleman seemed very tired. I

watched them bring the boat in."

"And the gentleman. Did he stay long after that?"

"He was gone the next day, but I did not see him go. Mlle. Culpepper

also was out all that day in her motor-car."

"Think hard, please. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

The young man remained silent for a minute. Then he said, "That is all,

I think."

"Your name and address, will you give me them?"

"You will pay me more if you need me at the trial, monsieur. I am a

poor man."

"What trial?"

"Monsieur is perhaps of the English revenue service?"

Wilson laughed. "Perhaps I am. Yes, you will be paid."

"My name is Georges Ferry. I live there." The young man pointed to one

of the cottages. "They call me 'Lazy Georges' in these parts."

Wilson paid "Lazy Georges," and thanked him for his information. He had

found out a great deal--far more than he could digest at the moment. He

walked back into the country to think it over.

Certain things were plain. "Lazy Georges," at least, suspected Miss

Culpepper's smuggling activities. But this was unimportant. What

mattered was that Pasquett's _alibi_ had been a fake. He had not been

at Paramé on the night of the murder. He had left before it took place

and he had not come back until the day after. And he had come back from

somewhere across the sea. Almost certainly he had come from England.

In that case, there was every reason to suspect him of complicity in

the murder, and very likely of having committed it himself. But, in

that case, where did Rosenbaum come in, and why had he fled with the

trunk? No, that was nonsense. Rosenbaum had actually been seen with

Radlett's dead body in his arms.

Seen; but by whom? By Culpepper, the father of the girl who had brought

Pasquett back from England. If Miss Culpepper was an accomplice, why

not Culpepper, too? Culpepper might have invented the whole story about

Rosenbaum and the body in order to shield Pasquett.

An idea flashed across Wilson's mind. Suppose Rosenbaum and Pasquett

were the same person. But no. That made nonsense, too; for it was

certain, beyond any chance of doubt, that Rosenbaum was a real person,

and that he had been in London and Glasgow, and had escaped from

Aberdeen. He could not possibly be Pasquett, unless he had the art of

being in two places at the same time. Inquiries had proved beyond doubt

that he was in England when Pasquett was at Warsaw.

Besides, Radlett and Rosenbaum had crossed together to England on the

boat, and it was quite ridiculous to suppose that Pasquett, Radlett's

closest friend, could have disguised himself so as to deceive the

millionaire. Nor was it less ridiculous to imagine that Radlett had

concealed Pasquett's identity in collusion with him. What conceivable

reason could he have had for doing so? Men do not connive at their own

murder in such a way.

The more Wilson thought, the deeper the puzzle grew. He was convinced,

in view of Georges Ferry's revelations, that Pasquett had been

concerned in the murder, and inclined to believe that Culpepper must

have been an accomplice. But he could not make the parts of the puzzle

fit. No; he needed yet more evidence to set his mind effectively to

work. And that evidence he must get without delay. His holiday was

ruined, but what did that matter? He was in his element, buoyed up

again by hope of solving the most puzzling mystery of his career.