AROUSES SOME SUSPICIONS
Within the rusted tin, lying on top of a piece of old newspaper, was
a lady's small gold watch, of cheap pattern, which had stopped at
half-past seven. The face was gilt, but blackened in one corner by damp
or age. The bevelled glass was cracked across, and as I turned it over
in my hand I saw that the engraving at the edges was nearly worn off.
Carefully Whitlock drew out the pieces of old newspaper--dated nearly
two years before--and presently discovered a string of pale blue beads
such as children wear--beads of turquoise-blue porcelain just as
described in the mysterious message to the Plymouth newspaper!
I held them in my hand, and pointed out to Whitlock that they had been
rethreaded upon shoemaker's waxed thread, and that the ring-clasp was
of gold and certainly did not belong to the necklet.
Whitlock, however, was searching for the papers which the mysterious
telegram declared were there. With care he withdrew the pieces of torn
newspaper with which the box was packed one after the other, examining
each piece to see if any mark were upon it, until, in the bottom of the
box, he came to two folded papers.
Eagerly he took them out, while Sergeant Henson and I stood peering
over his shoulder.
The first he unfolded was a single sheet of blue foolscap whereon was
drawn a curious triangular diagram, apparently some plan, but of what
was entirely enigmatical. It seemed to be a rough plan of an estate, in
the top angle of which was a cross marked in red, as though to indicate
a spot. Without explanation, however, it was entirely inexplicable.
A second paper, a white one, was a half-sheet of note-paper on which
were written several lines in German in a fine feminine hand. The ink
was violet, slightly run by the damp.
"I can't read this, Mr Keene; can you?" Whitlock asked.
I took the letter in my hand and found it was written from the Hôtel du
Nord, Cologne, but without a date.
"DEAR CARL,--I arrived here from Würtzburg yesterday and have seen
Wilhelm. We have arranged everything. The secret will be kept,
therefore you need have no misgivings. He will trouble you no more.
I leave for Brussels to-night.--Yours as ever,
ERNA."
"H'm!" ejaculated Whitlock, dubiously. "That's a rather curious letter,
isn't it? I wonder who Carl and Erna are? Germans evidently."
"A pair of undesirable aliens, no doubt," I remarked with a smile.
Whitlock took the letter again in his hand and examined the writing
minutely. Then he put his hand into the tin and brought forth a third
document which caused us a thrill of excitement as the detective
unfolded it, for it proved to be nothing else than a birth certificate.
It was the registrar's record that at Mina Road, Old Kent Road, in
the Parish of St George the Martyr, Southwark, Francis Douglas, son
of Henry Charles Drayton and Caroline, his wife, was born on the 22nd
day of October, 1876, the birth being registered two days later.
The certificate was a copy of the register, given and signed by the
registrar on that day.
"Now this may really lead us to something," Whitlock said. "We must
discover the gentleman in question--this Mr Francis Drayton, who is now
about thirty years of age. He may be able to identify one or other of
the two dead women."
"It seems very much as though that mysterious telegram was sent to
Plymouth to be published in order to place us on the scent of this box
and its contents," I said.
"Yes. But the person who sent the wire and forged the name of the
Central News evidently knows all about it. We must also find him, Mr
Keene."
The mystery became hourly more tangled. The discovery of this box with
its curious miscellaneous contents was utterly beyond explication. The
fact that a piece of the turf had been cut out to enable the tin to be
concealed was apparent. I examined it carefully, and judged that the
concealment must have taken place several months before. But how could
its presence there be known to the sender of the fictitious telegram if
he himself had not been present, or, at anyrate, had not been told of
its existence?
The publication in Plymouth of the premature intelligence of the result
of the police search was with some distinct motive without a doubt.
Whitlock stuck his hands in his trousers pockets and blankly regarded
the empty tin.
"This is a complete puzzle, Mr Keene," he declared. Then, glancing at
his watch, he added, "By Jove! I'm due at the inquest. Coming?"
I assented readily, and, leaving Henson to take charge of the rusty
tin and its strange contents, I put on my coat, and together we went
out into Bridge Road, walking along to the Red Lion, that hotel which
stands at the bottom of the long wide road, at the angle where Rock
Lane runs to Barnes Common.
As we approached, a small crowd of idlers had, we saw, congregated
outside--the public who could not obtain admission to the upstairs
room, where the coroner was holding his inquiry.
The constable at the foot of the stairs saluted us, and on entering we
found that the twelve jurymen, mostly local tradesmen, had viewed the
bodies of the two women, and the coroner, a short, bald-headed man, was
taking the evidence of P.C. Horton, who caused considerable sensation
when he described the sudden appearance of the living woman in the
doorway, and her subsequent strangeness of manner and refusal to give
any account of herself.
The Press-table was filled to overflowing by my confrères, Raymond,
one of my fellow-reporters, "covering" the inquest for the _Evening
Herald_. He saw me and nodded.
The evidence was then taken of the inspector who detained the second
woman, and who told how he questioned her, then went to the house, and
afterwards discovered the stubborn prisoner dead in her cell.
Not a word was said about the telegraph instrument, for the police had
resolved to keep that fact a secret.
Indeed, Whitlock's evidence, after that of the divisional surgeon, was
purposely vague and unconvincing. When called, he said in his quick,
professional way of giving evidence--
"John Whitlock, inspector, Criminal Investigation Department. The
inquiries in this case are in my hands. The identity of the two
deceased women is not yet proved. The murdered woman had evidently
lived alone in the empty house for some months, but for what reason
is not yet established. To give further evidence at this juncture
might negative my efforts, therefore I would ask that the inquiry be
adjourned."
"Any question to ask the inspector?" inquired the coroner of the jury.
The foreman, a fat little grocer, whispered something to his neighbour,
and then exclaimed--
"I would like to ask the inspector if, in his opinion, the woman who
committed suicide was the assassin?"
"I'm afraid, sir," interrupted the coroner, "that is a question which
cannot be put to the police. You--the jury--have to return your own
verdict when you have heard the whole of the evidence. At the present
stage of the inquiry we have only the facts of the tragedy before us.
I propose to adjourn until this day week to allow the police to make
further inquiry."
This was therefore done, and the Court rose. Then the room, hitherto so
breathlessly silent, became a babel of tongues as everyone discussed
the extraordinary story that had been told. For once, the newspapers
had omitted all the sensational points, but already, Press telegrams
were flashing over the wires to Fleet Street, and in half an hour the
world would be given a report of the inquiry verbatim.
Only myself, Whitlock and his assistant, however, knew of the
discoveries we had made.
I accompanied him back to Scotland Yard, and sat in his room while he
methodically proceeded with his inquiries. First he sent a wire to
the Plymouth police ordering inquiry to be made of the editor of the
_Evening Express_ as to the real origin of the telegram sent to him
from London. Secondly he sent out an inquiry regarding the watch, the
number upon which he carefully copied. The small photograph of myself
was lying upon the table.
"And as for this," he said, looking at me, "what am I to do about it?"
"Nothing," I replied. "Please leave that to me."
"Have you any suspicion? I mean, do you suspect any enemy of yours?" he
asked.
"Not in the least. I am just as puzzled as you are."
For a moment he did not speak. His eyes were down cast upon his
blotting-pad.
"Very well, Mr Keene," he answered. "You were frank and produced it;
therefore I leave that point in your hands. Only I beg of you to leave
no stone unturned to clear up the mystery of it being found in that
house."
I promised him faithfully to do my best.
The twilight was just creeping on when, letting myself into our
chambers with my latchkey, I walked into the sitting-room, and there
found a note on the table. At a glance I saw it was from Julian Little,
and tore it open.
"I've just got orders to go to Servia, as some fresh trouble seems
to be brewing there," he wrote. "I leave Charing Cross at 2.20.
Sorry I can't wait to say good-bye. When next you see Daisy will
you give her the enclosed? Don't send it to her, but give her it
personally. _Au revoir_, old chap! I'll be back very soon, I hope.
Grand Hotel, Belgrade, will find me. Key of whisky cupboard is
under the corner of the sofa. Keep up your pecker.
JULIAN."
Enclosed was a letter, sealed with black wax, and addressed, "Miss
Daisy Marvin."
I stood staring at it in the grey, uncertain light. The wax had been
impressed by the curious old engraved cornelian which he always wore
upon his finger.
Julian Little had gone! He always went and came suddenly, for it was
part of his profession as special correspondent to move rapidly from
place to place. Yet he generally had a day's notice from the office.
Switching on the electric light, I crossed to my writing-table and rang
up Wakeley, news editor of the _Daily Herald_--the shrewd, fair, rather
bald-headed and pleasant man who was accredited as being one of the
smartest journalists in all London, if not the very smartest.
In a few moments I was talking with him.
"I don't know," he said, in answer to my question. "Little seemed so
very anxious to go this morning that I've let him go. For my own part,
I think it's a wild-goose chase. There's been trouble in the Balkans
ever since I wrote in copy-books!"
"So he's really gone upon his own initiative?"
"Entirely."
I wished him good evening and rang off.
Had Julian Little actually fled? It seemed very much as though he had.
Just as I turned away from the telephone a ring came at the outer door,
and on opening it I drew back with a cry of welcome surprise, for
standing before me was my dainty little love, Daisy.
"I didn't expect to find you at home, Victor!" she laughed, entering at
my invitation, with a quick swish of her skirts. "I've just been to the
office to see dad, and he asked me, as I was passing this way, to leave
this note for you."
And she gave me the letter from my chief.
As she entered the green-carpeted sitting-room--not without some
trepidation, be it said, for it was only the second time she had been
there--I saw that she wore a well-cut, black tailor-made dress, and
that her chestnut hair, so profuse and universally admired on the
stage, was tightly bound beneath a neat black-and-white toque. Features
and complexion were alike perfect, from the arched, well-marked brows
to the Cupid's bow upon the full red lips, while the great eyes, so
clear and luminous, looked out upon me full of the light of true
affection. Ah, how sweet was our passionate and mutually devoted love!
She carried none of her stage exaggerations into her every-day life.
Her cheeks were as soft, fresh, and child-like as though rouge had
never been applied to them. Unlike the artistes whom one meets in
Maiden Lane, Strand, or York Road, Lambeth, she was always neat and
unassuming; so quietly dressed, indeed, that no one would believe
she could ever assume that gay abandon of the variety stage, and
sing and dance with that smart up-to-dateness that had rendered her
already--though only just out of her teens--a music-hall favourite.
She raised her soft, sweet lips to mine, and with my arm pressed
tightly about her slim waist I bent and kissed her fondly; for that
meeting was both unexpected and delightful.
"Julian has gone to-day to Servia," I explained, noticing that she
glanced apprehensively at the door. "He has left this for you," and,
taking the letter from the table, I gave it to her.
She tore it open, read eagerly through the scribbled lines, and then,
crushing the note in her gloved hand, stood staring at me, white as
death.
In an instant her whole attitude had been transformed.
Pale to the lips, she stood clutching at the edge of the table and
swaying forward, her eyes full of an expression of fear and horror.
Upon her some mysterious blow had fallen.
I stood there regarding her--breathless, amazed, confounded.