TWO BLACKGUARDS
"Tell me what you think of it," said the man in the corner, seeing that
Polly remained silent and puzzled.
"Well," she replied dubiously, "I suppose that the so-called Armand de
la Tremouille's story was true in substance. That he did not perish on
the _Argentina_, but drifted home, and blackmailed his former wife."
"Doesn't it strike you that there are at least two very strong points
against that theory?" he asked, making two gigantic knots in his piece
of string.
"Two?"
"Yes. In the first place, if the blackmailer was the 'Comte de la
Tremouille' returned to life, why should he have been content to take
£10,000 from a lady who was his lawful wife, and who could keep him in
luxury for the rest of his natural life upon her large fortune, which
was close upon a quarter of a million? The real Comte de la Tremouille,
remember, had never found it difficult to get money out of his wife
during their brief married life, whatever Mr. Morton's subsequent
experience in the same direction might have been. And, secondly, why
should he have typewritten his letters to his wife?"
"Because--"
"That was a point which, to my mind, the police never made the most of.
Now, my experience in criminal cases has invariably been that when a
typewritten letter figures in one, that letter is a forgery. It is not
very difficult to imitate a signature, but it is a jolly sight more
difficult to imitate a handwriting throughout an entire letter."
"Then, do you think--"
"I think, if you will allow me," he interrupted excitedly, "that we will
go through the points--the sensible, tangible points of the case.
Firstly: Mr. Morton disappears with £10,000 in his pocket for four
entire days; at the end of that time he is discovered loosely tied to an
arm-chair, and a wool shawl round his mouth. Secondly: A man named
Skinner is accused of the outrage. Mr. Morton, although he himself is
able, mind you, to furnish the best defence possible for Skinner, by
denying his identity with the man who assaulted him, refuses to
prosecute. Why?"
"He did not wish to drag his wife's name into the case."
"He must have known that the Crown would take up the case. Then, again,
how is it no one saw him in the company of the swarthy foreigner he
described?"
"Two witnesses did see Mr. Morton in company with Skinner," argued
Polly.
"Yes, at 9.20 in West Street; that would give Edward Skinner time to
catch the 9.45 at the station, and to entrust Mr. Morton with the
latch-key of Russell House," remarked the man in the corner dryly.
"What nonsense!" Polly ejaculated.
"Nonsense, is it?" he said, tugging wildly at his bit of string; "is it
nonsense to affirm that if a man wants to make sure that his victim
shall not escape, he does not usually wind rope 'loosely' round his
figure, nor does he throw a wool shawl lightly round his mouth. The
police were idiotic beyond words; they themselves discovered that Morton
was so 'loosely' fastened to his chair that very little movement would
have disentangled him, and yet it never struck them that nothing was
easier for that particular type of scoundrel to sit down in an arm-chair
and wind a few yards of rope round himself, then, having wrapped a wool
shawl round his throat, to slip his two arms inside the ropes."
"But what object would a man in Mr. Morton's position have for playing
such extraordinary pranks?"
"Ah, the motive! There you are! What do I always tell you? Seek the
motive! Now, what was Mr. Morton's position? He was the husband of a
lady who owned a quarter of a million of money, not one penny of which
he could touch without her consent, as it was settled on herself, and
who, after the terrible way in which she had been plundered and then
abandoned in her early youth, no doubt kept a very tight hold upon the
purse-strings. Mr. Morton's subsequent life has proved that he had
certain expensive, not altogether avowable, tastes. One day he discovers
the old love letters of the 'Comte Armand de la Tremouille.'
"Then he lays his plans. He typewrites a letter, forges the signature of
the erstwhile Count, and awaits events. The fish does rise to the bait.
He gets sundry bits of money, and his success makes him daring. He looks
round him for an accomplice--clever, unscrupulous, greedy--and selects
Mr. Edward Skinner, probably some former pal of his wild oats days.
"The plan was very neat, you must confess. Mr. Skinner takes the room in
Russell House, and studies all the manners and customs of his landlady
and her servant. He then draws the full attention of the police upon
himself. He meets Morton in West Street, then disappears ostensibly
after the 'assault.' In the meanwhile Morton goes to Russell House. He
walks upstairs, talks loudly in the room, then makes elaborate
preparations for his comedy."
"Why! he nearly died of starvation!"
"That, I dare say, was not a part of his reckoning. He thought, no
doubt, that Mrs. Chapman or the servant would discover and rescue him
pretty soon. He meant to appear just a little faint, and endured quietly
the first twenty-four hours of inanition. But the excitement and want of
food told on him more than he expected. After twenty-four hours he
turned very giddy and sick, and, falling from one fainting fit into
another, was unable to give the alarm.
"However, he is all right again now, and concludes his part of a
downright blackguard to perfection. Under the plea that his conscience
does not allow him to live with a lady whose first husband is still
alive, he has taken a bachelor flat in London, and only pays afternoon
calls on his wife in Brighton. But presently he will tire of his
bachelor life, and will return to his wife. And I'll guarantee that the
Comte de la Tremouille will never be heard of again."
And that afternoon the man in the corner left Miss Polly Burton alone
with a couple of photos of two uninteresting, stodgy, quiet-looking
men--Morton and Skinner--who, if the old scarecrow was right in his
theories, were a pair of the finest blackguards unhung.