WHAT JIM CAYLEY KNEW
I did take Lord Southbourne's advice, partly; for in giving Sir George
Lucas a minute account of my movements on the night of the murder, I did
not prevaricate, but I made two reservations, neither of which, so far
as I could see, affected my own case in the least.
I made no mention of the conversation I had with the old Russian in my
own flat; or of the incident of the boat. If I kept silence on those two
points, I argued to myself, it was improbable that Anne's name would be
dragged into the matter. For whatever those meddling idiots, Southbourne
or Jim Cayley (I'd have it out with Jim as soon as I saw him!), might
suspect, they at least did not know for a certainty of her identity as
Anna Petrovna, of her presence in Cassavetti's rooms that night, or of
her expedition on the river.
Sir George cross-examined me closely as to my relation with Cassavetti;
we always spoke of him by that name, rather than by his own, which was
so much less familiar; and on that point I could, of course, answer him
frankly enough. Our acquaintanceship had been of the most casual kind;
he had been to my rooms several times, but had never invited me to his.
I had only been in them thrice; the first time when I unlocked the door
with the pass-key with which the old Russian had tried to unlock my
door, and then I hadn't really gone inside, only looked round, and
called; and the other occasions were when I broke open the door and
found him murdered, and returned in company with the police.
"You saw nothing suspicious that first time?" he asked. "You are sure
there was no one in the rooms then?"
"Well, I can't be certain. I only just looked in; and then ran down
again; I was in a desperate hurry, for I was late, as it was; I thought
the whole thing a horrible bore, but I couldn't leave the old man
fainting on the stairs. Cassavetti certainly wasn't in his rooms then,
anyhow, and I shouldn't think any one else was; for he told me
afterwards, at dinner, that he came in before seven. He must have just
missed the old man."
"What became of the key?"
"I gave it back to the old man."
"Although you thought it strange that such a person should be in
possession of it?"
"Well, it wasn't my affair, was it?" I remonstrated. "I didn't give him
the key in the first instance."
"Now will you tell me, Mr. Wynn, why, when you left Lord Southbourne,
you did not go straight home? That's a point that may prove important."
"I didn't feel inclined to turn in just then, so I went for a stroll."
"In the rain?"
"It wasn't raining then; it was a lovely night for a little while, till
the second storm came on, and my hat blew off."
"And when you got in you heard no sound from Mr. Cassavetti's rooms?
They're just over yours, aren't they? Nothing at all, either during the
night or next morning?"
"Nothing. I was out all the morning, and when I came in I fetched up the
housekeeper to help me pack. It was he who remarked how quiet the place
was. Besides, the poor chap had evidently been killed as soon as he got
home."
"Just so, but the rooms might have been ransacked after and not before
the murder," Sir George said dryly. "Though I don't think that's
probable. Well, Mr. Wynn, you've told me everything?"
"Everything," I answered promptly.
"Then we shall see what the other side have to say at the preliminary
hearing."
He chatted for a few minutes about my recent adventures in Russia; and
then, to my relief, took himself off. I felt just about dead beat!
In the course of the day I got a wire from Jim Cayley, handed in at
Morwen, a little place in Cornwall.
"Returning to town at once; be with you to-morrow."
He turned up early next morning.
"Good heavens, Maurice, what's all this about?" he demanded. "We've been
wondering why we didn't hear from you; and now--why, man, you're an
utter wreck!"
"No, I'm not. I'm getting round all right now," I assured him. "I got
into a bit of a scrimmage, and then into prison. They very nearly did
for me there; but I guess I've as many lives as a cat."
"But this murder charge? It's in the papers this morning; look here."
He held out a copy of _The Courier_, pointing to a column headed:
"THE WESTMINSTER MURDER.
ARREST OF A WELL-KNOWN JOURNALIST,"
and further down I saw among the cross-headings:
"_Romantic Circumstances._"
"Half a minute; let's have a look," I exclaimed, snatching the paper,
fearing lest under that particular cross-heading there might be some
allusion to Anne, or the portrait. But there was not; the "romantic
circumstances" were merely those under which the arrest was effected.
Whoever had written it,--Southbourne himself probably,--had laid it on
pretty thick about the special correspondents of _The Courier_ obtaining
"at the risk of their lives the exclusive information on which the
public had learned to rely," and a lot more rot of that kind, together
with a highly complimentary _precis_ of my career, and a hint that
before long a full account of my thrilling experiences would be
published exclusively in _The Courier_. Southbourne never lost a chance
of advertisement.
The article ended with the announcement: "Sir George Lucas has
undertaken the defence, and Mr. Wynn is, of course, prepared with a full
answer to the charge."
"Well, that seems all right, doesn't it?" I asked coolly.
"All right?" spluttered Jim, who was more upset than I'd ever seen him.
"You seem to regard being run in for murder as an everyday occurrence!"
"Well, it's preferable to being in prison in Russia! If Freeman hadn't
taken it into his thick head to fix on me, I should have been dead and
gone to glory by this time. Look here, Jim, there's nothing to worry
about, really. I asked Freeman to wire or 'phone to you yesterday when
we arrived, thinking, of course, you'd be at Chelsea; then Southbourne
turned up, and was awfully good. He's arranged for my defence, so
there's nothing more to be done at present. The case will come before
the magistrate to-morrow; so far as I'm concerned I'd rather it had come
on to-day. I don't suppose for an instant they'd send me for trial. The
police can't have anything but the flimsiest circumstantial evidence
against me. I guess I needn't assure you that I didn't murder the man!"
He looked at me queerly through his glasses; and I experienced a faint,
but distinctly uncomfortable, thrill. Could it be possible that he, who
knew me so well, could imagine for a moment that I was guilty?
"No, I don't believe you did it, my boy," he said slowly. "But I
do believe you know a lot more about it than you owned up to at the
time. Have you forgotten that Sunday night--the last time I saw you?
Because if you have, I haven't! I taxed you then with knowing--or
suspecting--that Anne Pendennis was mixed up with the affair in some way
or other. It was your own manner that roused my suspicions then, as well
as her flight; for it was flight, as we both know now. If I had done my
duty I should have set the police on her; but I didn't, chiefly for
Mary's sake,--she's fretting herself to fiddle-strings about the jade
already, and it would half kill her if she knew what the girl really
was."
"Stop," I said, very quietly. "If you were any other man, I would call
you a liar, Jim Cayley. But you're Mary's husband and my old friend, so
I'll only say you don't know what you're talking about."
"I do," he persisted. "It is you who don't or pretend you don't. I've
learned something even since you've been away. I told you I believed
both she and her father were mixed up with political intrigues; I spoke
then on mere suspicion. But I was right. She belongs to the same secret
society that Cassavetti was connected with; there was an understanding
between them that night, though it's quite possible they hadn't met each
other before. Do you remember she gave him a red geranium? That's their
precious symbol."
"Did you say all this to Southbourne when he showed you the portrait
that was found on Carson?" I interrupted.
"What, you know about the portrait, too?"
"Yes; he showed it me that same night, when I went to him after the
dinner. It's not Anne Pendennis at all."
"But it is, man; I recognized it the moment I saw it, before he told me
anything about it."
"You recognized it!" I echoed scornfully. "We all know you can never
recognize a portrait unless you see the name underneath. There was a
kind of likeness. I saw it myself; but it wasn't Anne's portrait! Now
just you tell me, right now, what you said to Southbourne. Any of this
nonsense about her and Cassavetti and the red symbol?"
"No," he answered impatiently. "I put two and two together and made that
out for myself, and I've never mentioned it to a soul but you."
I breathed more freely when I heard that.
"I just said when I looked at the thing: 'Hello, that's Anne Pendennis,'
and at that he began to question me about her, and I guessed he had some
motive, so I was cautious. I only told him she was my wife's old school
friend, who had been staying with us, but that I didn't know very much
about her; she lived on the Continent with her father, and had gone back
to him. You see I reckoned it was none of my business, or his, and I
meant to screen the girl, for Mary's sake, and yours. But now, this has
come up; and you're arrested for murdering Cassavetti. Upon my soul,
Maurice, I believe I ought to have spoken out! And if you stand in
danger."
"Listen to me, Jim Cayley," I said determinedly. "You will give me your
word of honor that, whatever happens, you'll never so much as mention
Anne's name, either in connection with that portrait or Cassavetti; that
you'd never give any one even a hint that she might have been
concerned--however innocently--in this murder."
"But if things go against you?"
"That's my lookout. Will you give your word--and keep it?"
"No."
"Very well. If you don't, I swear I'll plead 'Guilty' to-morrow!"