SLEUTH HOUNDS
Carsdale went to the police-station readily enough. He knew that his
policy in this unforeseen matter was to play the straightest game
possible. He could do no more for Sylvie; she, by shooting Werrick,
with whatever object, had done for herself. Now he must look after
himself, and the only way to do it was to tell plain truth. And he
told all he knew, frankly and unreservedly, to the authorities at the
station, and to a pleasant-looking man, who in appearance was something
between a country gentleman and a sporting publican, and whom Carsdale
quickly found to be the celebrated Detective-Inspector Skarratt, from
New Scotland Yard, famous for his skill in unravelling mysteries,
and just arrived, hot-foot, and prepared to begin the unravelling of
another.
The men who listened to Carsdale’s story of how he came to be in the
flat believed it. Nevertheless, there were questions arising out of it,
and as their present proceedings were informal, they asked them.
“What about what this maid says?” asked the police-inspector who had
first come to the scene. “She referred to some doings in New York.”
Carsdale had no objection to telling all about that--he had already
reflected that it would all come out, sooner or later, and he might
just as well be first in the field with his version.
“I’ll tell you everything in connection with that affair,” he said.
“It brings no discredit on anybody except the dead man, Werrick. My
cousin--the lady in whose flat I found the body just now--married this
man when they were little more than boy and girl. He had some money--so
had she. They very soon got through it--extravagance, and that sort of
thing. Then they were on their beam-ends, for they had no relations or
friends who could help them. At that time I was starting a business in
New York, and I got them over there to help me--really to provide for
them. She turned out a smart business woman; he got mixed up with a lot
of gamblers, and we had great trouble with him. Finally the police laid
hold of him--that’s what the maid, Guyner, was referring to.”
“What charge?” asked the police-inspector.
“Forgery,” answered Carsdale, promptly. “He was an expert forger--he
forged my name more than once, and I forgave him for his wife’s sake.
Well, he got five years. Just then I transferred my business to London,
and I brought my cousin back with me. I soon went into partnership
with the late Mr. Barclay Leverton, of Norfolk Street, and my cousin
became our private secretary. Most City folk knew our firm--Leverton
& Carsdale--and know me now. After Leverton died I kept the offices
on--go down to Abbotsbury House, and you’ll find that I have the top
floor, the whole of it. My cousin, of course, remained with me. We had
heard that this man, her husband, had been released from prison in
America, and had gone out West. Not long since we heard that he was
dead--shot in some brawl in a mining town. That turned out to be false.
One night, quite recently, I met him by accident in the Strand. He
was down on his luck, of course; nearly broke. I took him home to my
rooms in Jermyn Street, and put him up there. I made him promise that
he wouldn’t molest his wife, and I promised him that I’d get him up
again if he kept his promise to me. I gave him a hundred pounds to fit
himself out and for pocket money, and up to now he’s behaved himself.
How he came to be in that flat, I can’t think. My impression is that he
watched the maid out, followed his wife in, and that she shot him in
mistake or self-defence--she was always frightened about burglars, ever
since there was a burglary in a flat close by. That’s all I can guess,
and all I can tell you.”
“You saw nothing of her when you entered?” asked Skarratt, speaking for
the first time.
“Nothing. I haven’t seen her since last night, when she left Norfolk
Street,” replied Carsdale. “I have been out of my office all day
to-day--at least since eleven o’clock this morning. I know she had been
in then, and gone out again. My people there can tell you about her
movements, but they won’t be there until ten o’clock to-morrow.”
“You’d better give me a description of her,” said the police-inspector.
Carsdale gave a full and elaborate description of Sylvie--again he
said to himself that it was no use keeping anything back. If he didn’t
describe her, somebody else would.
Skarratt waited until the description was finished. Then, after a word
or two with the inspector-in-charge, he went out. The inspector turned
to Carsdale. “I’m afraid we shall have to detain you awhile at any
rate,” he said. “It can’t be helped.”
“I suppose not,” answered Carsdale. “I quite understand.”
And he resigned himself to waiting and to wondering what really had
happened in the flat before he got there, and where Sylvie had fled
to, and how she had got away. His head ached with the mystery of the
whole affair.
Meanwhile, Skarratt went away to the flats, and patiently made himself
master of the details. He quickly found out that there were two
entrances to the building, and that the porters on each had been on
duty during the whole of the evening. Within a few minutes he elicited
from them certain important facts:--
1. One porter, stationed at Entrance A, had seen Mrs. Walsingham
enter the building about a quarter to eight o’clock. She was then
wearing the costume which he was shown lying on the bed in her
room.
2. The other porter, stationed at Entrance B, recognized the dead man
as having entered the building about twenty-five minutes to
eight. He had inquired his way to Number 29--which was the number
of Mrs. Walsingham’s flat.
3. This porter had seen Sophie Guyner go out through his entrance
at seven o’clock. She had then told him that she was going to the
theatre. A little after eight o’clock she had returned, and had
told him that she had such a bad attack of headache that she had
been obliged to return home.
4. Neither porter had seen Mrs. Walsingham leave the flats during the
evening. Of that they were positive. Certainly, a large number of
people were perpetually passing in and out, but each man knew
Mrs. Walsingham so well that he was positive that she had not
gone out again after her coming in at Entrance A.
5. The porter at Entrance B remembered Carsdale coming in very well
indeed, because Carsdale, as he often did, had presented him with
a cigar. That would be just about eight o’clock.
6. In one of the dead man’s pockets Skarratt found a key which
admitted to the outer door of the flat. It was newly made, and
looked as if it had never been used.
Skarratt, who by that time had summoned an assistant from New Scotland
Yard, examined surface matters at the flat quickly but thoroughly. He
particularly noted the condition of the bedroom--the revolver, of which
he now took charge; the unclosed safe, with its open drawer; the hat
and garments hastily thrown on the bed.
“Where is that maid?” he asked of the police who had remained in charge
of the flat.
Sophie was in the dining-room, crying--on her, too, a policeman was
keeping an eye. At his bidding she came into the bedroom, glancing
fearfully, as she passed through the drawing-room, at Werrick’s
body, which had now been laid out on a sofa and covered with a sheet
in readiness for removal to the mortuary. She looked at Inspector
Skarratt’s friendly and good-humoured face with a queer mixture of
shrewdness and suspicion and defiance.
“Now, my dear,” said Skarratt, “I want a little help from you. As
you’re Mrs. Walsingham’s maid, you, of course, know all her gowns and
dresses?”
“Every one,” answered Sophie. “Every stitch she has!”
“Then just look round here and tell me which costume, or gown, or
dress, or whatever she wears for going out, is missing,” said Skarratt.
“Be particular--don’t forget anything.”
Sophie entered on this task with zest, she opened wardrobes, she threw
back the doors of cupboards, she examined drawers and trunks. And
finally she turned to Skarratt with undisguised amazement.
“There’s nothing missing!” she exclaimed. “There’s every gown that she
has, here.”
“Oh, come, come!” said Skarratt. “That can’t be. You’ve forgotten
something. She can’t have left the flat without some gown or other, you
know.”
“I don’t know what she’s gone in, then,” said Sophie. “I know every
stitch she has, I tell you, and here’s everything here. There’s the
coat and skirt and hat she had on this morning,” she continued,
pointing to the bed, “and you can see for yourself that she’s taken
them off in a hurry and thrown them there.”
“I can see it, and I want to know what she put on in their place,”
answered Skarratt. “Come now--there’s a pretty big wardrobe here, you
know--twenty-five different gowns, at least. Don’t you think you’ve
forgotten one?”
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” said Sophie, doggedly. “I know every gown she
has.”
“Well, has she gone out in anything of your own, then?” suggested
Skarratt. “Go and see if you miss anything.”
Sophie went off, still police-attended, but suddenly returned excited
and glowing.
“I know!” she exclaimed. “I’ve just remembered. She’d a complete nun’s
dress--a Sister of Mercy’s, you know--all black, with white hood, and
all that--that she went to a fancy-dress ball in once, with Carsdale.
She’ll have gone in that. That’s it!”
“Probably,” said Skarratt. He took down such details as Sophie could
remember, and then, with his assistants, went off to see the two
porters. The man at Entrance A had no recollection of seeing any woman
dressed as a nun or a Sister of Mercy enter or leave, the man at
Entrance B had a dim notion that such a figure did either go in or out
during the evening. But both men pointed out that it was no uncommon
thing at all for nuns and Sisters of Mercy to visit the flats--some had
relations or friends there; some came in cases of sickness; some came
begging for charity. And both men reminded him that they had come on
duty at seven o’clock--they could not say who had gone in before that,
and they were not very clear as to particular persons who had left or
entered after. But each agreed that Mrs. Walsingham in her own clothes
was always noticeable. “She was a stylish dresser you see,” added one.
Skarratt sent his man off with some instructions. If Mrs. Walsingham
had escaped in the disguise of a nun, they would have to keep a wide
look-out, and they must especially watch the railway stations and the
docks. But they had a clue now, and a good one.
He was turning away from the entrance at which he had been talking
to one of the porters, when he heard his name called, and turning,
saw Miss Norshaw, the principal of the private detective agency which
Frances Leverton had employed. Skarratt had more than once been brought
into touch with this lady, and he immediately joined her, guessing that
she had something to tell him. They walked away down the street.
“I’ve heard something of this case, Mr. Skarratt,” said Miss Norshaw.
“And I’ve some information that may be useful to you. You’re detaining
a man named Carsdale, aren’t you! Yes--well, we’ve had that man under
observation for the last two days on the instructions of a client of
ours, and I have a strong suspicion, from to-day’s reports, that he
was going to leave the country to-night. Now, you’ve done me a good
turn more than once, and I’ll do you one--I’ll just run over Carsdale’s
movements to-day, briefly.”
Skarratt listened eagerly to all that Miss Norshaw had to tell him.
When she had finished, he jumped into a taxi-cab and went down to Long
Acre to the motor-garage where Carsdale had been seen to leave his
portmanteaux. He was not long in there, and when he came out he drove
back to the police-station and had a talk to the inspector-in-charge.
And presently they went in to see Carsdale.
“Now, Mr. Carsdale,” said Skarratt, in the cheery and breezy manner
which characterized him in his professional dealings, “I’m afraid
you’re in a very unpleasant position. I’m not going to charge you with
anything just now, but I’m afraid I may have to, later on. In the
meantime, will you turn out whatever you have on you in the way of
papers, documents, money? It will be best for you if you do, and if you
don’t--well, you don’t want to be searched, anyway.”
And Carsdale once more determined to resign himself to the straight
course, believing that he could give a good and plausible reason for
the presence of the things he would have to show. And so it came about
that the two officers were presently examining certain matters which
represented two hundred thousand pounds and were noting that Carsdale
carried two first-class tickets for Buenos Aires by the steamer which
was to leave Southampton next morning.