FOUR MAX CARRADOS DETECTIVE STORIES
by
ERNEST BRAMAH
1914
CONTENTS
THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS
THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM
THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE
THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR
THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS
It was eight o'clock at night and raining, scarcely a time when a
business so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could
hope to attract any customer, but a light was still showing in the
small shop that bore over its window the name of Baxter, and in the
even smaller office at the back the proprietor himself sat reading the
latest _Pall Mall_. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for
presently the door bell gave its announcement, and throwing down his
paper Mr. Baxter went forward.
As a matter of fact the dealer had been expecting someone and his
manner as he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a
caller of importance. But at the first glance towards his visitor the
excess of deference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane,
self-possessed shopman in the presence of the casual customer.
"Mr. Baxter, I think?" said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping
umbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner
pocket. "You hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr. Carlyle--two years ago
I took up a case for you--"
"To be sure. Mr. Carlyle, the private detective--"
"Inquiry agent," corrected Mr. Carlyle precisely.
"Well," smiled Mr. Baxter, "for that matter I am a coin dealer and not
an antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I
can do for you?"
"Yes," replied his visitor; "it is my turn to consult you." He had
taken a small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned
something carefully out upon the counter. "What can you tell me about
that?"
The dealer gave the coin a moment's scrutiny.
"There is no question about this," he replied. "It is a Sicilian
tetradrachm of Dionysius."
"Yes, I know that--I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can
tell you further that it's supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave
two hundred and fifty pounds for at the Brice sale in '94."
"It seems to me that you can tell me more about it than I can tell
you," remarked Mr. Baxter. "What is it that you really want to know?"
"I want to know," replied Mr. Carlyle, "whether it is genuine or not."
"Has any doubt been cast upon it?"
"Certain circumstances raised a suspicion--that is all."
The dealer took another look at the tetradrachm through his magnifying
glass, holding it by the edge with the careful touch of an expert.
Then he shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance.
"Of course I could make a guess--"
"No, don't," interrupted Mr. Carlyle hastily. "An arrest hangs on it
and nothing short of certainty is any good to me."
"Is that so, Mr. Carlyle?" said Mr. Baxter, with increased interest.
"Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was
a rare Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I'd stake my reputation on my
opinion, but I do very little in the classical series."
Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he
returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket.
"I had been relying on you," he grumbled reproachfully. "Where on
earth am I to go now?"
"There is always the British Museum."
"Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there
now?"
"Now? No fear!" replied Mr. Baxter. "Go round in the morning--"
"But I must know to-night," explained the visitor, reduced to despair
again. "To-morrow will be too late for the purpose."
Mr. Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances.
"You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now," he remarked.
"I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to
have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own
time." Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr. Baxter's
right eye. "Offmunson he's called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter
has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he--quite
naturally--wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof."
"Very interesting," murmured Mr. Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. "I
should love an hour's chat with you about your millionaire
customers--some other time. Just now--look here, Baxter, can't you
give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing
who happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts."
"Why, bless my soul, Mr. Carlyle, I don't know a man of them away from
his business," said Mr. Baxter, staring. "They may live in Park Lane
or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there
aren't so many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will
very likely quarrel over it. You've had to do with 'expert witnesses,'
I suppose?"
"I don't want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I
want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on.
Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or
not?"
Mr. Baxter's meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he
continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed.
"Stay a bit; there is a man--an amateur--I remember hearing wonderful
things about some time ago. They say he really does know."
"There you are," explained Mr. Carlyle, much relieved. "There always
is someone. Who is he?"
"Funny name," replied Baxter. "Something Wynn or Wynn something." He
craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor-car that was
drawing to the kerb before his window. "Wynn Carrados! You'll excuse
me now, Mr. Carlyle, won't you? This looks like Mr. Offmunson."
Mr. Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff.
"Wynn Carrados, right. Where does he live?"
"Haven't the remotest idea," replied Baxter, referring the arrangement
of his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror. "I have never seen the
man myself. Now, Mr. Carlyle, I'm sorry I can't do any more for you.
You won't mind, will you?"
Mr. Carlyle could not pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed the
distinction of holding open the door for the transatlantic
representative of the line of Offa as he went out, and then made his
way through the muddy streets back to his office. There was only one
way of tracing a private individual at such short notice--through the
pages of the directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself by
a very high estimate of his chances.
Fortune favoured him, however. He very soon discovered a Wynn Carrados
living at Richmond, and, better still, further search failed to
unearth another. There was, apparently, only one householder at all
events of that name in the neighbourhood of London. He jotted down the
address and set out for Richmond.
The house was some distance from the station, Mr. Carlyle learned. He
took a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He
prided himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of his
deductions which resulted from it--a detail of his business. "It's
nothing more than using one's eyes and putting two and two together,"
he would modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather
than impressive. By the time he had reached the front door of "The
Turrets" he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the
people who lived there.
A man-servant admitted Mr. Carlyle and took his card--his private
card, with the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr.
Carrados for ten minutes. Luck still favoured him; Mr. Carrados was at
home and would see him at once. The servant, the hall through which
they passed, and the room into which he was shown, all contributed
something to the deductions which the quietly observant gentleman was
half unconsciously recording.
"Mr. Carlyle," announced the servant.
The room was a library or study. The only occupant, a man of about
Carlyle's own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his
visitor's entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression of
formal courtesy.
"It's very good of you to see me at this hour," apologised Mr.
Carlyle.
The conventional expression of Mr. Carrados's face changed a little.
"Surely my man has got your name wrong?" he explained. "Isn't it Louis
Calling?"
Mr. Carlyle stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a
sudden flash of anger or annoyance.
"No sir," he replied stiffly. "My name is on the card which you have
before you."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Carrados, with perfect good-humour. "I
hadn't seen it. But I used to know a Calling some years ago--at St.
Michael's."
"St. Michael's!" Mr. Carlyle's features underwent another change, no
less instant and sweeping than before. "St. Michael's! Wynn Carrados?
Good heavens! it isn't Max Wynn--old 'Winning' Wynn"?
"A little older and a little fatter--yes," replied Carrados. "I have
changed my name you see."
"Extraordinary thing meeting like this," said his visitor, dropping
into a chair and staring hard at Mr. Carrados. "I have changed more
than my name. How did you recognize me?"
"The voice," replied Carrados. "It took me back to that little
smoke-dried attic den of yours where we--"
"My God!" exclaimed Carlyle bitterly, "don't remind me of what we were
going to do in those days." He looked round the well-furnished,
handsome room and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had
noticed. "At all events, you seem fairly comfortable, Wynn."
"I am alternately envied and pitied," replied Carrados, with a placid
tolerance of circumstance that seemed characteristic of him. "Still,
as you say, I am fairly comfortable."
"Envied, I can understand. But why are you pitied?"
"Because I am blind," was the tranquil reply.
"Blind!" exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, using his own eyes superlatively. "Do
you mean--literally blind?"
"Literally.... I was riding along a bridle-path through a wood about a
dozen years ago with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twig
sprang back--you know how easily a thing like that happens. It just
flicked my eye--nothing to think twice about."
"And that blinded you?"
"Yes, ultimately. It's called amaurosis."
"I can scarcely believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your
eyes are full of expression--only a little quieter than they used to
be. I believe you were typing when I came....Aren't you having me?"
"You miss the dog and the stick?" smiled Carrados. "No; it's a fact."
"What an awful affliction for you, Max. You were always such an
impulsive, reckless sort of fellow--never quiet. You must miss such a
fearful lot."
"Has anyone else recognized you?" asked Carrados quietly.
"Ah, that was the voice, you said," replied Carlyle.
"Yes; but other people heard the voice as well. Only I had no
blundering, self-confident eyes to be hoodwinked."
"That's a rum way of putting it," said Carlyle. "Are your ears never
hoodwinked, may I ask?"
"Not now. Nor my fingers. Nor any of my other senses that have to look
out for themselves."
"Well, well," murmured Mr. Carlyle, cut short in his sympathetic
emotions. "I'm glad you take it so well. Of course, if you find it an
advantage to be blind, old man----" He stopped and reddened. "I beg
your pardon," he concluded stiffly.
"Not an advantage perhaps," replied the other thoughtfully. "Still it
has compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore,
new experiences, new powers awakening; strange new perceptions; life
in the fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Louis?"
"I am an ex-solicitor, struck off in connexion with the falsifying of
a trust account, Mr. Carrados," replied Carlyle, rising.
"Sit down, Louis," said Carrados suavely. His face, even his
incredibly living eyes, beamed placid good-nature. "The chair on which
you will sit, the roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to
which you have so amiably alluded, are the direct result of falsifying
a trust account. But do I call you 'Mr. Carlyle' in consequence?
Certainly not, Louis."
"I did not falsify the account," cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down
however, and added more quietly: "But why do I tell you all this? I
have never spoken of it before."
"Blindness invites confidence," replied Carrados. "We are out of the
running--human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldn't you? In
my case the account _was_ falsified."
"Of course that's all bunkum, Max" commented Carlyle. "Still, I
appreciate your motive."
"Practically everything I possess was left to me by an American
cousin, on the condition that I took the name of Carrados. He made his
fortune by an ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and
unloading favourably in consequence. And I need hardly remind you that
the receiver is equally guilty with the thief."
"But twice as safe. I know something of that, Max ... Have you any
idea what my business is?"
"You shall tell me," replied Carrados.
"I run a private inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to do
something for a living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed my
appearance and opened an office. I knew the legal side down to the
ground and I got a retired Scotland Yard man to organize the outside
work."
"Excellent!" cried Carrados. "Do you unearth many murders?"
"No," admitted Mr. Carlyle; "our business lies mostly on the
conventional lines among divorce and defalcation."
"That's a pity," remarked Carrados. "Do you know, Louis, I always had
a secret ambition to be a detective myself. I have even thought lately
that I might still be able to do something at it if the chance came my
way. That makes you smile?"
"Well, certainly, the idea----"
"Yes, the idea of a blind detective--the blind tracking the alert--"
"Of course, as you say, certain facilities are no doubt quickened,"
Mr. Carlyle hastened to add considerately, "but, seriously, with the
exception of an artist, I don't suppose there is any man who is more
utterly dependent on his eyes."
Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial
exterior did not betray a shadow of dissent. For a full minute he
continued to smoke as though he derived an actual visual enjoyment
from the blue sprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He
had already placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a
brand which that gentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded
as unattainable, and the matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which
the blind man had brought the box and put it before him had sent a
questioning flicker through Carlyle's mind.
"You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis," he remarked
presently. "Give me your opinion of my latest purchase--the bronze
lion on the cabinet there." Then, as Carlyle's gaze went about the
room, he added quickly: "No, not that cabinet--the one on your left."
Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados's
expression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to
the figure.
"Very nice," he admitted. "Late Flemish, isn't it?"
"No, It is a copy of Vidal's 'Roaring Lion.'"
"Vidal?"
"A French artist." The voice became indescribably flat. "He, also, had
the misfortune to be blind, by the way."
"You old humbug, Max!" shrieked Carlyle, "you've been thinking that
out for the last five minutes." Then the unfortunate man bit his lip
and turned his back towards his host.
"Do you remember how we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sanders,
and then roast him?" asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smothered
exclamation with which the other man had recalled himself.
"Yes," replied Carlyle quietly. "This is very good," he continued,
addressing himself to the bronze again. "How ever did he do it?"
"With his hands."
"Naturally. But, I mean, how did he study his model?"
"Also with his hands. He called it 'seeing near.'"
"Even with a lion--handled it?"
"In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought the
animal to bay while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts ... You
don't feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?"
Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max's
unquenchable pleasantries, Mr. Carlyle was on the point of making a
suitable reply when a sudden thought caused him to smile knowingly. Up
to that point, he had, indeed, completely forgotten the object of his
visit. Now that he remembered the doubtful Dionysius and Baxter's
recommendation he immediately assumed that some mistake had been made.
Either Max was not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else the
dealer had been misinformed; for although his host was wonderfully
expert in the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he
could decide the genuineness of a coin without seeing it. The
opportunity seemed a good one of getting even with Carrados by taking
him at his word.
"Yes," he accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he
re-crossed the room; "yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems
to be a rather remarkable fraud." He put the tetradrachm into his
host's hand. "What do you make of it?"
For a few seconds Carrados handled the piece with the delicate
manipulation of his finger-tips while Carlyle looked on with a
self-appreciative grin. Then with equal gravity the blind man weighed
the coin in the balance of his hand. Finally he touched it with his
tongue.
"Well?" demanded the other.
"Of course I have not much to go on, and if I was more fully in your
confidence I might come to another conclusion----"
"Yes, yes," interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement.
"Then I should advise you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun,
communicate with the police authorities of Padua for particulars of
the career of Helene Brunesi, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he
should return to London to see what further depredations have been
made in his cabinet."
Mr. Carlyle's groping hand sought and found a chair, on to which he
dropped blankly. His eyes were unable to detach themselves for a
single moment from the very ordinary spectacle of Mr. Carrados's
mildly benevolent face, while the sterilized ghost of his now
forgotten amusement still lingered about his features.
"Good heavens!" he managed to articulate, "how do you know?"
"Isn't that what you wanted of me?" asked Carrados suavely.
"Don't humbug, Max," said Carlyle severely. "This is no joke." An
undefined mistrust of his own powers suddenly possessed him in the
presence of this mystery. "How do you come to know of Nina Brun and
Lord Seastoke?"
"You are a detective, Louis," replied Carrados. "How does one know
these things? By using one's eyes and putting two and two together."
Carlyle groaned and flung out an arm petulantly.
"Is it all bunkum, Max? Do you really see all the time--though that
doesn't go very far towards explaining it."
"Like Vidal, I see very well--at close quarters," replied Carrados,
lightly running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrachm.
"For longer range I keep another pair of eyes. Would you like to test
them?"
Mr. Carlyle's assent was not very gracious; it was, in fact, faintly
sulky. He was suffering the annoyance of feeling distinctly
unimpressive in his own department; but he was also curious.
"The bell is just behind you, if you don't mind," said his host.
"Parkinson will appear. You might take note of him while he is in."
The man who had admitted Mr. Carlyle proved to be Parkinson.
"This gentleman is Mr. Carlyle, Parkinson," explained Carrados the
moment the man entered. "You will remember him for the future?"
Parkinson's apologetic eye swept the visitor from head to foot, but so
lightly and swiftly that it conveyed to that gentleman the comparison
of being very deftly dusted.
"I will endeavour to do so, sir," replied Parkinson, turning again to
his master.
"I shall be at home to Mr. Carlyle whenever he calls. That is all."
"Very well, sir."
"Now, Louis," remarked Mr. Carrados briskly, when the door had closed
again, "you have had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What is
he like?"
"In what way?"
"I mean as a matter of description. I am a blind man--I haven't seen
my servant for twelve years--what idea can you give me of him? I asked
you to notice."
"I know you did, but your Parkinson is the sort of man who has very
little about him to describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary.
His height is about average----"
"Five feet nine," murmured Carrados. "Slightly above the mean."
"Scarcely noticeably so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. No
particularly marked features. Dark eyes. Good teeth."
"False," interposed Carrados. "The teeth--not the statement."
"Possibly," admitted Mr. Carlyle. "I am not a dental expert and I had
no opportunity of examining Mr. Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what
is the drift of all this?"
"His clothes?"
"Oh, just the ordinary evening dress of a valet. There is not much
room for variety in that."
"You noticed, in fact, nothing special by which Parkinson could be
identified?"
"Well, he wore an unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of
the left hand."
"But that is removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole--a
small one, I admit--on his chin. And you a human sleuth-hound. Oh,
Louis!"
"At all events," retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this
good-humoured satire, although it was easy enough to see in it
Carrados's affectionate intention--"at all events, I dare say I can
give as good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me."
"That is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again."
"Seriously?"
"Quite. I am trying my eyes against yours. If I can't give you fifty
out of a hundred I'll renounce my private detectorial ambition for
ever."
"It isn't quite the same," objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell.
"Come in and close the door, Parkinson," said Carrados when the man
appeared. "Don't look at Mr. Carlyle again--in fact, you had better
stand with your back towards him, he won't mind. Now describe to me
his appearance as you observed it."
Parkinson tendered his respectful apologies to Mr. Carlyle for the
liberty he was compelled to take, by the deferential quality of his
voice.
"Mr. Carlyle, sir, wears patent leather boots of about size seven and
very little used. There are five buttons, but on the left boot one
button--the third up--is missing, leaving loose threads and not the
more usual metal fastener. Mr. Carlyle's trousers, sir, are of a dark
material, a dark grey line of about a quarter of an inch width on a
darker ground. The bottoms are turned permanently up and are, just
now, a little muddy, if I may say so."
"Very muddy," interposed Mr. Carlyle generously. "It is a wet night,
Parkinson."
"Yes, sir; very unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I will
brush you in the hall. The mud is dry now, I notice. Then, sir,"
continued Parkinson, reverting to the business in hand, "there are
dark green cashmere hose. A curb-pattern key-chain passes into the
left-hand trouser pocket."
From the visitor's nether garments the photographic-eyed Parkinson
proceeded to higher ground, and with increasing wonder Mr. Carlyle
listened to the faithful catalogue of his possessions. His
fetter-and-link albert of gold and platinum was minutely described.
His spotted blue ascot, with its gentlemanly pearl scarfpin, was set
forth, and the fact that the buttonhole in the left lapel of his
morning coat showed signs of use was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he
recorded, but he made no deductions. A handkerchief carried in the
cuff of the right sleeve was simply that to him and not an indication
that Mr. Carlyle was, indeed, left-handed.
But a more delicate part of Parkinson's undertaking remained. He
approached it with a double cough.
"As regards Mr. Carlyle's personal appearance, sir--"
"No, enough!" cried the gentleman concerned hastily. "I am more than
satisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson."
"I have trained myself to suit my master's requirements, sir," replied
the man. He looked towards Mr. Carrados, received a nod and withdrew.
Mr. Carlyle was the first to speak.
"That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max," he
remarked thoughtfully. "But, of course--"
"I don't think that he would take it," replied Carrados, in a voice of
equally detached speculation. "He suits me very well. But you have the
chance of using his services--indirectly."
"You still mean that--seriously?"
"I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis.
It is really--to an Englishman--almost painful. Is there something
inherently comic about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?"
"No, my friend," replied Mr. Carlyle, "but there is something
essentially prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now
what is it?"
"It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that," replied Carrados.
"It is, well, partly vanity, partly _ennui_, partly"--certainly there
was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic now--"partly
hope."
Mr. Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject.
"Those are three tolerable motives," he acquiesced. "I'll do anything
you want, Max, on one condition."
"Agreed. And it is?"
"That you tell me how you knew so much of this affair." He tapped the
silver coin which lay on the table near them. "I am not easily
flabbergasted," he added.
"You won't believe that there is nothing to explain--that it was
purely second-sight?"
"No," replied Carlyle tersely: "I won't."
"You are quite right. And yet the thing is very simple."
"They always are--when you know," soliloquised the other. "That's what
makes them so confoundedly difficult when you don't."
"Here is this one then. In Padua, which seems to be regaining its old
reputation as the birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, there
lives an ingenious craftsman named Pietro Stelli. This simple soul,
who possesses a talent not inferior to that of Cavino at his best, has
for many years turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation of
forging rare Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student of
certain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have been
familiar with Stelli's workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to
have come under the influence of an international crook called--at the
moment--Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli's genius on
a royal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is--and really is,
I believe--Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the
enterprise."
"Quite so," nodded Mr. Carlyle, as his host paused.
"You see the whole sequence, of course?"
"Not exactly--not in detail," confessed Mr. Carlyle.
"Dompierre's idea was to gain access to some of the most celebrated
cabinets of Europe and substitute Stelli's fabrications for the
genuine coins. The princely collection of rarities that he would thus
amass might be difficult to dispose of safely, but I have no doubt
that he had matured his plans. Helene, in the person of Nina Brun, an
Anglicised French parlourmaid--a part which she fills to
perfection--was to obtain wax impressions of the most valuable pieces
and to make the exchange when the counterfeits reached her. In this
way it was obviously hoped that the fraud would not come to light
until long after the real coins had been sold, and I gather that she
has already done her work successfully in general houses. Then,
impressed by her excellent references and capable manner, my
housekeeper engaged her, and for a few weeks she went about her duties
here. It was fatal to this detail of the scheme, however, that I have
the misfortune to be blind. I am told that Helene has so innocently
angelic a face as to disarm suspicion, but I was incapable of being
impressed and that good material was thrown away. But one morning my
material fingers--which, of course, knew nothing of Helene's angelic
face--discovered an unfamiliar touch about the surface of my favourite
Euclideas, and, although there was doubtless nothing to be seen, my
critical sense of smell reported that wax had been recently pressed
against it. I began to make discreet inquiries and in the meantime my
cabinets went to the local bank for safety. Helene countered by
receiving a telegram from Angiers, calling her to the death-bed of her
aged mother. The aged mother succumbed; duty compelled Helene to
remain at the side of her stricken patriarchal father, and doubtless
The Turrets was written off the syndicate's operations as a bad debt."
"Very interesting," admitted Mr. Carlyle; "but at the risk of seeming
obtuse"--his manner had become delicately chastened--"I must say that
I fail to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and this
particular forgery--assuming that it is a forgery."
"Set your mind at rest about that, Louis," replied Carrados. "It is a
forgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelli could have
achieved. That is the essential connexion. Of course, there are
accessories. A private detective coming urgently to see me with a
notable tetradrachm in his pocket, which he announces to be the clue
to a remarkable fraud--well, really, Louis, one scarcely needs to be
blind to see through that."
"And Lord Seastoke? I suppose you happened to discover that Nina Brun
had gone there?"
"No, I cannot claim to have discovered that, or I should certainly
have warned him at once when I found out--only recently--about the
gang. As a matter of fact, the last information I had of Lord Seastoke
was a line in yesterday's _Morning Post_ to the effect that he was
still at Cairo. But many of these pieces--" He brushed his finger
almost lovingly across the vivid chariot race that embellished the
reverse of the coin, and broke off to remark: "You really ought to
take up the subject, Louis. You have no idea how useful it might prove
to you some day."
"I really think I must," replied Carlyle grimly. "Two hundred and
fifty pounds the original of this cost, I believe."
"Cheap, too; it would make five hundred pounds in New York to-day. As
I was saying, many are literally unique. This gem by Kimon is--here is
his signature, you see; Peter is particularly good at lettering--and
as I handled the genuine tetradrachm about two years ago, when Lord
Seastoke exhibited it at a meeting of our society in Albemarle Street,
there is nothing at all wonderful in my being able to fix the locale
of your mystery. Indeed, I feel that I ought to apologize for it all
being so simple."
"I think," remarked Mr. Carlyle, critically examining the loose
threads on his left boot, "that the apology on that head would be more
appropriate from me."
THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM
"Louis," exclaimed Mr. Carrados, with the air of genial gaiety that
Carlyle had found so incongruous to his conception of a blind man,
"you have a mystery somewhere about you! I know it by your step."
Nearly a month had passed since the incident of the false Dionysius
had led to the two men meeting. It was now December. Whatever Mr.
Carlyle's step might indicate to the inner eye it betokened to the
casual observer the manner of a crisp, alert, self-possessed man of
business. Carlyle, in truth, betrayed nothing of the pessimism and
despondency that had marked him on the earlier occasion.
"You have only yourself to thank that it is a very poor one," he
retorted. "If you hadn't held me to a hasty promise----"
"To give me an option on the next case that baffled you, no matter
what it was----"
"Just so. The consequence is that you get a very unsatisfactory affair
that has no special interest to an amateur and is only baffling
because it is--well----"
"Well, baffling?"
"Exactly, Max. Your would-be jest has discovered the proverbial truth.
I need hardly tell you that it is only the insoluble that is finally
baffling and this is very probably insoluble. You remember the awful
smash on the Central and Suburban at Knight's Cross Station a few
weeks ago?"
"Yes," replied Carrados, with interest. "I read the whole ghastly
details at the time."
"You read?" exclaimed his friend suspiciously.
"I still use the familiar phrases," explained Carrados, with a smile.
"As a matter of fact, my secretary reads to me. I mark what I want to
hear and when he comes at ten o'clock we clear off the morning papers
in no time."
"And how do you know what to mark?" demanded Mr. Carlyle cunningly.
Carrados's right hand, lying idly on the table, moved to a newspaper
near. He ran his finger along a column heading, his eyes still turned
towards his visitor.
"'The Money Market. Continued from page 2. British Railways,'" he
announced.
"Extraordinary," murmured Carlyle.
"Not very," said Carrados. "If someone dipped a stick in treacle and
wrote 'Rats' across a marble slab you would probably be able to
distinguish what was there, blindfold."
"Probably," admitted Mr. Carlyle. "At all events we will not test the
experiment."
"The difference to you of treacle on a marble background is scarcely
greater than that of printers' ink on newspaper to me. But anything
smaller than pica I do not read with comfort, and below long primer I
cannot read at all. Hence the secretary. Now the accident, Louis."
"The accident: well, you remember all about that. An ordinary Central
and Suburban passenger train, non-stop at Knight's Cross, ran past the
signal and crashed into a crowded electric train that was just
beginning to move out. It was like sending a garden roller down a row
of handlights. Two carriages of the electric train were flattened out
of existence; the next two were broken up. For the first time on an
English railway there was a good stand-up smash between a heavy
steam-engine and a train of light cars, and it was 'bad for the coo.'"
"Twenty-seven killed, forty something injured, eight died since,"
commented Carrados.
"That was bad for the Co.," said Carlyle. "Well, the main fact was
plain enough. The heavy train was in the wrong. But was the
engine-driver responsible? He claimed, and he claimed vehemently from
the first, and he never varied one iota, that he had a 'clear'
signal--that is to say, the green light, it being dark. The signalman
concerned was equally dogged that he never pulled off the signal--that
it was at 'danger' when the accident happened and that it had been for
five minutes before. Obviously, they could not both be right."
"Why, Louis?" asked Mr. Carrados smoothly.
"The signal must either have been up or down--red or green."
"Did you ever notice the signals on the Great Northern Railway,
Louis?"
"Not particularly, Why?"
"One winterly day, about the year when you and I were concerned in
being born, the engine-driver of a Scotch express received the 'clear'
from a signal near a little Huntingdon station called Abbots Ripton.
He went on and crashed into a goods train and into the thick of the
smash a down express mowed its way. Thirteen killed and the usual tale
of injured. He was positive that the signal gave him a 'clear'; the
signalman was equally confident that he had never pulled it off the
'danger.' Both were right, and yet the signal was in working order. As
I said, it was a winterly day; it had been snowing hard and the snow
froze and accumulated on the upper edge of the signal arm until its
weight bore it down. That is a fact that no fiction writer dare have
invented, but to this day every signal on the Great Northern pivots
from the centre of the arm instead of from the end, in memory of that
snowstorm."
"That came out at the inquest, I presume?" said Mr. Carlyle. "We have
had the Board of Trade inquiry and the inquest here and no explanation
is forthcoming. Everything was in perfect order. It rests between the
word of the signalman and the word of the engine-driver--not a jot of
direct evidence either way. Which is right?"
"That is what you are going to find out, Louis?" suggested Carrados.
"It is what I am being paid for finding out," admitted Mr. Carlyle
frankly. "But so far we are just where the inquest left it, and,
between ourselves, I candidly can't see an inch in front of my face in
the matter."
"Nor can I," said the blind man, with a rather wry smile. "Never mind.
The engine-driver is your client, of course?"
"Yes," admitted Carlyle. "But how the deuce did you know?"
"Let us say that your sympathies are enlisted on his behalf. The jury
were inclined to exonerate the signalman, weren't they? What has the
company done with your man?"
"Both are suspended. Hutchins, the driver, hears that he may probably
be given charge of a lavatory at one of the stations. He is a decent,
bluff, short-spoken old chap, with his heart in his work. Just now
you'll find him at his worst--bitter and suspicious. The thought of
swabbing down a lavatory and taking pennies all day is poisoning him."
"Naturally. Well, there we have honest Hutchins: taciturn, a little
touchy perhaps, grown grey in the service of the company, and
manifesting quite a bulldog-like devotion to his favourite 538."
"Why, that actually was the number of his engine--how do you know it?"
demanded Carlyle sharply.
"It was mentioned two or three times at the inquest, Louis," replied
Carrados mildly.
"And you remembered--with no reason to?"
"You can generally trust a blind man's memory, especially if he has
taken the trouble to develop it."
"Then you will remember that Hutchins did not make a very good
impression at the time. He was surly and irritable under the ordeal. I
want you to see the case from all sides."
"He called the signalman--Mead--a 'lying young dog,' across the room,
I believe. Now, Mead, what is he like? You have seen him, of course?"
"Yes. He does not impress me favourably. He is glib, ingratiating, and
distinctly 'greasy.' He has a ready answer for everything almost
before the question is out of your mouth. He has thought of
everything."
"And now you are going to tell me something, Louis," said Carrados
encouragingly.
Mr. Carlyle laughed a little to cover an involuntary movement of
surprise.
"There is a suggestive line that was not touched at the inquiries," he
admitted. "Hutchins has been a saving man all his life, and he has
received good wages. Among his class he is regarded as wealthy. I
daresay that he has five hundred pounds in the bank. He is a widower
with one daughter, a very nice-mannered girl of about twenty. Mead is
a young man, and he and the girl are sweethearts--have been informally
engaged for some time. But old Hutchins would not hear of it; he seems
to have taken a dislike to the signalman from the first, and latterly
he had forbidden him to come to his house or his daughter to speak to
him."
"Excellent, Louis," cried Carrados in great delight. "We shall clear
your man in a blaze of red and green lights yet and hang the glib,
'greasy' signalman from his own signal-post."
"It is a significant fact, seriously?"
"It is absolutely convincing."
"It may have been a slip, a mental lapse on Mead's part which he
discovered the moment it was too late, and then, being too cowardly to
admit his fault, and having so much at stake, he took care to make
detection impossible. It may have been that, but my idea is rather
that probably it was neither quite pure accident nor pure design. I
can imagine Mead meanly pluming himself over the fact that the life of
this man who stands in his way, and whom he must cordially dislike,
lies in his power. I can imagine the idea becoming an obsession as he
dwells on it. A dozen times with his hand on the lever he lets his
mind explore the possibilities of a moment's defection. Then one day
he pulls the signal off in sheer bravado--and hastily puts it at
danger again. He may have done it once or he may have done it oftener
before he was caught in a fatal moment of irresolution. The chances
are about even that the engine-driver would be killed. In any case he
would be disgraced, for it is easier on the face of it to believe that
a man might run past a danger signal in absentmindedness, without
noticing it, than that a man should pull off a signal and replace it
without being conscious of his actions."
"The fireman was killed. Does your theory involve the certainty of the
fireman being killed, Louis?"
"No," said Carlyle. "The fireman is a difficulty, but looking at it
from Mead's point of view--whether he has been guilty of an error or a
crime--it resolves itself into this: First, the fireman may be killed.
Second, he may not notice the signal at all. Third, in any case he
will loyally corroborate his driver and the good old jury will
discount that."
Carrados smoked thoughtfully, his open, sightless eyes merely
appearing to be set in a tranquil gaze across the room.
"It would not be an improbable explanation," he said presently.
"Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would say: 'People do not do these
things.' But you and I, who have in our different ways studied
criminology, know that they sometimes do, or else there would be no
curious crimes. What have you done on that line?"
To anyone who could see, Mr. Carlyle's expression conveyed an answer.
"You are behind the scenes, Max. What was there for me to do? Still I
must do something for my money. Well, I have had a very close inquiry
made confidentially among the men. There might be a whisper of one of
them knowing more than had come out--a man restrained by friendship,
or enmity, or even grade jealousy. Nothing came of that. Then there
was the remote chance that some private person had noticed the signal
without attaching any importance to it then, one who would be able to
identify it still by something associated with the time. I went over
the line myself. Opposite the signal the line on one side is shut in
by a high blank wall; on the other side are houses, but coming below
the butt-end of a scullery the signal does not happen to be visible
from any road or from any window."
"My poor Louis!" said Carrados, in friendly ridicule. "You were at the
end of your tether?"
"I was," admitted Carlyle. "And now that you know the sort of job it
is I don't suppose that you are keen on wasting your time over it."
"That would hardly be fair, would it?" said Carrados reasonably. "No,
Louis, I will take over your honest old driver and your greasy young
signalman and your fatal signal that cannot be seen from anywhere."
"But it is an important point for you to remember, Max, that although
the signal cannot be seen from the box, if the mechanism had gone
wrong, or anyone tampered with the arm, the automatic indicator would
at once have told Mead that the green light was showing. Oh, I have
gone very thoroughly into the technical points, I assure you."
"I must do so too," commented Mr. Carrados gravely.
"For that matter, if there is anything you want to know, I dare say
that I can tell you," suggested his visitor. "It might save your
time."
"True," acquiesced Carrados. "I should like to know whether anyone
belonging to the houses that bound the line there came of age or got
married on the twenty-sixth of November."
Mr. Carlyle looked across curiously at his host.
"I really do not know, Max," he replied, in his crisp, precise way.
"What on earth has that got to do with it, may I inquire?"
"The only explanation of the Pont St. Lin swing-bridge disaster of '75
was the reflection of a green bengal light on a cottage window."
Mr. Carlyle smiled his indulgence privately.
"My dear chap, you mustn't let your retentive memory of obscure
happenings run away with you," he remarked wisely. "In nine cases out
of ten the obvious explanation is the true one. The difficulty, as
here, lies in proving it. Now, you would like to see these men?"
"I expect so; in any case, I will see Hutchins first."
"Both live in Holloway. Shall I ask Hutchins to come here to see
you--say to-morrow? He is doing nothing."
"No," replied Carrados. "To-morrow I must call on my brokers and my
time may be filled up."
"Quite right; you mustn't neglect your own affairs for
this--experiment," assented Carlyle.
"Besides, I should prefer to drop in on Hutchins at his own home. Now,
Louis, enough of the honest old man for one night. I have a lovely
thing by Eumenes that I want to show you. To-day is--Tuesday. Come to
dinner on Sunday and pour the vials of your ridicule on my want of
success."
"That's an amiable way of putting it," replied Carlyle. "All right, I
will."
Two hours later Carrados was again in his study, apparently, for a
wonder, sitting idle. Sometimes he smiled to himself, and once or
twice he laughed a little, but for the most part his pleasant,
impassive face reflected no emotion and he sat with his useless eyes
tranquilly fixed on an unseen distance. It was a fantastic caprice of
the man to mock his sightlessness by a parade of light, and under the
soft brilliance of a dozen electric brackets the room was as bright as
day. At length he stood up and rang the bell.
"I suppose Mr. Greatorex isn't still here by any chance, Parkinson?"
he asked, referring to his secretary.
"I think not, sir, but I will ascertain," replied the man.
"Never mind. Go to his room and bring me the last two files of _The
Times_. Now"--when he returned--"turn to the earliest you have there.
The date?"
"November the second."
"That will do. Find the Money Market; it will be in the Supplement.
Now look down the columns until you come to British Railways."
"I have it, sir."
"Central and Suburban. Read the closing price and the change."
"Central and Suburban Ordinary, 66-1/2-67-1/2, fall 1/8. Preferred
Ordinary, 81-81-1/2, no change. Deferred Ordinary, 27-1/2-27-3/4, fall
1/4. That is all, sir."
"Now take a paper about a week on. Read the Deferred only."
"27-27-1/4, no change."
"Another week."
"29-1/2-30, rise 5/8."
"Another."
"31-1/2-32-1/2, rise 1."
"Very good. Now on Tuesday the twenty-seventh November."
"31-7/8-32-3/4, rise 1/2."
"Yes. The next day."
"24-1/2-23-1/2, fall 9."
"Quite so, Parkinson. There had been an accident, you see."
"Yes, sir. Very unpleasant accident. Jane knows a person whose
sister's young man has a cousin who had his arm torn off in it--torn
off at the socket, she says, sir. It seems to bring it home to one,
sir."
"That is all. Stay--in the paper you have, look down the first money
column and see if there is any reference to the Central and Suburban."
"Yes, sir. 'City and Suburbans, which after their late depression on
the projected extension of the motor bus service, had been steadily
creeping up on the abandonment of the scheme, and as a result of their
own excellent traffic returns, suffered a heavy slump through the
lamentable accident of Thursday night. The Deferred in particular at
one time fell eleven points as it was felt that the possible dividend,
with which rumour has of late been busy, was now out of the
question.'"
"Yes; that is all. Now you can take the papers back. And let it be a
warning to you, Parkinson, not to invest your savings in speculative
railway deferreds."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, I will endeavour to remember." He lingered
for a moment as he shook the file of papers level. "I may say, sir,
that I have my eye on a small block of cottage property at Acton. But
even cottage property scarcely seems safe from legislative depredation
now, sir."
The next day Mr. Carrados called on his brokers in the city. It is to
be presumed that he got through his private business quicker than he
expected, for after leaving Austin Friars he continued his journey to
Holloway, where he found Hutchins at home and sitting morosely before
his kitchen fire. Rightly assuming that his luxuriant car would
involve him in a certain amount of public attention in Klondyke
Street, the blind man dismissed it some distance from the house, and
walked the rest of the way, guided by the almost imperceptible touch
of Parkinson's arm.
"Here is a gentleman to see you, father," explained Miss Hutchins, who
had come to the door. She divined the relative positions of the two
visitors at a glance.
"Then why don't you take him into the parlour?" grumbled the
ex-driver. His face was a testimonial of hard work and general
sobriety but at the moment one might hazard from his voice and manner
that he had been drinking earlier in the day.
"I don't think that the gentleman would be impressed by the difference
between our parlour and our kitchen," replied the girl quaintly, "and
it is warmer here."
"What's the matter with the parlour now?" demanded her father sourly.
"It was good enough for your mother and me. It used to be good enough
for you."
"There is nothing the matter with it, nor with the kitchen either."
She turned impassively to the two who had followed her along the
narrow passage. "Will you go in, sir?"