CHAPTER VI. MR. COULSON INTERVIEWED
The Lusitania boat specials ran into Euston Station soon after threeo'clock in the afternoon. A small company of reporters, and severalother men whose profession was not disclosed from their appearance, wereon the spot to interview certain of the passengers. A young fellow fromthe office of the Evening Comet was, perhaps, the most successful, as,from the lengthy description which had been telegraphed to him fromLiverpool, he was fortunate enough to accost the only person who hadbeen seen speaking to the murdered man upon the voyage.
"This is Mr. Coulson, I believe?" the young man said with conviction,addressing a somewhat stout, gray-headed American, with white moustache,a Homburg hat, and clothes of distinctly transatlantic cut.
That gentlemen regarded his interlocutor with some surprise but withoutunfriendliness.
"That happens to be my name, sir," he replied. "You have the advantageof me, though. You are not from my old friends Spencer & Miles, areyou?"
"Spencer & Miles," the young man repeated thoughtfully.
"Woollen firm in London Wall," Mr. Coulson added. "I know they wanted tosee me directly I arrived, and they did say something about sending tothe station."
The young man shook his head, and assumed at the same time his mostengaging manner.
"Why, no, sir!" he admitted. "I have no connection with that firm atall. The fact is I am on the staff of an evening paper. A friend ofmine in Liverpool--a mutual friend, I believe I may say," heexplained--"wired me your description. I understand that you wereacquainted with Mr. Hamilton Fynes?"
Mr. Coulson set down his suitcase for a moment, to light a cigar.
"Well, if I did know the poor fellow just to nod to," he said, "I don'tsee that's any reason why I should talk about him to you newspaperfellows. You'd better get hold of his relations, if you can find them."
"But, my dear Mr. Coulson," the young man said, "we haven't any ideawhere they are to be found, and in the meantime you can't imagine whatreports are in circulation."
"Guess I can figure them out pretty well," Mr. Coulson remarked with asmile. "We've got an evening press of our own in New York."
The reporter nodded.
"Well," he said, "They'd be able to stretch themselves out a bit ona case like this. You see," he continued confidentially, "we are upagainst something almost unique. Here is an astounding and absolutelyinexplicable murder, committed in a most dastardly fashion by a personwho appears to have vanished from the face of the earth. Not a singlething is known about the victim except his name. We do not know whetherhe came to England on business or pleasure. He may, in short, have beenany one from a millionaire to a newspaper man. Judging from his specialtrain," the reporter concluded with a smile, "and the money which wasfound upon him, I imagine that he was certainly not the latter."
Mr. Coulson went on his way toward the exit from the station, puffingcontentedly at his big cigar.
"Well," he said to his companion, who showed not the slightestdisposition to leave his side, "it don't seem to me that there's muchworth repeating about poor Fynes,--much that I knew, at any rate. Still,if you like to get in a cab with me and ride as far as the Savoy, I'lltell you what I can."
"You are a brick, sir," the young man declared. "Haven't you anyluggage, though?"
"I checked what I had through from Liverpool to the hotel," Mr. Coulsonanswered. "I can't stand being fussed around by all these porters, andhaving to go and take pot luck amongst a pile of other people's baggage.We'll just take one of these two-wheeled sardine tins that you peoplecall hansoms, and get round to the hotel as quick as we can. There are afew pals of mine generally lunch in the cafe there, and they mayn't allhave cleared out if we look alive."
They started a moment or two later. Mr. Coulson leaned forward and,folding his arms upon the apron of the cab, looked about him withinterest.
"Say," he remarked, removing his cigar to the corner of his mouth inorder to facilitate conversation, "this old city of yours don't changeany."
"Not up in this part, perhaps," the reporter agreed. "We've some finenew buildings down toward the Strand."
Mr. Coulson nodded.
"Well," he said, "I guess you don't want to be making conversation. Youwant to know about Hamilton Fynes. I was just acquainted with him, andthat's a fact, but I reckon you'll have to find some one who knows agood deal more than I do before you'll get the stuff you want for yourpaper."
"The slightest particulars are of interest to us just now," the reporterreminded him.
Mr. Coulson nodded.
"Hamilton Fynes," he said, "so far as I knew him, was a quiet,inoffensive sort of creature, who has been drawing a regular salary fromthe State for the last fifteen years and saving half of it. He has beencoming over to Europe now and then, and though he was a good, steadychap enough, he liked his fling when he was over here, and between youand me, he was the greatest crank I ever struck. I met him in London amatter of three years ago, and he wanted to go to Paris. There weretwo cars running at the regular time, meeting the boat at Dover. Do youthink he would have anything to do with them? Not he! He hired a specialtrain and went down like a prince."
"What did he do that for?" the reporter asked.
"Why, because he was a crank, sir," Mr. Coulson answered confidentially."There was no other reason at all. Take this last voyage on theLusitania, now. He spoke to me the first day out because he couldn'thelp it, but for pretty well the rest of the journey he either keptdown in his stateroom or, when he came up on deck, he avoided me andeverybody else. When he did talk, his talk was foolish. He was a goodchap at his work, I believe, but he was a crank. Seemed to me sometimesas though that humdrum life of his had about turned his brain. Thelast day out he was fidgeting all the time; kept looking at his watch,studying the chart, and asking the sailors questions. Said he wanted toget up in time to take a girl to lunch on Thursday. It was just for thatreason that he scuttled off the boat without a word to any of us, andrushed up to London."
"But he had letters, Mr. Coulson," the reporter reminded him, "fromsome one in Washington, to the captain of the steamer and to thestation-master of the London and North Western Railway. It seems ratherodd that he should have provided himself with these, doesn't it?"
"They were easy enough to get," Mr. Coulson answered. "He wasn't aworrying sort of chap, Fynes wasn't. He did his work, year in and yearout, and asked no favors. The consequence was that when he asked a queerone he got it all right. It's easier to get a pull over there than it ishere, you know."
"This is all very interesting," the reporter said, "and I am sure I'mvery much obliged to you, Mr. Coulson. Now can you tell me of anythingin the man's life or way of living likely to provoke enmity on the partof any one? This murder was such a cold-blooded affair."
"There I'm stuck," Mr. Coulson admitted. "There's only one thing I cantell you, and that is that I believe he had a lot more money on him thanthe amount mentioned in your newspapers this morning. My own opinion isthat he was murdered for what he'd got. A smart thief would say that afellow who takes a special tug off the steamer and a special trainto town was a man worth robbing. How the thing was done I don'tknow--that's for your police to find out--but I reckon that whoeverkilled him did it for his cash."
The reporter sighed. He was, after all, a little disappointed. Mr.Coulson was obviously a man of common sense. His words were clearlypronounced, and his reasoning sound. They had reached the courtyard ofthe hotel now, and the reporter began to express his gratitude.
"My first drink on English soil," Mr. Coulson said, as he handed hissuitcase to the hall-porter, "is always--"
"It's on me," the young man declared quickly. "I owe you a good dealmore than drinks, Mr. Coulson."
"Well, come along, anyway," the latter remarked. "I guess my room is allright, porter?"--turning to the man who stood by his side, bag in hand."I am Mr. James B. Coulson of New York, and I wrote on ahead. I'll comeround to the office and register presently."
They made their w
ay to the American bar. The newspaper man and hisnew friend drank together and, skillfully prompted by the former, theconversation drifted back to the subject of Hamilton Fynes. There wasnothing else to be learned, however, in the way of facts. Mr. Coulsonadmitted that he had been a little nettled by his friend's odd mannerduring the voyage, and the strange way he had of keeping to himself.
"But, after all," he wound up, "Fynes was a crank, when all's said anddone. We are all cranks, more or less,--all got our weak spot, I mean.It was secretiveness with our unfortunate friend. He liked to play atbeing a big personage in a mysterious sort of way, and the poor chap'spaid for it," he added with a sigh.
The reporter left his new-made friend a short time afterwards, and tooka hansom to his office. His newspaper at once issued a special edition,giving an interview between their representative and Mr. James B.Coulson, a personal friend of the murdered man. It was, after all,something of a scoop, for not one of the other passengers had been foundwho was in a position to say anything at all about him. The immediateeffect of the interview, however, was to procure for Mr. Coulson asomewhat bewildering succession of callers. The first to arrive was agentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Jacks, and whose card, sentback at first, was retendered in a sealed envelope with Scotland Yardscrawled across the back of it. Mr. Coulson, who was in the act ofchanging his clothes, interviewed Mr. Jacks in his chamber.
"Mr. Coulson," the Inspector said, "I am visiting you on behalf ofScotland Yard. We understand that you had some acquaintance with Mr.Hamilton Fynes, and we hope that you will answer a few questions forus."
Mr. Coulson sat down upon a trunk with his hairbrushes in his hand.
"Well," he declared, "you detectives do get to know things, don't you?"
"Nothing so remarkable in that, Mr. Coulson," Inspector Jacks remarkedpleasantly. "A newspaper man had been before me, I see."
Mr. Coulson nodded.
"That's so," he admitted. "Seems to me I may have been a bit indiscreetin talking so much to that young reporter. I have just read his accountof my interview, and he's got it pat, word by word. Now, Mr. Jacks, ifyou'll just invest a halfpenny in that newspaper, you don't need to askme any questions. That young man had a kind of pleasant way with him,and I told him all I knew."
"Just so, Mr. Coulson," the Inspector answered. "At the same timenothing that you told him throws any light at all upon the circumstanceswhich led to the poor fellow's death."
"That," Mr. Coulson declared, "is not my fault. What I don't know Ican't tell you."
"You were acquainted with Mr. Fynes some years ago?" the Inspectorasked. "Can you tell me what business he was in then?"
"Same as now, for anything I know," Mr. Coulson answered. "He was aclerk in one of the Government offices at Washington."
"Government offices," Inspector Jacks repeated. "Have you any idea whatdepartment?"
Mr. Coulson was not sure.
"It may have been the Excise Office," he remarked thoughtfully. "I didhear, but I never took any particular notice."
"Did you ever form any idea as to the nature of his work?" InspectorJacks asked.
"Bless you, no!" Mr. Coulson replied, brushing his hair vigorously. "Itnever entered into my head to ask him, and I never heard him mention it.I only know that he was a quiet-living, decent sort of a chap, but, as Iput it to our young friend the newspaper man, he was a crank."
The Inspector was disappointed. He began to feel that he was wasting histime.
"Did you know anything of the object of his journey to Europe?" heasked.
"Nary a thing," Mr. Coulson declared. "He only came on deck once ortwice, and he had scarcely a civil word even for me. Why, I tellyou, sir," Mr. Coulson continued, "if he saw me coming along on thepromenade, he'd turn round and go the other way, for fear I'd ask him tocome and have a drink. A c-r-a-n-k, sir! You write it down at that, andyou won't be far out."
"He certainly seems to have been a queer lot," the Inspector declared."By the bye," he continued, "you said something, I believe, about hishaving had more money with him than was found upon his person."
"That's so," Mr. Coulson admitted. "I know he deposited a pocketbookwith the purser, and I happened to be standing by when he received itback. I noticed that he had three or four thousand-dollar bills, andthere didn't seem to be anything of the sort upon him when he wasfound."
The Inspector made a note of this.
"You believe yourself, then, Mr. Coulson," he said, closing hispocketbook, "that the murder was committed for the purpose of robbery?"
"Seems to me it's common sense," Mr. Coulson replied. "A man who goesand takes a special train to London from the docks of a city likeLiverpool--a city filled with the scum of the world, mind you--kind ofgives himself away as a man worth robbing, doesn't he?"
The Inspector nodded.
"That's sensible talk, Mr. Coulson," he acknowledged. "You never heard,I suppose, of his having had a quarrel with any one?"
"Never in my life," Mr. Coulson declared. "He wasn't the sort to makeenemies, any more than he was the sort to make friends."
The Inspector took up his hat. His manner now was no longerinquisitorial. With the closing of his notebook a new geniality hadtaken the place of his official stiffness.
"You are making a long stay here, Mr. Coulson?" he asked.
"A week or so, maybe," that gentleman answered. "I am in the machinerypatent line--machinery for the manufacture of woollen goods mostly--andI have a few appointments in London. Afterwards I am going on to Paris.You can hear of me at any time either here or at the Grand Hotel, Paris,but there's nothing further to be got out of me as regards Mr. HamiltonFynes."
The Inspector was of the same opinion and took his departure. Mr.Coulson waited for some little time, still sitting on his trunk andclasping his hairbrushes. Then he moved over to the table on which stoodthe telephone instrument and asked for a number. The reply came in aminute or two in the form of a question.
"It's Mr. James B. Coulson from New York, landed this afternoon from theLusitania," Mr. Coulson said. "I am at the Savoy Hotel, speaking from myroom--number 443."
There was a brief silence--then a reply.
"You had better be in the bar smoking-room at seven o'clock. If nothinghappens, don't leave the hotel this evening."
Mr. Coulson replaced the receiver and rang off. A page-boy knocked atthe door.
"Young lady downstairs wishes to see you, sir," he announced.
Mr. Coulson took up the card from the tray.
"Miss Penelope Morse," he said softly to himself. "Seems to me I'mrather popular this evening. Say I'll be down right away, my boy."
"Very good, sir," the page answered. "There's a gentleman with her, sir.His card's underneath the lady's."
Mr. Coulson examined the tray once more. A gentleman's visiting cardinformed him that his other caller was Sir Charles Somerfield, Bart.
"Bart," Mr. Coulson remarked thoughtfully. "I'm not quite catching on tothat, but I suppose he goes in with the young lady."
"They're both together, sir," the boy announced.
Mr. Coulson completed his toilet and hurried downstairs
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