by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XIV
NO 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS
When the door of Corbett's or Mensmore's flat swung open before theskilful application of a skeleton key, a gust of cold air swept from theinterior blackness, and whirled an accumulation of dust down the stairs.
It is curious how a disused house seems to bottle up, as it were, anatmospheric accumulation which always seeks to escape at the firstavailable moment. Emptiness is more than a mere word; it has life andthe power of growth. A residence closed for a week is less depressingthan if it has not been inhabited for a month. If the period of neglectbe lengthened into a year, the sense of dreariness is magnifiedimmeasurably.
In this instance, the mysterious abode might have been the abiding-placeof disembodied spirits, so cold was its aspect, so uninviting the dimvista that sprung into uncertain vision under the flickering rays of awax vesta struck by the detectives.
But neither the policeman nor his companion was a nervous subject.
They entered at once, closed the door by its latch, and, aided by othermatches, found the switch of the electric light.
In this brighter radiance the indefinable vanished. The flat became acosy, fairly well appointed bachelor's "diggings," neglected anduntidy, yet not without a semblance of comfort, which only needed thepresence of a sturdy housemaid and a fire to be converted into theordinary chambers with which the locality abounds.
Their first care was to draw down all the blinds, the neglect of whichhousewifely proceeding argued the careless departure of a mere male whenthe place was vacated.
A rapid preliminary survey followed, and drew from Bruce the remark:
"Furnished by a woman, but occupied by a man."
Mr. White agreed, but he didn't know why, so he put a tentative questionon the point.
"Don't you see," said Bruce, "that the carpets match the upholstery ofthe furniture, that the beds have valances, that the spare bedroom for aguest is even more elaborate than that used by the tenant, that care hasbeen taken in fitting up the kitchen, and taste displayed in theselection of pieces of bric-a-brac? Only a woman attends to thesethings. On the other hand, a card tray has been used as a receptacle fora cigar ash, the pictures--no woman ever buys a picture--have beenpicked up promiscuously from shops where they sell sporting prints, andthe sides of the mantelpieces are chipped by having feet propped againstthem. There are plenty of other signs, but these suffice."
Thenceforth the two men devoted themselves to their task, each after hiskind.
The representative of Scotland Yard hunted for documents, photographs,torn envelopes; he looked at the covers of books to see if they wereinscribed; he opened every drawer, ransacked every corner, peered intothe interior of jars, pots, and ovens; appraised the value of furniture,noted its age, and was specially zealous in studying the appearance ofthe only bedroom which had been occupied so far as he could judge.
Bruce, having given a casual glance around, entered the sitting-room,selected the most comfortable chair, and proceeded to envelope himselfin smoke.
He had not spent two minutes in Mensmore's flat before he made astriking discovery.
The dwelling consisted of a central passage, dividing two equal portionsfrom the other. That on the right contained a drawing-room and a largebedroom, with dressing-room attached. On the left were another bedroom,a dining-room, a kitchen, and a store-room. At the end of the passage,which terminated in the transverse corridor, were the bathroom, apantry, and a small room, empty now, but apparently designed for aservant's bedroom.
The furniture, as has been stated, was good in quality and sufficientfor its purposes. But the fact which immediately impressed this skilledobserver was that the arrangement of the sitting-room differedessentially from the other details of the flat.
The same care had not been taken in the disposition of the articles.They had been dumped down anyhow, without taste or regard for suitableposition. The carpet had not been bought for this special apartment likethe carpets elsewhere. A handsome ebony cabinet stood in the wrongplace. The blue china ornaments obviously intended to fill its shelveswere littered about the mantelpiece or on small tables, while theSatsuma ware meant for the over-mantel was stiffly disposed on thecabinet.
Small matters these, but Bruce thought them more fruitful of accuratetheory than the detective's hunt for a written history of the crime!
So, as he smoked, he mused and examined.
"The drawing-room was the last place to be furnished," he thought. "Theusual course. It remained empty for some time probably. The rest of theflat was arranged by a woman--Mrs. Hillmer in all likelihood--before thearrival of her brother. Then he came and tackled the vacant room. Thehistory of the place is as plain as though I were present. More thanthat, a woman--Mrs. Hillmer again, let us say--fixed upon these latterpurchases, but without measurements. She did not personally see to theiradaptability, and she certainly did not supervise their finalarrangement. Now, why was that? Again, these things are more worn thanthose in the other rooms. Were they bought second-hand? If so, why? Awoman thinks most of her drawing-room. It is the last place in which shewould economize."
Mr. White entered, anxious and puzzled.
"Found anything?" inquired Claude, without looking at him.
"Not a rag, not a piece of old newspaper with a date on it. A lot ofpapers were burned in the kitchen grate, but from the remnants I judgethat they were mostly bills."
"The place has been systematically cleared, eh?"
"It looks like it."
"Going to hunt here?"
"Yes. You don't seem to take much interest in the premises, Mr. Bruce,though you persuaded me to do a bit of house-breaking in order to gethere."
"I find the quietude good for thought, Mr. White. Be good enough not tomake more noise than is absolutely necessary."
The other sniffed. He was disappointed. He hoped for something tangiblefrom this visit, and the outlook was far from promising.
"This room appears to have been lived in a good deal," he growled.
"That is one way of looking at it."
"Is there any other way?" His voice snapped out the question as if heheld the barrister personally responsible for his failure to gain aclue.
"No, Mr. White, I should have guessed your point of view exactly."
"My point of view, indeed! Do you want me to draw up another chair andlight a pipe? Should we be enlightened by tobacco smoke?"
"I cannot trust your tobacco. Try a cigar."
The detective angrily thumped a Chesterfield lounge to see if itbetrayed aught suspicious.
At that instant Bruce's glance rested on the fireplace. The gratecontained the ashes of a fire,--a fire not long lighted. This, combinedwith the undrawn blinds, argued a departure early in the morning.
"He went to Monte Carlo by the day Channel service," mused Bruce. "Hemay have departed a few hours after Lady Dyke's death, as Mrs. Hillmerwas not certain as to the exact date."
Somehow the few cinders attracted him. They had, perchance, witnessed atragedy.
Suddenly he stopped smoking. He was so startled by something he had seenthat the policeman must have noticed his agitation were not thedetective at that instant intently screwing his eyes to peer behind theback of the elaborate cabinet.
On the hearth was a handsome Venetian fender. Into each end wasloosely socketed a beautifully moulded piece of ironwork to hold thefire-irons. That on the left was whole, but from that on the right asmall spike had been broken off.
By comparison with its fellow the missing portion was identical with thebit of iron found imbedded in the skull of the murdered woman. Of thisdamning fact Bruce had no manner of doubt, though the incriminatoryarticle itself was then locked in a drawer in his own residence.
He did not move. He sat as one transfixed.
What a weapon for such a deed! Was ever more outlandish instrument usedwith murderous intent? The entire bracket could easily be detached fromthe fender, and would, no doubt, inflict a terrible blow. But wh
y seizethis clumsy device when it actually supported a heavy brass poker?
The thing savored of madness, of the wild vagary of a homicidal maniac.It was incomprehensible, strange beyond belief.
Yet as Bruce pictured the final scene in that tragedy, as he saw theill-fated lady stagger helplessly to the ground before a treacherous andcrushing stroke, a fierce light leaped into his face, and his lips settight with unflinching purpose.
Had Mensmore been within reach at that moment he would assuredly havebeen lodged in a felon's cell forthwith. No excuse, no palliation, wouldbe accepted. The man who could so foully slay a gentle, kindly,high-minded woman deserved the utmost rigor of the law, no matter whatthe circumstances that led to the commission of the crime.
It was not often that Bruce allowed impulse to master reason so utterly.
In strange altruistic mood he asked himself why he did not spring fromhis chair, and, tearing the bracket from its supports, exhibit it to hisfellow-worker, while he gave, in a few passionate sentences, theinformation that would set the French police to scour the Mediterraneanlittoral until they found the _White Heather_. Of what matter to him wasthe suffering of a sister or sweetheart? Did the man who killed LadyDyke reck of these things? Yes, he would do it--
But a cry of triumph from the detective arrested the fateful words evenas they trembled on his lips. "Here's a find!" was the shout. "Thinkingis all very well, Mr. Bruce, but hard work is better. What do you makeof that?"
"That" was a letter, which, in the manner known to many a puzzledhouseholder, had slipped down behind a drawer in the cabinet, to becrushed against the wardrobe at the back, and lie there forgotten andunnoticed.
Even in his perturbed state the barrister could not help glancing at thecrumpled document, first noting the date, October 15th of the year justclosed, with the superscription, "Mountain Butts, Wyoming." There was noenvelope.
It was addressed to "Dear Bertie," and ran as follows:
"Your welcome note and its draft for fifty dollars came to hand last week. My sisters and I can never forget your generosity. We know you are hard up, and that you can ill spare these frequent gifts, or loans, as you are pleased to call them. You and I have been in many a tight place, old chap, and I never knew you to fail either with hand or heart. And when we drifted into this ranch, on my advice, and nearly starved to death, it was you who were bold enough to cut yourself adrift so that you might make something to keep the pot boiling.
"But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this time I will try not to be too sanguine. There have been big gold discoveries in this country. It is now firmly believed that all our land is auriferous, and the scoundrel who sold us this beggarly ranch has tried to upset our title. Thanks to your foresight, he was knocked out at the first round. So I may soon have big news for you. By Jove, won't it be a change if we both become rich! And won't we all have a time in Paris! However, I must not promise too much. I have been taught caution by repeated failures. Write by return, and say if this reaches you all right.
"Your faithful friend, "SYDNEY H. CORBETT."
"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, when Bruce had slowlymastered the contents of the letter.
"Think! I am too dazed to think."
"We can now learn all about him from America."
"About whom?"
"About Corbett, of course."
"Then did Corbett travel by the same mail as this letter in order tomurder Lady Dyke? It is dated October 15th, and she was killed November6th. It takes twelve days, at the quickest, for a letter to come herefrom Wyoming. And Corbett, the writer of it, not the receiver, must havetravelled in the same steamer, or its immediate successor."
Mr. White's face fell, but he stuck to his point:
"Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have seen the secretary tothe company that owns these flats. Corbett took the rooms for six monthsfrom September first. When asked for references he gave his sister'sname, and as she banks with the National--and she has always paid herrent for five years--it was good enough. Still, I must confess thatCorbett could hardly be in Wyoming in October if he lived here inSeptember and in November."
The barrister answered between his set teeth: "Yes, it is ratherpuzzling."
"Perhaps the letter was left there as a plant."
"An elaborate one. It must have been conceived a month before themurder."
"But suppose it never came from Wyoming. We have no proof that it waswritten in America."
"We have proof of nothing at present."
"Well, Mr. Bruce, have you a theory? This is the place where you oughtto shine, you know."
"I have no theory. I must think for hours, for days, before I see my wayclear."
"Clear to what, sir."
"To telling you how, when, and where to arrest the murderer of LadyDyke."
"So this find of mine is of great importance?"
"Undoubtedly. I remember its contents sufficiently, but you will let mesee it again if necessary?"
"With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You never returned that smallbit of iron to me. You recollect I lent it to you some time since."
"Perfectly. Come with me. I will model it in wax and give it to you."
"All right, sir; but as we are here I may as well continue my search. Imay drop on something else of value."
Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the detective hadcompletely rummaged the cabinet. The reading of that queer epistle fromCorbett to "Bertie"--from the real Simon Pure to the sham one--from oneman to his double--had stopped him at the very threshold of disclosure.
The document impressed him as being genuine. If so, who on earth wasCorbett, and why had Mensmore taken his name, if that was the solutionof the tangle?
Whatever the explanation, he would not jump to a conclusion. The web hadclosed too securely round Mensmore to allow of escape. Hence, Brucecould bide his time. Another week might solve many elements in the casenow indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.
The detective finally satisfied himself there was nothing else in thecabinet. He approached the fireplace, peered into every vase on theover-mantel, picked with his penknife at the back of the frame to feelfor other letters, and in doing so several times kicked the fender.
The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of method would note themissing portion of the iron "dog."
"Surely," he thought, "he will see it now," as Mr. White bent to examinethe ashes, and actually took the poker from the very support itself inorder to rake among the cinders.
The other even scrutinized the fire-irons, but the too obvious factthat, so to speak, stared him in the face, escaped notice. He was quitewrapped up in his theory that Lady Dyke had been killed at Putney, andnot in Sloane Square.
At last he quitted the room, and walked off to the small apartments atthe end of the main corridor.
Instantly Bruce sprang forward, fell on his knees, and intently examinedthe iron rest with a strong lens. It bore no unusual signs in thelocality of the break. Taking some wax from his pocket, he took aslight impression of the fracture.
When Mr. White returned, he found the barrister sitting in his chair,still smoking, and with set face and fixed eyes.
Soon afterwards they quitted the flat, carefully leaving all things asthey found them. They said little on their way to Victoria Street, forBruce was trying to explain Mensmore's attitude at Monte Carlo, and thedetective was considering the best use to which he could put thatall-important letter.
Besides, Mr. White attributed his companion's silence to annoyance. Hadnot he, White, laid hands on the only direct piece of evidence yetdiscovered as to Corbett's identity, and this in defiance of Bruce'sspoken philosophy? He could afford to be generous and not to worry hisamateur colleague with questions.
Thus they reached the barrister's chambers. Bruce asked the other to sitdown for a moment while he
obtained a model of the small lump of iron.He took it into his bedroom, fitted in into the wax impression obtainedat Raleigh Mansions, and noted that the two coincided perfectly.
He handed the bit of iron to White without comment.
The latter said: "It had better remain in my keeping now, sir, but ifyou want to see it again, of course I will be glad--"
"I shall never want it again," said Bruce, and his voice was harsh andcold, for he had seldom experienced such a strain as the last hours hadgiven him. "It is an accursed thing. It has caused one death already,and may cause others."
"I sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged," cried thedetective, "for this affair is the warmest I have ever tackled.However, I'll get him, as sure as his name's Corbett, if he has fortyaliases and as many addresses."
Smith let Mr. White out. The latter, halting for a moment at the door,said quietly, "Is your name Corbett?"
"No, it ain't, any more than yours is Black. See?"
Each man thought he had had his joke, so they were better friendsthenceforth, but Mr. White was thoughtful as he passed into the street.
"This is a funny business," he communed. "There isn't enough evidenceagainst Corbett to hang a cat, yet I _think_ he's the man. And Bruce isa queer chap. Was he cut up about me finding the letter, or has he gotsome notion in his head. He's as close as an oyster. I wonder if he_did_ dine at Hampstead on the evening of the murder, as he said at theinquest? I must inquire into it."