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