by Annie Haynes
“That is vurry satisfactory,” drawled Cyril B. Carnthwacke. “Most satisfactory, I am sure. Weel, since that question is settled I will ask another. Was Mr. Bechcombe’s face injured at all?”
The other two looked surprised at this question.
“Why, no,” the inspector answered. “There was not even a scratch upon it. Why do you ask?”
“Another idea!” responded Mr. Carnthwacke cheerfully. “Another idea. But my last wasn’t a success. I guess I will keep this to myself for a time.”
“One cannot help seeing that the rubber gloves and the chloroform pretty well dispose of your idea, as they have disposed of a good many others,” the inspector remarked. “No, I believe the murder to have been deliberately planned, but I don’t think it was the work of one man alone. There have been more jewel robberies in London in the past year than I ever remember and I am inclined to believe that most of them may be set down to the same gang.”
“The Yellow Gang!” interjected the millionaire. “I have heard of it.”
“The Yellow Gang, if you like to call it so,” acquiesced the inspector. “But then there comes up the question, how should they know that Mrs. Carnthwacke was taking her jewels to Mr. Bechcombe that morning?”
“And why does that puzzle you?” Mr. Carnthwacke inquired blandly.
The inspector glanced at him keenly.
“Mrs. Carnthwacke informed me that no one at all knew that she was thinking of parting with her jewels, and that her visit to Mr. Bechcombe that morning had been kept a profound secret.”
Mr. Carnthwacke threw himself back in his chair and gave vent to a short, sharp laugh.
“I guess you are not a married man, inspector, or you would talk in a different fashion to that! Is there a woman alive who could keep a secret? If there is, it isn’t Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke. Nobody knew! Bless your life, I knew well enough she was in debt and had made up her mind to sell her jewels to Bechcombe. I didn’t know the exact time certainly. But that was because I didn’t take the trouble to find out. Bless your life, there are no flies on Cyril B. Carnthwacke. When she brought the empty cases to me to put away in the safe after she’d worn her diamonds the other day, she saw me lock them up in the safe and was quite contented, bless her heart. But I guess I was slick enough to look in the cases afterwards, and when I found them empty I pretty well guessed what was up. Then I took the liberty of listening one day when she was talking down the telephone and after that she hadn’t many secrets from me. As for nobody else knowing”—with another of those dry laughs—“it would take a cleverer woman than Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke to keep it from her maid.”
“That may be,” the inspector said, smiling in his turn. “But to be as frank with you as you have been with us, Mr. Carnthwacke, we have taken steps to find out what the maid knows, with the result that we are inclined to think Mrs. Carnthwacke’s statement practically correct.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Carnthwacke inquired with a satiric emphasis that made John Steadman look at him more closely. “Wal, I came out on the open and tackled Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke myself this morning; we had a lot of trouble, but the upshot of it all was that I got it out of her at last that she had told nobody but that she had just mentioned it to Fédora.”
“Fédora, the fortune teller!” Steadman exclaimed.
“The Soothsayer—the Modern Witch,” Mr. Carnthwacke explained. “All these Society women are just crazed about her of late. They consult her about everything. And I feel real ashamed to say Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke is as silly as anyone, I taxed her with it and made her own up. ‘You’d ask that fortune-telling woman’s advice I know,’ I said. And at last she burst out crying and the game was up. She swore she didn’t mention names. But there, it is my opinion she don’t know whether she did or not. Anyhow, gentlemen, I have given you something to go upon. You look up Madame Fédora and her clients. It’s there you will find the clue to Luke Bechcombe’s death if it took place as you think.” He got up leisurely. “If there is nothing more I can do for you gentlemen—”
The inspector rose too.
“I am much obliged for your frankness. If all the witnesses in this most unhappy tangle were Mr. Cyril B. Carnthwackes, we should soon find ourselves out in the open, I fancy.”
The millionaire looked pleased at this compliment.
“I know one can’t do better than lay all one’s cards on the table when one is dealing with the English police,” he remarked. “Well, so long, gentlemen. Later on I want to take Mrs. Cyril B. Carnthwacke for a cruise to get over all this worry and trouble. But I guess we will have to stop here awhile in case you want her witness. And so if you want either of us any time—I reckon you know my number—you can ring us up or come round.”
With a curiously ungraceful bow he turned to the door. A minute or two later they saw him drive off in his limousine.
John Steadman drew a long breath.
“Well, inspector?”
For answer the inspector handed him his notebook. The last entry was: “Inquire into C.B.C.’s movements on the day.”
John Steadman glanced curiously at the inspector as he handed it back.
“Do you think he did not realize? Or is he trying to screen some one?”
“I don’t know,” the inspector said slowly. “With regard to your second question, that is to say. With regard to your first, to use his own phraseology, I don’t think there are any flies on Cyril B. Carnthwacke.”
CHAPTER XIII
“Twelve minutes to one.” Anthony Collyer turned into the Tube station. He was lunching with Mrs. Luke Bechcombe and the Tube would get him there in time and be cheaper than a taxi. Anthony was inclined to be economical these days. He paused at the bookstall to buy a paper.
The tragic death of a London solicitor was beginning to be crowded out. A foreign potentate was ill. There were daily bulletins in the paper. There were rumours of a royal engagement. A great race meeting was impending, the man in the street was much occupied in trying to spot the winners. Altogether the general public was a great deal too busy to have time to spare for speculations as to the identity of Luke Bechcombe’s assassin. Still, every few days there would be a paragraph stating that the police were in possession of fresh evidence, and that an arrest was hourly expected; so far, however, there had been no result. Still, the very mention of the Crow’s Inn Tragedy held a morbid fascination for Anthony Collyer. The heading caught his eye now and he paused to turn the paper over.
Standing thus by the bookstall he was hidden from the sight of the passers-by. For his part he was thinking of nothing but his paper, when two sentences caught his ear.
“I tell you, you will have to go to Burford.”
“Suppose I am followed?”
Both voices—a man’s and a woman’s—sounded familiar to Anthony Collyer. The former he could not place at the moment, the latter—the blood ran rapidly to his head, as he gazed after the retreating couple who were now walking quickly in the direction of the ticket office—surely, he said to himself, it was Cecily Hoyle’s voice!
Cecily Hoyle it undoubtedly was. He recognized her tall, slim figure and her big grey coat with its square squirrel collar. Her companion was a man at whom Tony could only get a glance; of medium height wearing rather shabby-looking clothes, and with grey, hair worn much longer than usual, his face, as he turned it to his companion, was clean-shaven and rosy as of a man who lived out of doors.
Anthony had not seen Cecily since their meeting in Kensington Gardens now more than a week ago. It was evident that she intended to abide by her words; she had not answered any of Tony’s impassioned letters, she had refused to see him when he had called at Hobart Residence, he had asked for her when visiting Mrs. Bechcombe. Now it seemed to him that Fate had put in his hands the clue to the tangled mass of contradictions that Cecily had become.
Hastily thrusting his paper in his pocket he hurried after the couple. But, short as the time was since they passed him, already a queue had fo
rmed before the ticket office. As he reached it Cecily and her companion turned away and walked through the barrier. It was hopeless to think of going after them without a ticket. Anthony chafed impatiently as he waited. When at last he was free to follow them they were out of sight and he ran up to the lift just in time to hear the door close and to see the lift itself vanish slowly out of sight. For a moment he felt inclined to run down the steps and then he realized that there was nothing to be gained by such a proceeding and nothing for him to do but wait for the next lift with what patience he could. It seemed to him that he had never had to wait so long before; when at last it did come and he had raced along the passage and down the few remaining steps to the platform, it was only to find the gate slammed before him. Standing there, he had the satisfaction of seeing Cecily’s face at the window of the train gliding out of the station while beside her he caught a vision of the silvery locks of her companion.
As he stood there realizing the utter futility of endeavouring to overtake Cecily now, a voice only too well known of late sounded in his ear.
“Good morning, Mr. Collyer. Too late, like myself.”
He turned to find Inspector Furnival beside him. A spasm of fear shot through Tony. Was this man ubiquitous? And what was he doing here?
“Going to Mrs. Luke Bechcombe’s, sir?” the inspector went on. “Mr. Steadman has just left me to go on there in his car. A family party to celebrate Mr. Aubrey Todmarsh’s engagement.”
“Yes, to Mrs. Phillimore,” Tony assented.
The gate was thrust aside now, the inspector and Tony found themselves pushed along by the people behind. They went on the platform together, the inspector keeping closely by Tony’s side.
“Wonderful man, Mr. Todmarsh,” he began conversationally. “We in the police see a lot of his work. Mrs. Phillimore too, supports practically every philanthropic work in the East End. Yes, this engagement will be good news to many a poor outcast, Mr. Anthony.”
Tony mechanically acquiesced. As a matter of fact mention of Aubrey Todmarsh’s good works left him cold. He had no great liking for Mrs. Phillimore either, though the rich American had rather gone out of her way to be amiable to him. This morning, however, he was too much occupied in wondering what was the ulterior motive for the inspector’s friendliness to have any thought to spare for his cousin’s engagement. He was anxious to ascertain whether the inspector, like himself, had caught sight of Cecily Hoyle and followed her, though he could not form any idea as to the inspector’s object in doing so. Still one never knew where the clues spoken of by the papers might lead the police. Thinking of Cecily as the inspector’s possible objective a cold sweat broke out on Anthony’s brow.
When the train came in the inspector stood aside for Anthony to enter and followed him in. The carriage was full. Anthony had an uncomfortable feeling that people were looking at him. Possibly, he thought, they were pointing him out to one another as Luke Bechcombe’s nephew, the one who stood to benefit largely by the murdered man’s death, still more largely at the death of the widow, were wondering possibly what he was doing in that half-hour of the day of the murder which he could only account for by saying he was wandering about looking for the Field of Rest. That the general public had at first looked upon him as suspect on this account Anthony knew, but he knew also that the discovery of the clerk Thompson’s dishonesty and later on of the loss of Mrs. Carnthwacke’s diamonds had been taken as clearing him to a great extent. Until the mystery surrounding the death of Luke Bechcombe had been solved, however, he recognized that he would remain a potential murderer in the eyes of at least a section of the public. Possibly, he reflected grimly, seeing him with the inspector this morning they thought he was in custody.
“Going far, inspector?” he asked at the first stopping-place.
“Same station as yourself, sir,” the inspector returned affably. “Matter of fact I am going to the same house too. A message came along for Mr. Steadman just after he had started, and as it seemed to be of some importance I thought I would come after him with it myself. I am hoping to be in time to have a word with him before luncheon. Perhaps you could help me, sir.”
“Well, if I can,” Anthony said doubtfully. “There won’t be much time to spare, though.”
“Well, if I am too late I am too late,” the inspector remarked philosophically. “It was just a chance. We don’t seem to hear of Thompson, sir.”
“We don’t,” Anthony assented. “And I expect he is taking care we shouldn’t. You’ll forgive me, inspector, but the way Thompson has managed to disappear doesn’t seem to me to reflect much credit on the police.”
“Ah, I know that is the sort of thing folks are saying,” the inspector commented with apparent placidity. “And it is a great deal easier to say it about the police methods than to improve upon them. However, like some others, Thompson may find himself caught in time. One of our great difficulties is that so little is known about him, his friends, habits, etc. Even you don’t seem able to help us there, Mr. Anthony.” The inspector shot a lightning glance at the young man’s unconscious face.
Anthony shook his head.
“Always was a decent sort of chap, old Thompson, or he seemed so—I always had a bit of a rag with him when I went to the office. Known him there years, of course. But, if you come to ask me about his friends, I never saw the old chap in mufti, as you might say, in my life. Still, I don’t think Thompson had any hand in murdering Uncle Luke.”
“I know. You have said so all along,” the inspector remarked. “But, if you don’t think he had anything to do with the murder, what do you think of his disappearance?”
“Suppose the old chap had been helping himself to what wasn’t his, and got frightened and bolted.”
“Um, yes!” The inspector stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you think you would recognize Thompson in the street, Mr. Anthony?”
“Should think I was a blithering idiot if I didn’t,” Anthony responded. “Never saw him with a hat on certainly, but a hat don’t matter—it can’t alter a man beyond recognition.”
“Not much of a disguise, certainly,” the inspector admitted, looking round him consideringly as they entered Carlsford Square. “Still, I wonder—”
Anthony came to a standstill.
“Now I wonder what you are getting at. Do you think I have seen Thompson anywhere?”
The inspector did not answer for a minute, then he said slowly:
“I shouldn’t be surprised if a good many of us had seen him, Mr. Anthony.”
Anthony stared. “Then we must be a set of fools.”
“A good many of us are fools,” Inspector Furnival acquiesced as they came to a standstill.
Anthony applied himself to the knocker on the door of the Bechcombes’ house. There were a couple of cars in the street, one John Steadman’s, the other a luxurious Daimler evidently fitted with the latest improvements.
“You will have time for your talk, old chap,” said Anthony, looking at his watch as the door opened.
Somewhat to his surprise Steadman came out. The barrister for once was not looking as immaculately neat as usual. His coat was dusty and he was carrying his right arm stiffly. He held out a note to his chauffeur.
“There. It’s quite close to Stepney Causeway. Get the woman to the hospital as soon as possible. Hello, inspector—a word with you.”
“Have you had an accident?”
“No,” responded the barrister curtly. Then with a jerk of his head in the direction of the other car, “That fellow, Mrs. Phillimore’s man, isn’t fit to drive a donkey cart. Nearly ran over a child just now. All we could do to get her out alive save with a broken arm, I took her to the Middlesex Hospital and now I’m sending for her mother. Mrs. Phillimore doesn’t seem very helpful except in the matter of weeping. Well, so long, my boy—see you again in a minute or two.”
He turned off with the inspector. Anthony went through the hall to the drawing-room where he found his father talking to Mrs. Bechcombe and
a small, fair, handsomely dressed woman with brilliant blue eyes—his cousin’s American fiancée, Mrs. Phillimore.
Anthony was no stranger to her. He had met her on several occasions and while admitting her undoubted charm he was conscious that somehow or other he did not quite like Mrs. Phillimore, the Butterfly, as he had named her. Apparently the feeling was not mutual, for Mrs. Phillimore always seemed to go out of the way to be gracious to her fiancée’s cousin.
To-day, however, he did not receive his usual smile, and he saw that in spite of her make up she was looking pale and worried.
“Where is Aubrey?” he inquired, as he shook hands. “Got a holiday from his blessed Community to-day, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” she returned, “He was to have brought me here, but he was sent for, I couldn’t quite understand by whom. But he said he should not be long after me.”
“Nor has he,” interposed Mrs. Bechcombe at this juncture. “He is coming up the steps now with John Steadman.”
Mrs. Phillimore’s relief was apparent in her countenance. Anthony felt a touch of momentary wonder as to why his cousin’s temporary absence should cause her so much apparent anxiety.
Aubrey was talking to Mr. Steadman in a quick, nervous fashion as they entered the room together.
The first glance was enough to show every one that something had seriously disturbed Aubrey Todmarsh. His face was white, his eyes were bloodshot, he was biting his lips nervously. Altogether he looked strangely unlike the enthusiastic young head of the Community of St. Philip.
Mr. Collyer was the first to speak.
“Aubrey, my dear boy, is anything the matter?”
Apparently Todmarsh only brought himself to speak with difficulty. Twice he opened his lips, but no words came. At last he said hoarsely:
“Hopkins!”
The name conveyed nothing to the majority of his hearers, only the rector of Wexbridge twisted up his face into a curious resemblance to a note of interrogation, and Mrs. Phillimore uttered a sharp little cry.