Comes a Stranger

by E. R. Punshon

  “Sorry,” said the Major. “I’m afraid you’ll have to miss it. I am making inquiries into a murder that took place last night.”

  “I know nothing about any murder,” Mr. Adams asserted angrily. “Why should I? Nothing to do with me. Most inconvenient.”

  “Murders often are,” said the Major dryly and opened the car door.

  Obeying the hint this gesture conveyed. Mr. Adams alighted, though with evident reluctance. He was small, thin, elderly, with hair already grey, a pale, thin face, a big nose, and short-sighted, peering eyes behind large, horn-framed glasses. He did not look very prosperous—he did look eminently respectable. A timid, rabbit sort of little man, Bobby thought, though he knew well enough that timid, rabbit little men can do desperate things at times. Certainly, he looked exceedingly nervous now, with his shaking hands and frightened eyes, and his voice that seemed not fully under his control. He said:

  “I consider this an outrage. I have a train to catch. I shall consult my solicitors.”

  “You are, of course, fully entitled to legal advice,” agreed the Major. “Will you let them know at once—there’s a ’phone here or you can wire? Until you have a reply, perhaps you will be good enough to wait at the police station.”

  Mr. Adams fairly jumped. Evidently he did not like the suggestion at all. He began to perspire slightly, and he tried to bluster. A feeble effort. He protested again that he knew nothing about a murder, this murder, any murder. If, as he understood from what was being said, the victim was a Mr. Nat Kayne, then he had never even seen Mr. Nat Kayne in all his life. Oh, yes, he supposed he did know Mr. Nat Kayne’s as one of the library trustees, but what had that to do with it? But here’s the Major cut short his protests by asking Bobby to go round with him to the police station, there to await the arrival of the solicitors not yet sent for.

  “No time to waste,” the Major told him. “You are only making a lot of unnecessary trouble by forcing me to detain you for inquiries. Much more sensible if you would answer a few questions. For you to decide, of course.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Mr. Adams petulantly. “Most inconvenient. Most annoying. A train to catch. It’s nothing to do with me. I’m not concerned with their quarrels. If there was anything wrong at the library, nothing to do with us.”

  “Have you any reason to suppose there was anything wrong at the library?” the Major asked.

  Mr. Adams looked first startled, next alarmed, then cunning.

  “If there’s been a murder, it looks like it, doesn’t it?” he said, and bustled away to dismiss the still waiting car and have his suit-case taken back to his room.

  It was an opportunity the Major took to ask the landlord when this urgency to depart had first become apparent. He learned, as he had expected, that nothing had been seen of it till the gossip about the death of the unfortunate Nat Kayne had reached the inn.

  “Thought as much,” said the Major grimly, and Bobby said to him:

  “Did you notice, sir, Adams said it has nothing to do with ‘us’? Why did he say ‘us’?”

  “I’ll ask him that,” said the Major, and then Mr. Adams came back and repeated his readiness to answer any reasonable questions without waiting for his solicitor’s presence.

  “I warn you, however,” he said very severely, but a little like a rabbit issuing a severe warning to the man with the gun, “I shall seek advice on my return to town.”

  “Very good,” said the Major. “Very wise, too, if I may say so. But I must ask you to wait a few moments. My business here is really with someone else.” He turned to the landlord, who had been listening to all this with great interest, not sure whether to be worried at the idea of having had a murderer staying in the house, a thing little likely to add to its popularity, since who wants to run the risk of sleeping in the next room to a murderer? and his certain knowledge that for days to come his bar would overflow with customers eager to know all about it and to discuss it over innumerable pots of beer. “Mr. Drew,” the Major went on, breaking in upon his doubtful thoughts, “you have another American gentleman staying there, I think?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Virtue that’ll be, he’s at breakfast. He’s the only American gentleman here.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Major, glancing at Mr. Adams, who indeed neither looked nor spoke like an American. “Well, we can go into that afterwards. Mr. Virtue first.”

  There was a movement within the doorway and Virtue himself stepped forward. How long he had been standing there, hidden behind the landlord and the half-open door, it was impossible to say, though plainly he had overheard a part at least of what had been said.

  “About last night, I suppose,” he said quietly. “I don’t know anything about this murder they’re talking of. I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you about that. I can’t even begin to guess whether there’s any connection between it and what I saw. Of course, any questions you want answered—”

  He left the sentence unfinished. The landlord showed them into a dreary, stuffy, unaired little sitting-room he called the lounge, and kept for the use of his guests, though to judge from its appearance none ever used it, as indeed was no wonder, when the bar and the garden were so much more attractive. However, its sombre, heavy appearance gave it a certain air of suitability for such an investigation as was now in progress. The landlord undertook to see they were not disturbed, as he undertook also, in answer to whispered instructions from the Major, to keep an unobtrusive eye on Mr. Adams, and give warning if that gentleman showed any renewed signs of attempting to take his departure.

  “Not as he can have done the murder,” Mr. Drew assured them, “him being here in his room last night. Went up early. Said he had letters to write and wanted to be quiet. Must have been nine or thereabouts when he went upstairs.”

  “There is no cause for suspicion whatever as yet,” said the Major sternly, for he wanted no gossip, and Mr. Drew protested that he quite understood, and only his respect for a chief constable prevented him from winking, indeed wink he did at Bobby, who promptly winked back, since a wink is both a friendly thing and quite non-committal, and yet goes far to establish mutual understanding.

  “Now, Mr. Virtue,” the Major began when they were alone, while Bobby got out his notebook, “I want to hear from yourself your account of what you saw last night. Then I shall want you to put it in a written statement and I want you, please, to be very careful to be as accurate as you can in every detail. You understand that in view of what has happened since, your story has to be regarded much more seriously.”

  “I don’t see how it joins up,” Virtue said slowly. “I do not.” He was looking pale and nervous, and Bobby guessed that he had not slept much. He went on: “If there’s a join up, it’s mighty strange. If there isn’t, and it’s only coincidence, well, that’s stranger still. What I want to suggest is a mighty close search of that library. I suggest going over it with a small tooth comb. Maybe you might find an explanation. And I want to claim that I ought to be present.”

  “It won’t be very easy to get permission to do that unless your story is confirmed in some way,” the Major said. “Mr. Broast may very reasonably object. Mr. Virtue, I should like to warn you that we take a serious view in this country of any attempt to mislead the police.”

  “So we do in my country,” answered Virtue steadily. “Mighty serious.” He added: “I don’t want to mislead any one. I don’t understand what’s happened. All I want is to get at the truth.”

  “Then I trust we may expect your full and frank co-operation,” said the Major, but not much as though he were building on it. “You understand we have already made some inquiries. It has been pointed out to us that there is no artificial lighting in the library.”

  “I know,” Virtue answered. He added: “I saw what I saw.”

  “We are also informed that the shutters to the windows are always closed and fastened as soon as it’s dark, and that that was done as usual yesterday.”

  “I saw what I s
aw,” repeated Virtue. “I say again, there ought to be a search made, and I ought to be there when it’s done. I stand by what I say, and if I’m proved wrong—well, I suppose it’s up to you then. Your call.” He added abruptly: “It’s this killing has me rattled. I don’t get it.”

  He did indeed look troubled and disturbed. Bobby reflected that when he spoke of what he claimed he had seen in the library he appeared calm, composed and certain. Whether the story were true or whether he had invented it for some inexplicable reason, he evidently intended to stick to it. But any reference to the murder showed him disturbed and hesitant.

  The Major said:

  “I should like your full name, address here and in America, and occupation, please.”

  “Virtue, Bertram Arnold Virtue. I stay at the Bloomsbury Hotel, London. Some of my baggage is parked there now. Home address, Grand Rapids, Michigan. I’m in business there. At present, on a holiday trip in Europe.”

  “Any special reason for visiting Wynton?”

  “The Kayne library,” Virtue answered. “The Blue Guide says you ought to see it. I tried, but got turned down. Tourists not welcome apparently.”

  “What time did you go out last night? had you any special reason? what took you near the library building? It’s on private property.”

  “I went out about nine, I suppose, or thereabouts. I’m not sure to a minute. I thought I would like a stroll before bed. I just happened round by the library. Then I saw a light shining through the window. I thought it queer. I knew it was shut up tight after dark. I went across to see what was on. I saw what I saw. That’s all.”

  Bobby, taking notes diligently, noticed this phrase. He could not help remarking:

  “That’s the whole question, Mr. Virtue. What you did in fact see.”

  “Yes, that’s so,” agreed Virtue.

  The Major frowned. He was puzzled. Also he felt this was in a way a waste of time. The pressing investigation was not the incomprehensible story Virtue told, but the tragedy in the sunken lane. And yet it might be they were interlinked, though it was difficult to see how. He went across to Bobby, looked at his notes, then whispered an order. He made as if his questioning were over and went towards the door. Bobby stood up. Virtue looked relieved and said abruptly:

  “I’ll stop on a day or two in case you want me.”

  Bobby said:

  “Thank you. Oh, one thing more. You gave a very clear and vivid description of the appearance of the dead man you say you saw in the library. A recognizable description.”

  “Yes,” said Virtue. “Hadn’t you better make it public? Some one might know it.”

  Bobby found himself wondering if that was a genuine suggestion or just a piece of bluff. He said:

  “Miss Perkins, the typist at the Kayne library—you know her?”

  “The girl who looks like a wet fish and giggles every time she opens her mouth?”

  “She has a photograph of her fiancé she showed us,” Bobby said. “It answers very closely to the description you gave us.”

  Virtue stared, gasped, looked very astonished. Then he said sharply:

  “Nonsense. That’s absurd. See here, are you trying to pull some police trick on me?”

  “I am making a simple statement of fact,” Bobby answered quietly.

  “Mean to tell me,” demanded Virtue, “that this Perkins girl has a photograph of someone she says she’s engaged to and it’s like—I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s the fact all the same,” Bobby told him.

  The quietness of his tone seemed to convince the other. Virtue sat down abruptly. He looked utterly bewildered, even a little afraid.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Well, it’s just not possible. Have you got it? Can I see it?” he asked.

  Bobby looked at the Major who nodded. Bobby produced it. Virtue said slowly:

  “That’s it all right. That’s a photograph of the dead man I told you I saw lying on the library floor. Where did this woman get it from?”

  CHAPTER XI

  INFORMATION RECEIVED

  Neither Bobby nor Major Harley made any reply, nor did Virtue seem to expect one. He had an air of being utterly at a loss, of being a little frightened. He got up and went across to the window, as if he experienced a need for fresh air. He turned round and said:

  “It’s not possible. Well, I mean it can’t be like that.” He came back to his chair and sat down again, leaning forward, knocking gently his clenched hands together. His surprise and bewilderment seemed perfectly genuine. “In God’s name, what’s it—mean?” he demanded suddenly. “This Perkins girl—has she ever been in America?”

  At a nod from the Major Bobby referred to his notebook. He said:

  “She states she was brought up in Fromavon, got work in London, came here two years ago. She gives names and dates that can be verified.”

  “Well, now then,” Virtue muttered. “She claims she was engaged to—him?” he asked, nodding at the photograph.

  “That is her story,” Bobby agreed. “She says she met him in London and they became engaged. He returned to America just before she got her post here. She has not heard from him since. She gave the impression that she doesn’t much expect she ever will.”

  “He returned home two years ago?” Virtue repeated thoughtfully. “She’s never been there herself? She doesn’t much expect she’ll ever hear from him? I don’t get it.”

  “Mr Virtue,” interposed the Major, “have you ever been in England before?”

  “No. It’s my first trip.”

  “Had you any special reason for taking a stroll last night?”

  “I just thought I would have a walk round.”

  “Do I understand you to say that it was ten o’clock precisely when you were outside the Kayne library, looking through the window?”

  Virtue did not answer for a moment or two. He looked steadily at the Major, steadily and thoughtfully. He said presently:

  “I get that anyway. You mean you think I faked the yarn to give myself an alibi for the murder? It was ten when the shooting happened, wasn’t it? Anyway that’s what they were saying here.”

  “Shots were heard at ten exactly according to our information,” the Major answered with professional caution.

  The young American took out his handkerchief. He was paler even than before, his mouth twitched nervously. He wiped his forehead on which a slight perspiration had gathered. He said slowly:

  “Looks like I’ve gotten myself into a bad jam. Didn’t expect my first European trip to finish in a British hanging party. Only why should I want to shoot up a man I’ve never even seen, never heard of till a few days ago?”

  “We’re concerned with facts, not with motives,” the Major answered. “Mr. Virtue. You tell us an extraordinary story. It presents features we find it difficult to accept. If we find we can accept it, no doubt it gives you a satisfactory alibi. If we are finally unable to do so, we shall have to ask ourselves what purpose you may have had in putting it forward. If there is anything else you care to say—anything to explain your visit here, your interest in the library, this photograph, we shall be happy to listen.”

  “I can’t explain the photograph,” Virtue said. “There’s something behind that. I don’t know what; I can’t even guess. I suggest Miss Perkins should be asked some more questions. About my trip over here. I told you I was in business in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It’s a furniture factory. Virtue furniture is pretty well known. ‘Virtue in name, Virtue in nature,’ is our slogan. You’ll see it plenty places over home; magazines, newspapers, so on. It mayn’t mean much, but it pulls. We have a standing paragraph, too, we bring out every so often. About virtue coming from the Latin, and meaning strength, and strength was what the old Romans stood for, and so does our furniture stand for it to-day, and about how the old Roman Empire lasted a thousand years and our furniture lasts longer than that. I tell you, honest, our publicity has taught the American people more Roman history than all the colleg
e professors put together in a row. It’s been a grand line of talk to hand out.”

  “Is it your own business?” asked the Major.

  “Gosh, no, I’m just one of the executives. The family hold all the units between them, though. We’re incorporated on a unit basis. I hold fifty myself. There are five thousand units in all. We value them at about a hundred dollars each. I suppose in time I’m likely to inherit some more.”

  “Who had the direction of the business?”

  “Well, of course, there’s a board of executives, but there’s the trustees on top. They’re the real bosses, if it comes to a show down. Things are a bit difficult because a cousin of mine disappeared on a trip to Europe more than ten years ago. He held most units but he never interfered much or took much interest. Books were his line, crazy on them, spent all his money collecting.”

  “Books? He collected books?”

  “He did so. Give him some worm-eaten old book and he’d pass up woman, wine, and song without turning a hair. And he liked them all right too, but different someway, not like books. He did a lot with old Mr. Kayne. Mr. Kayne got James A. Junior—that’s my cousin, the one who disappeared—a complete set of first editions of John Smith’s works.”

  “John Smith?” asked the Major, who had not known there was an author of that popular and familiar name.

  “Yes, Captain John Smith—you know, one of the founders of Virginia, president at one time. Princess Pocahontas saved his life. You remember the story? Spoils it a bit that she married someone called Rolfe instead. We claim to be descended from her through the Randolph family; and if we can’t prove it true, no one can prove it isn’t, so it gets by. Result is we’re very keen on the John Smith legend, and James A. was mighty pleased when old Mr. Kayne got him first editions of all John Smith’s books—and what’s more, each blessed one of them with the autograph of a famous person to show it had belonged to him at one time. Your Lord Falkland, the Duke of Buckingham—the one Felton outed—Lord Shaftesbury of the letters, and the prize one of the lot, Nell Gwynne. Made a unique set and worth a lot—and I tell you, James A. paid top figures, too.”