Comes a Stranger

by E. R. Punshon

  “At any rate, I wouldn’t say it to anyone else,” remarked Bobby dryly. “It’s not wise to throw around accusations like that.”

  “That’s the way the London lawyer talked,” Virtue said. “All the same, now I know the Dictes is the one belonging to James A., I want that library searched. I want it gone over from roof to cellar. I’ve been in that cellar. It’s lined with packing cases. Parts of it have been concreted—to keep out rats. I asked about that. First they tried to poison them with putting down strychnine because the concrete wasn’t any good. Maybe it wasn’t for rats, maybe it was for—for something else.”

  “It will be for the chief constable to decide,” Bobby repeated. “You may be sure you statement will receive full investigation. Let us have it as early as possible. You know the inquests on both Mr. Nat Kayne and Sir William Winders are to-morrow? They will only be formal, won’t take more than a few minutes, but it all means a good deal of work and time taken up. So the earlier we get your statement the more chance there will be to consider it at once.”

  Virtue promised to have it ready first thing in the morning and in fact by nine o’clock it was in the hands of Major Harley, who read it with a frowning brow and then sent for Bobby to question him about some of the details.

  “Broast will have to be questioned, that’s clear,” he said. “If this book can be identified, and apparently it can be—” He paused, frowned. “Do you think the identification satisfactory, Owen?” he asked. “There seems no proof on the face of it when these pricks were made.”

  “No, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I thought of that, and if Virtue is in touch with Miss Perkins, he may have induced her to make them and he may have got the description he talks about from her.”

  The Major nodded.

  “That’ll have to be gone into,” he said. “We’ll see what Broast has to say first. Busy day ahead. One thing, the Perkins girl is such a little fool that even if Virtue has been getting at her, I don’t suppose there’ll be much trouble in inducing her to tell the truth. She’ll soon be contradicting herself, and then we’ll get it all. Virtue’s a good-looking youngster, got a way with him, too. Sex appeal,” said the Major suddenly; “the Perkins girl would most likely do anything for any good-looker in trousers. But she’ll soon break down if she’s questioned.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bobby mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere.

  “I don’t know,” the Major went on, “that I much like Virtue’s story. It’s such a mixture of simplicity and—well, not simplicity.”

  “I feel that, too, sir,” agreed Bobby. “But he is quite a youngster; it’s all a bit like how an imaginative schoolboy would act. Of course, there’s the alternative and he’s guilty; but there’s no doubt, I think, that he really believes his cousin was murdered.”

  “If he does, it may be he shot Winders in revenge because, as he says, he didn’t mean them to get away with it, and he thought Winders was responsible. But why Kayne?”

  “Well, sir, I have thought it possible Kayne was mistaken for Winders. Winders often walked through the wood to the Lodge. Kayne never did. And they were much about the same build and height, and it was dark as well.”

  “That would mean,” mused the Major, “that Virtue invented the yarn he told, so as to give himself an alibi. A good deal will depend on the result of this trespass on private property you’ve talked me into.” He added gloomily: “What it comes to is that instead of solving the two cases we have on hand, we’ve got a third to deal with.”

  Killick was present by now, having been called into consultation as soon as he arrived. He had been listening in silence so far, and now he said:

  “Begins to look to me more like Broast, as if Broast got away with murder once when he did in this American gentleman and so he thought he could again, Kayne and Winders, too. It may be if Winders knew too much, Kayne was mistaken for him that night. That made it all the more necessary to get rid of Winders, too, right away, quick, especially if Winders suspected where the pistol might be hidden. First thing is to see if we can find any trace of the missing American’s body.”

  “Yes,” the Major said, “if we find any trace of another hidden body, well, then, we shall be able to go ahead. That, and the Dictes, if identified, would be enough to act on.” He paused and picked up another paper from the table. “There’s a report in from London,” he said. “I asked them to try and check up on Broast’s movements. Well, he was at the Piccadilly book shop all right. We knew that before, of course. But the report says an elderly gentleman answering to Broast’s description was seen on two of the Thames bridges, scattering bits of paper. He was also seen on the Embankment, apparently tearing up a small book. It was noticed, because it seemed peculiar, but of course nothing was said, people can tear up books if they want to, and there’s no particular harm in throwing a few handfuls of torn up paper into the river. Only—well, there you are. The Trial Tennyson was only a small book.”

  “That’s what he had just paid £100 for?” asked Killick, and when the Major nodded, Killick said: “Well, he wouldn’t be tearing that up, would he? not if he had just paid a cool hundred for it.”

  “Unless,” put in Bobby, “it was a fake, as Adams said, and Broast wanted to prevent that being known.”

  “What for?” asked Killick. “A cool hundred,” he pointed out.

  “I thought of that, too,” observed the Major. “There seems to be a lot about fakes and forgeries in the case, only never in the Kayne library itself, always somewhere else.”

  “There’s a paragraph in the paper this morning,” Bobby remarked slowly, for he thought there was a significance in it that he felt he had not as yet fully grasped. “It says the first edition of the Christmas Carol, presented by Dickens to Carlyle, with a further inscription by Carlyle when he handed it on to someone else, fetched £600 at auction in London yesterday.”

  “Almost as good as winning a football pool prize, a book like that,” observed Killick enviously.

  “I suppose,” the Major remarked, “you mean, Owen, those two inscriptions increased the value of the book tremendously?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bobby.

  “A thing to remember,” agreed Major Harley.

  “Six hundred pounds,” said Killick, “for a book. These collectors—make you ready to believe anything of them.”

  “Broast will have to be questioned, that’s clear,” Major Harley repeated, and later on, therefore, after the brief, formal inquest proceedings were over, Major Harley and Bobby presented themselves at the Lodge. Briggs admitted them, and learning their errand handed them over to Miss Perkins, who greeted them with her accustomed giggle.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid Mr. Broast’s awfully busy—he’s so good-tempered to-day, and he always is when he is Really Busy. If he isn’t, you hardly dare go near him.”

  “I’m afraid we must ask you to interrupt him,” the Major answered. “Police business can’t wait, you know.”

  “Oh, is it about all these Dreadful things?” asked Miss Perkins. “They are so Awful, aren’t they? I can hardly Sleep thinking about them, and perhaps there’ll be someone else next, because you never know, do you? Not when it’s once begun.”

  With that she retired into the library to announce their arrival, and soon returned to say Mr. Broast would be delighted to see them. He did, in fact, receive them very amiably, and with a touch of old-world courtesy that went well with his white hair, his thin, ascetic features, his tall though now stooping form. Bobby found himself thinking again that in his youth Mr. Broast must have been singularly handsome.

  “I suppose,” he said, greeting them, “it is too much to hope that you have discovered anything fresh about these most distressing events?”

  “A statement has been made to us we are obliged to verify,” the Major explained. “We have been given information that a valuable book now in this library, the Dictes, one of the first actually printed by Caxton, I am told, and of considerable pe
cuniary value, was formerly the property of a Mr. James A. Virtue. Mr. Virtue, an American citizen, was on a trip to this country, and it is established that he disappeared in a manner at present unexplained. What happened to him is unknown. If the book I spoke of can be identified with that known to have been in his possession when he disappeared, it may provide some clue to what happened.”

  Mr. Broast had listened with apparent surprise, and he waited a moment or two before answering.

  “I remember corresponding with a Mr. Virtue, somewhere in Michigan he lived, I believe,” he said, then: “I remember he visited the library here once or twice, you will probably find his name in the visitors book. I think, too, I had a letter asking if I could give his present address. That was some time ago, and naturally I had no idea where he was. I don’t remember him personally. There are so many visitors here—curiosity-mongers, tourists, cranks who think any incunabula must be worth hundreds of pounds. No, I can’t say I remember him very clearly, and I don’t know why you think our Dictes—a very fine copy—ever belonged to him. May I ask why you think that?”

  “Our information,” said Major Harley, “is that when Mr. Virtue first got the book, he put his initials in it.”

  Mr. Broast stared unbelievingly. He rose to his feet, his stoop gone, his eyes alight with indignation.

  “His initials. In a mint Dictes? His initials? Like a schoolboy scribbling in his first reading book? I don’t believe it.” He flung out his hand. “Impossible,” he said, “no man could be guilty of such a crime.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  DISCOVERY

  Major Harley blinked and made no reply. He was a trifle disconcerted by the vehemence with which Mr. Broast spoke. Bobby, watching him closely, did not speak either. Upright, indignant, with flushed cheeks and angry eyes, the librarian stood, quite still, one hand outstretched. He said again:

  “Incredible, utterly incredible. But I will look. If what you tell me is the fact—” He paused. He spoke slowly and deliberately. He said: “I shall use my utmost endeavour to let it be known as widely as possible. The world shall know. Scribble your initials in a mint Caxton, a Dictes. Inconceivable. Besides, I should certainly have noticed such an outrage.”

  “Well, not scribbled exactly,” Major Harley said. “Our information is that the initials were pricked out with a pin on the last page. I understand they can only be seen if the book is held up to the light.”

  “Extraordinary,” said Mr. Broast. “At any rate, that does show a glimmer of decent feeling. Bad enough, though.”

  He moved away and opened with a key a book-case at a little distance. From one of the shelves he took down the famous Dictes. Handling it as a mother might her first-born, he brought it back with him. He opened it and held it up to the light. The pin pricks showed clearly. Mr. Broast put the book down, and, still standing, spoke gravely to his two visitors.

  “Imagine it,” he said, one hand caressing the volume with light, loving fingers. “Handled by Caxton himself. Drawn from the press nearly five hundred years ago, among the first of all printed books to be produced in England, the first spark, as it were, that lighted the great blaze of our knowledge of to-day, the first thrust forward into the full daylight from out of the blackness of the medieval ignorance, the first child of the wisdom of man. There it is for our reverence and our wonder, and it falls into the hands of a man who can think of nothing but to stick in it his own beastly, trivial initials. We must be thankful he did no worse thing, but to think that such people exist! It’s—it’s bewildering,” said Mr. Broast, deeply moved. “It’s beyond words.”

  “Yes, most distressing,” said the Major briskly, “but our present job is to trace the book. It may help us to find out what became of Mr. Virtue?”

  “Does it matter,” asked Mr. Broast, “what became of such a man?”

  He moved away to close the doors of the book-case he had left open. The Major leaned across to Bobby and said in a whisper:

  “Well, you know, he’s really upset. You can’t think a man like that could be guilty of deliberate murder, can you?”

  Bobby made no answer, for he knew well what may issue from the obscure and tangled mind of man. Mr. Broast came back to the desk. He said:

  “Of course, if I can assist you in any way, if you really conceive it your duty—”

  “Our job,” said the Major. “What we are paid for. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting us know how the book came into your possession.”

  “From Dessein Frères, a Grenoble firm, very well known people,” explained Mr. Broast. “They wrote to me about it. They knew I had a copy if the Four Sons of Aymon in a unique fourteenth century MS. they were anxious to secure for an important client of theirs. They suggested a part exchange. In the end I had to give them both that and a fine early Rabelais—a hard bargain, but the Dictes, a mint Dictes, such an opportunity might never occur again. You agree I was justified?”

  “I am sure I shouldn’t dream of questioning your judgment,” said the Major politely. “Did Messrs. Dessein explain how they got the Dictes?”

  “I think they said they purchased it from the widow of an American who had died in a Marseilles hospital. I forget the exact circumstances. They were not my affair. Dessein Frères was a well known firm, responsible people. When old Monsieur Dessein died the business was sold, but I’ve no doubt the records were still kept. You can see the correspondence that passed between us at the time if you like. I keep the files in the cellar. If you wish, I can get them for you. We try to be business-like, you know,” he added smilingly, “and I flatter myself I can find any letter, written since I took control, within five minutes.”

  The Major said that was very commendable indeed, and most business-like, and then they all descended to the cellar, where the old fifteenth century printing press stood. From one of the packing case, after a certain amount of rummaging, Mr. Broast produced the required file. They took it upstairs, and there the Major and Bobby went through it carefully while Mr. Broast continued tranquilly with his task of examining and collating a batch of catalogues that had arrived by the morning post.

  The story told by the letters seemed quite plain and straightforward. A woman had visited Messrs. Dessein’s establishment in Grenoble and had offered them the Dictes for sale. Evidently she had only a vague idea of its value, for the sum she asked was quite modest. She explained that she was the widow of an American who had just died in a Marseilles hospital. On inquiry, the hospital confirmed this. The American had been taken ill at an hotel in a small village between Toulon and Marseilles. On his illness developing seriously he had been removed to hospital, and there had died. At the hotel he had registered himself and his companion as Mr. and Mrs. James A. Vivian, Chicago, U.S.A., and on his death his possessions had been handed over to Mrs. Vivian, who was presumably entitled to them. As the lady’s claim to ownership of the book seemed clear—and possibly because it was highly valuable and offered at a very low price—Messrs. Dussein purchased. Mr. Vivian, before losing consciousness, asked that his possessions should be handed over to Mrs. Vivian, and signed a receipt for them. She had used the money left in his baggage at the hotel to pay the bill. He had, too, spoken of a book she would know what to do with, and he had always referred to her as ‘ma femme’. After his death and the funeral, Mrs. Vivian announced her intention of returning to Chicago to communicate with his family and to settle up his affairs. With that she had gone on her way, and it was only accidentally that reference was made in the letters to the fact that the money found in Mr. Vivian’s baggage amounted to a fairly substantial sum, so that there was a good deal left even after payment of all expenses.

  “Are you satisfied?” Mr. Broast asked smilingly, when at last the reading and the consideration of the letters had been completed.

  He made no objection to Major Harley taking the file of correspondence away with him, though he refused absolutely, and even with heat, to allow the Dictes to pass out of his possession.

  “Libr
ary property,” he said firmly; “I am responsible for its safe keeping. If you want to remove it, you will have to get an order from the Courts, and I tell you frankly I should fight it to the last. If I let it out of my charge,” he added with some bitterness, “it might come back with more scribbling in it. I don’t propose to risk that.”

  He seemed, too, quite unperturbed by a suggestion that the statements made in the correspondence would require to be investigated.

  “I confess I never thought that necessary,” he said. “Dessein knew what he was about. The man was certainly dead—there was a statement from the proper officials to prove that. He had described the woman as his wife, he has asked for his property to be handed over to her and it was actually in her possession. Everything quite in order. I had no reason to investigate, as you say. If you see any cause to do so, I suppose you know your duty.”

  Bobby had been talking in a low tone to the Major. The Major nodded assent. Bobby said:

  “There are just one or two questions, Mr. Broast, we should like to ask if you wouldn’t mind answering them. When this book was first offered you, did you recognize it as the one Mr. Virtue had shown Sir William Winders and yourself?”

  “When it was offered me,” Mr. Broast answered slowly, “it was by letter. I bought on the strength of Monsieur Dessein’s description. I was aware I could trust it. When the book reached me I saw his account of it as an unusually fine copy was fully justified. I had no reason to suppose it was identical with the one Mr. Virtue had shown us. Why should I? Mr. Virtue’s copy indeed I had no opportunity to examine with any care. I do not remember that such a possibility ever occurred to me.”