The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “Did he say anything to you?” the inspector asked.

  “Yes. He used most horrible language, and more than once he said: ‘Let go, you fool. The man who did it has got away.’”

  “That might possibly be true,” I interposed, “for, just before I heard this lady call for help, a man passed me at a little distance, running so hard that I was half inclined to follow him.”

  “Did you see what he was like?” the inspector demanded eagerly.

  “No. I hardly saw him at all. He passed me at a distance of about thirty yards and was gone in an instant. Then I heard this lady call out and, of course, ran towards her.”

  “Yes,” said the inspector, naturally. “But it’s a pity you didn’t see what the man was like.” Then, once more addressing the lady, he asked: “Did this man stab you without warning, Miss—”

  “Blake is my name,” she replied. “No. He threatened several times to “knife” me if I didn’t let go. At last he managed to get his left hand free. I think he was holding something in it, but he must have dropped it, whatever it was, for the next moment I saw him draw a knife from under his coat. Then I got hold of his arm again, and that is probably the reason that he wounded me so slightly. But when he stabbed me I suddenly went quite faint and fell down, and then he escaped.”

  “He held the knife in his left hand, then?” the inspector asked. “You are sure of that?”

  “Quite sure. Of course it happened to be the free hand, but—”

  “But if he had been a right-handed man he would probably have got his right hand free. Did you see which side he carried his knife?”

  “Yes. He drew it from under his coat on the left side.”

  “Can you give us any description of the man?”

  “I am afraid I can’t. I am sure I should recognise him if I were to see him again, but I can’t describe him. It was all very confused, and, of course, it was very dark. I should say that he was a smallish man, rather slightly built. He wore a cloth cap and his hair seemed rather short but bushy. He had a thin face, with a very peculiar expression—but, of course, he was extremely excited and furious—and large, staring eyes, and a rather pronounced, curved nose.”

  “Oh, come,” said the inspector approvingly, “that isn’t such a bad description. Can you say whether he was dark or fair, clean shaved or bearded?”

  “He was clean shaved, and I should say decidedly dark.”

  “And how was he dressed?”

  “He wore a cloth cap, and, I think, a tweed suit. Oh, and he wore gloves—thin, smooth gloves—very thin kid, I should say—”

  “Gloves!” exclaimed the inspector. “Then the fingerprints must be the other man’s. Are you sure he had gloves on both hands?”

  “Yes, perfectly sure. I saw them and felt them.”

  “Well,” said the inspector, “this is a facer. It looks as if the other man had really done the job while this fellow kept watch outside. It’s a mysterious affair altogether. There’s the extraordinary time they chose to break into the house. Eight o’clock in the evening. It would almost seem as if they had known about Mr. Drayton’s movements.”

  “They must have done,” said the housekeeper. “Mr. Drayton went out regularly every evening a little after seven. He went down to the village to play chess at the club, and he usually came back between half-past nine and ten. And I generally sat and worked in the kitchen on the other side of the house from the museum.”

  “And did he take no sort of precautions against robbery?”

  “He used to lock the museum when he went out. That was all. He was not at all a nervous man, and he used to say that there was no danger of robbery because the things in the museum were not the kind of things that burglars go for. They wouldn’t be of any value to melt or sell.”

  “We must just look over the museum presently and see what the collection consists of,” said the inspector. “And we must see how they got in and what they have taken. I suppose there is a catalogue?”

  “No, there isn’t,” replied the housekeeper. “I did suggest to Mr. Drayton that he ought to draw up a list of the things, but he said it was not a public collection, and as he knew all the specimens himself, there was no need to number them or keep a catalogue.”

  “That is unfortunate,” said the inspector. “We shan’t be able to find out what is missing or circulate any descriptions unless you can remember what was in the cabinets. By the way, did Mr. Drayton ever show his collection to visitors other than his personal friends?”

  “Occasionally. After the Connoisseur article that Miss Blake was speaking of, two or three strangers wrote to Mr. Drayton asking to be allowed to see the jewellery, and he invited them to come and showed them everything.”

  “Did Mr. Drayton keep a visitors’ book, or record of any kind?”

  “No. I don’t remember any of the visitors, excepting a Mr. Halliburton, who wrote from the Baltic Hotel in the Marylebone Road. I remember him because Mr. Drayton was so annoyed about him. He put himself to great inconvenience to meet Mr. Halliburton and show him the jewellery that he had asked to see, and then, he told me, when he came, it was quite obvious that he didn’t know anything at all about jewellery, either ancient or modern. He must have come just from idle curiosity.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said the inspector. “Looks a bit suspicious. We shall have to make some inquiries at the Baltic. And now we had better go and have a look at the museum, and perhaps, doctor, you would like to make a preliminary examination of the body before it is moved.”

  On this we all rose, and the inspector was just moving towards the hall when there came a sharp sound of knocking at the outer door, followed by a loud peal of the bell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sir Lawrence Declares a Vendetta

  At the first stroke of the knocker we all stood stock still, and so remained until the harsh jangling of the bell gradually died away. There was nothing abnormal in either sound, but I suppose we were all somewhat overstrung, for there seemed in the clamorous summons, which shattered the silence so abruptly, something ominous and threatening. Especially did this appear in the case of the housekeeper, who threw up her hands and whimpered audibly.

  “Dear Lord!” she ejaculated. “It is Sir Lawrence—his brother! I know his knock. Who is to tell him?”

  As no one answered, she crept reluctantly across the room, murmuring and shaking her head, and went out into the hall. I heard the door open and caught the sound of voices, though not very distinctly. Then the housekeeper re-entered the room quickly, and a man who was following her said in a brisk, somewhat bantering tone:

  “You are very mysterious, Mrs. Benham.” The next moment the speaker came into view; and instantly he stopped dead and stood staring into the room with a frown of stern surprise.

  “What the devil is this?” he demanded, glaring first at the two officers and then at me. “What is going on, Anstey?”

  For a few moments I was tongue-tied. But an appealing glance from the housekeeper seemed to put the duty on me.

  “A dreadful thing has happened, Drayton,” I replied. “The house has been broken into and your brother has been killed.”

  Sir Lawrence turned deathly pale and his face set hard and rigid, until it seemed the very counterpart of that white, set face that I had looked on but a few minutes age. For a while he stared at me frowningly, neither moving nor uttering a word. Then he asked gruffly: “Where is he?”

  “He is lying where he fell, in the museum,” I replied.

  On this he turned abruptly and walked out of the room. I heard him pass quickly down the corridor and then I heard the museum door shut. We all looked at one another uncomfortably, but no one spoke. The housekeeper sobbed almost inaudibly and now and again uttered a low moan. Miss Blake wept silently, and the two officers and the doctor stood looking gloomily at the floor.

  Presently Sir Lawrence came back. He was still very pale. But though his eyes were red, and indeed were still humid, there was
no softness of grief in his face. With its clenched jaw and frowning brows, it was grim and stern and inexorable as Fate.

  “Tell me,” he said, in a quiet voice, looking from me to the inspector, “exactly how this happened.”

  “I don’t think any one knows yet,” I replied. “This lady, Miss Blake, is the only person who saw the murderer. She tried to detain him and held on to him until he stabbed her.”

  “Stabbed her!” he exclaimed, casting a glance of intense apprehension at the recumbent figure on the sofa and stepping softly across the room.

  “I am not really hurt,” Miss Blake hastened to assure him. “It is only quite a trifling wound.”

  He bent over her with a strange softening of the grim face, touching her hand with his and tenderly adjusting the rug that the housekeeper had spread over her.

  “I pray to God that it is as you say,” he replied. Then, turning to me, he asked: “Has this brave young lady been properly attended to?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “The doctor here—Dr—”

  “Nichols,” said the medicus. “I have examined the wound thoroughly and dressed it, and I think I can assure you that no danger is to be apprehended from it. But, having regard to the shock she has sustained, I think she ought to be got home as soon as possible.”

  “Yes,” Sir Lawrence agreed, “and if she is fit to be moved, I will convey her to her home. My car is waiting in the road. And I will ask you. Anstey, to come with me, if you can.”

  Of course I assented, and he continued, addressing the inspector:

  “When I have taken this lady home I shall go straight to Dr Thorndyke and ask him to assist the police in investigating this crime. Probably he will return here with me at once, and I will ask you to see that nothing—not even the body—is disturbed until he has made his inspection.”

  At this the officer looked a little dubious, but he answered courteously enough: “So far as I am concerned. Sir Lawrence, your wishes shall certainly be attended to. But I notified Scotland Yard before I came on here, and this case will probably be dealt with by the Criminal Investigation Department, and, of course, I can enter into no undertakings on their behalf.”

  “No,” Sir Lawrence rejoined, “of course you can’t. I will deal with the Scotland Yard people myself. And now we had better start. Is Miss Blake able to walk to the car, Doctor? It is only a few yards to the road.”

  “I am quite able to walk,” said Miss Blake; and as Dr Nichols assented, we assisted her to rise, and Sir Lawrence carefully wrapped her in the rug that Mrs. Benham had thrown over her. Then I picked up the shawl, and tucking it under my arm, followed her as she walked slowly out supported by Sir Lawrence.

  At the garden gate we turned to the left, and passing along the path, came very shortly to a road on which two cars were standing, a large closed car, which I recognised as Sir Lawrence’s, and a smaller one, presumably Dr Nichols.’ Into the former Miss Blake was assisted, and when the carriage rug had been wrapped around her, I entered and took the opposite seat.

  “What address shall I tell the driver, Miss Blake?” Sir Lawrence asked.

  “Sixty-three Jacob Street, Hampstead Road,” she replied; and then, as neither the driver nor either of us could locate the street, she added: “It is two or three turnings past Mornington Crescent on the same side of the road.”

  Having given this direction to the driver, Sir Lawrence entered and took the vacant seat and the car moved off smoothly, silently, and with unperceived swiftness.

  During the journey hardly a word was spoken. The darkness of the heath gave place to the passing lights of the streets, the rural quiet to the clamour of traffic. In a few minutes, as it seemed, we were at the wide crossing by the Mother Red-Cap, and in a few more were turning into a narrow, dingy, and rather sordid by-street. Up this the car travelled slowly as the driver threw the light of a powerful lamp on the shabby doors, and at length drew up opposite a wide, wooden gate on which the number sixty-three was exhibited in large brass figures. I got out of the car and approached the gate in no little surprise, for its appearance and the paved truckway that led through it suggested the entrance to a factory or builders yard. However, there was no doubt that it was the right house, for the evidence of the number was confirmed by a small brass plate at the side, legibly inscribed “Miss Blake” and surmounted by a bell-pull. At the latter I gave a vigorous tug and was immediately aware of the far-away jangling of a large bell, which sounded as if it were ringing in an open yard.

  In a few moments I detected quick footsteps which seemed to be approaching along a paved passage; then a wicket in the gate opened and a boy of about twelve looked out.

  “Whom did you want, please?” he asked in a pleasant, refined voice and with a courteous, self-possessed manner which “placed” him instantly in a social sense. Before I had time to reply, he had looked past me and observed Miss Blake, who, having been helped out of the car, was now approaching the gate; on which he sprang through the wicket and ran to meet her.

  “You needn’t be alarmed, Percy,” she said in a cheerful voice. “I have had a little accident and these gentlemen have very kindly brought me home. But it is nothing to worry about.”

  “You look awfully white and tired, Winnie,” he replied; and then, addressing me, he asked: “Is my sister hurt much, sir?”

  “No,” I answered. “The doctor who attended to her thought that she would soon be quite well again, and I hope she will. Is there anything that we can do for you, Miss Blake?”

  “Thank you, no,” she replied. “My brother and a friend will look after me now, but I can’t thank you enough for all your kindness.”

  “It is I,” said Sir Lawrence, “who am in your debt—deeply in your debt. And I do pray that you may suffer no ill consequences from your heroism. But we mustn’t keep you standing here. Goodbye, dear Miss Blake, and God bless you.”

  He shook her hand warmly and her brother’s with old-fashioned courtesy. I handed the boy the folded shawl, and having shaken hands with both, followed my friend to the car.

  “Do you think Thorndyke will be at home?” he asked as the car turned round and returned to the Hampstead Road.

  “I expect so,” I replied. “But I don’t suppose there will be very much for him to do. There were plenty of fingerprints in evidence. I should think the police will be able to trace the man without difficulty.”

  “Police be damned!” he retorted gruffly. “I want Thorndyke. And as to fingerprints, weren’t you the leading counsel in that Hornby case?”

  “Yes, but that was exceptional. You can’t assume—”

  “That case,” he interrupted, “knocked the bottom out of fingerprint evidence. And these fingerprints may not be on the files at the registry, and if they are not, the police have no clue to this man’s identity, and are not likely to get any.”

  It seemed to me that he was hardly doing the police justice, but there was no use in discussing the matter, as we were, in fact, going to put the case in Thorndyke’s hands. I accordingly gave a colourless assent, and for the rest of the short journey we sat in silence, each busy with his own reflections.

  At length the car drew up at the Inner Temple gate. Drayton sprang out, and signing to the driver to wait, passed through the wicket and strode swiftly down the narrow lane. As we came out at the end of Crown Office Row, he looked eagerly across at King’s Bench Walk.

  “There’s a light in Thorndyke’s chambers,” he said, and quickening his pace almost to a run, he crossed the wide space, and plunging into the entry of number 5A, ascended the stairs two at a time. I followed, not without effort, and as I reached the landing the door opened in response to his peremptory knock and Thorndyke appeared in the opening.

  “My dear Drayton!” he exclaimed, “you really ought not, at your age—” he stopped short, and looking anxiously at our friend, asked: “Is anything amiss?”

  “Yes,” Drayton replied quietly, though breathlessly. “My brother Andrew—you remember him, I exp
ect—has been murdered by some accursed housebreaker. He is lying on the floor of his room now. I told them to leave him there until you had seen him. Can you come?”

  “I will come with you immediately,” was the reply; and as with grave face and quick but unhurried movements, he made the necessary preparations, I noticed that—characteristically—he asked no questions, but concentrated his attention on providing for all contingencies. He had laid a small, green, canvas-covered case upon the table, and opening it, was making a rapid inspection of the apparatus that it contained, when suddenly I bethought me of the pieces of glass in my pocket.

  “Before we start,” said I, “I had better give you these. The fingerprints on them are almost certainly those of the murderer.” As I spoke, I carefully unwrapped the two pieces of glass and handed them to Thorndyke, who took them from me, holding them daintily by their edges, and scrutinising them closely.

  “I am glad you brought these, Anstey,” he said. “They make us to some extent independent of the police. Do they know you have them?”

  “No,” I replied. “I took possession of them before the police arrived.”

  “Then, in that case,” said he “it will be as well to say nothing about them.” He held the pieces of glass up against the light, examining them closely and comparing them, first with the naked eye and then with the aid of a lens. Finally he lifted the microscope from its shelf, and placing it on the table, laid one of the pieces of glass on the stage and examined it through the instrument. His inspection occupied only a few seconds, then he rose, and turning to Drayton, who had been watching him eagerly, said: “It may be highly important for us to have these fingerprints with us. But we can’t produce the originals before the police, and besides, they are too valuable to carry about at the risk of spoiling them. But I could make rough, temporary photographs of them in five minutes if you will consent to the delay.”

  “I am in your hands, Thorndyke,” replied Drayton. “Do whatever you think is necessary.”

  “Then let us go to the laboratory at once,” said Thorndyke; and taking the two pieces of glass, he led the way across the landing and up the stairs to the upper floor on which the laboratory and workshop were situated. And as we went, I could not but appreciate Thorndyke’s tact and sympathy in taking Drayton up with him, so that the tedium of delay might be relieved by the sense of purposeful action.