But Betty shook her head.
“I put it in my drawer,” she said. “When I went to look, it wasn’t there any more. Someone had taken it, and left instead half a sheet of note-paper just like it, and folded just the same, only with nothing on. I think it must have been the man you saw climbing in at our sitting-room window, only I can’t think how he knew where it was, or how he got into my room without our knowing.”
Bobby looked at her more despairingly than ever.
“I suppose you two innocents never heard of such a thing as vanishing ink—only vanishing cream,” he said at last. “And I suppose you don’t know what became of that half sheet of note-paper, folded the same way but with nothing on it?”
“I showed it mother,” Betty answered. “I thought perhaps she had taken the letter. She didn’t know anything about it. I don’t know what became of the paper. I think, perhaps, mother used it for the laundry list or something.”
“I expect she did, especially something,” agreed Bobby, resignedly this time. “Did you show the letter to anyone?”
“To me,” interposed Claymore. “It was I who stopped her from giving it you. I told her not to. I said she mustn’t. I couldn’t stand thinking what it would mean—a trial and the liar who wrote the letter coming forward to make sure she was found guilty. I was nearly off my head. How could I let her? Would you?”
Bobby did not attempt to answer this question. Instead he said to Betty:
“Now I want to ask you about something else. I think you went to the sale at Nonpareil some time ago, and I want you to tell me all about it.”
“About the picture I saw there?” Betty asked. “I don’t know anything about it or what became of it. Mr. Frank Hardman came about it once or twice, and at first I don’t think he believed me when I said I hadn’t got it, and I didn’t know who had, but I think he did afterwards. Anyhow, he stopped coming, at least till that time Len ran after him. I don’t know if it was because of that he came back again.”
“Tell me about it,” Bobby repeated.
“The sale was in my holidays,” Betty explained, “so I was able to go on the view day. I thought I would like to see the things, and I thought if there was anything going cheap we wanted I would buy it, but there wasn’t. In one of the attics there was a picture painted on wood. I only noticed it because it was standing against the wall and my frock caught on it and it fell over. It was most awfully dirty and dusty, all cobwebs and things, and it fell on some dirty straw packing that made it worse. So I dusted it a little, and where it wasn’t too dirty it looked so nice I thought perhaps I would buy it if it went cheap.”
“What was it like?” Bobby asked.
“There were buildings and water and there was rain and sunshine, and it all sort of glowed—at least it did what you could see, only it was all over dirt and cobwebs and things. It made you catch your breath, somehow, what you could see, as if you had never known before what light was. Mr. Frank Hardman saw me looking at it, and he looked, too. I didn’t know who he was then, only afterwards, when he came to the bungalow. He said it was nice, only spoilt by being so dirty, he didn’t seem much interested. He said all the dirt and stuff ruined it and he went away. I looked in the catalogue I had and it was in a lot with all sorts of other things.”
“What were they?” Bobby asked.
“There was a tin bath they had all been put in to keep them together. There were some books and a box with shells on the lid and an old ink-stand and an engraving of ‘Bubbles.’ Mr. Hardman said he thought it much nicer than what I had been looking at; and so it was nice, too, only a different sort of nice. Mr. Hardman said anyhow it was clean. There was a Dutch oven too, I remember, and a hand mirror. I asked the auctioneer’s man if he thought I could buy the pictures separately, because I liked the ‘Bubbles’, too, but he said no, he said you had to buy lots as a whole, but of course what you didn’t want you needn’t take away. I said it was silly to buy things you didn’t want to get something you did, and I didn’t think I would. I went back to have another look, but it wasn’t there any more. The ‘Bubbles’ was, but not the other picture. Mr. Hardman was just going down the stairs and I told him, and he was very surprised, and he went to look, but he couldn’t find it either. We told the auctioneer’s man, and he said some of the people there were trying to pinch things, and he would tell them at the door to look out, and anyhow it wouldn’t be easy to go off with a wooden panel like we said without being noticed. And I remember Mr. Frank Hardman laughed, and said no one would be likely to try, and anyhow it wasn’t worth bothering with. But when he came afterwards I thought he believed somehow I might have managed to get hold of it, only that was silly, and I told him so, because I couldn’t, even if I had wanted to, and of course I wouldn’t. It would have been stealing.”
“So it would,” agreed Bobby absently, a little awestruck by this description of how a painting of such extreme value had been put with other odds and ends into a tin bath for sale.
“It was lovely,” Betty said again. “What you could see, I mean. It was as if light were caught in it and held, like in the sky after sunset. It made you feel the man who did it had been able, he too, to say ‘Let there be light’, and it was so.”
Claymore broke in impatiently, nervously.
“What’s it matter? What’s a picture got to do with it? Now you know, what are you going to do?”
“I’m wondering that myself,” Bobby said. “The picture Miss Betty saw is probably very valuable. But for it nothing of all this would have happened, most likely. It is why there have been two killings already, and why there may be more. It’s bedevilled the whole affair, so that we never know whether what’s happening is because there’s someone guilty trying to make himself safe or because there’s someone innocent trying to get hold of this picture. Quite legitimate in itself. But these attempts to find it provide the perfect camouflage for the actual murderers.”
“But I don’t know anything about it,” protested Betty. “I only saw it that once.”
“What’s it got to do with the man who got himself shot?” Claymore asked, still impatient, still highly nervous. “It was all his own fault. He had only himself to blame if he happened to get hit when Betty fired.”
“Oh, he didn’t,” Bobby said, and spoke with real concern. “I ought to have made that plain before. All the same, if you and Miss Anson have been through a bad time, it’s been your own fault for not coming forward to tell us what really happened. Miss Anson may put her mind at rest. It’s quite clear from the evidence that she killed no one. The actual killer is obviously whoever wrote the letter she got. As I said just now,” Bobby went on to Betty, “the idea was to make you believe yourself guilty, and then you would hold your tongue. That’s quite plain, and by itself is almost enough to clear you. Also the dead man was killed by two shots from a revolver, and it was clear that there had been only one shot fired on the Barsley footpath and that from an automatic—because there was only one cartridge case, and it is only automatics that throw out cartridges. They stay in the cylinder of a revolver. But we couldn’t be sure there might not be some link somewhere. Again, you fired when a man was running after you, and so it wasn’t very likely that you would shoot him twice in the back. The papers reported all that, or most of it. Don’t you ever read the papers?” he asked reproachfully.
“Oh, I couldn’t, not about that, it was too awful,” Betty said. She asked, “Do you mean it wasn’t me…?”
“I do,” Bobby assured her. “Your shot went high, I expect, as you meant, though most likely the fellow was badly scared, and let out a yell and dropped on his face to be safe in case you fired again. Then someone else shot him later in deadly earnest, taking advantage of what had happened before to get you to believe it was you had done it, and for goodness’ sake,” added Bobby in alarm, “don’t go and faint again.”
But Betty was not fainting, she was only crying as if she would never stop again. Nor was Claymore in much better case.
CHAPTER XXXI
SHOES
Young Leonard Claymore and Betty Anson had departed, chastened indeed by a further lecture given to them on the folly of attempted concealments, but at the same time so relieved that to them the world no longer seemed the same place.
“A brace of young idiots,” Bobby said of them tolerantly when they had gone, “but I suppose you can’t much wonder that they shirked telling a story they both believed would send the girl straight to the gallows.”
“I take it we can accept Miss Anson’s story as correct?” Payne asked, though still a trifle doubtfully.
“Oh, I think so,” Bobby answered. “It fits. It was always clear that if Hardman and our fellow, Reed, were correct in saying they had heard one shot, then that didn’t explain why there were two bullets in the dead man’s back. Of course, two shots fired in quick succession might have sounded to them like one, if they weren’t listening very carefully. Now we’ve the girl’s own story, and seen it fits, we can be sure the real murderer saw the opportunity the one shot she fired at random gave him to push suspicion on to her. That was a devilishly clever letter sent her. You can’t wonder it worked, and convinced her she was the killer. And if she thought so herself, why shouldn’t we?”
“There does seem quite a lot straightened out,” Payne agreed. “Only are we much nearer the truth? Where’s our evidence? Is it certain we are on the right track? And where’s the picture got to?”
“One question at a time,” retorted Bobby. “We are nearer the truth because we’ve reduced the field of the possibles by two—Claymore and Miss Anson. They are clearly out. It’s not certain we’re on the right track, because nothing’s ever certain till you know. Why, the Anson girl and her young man may be back in again before we know where we are. There’s nothing whatever to show what has become of the picture, but for the first time we have first-hand evidence that it does exist. Or did. Till now, there was nothing to prove it wasn’t merely imaginary—possibly a deliberate invention to put us off. Probably after Miss Anson found the picture, and while she was talking to the auctioneer’s man, young Hardman, who had recognized its value, took it and hid it away somewhere. He wouldn’t dare risk trying to walk off with it on view day. There would be a much better chance after the sale, when he could pretend to be a successful bidder taking away his purchase. He may even have hoped to get a chance to buy, though probably he was afraid of its value being recognized. But as he clearly didn’t succeed, or why the present hunt? Someone else, probably one of the auctioneer’s men clearing up, came across it, where it was hidden and moved it. What became of it after that is anybody’s guess. But something must have become known recently, and set in motion all this activity that has meant two killings so far—and may mean more to come. As to what we do next, we go round to the Central Hotel and have a look at anything Tails may have left there. We may pick up some hint and we are justified in calling him ‘missing’ now.”
The hotel was near by, facing St. Paul’s Square in the centre of the town. The hotel management knew nothing, had heard nothing. The London office of Mr. Tails’s firm had rung through to make inquiries, and seemed puzzled and anxious at his silence. No difficulty was made in allowing Bobby to see what few possessions had been left behind. But there was nothing to help. Only a little clothing, toilet articles, and so on. The management wasn’t sure there would be enough to pay the bill, but was reassured when Bobby told them Mr. Tails was a well-to-do man, partner in an established and responsible firm. In one corner Bobby noticed a pair of shoes evidently meant for city wear with their thin soles and narrow toes. These were the shoes, Bobby supposed, he remembered Tails was wearing when he had started on his long tramp to the railway station after the so regrettable and unjustifiable abduction of the taxi. Bobby looked at them thoughtfully. Had Tails brought two pairs of outdoor shoes for so brief a stay? If not, what was he wearing now? A tactful question or two elicited the fact that before Tails’s disappearance there had been delivered for him from a shop in Market Street a pair of stout walking shoes. Owing to the paper shortage they had been left with the hall porter unwrapped. He remembered the incident, and remembered having commented to another of the staff that they looked a good, stout pair. Bobby remarked, vaguely, that evidently Mr. Tails’s recent experience had taught him the benefit of strong shoes when on a walk, and then he asked the name of the shop. A little to Payne’s surprise he suggested calling there.
“If Tails was going for a walk,” Bobby said, “just possibly he may have said where, or asked the best way, or something like that.”
Payne didn’t think that very likely, nor did Bobby, but then you never know your luck. So they interviewed the assistant who had sold the shoes, and who remembered the transaction well, because his customer had tried to evade giving coupons for the shoes by suggesting that he might be allowed to hire them for a couple of days. This had been rejected, on the grounds of doubtful legality, backed by a serene assurance that in any case a sale would not be long delayed, since at present the difficulty was not in selling goods but in getting goods to satisfy eager customers. So the coupons had been reluctantly surrendered; and, though Mr. Tails had said nothing about any destination he had in view, he had remarked that he wanted a specially good and easy fit, as he had a long walk before him, nine miles there and back—a distance and a task he had spoken of as another might have spoken of walking from one end of the country to the other.
“Very interesting,” said Bobby, and thanked the assistant and departed. To Payne he said when they were in the street again: “What do you make of that? Why walk instead of taking a taxi or even a bicycle?”
“Fed up with taxis after what happened last time,” Payne suggested, and he may have never learned to use a bicycle—a bit too plebeian.”
“Or else he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going. How far is Nonpareil from the nearest train terminus?”
Payne considered.
“About nine miles, there and back,” he said, and looked enlightened. “And we know he’s been in touch with our unknown unseen friend who may be Lovey Doors, and who seems to be more or less making Nonpareil his headquarters.”
“That might mean,” observed Payne, wrinkling a thoughtful brow, “that he has this blessed picture, or knows where it is—and is going to hand it over to Tails. Then it might be him took it from where Hardman had it hidden?”
“Ye-es,” agreed Bobby, slowly, and still more thoughtfully. “We know that that day—the day of the taxi incident—there was another visitor at The Tulips besides Tails himself. I saw a dottle on the table still warm from the pipe it had been knocked out of. Tails is much too dignified ever to smoke a pipe in public. I’ve never seen Hardman with a pipe, and he certainly wasn’t smoking one then. So there had been a third person present. Who? A fair assumption, I think, that the man who stopped the taxi, the pipe smoker who had been at The Tulips, and our unknown friend who haunts Nonpareil, are all one and the same. Why was he visiting Hardman? And apparently on more or less familiar terms with him, since he was smoking his pipe and knocking out his dottle on Hardman’s table. Another fair assumption is that his visit had something to do with the Vermeer. Did he know Hardman had it, and where it was hidden? Or wasn’t he sure, and did he suspect Hardman of wanting to do him down? If he was present while Tails and Hardman were talking, did it strike him that he could do better for himself by making a direct deal with Tails, meaning, in his turn, to do down Hardman? Rogues tend to fall out, since, of course, they can never trust each other. So he waits for Tails outside, and Tails promises him a good fat sum, cash down, for any information about the picture. Next step, this bloke—he was seen near Tails’s hotel—calls there and tells Tails he has the picture, and will hand it over for the cash promised. Tails goes to keep the appointment with a good fat wad of bank-notes in his wallet. But suppose there’s no picture? Or suppose the bloke in question thinks he will keep the picture and have the cash as well? Quite likely that onl
y Tails’s eagerness to pay big money for it made our man realize how valuable it really was.”
“All that’s a lot to get out of a dottle lying on a table,” Payne said, half-admiringly, half-doubtfully.
“It’s a train of reasoning that may have flaws,” Bobby said, “but it seems to me to hang together.”
“Strikes me we had better get along to Nonpareil quick as we can,” suggested Payne, now as uneasy as was Bobby himself at this prospect, or possibility, of a fresh killing. “I take it Nonpareil is most likely where Tails would go for delivery?”
“If it was, we may be in time,” Bobby said. “If it was anywhere else, there’s not much chance. Tails deserves to get whatever’s coming to him. He’s been playing crooked all along. But I suppose it is part of our job to stand between fools and scamps and their deserts.”
Their way, as they talked, took them past the Central Hotel. Clavering was outside, having apparently just emerged. He nodded a recognition, but would have passed on without speaking, had not Bobby stopped to ask if he knew or had heard anything of Mr. Tails or his present whereabouts.
But Clavering shook his head and looked very gloomy and depressed.
“He’s cleared out,” he said. “Half-way to America by now if he could wangle a passage, or else giving a dinner at the Savoy to a bunch of millionaires and pressmen and critics—the first as possible buyers, the others for publicity. It’ll put even the war news in the shade when it comes out.”
“When what comes out?” Bobby asked sharply.
“Didn’t you know?” Clavering asked. “I thought a Deputy Chief Constable knew everything. But I suppose you blokes are still hunting around after a mere commonplace murderer or two. Lots of murderers in the world, especially just now. You’ll never run short of them. But there’s only one Vermeer lost and now recovered—by Tails,” added Clavering with an intensity of bitterness no words can convey.
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