by Molly Thynne
“Meger never used it?”
“Certainly never in my presence.”
“Have you any reason to think that he was ever known by the name of Bianchi?”
“I have always known him as Meger—Nicholas Meger. And, for another thing, I am sure he was not Italian.”
“This time it really is good night. We’re moving the body at once. Meanwhile, I must ask you to lock this room and hand the sergeant the key. No inconvenience, I hope?”
“None at all. You will drink something before you go? I think I can even find some of M. Chavier’s cognac, if you can wait.”
But Arkwright was conscious of only one desire, to get home to bed, and even Constantine was beginning to realize that he was no longer young and that nearly half the night was over. They excused themselves, and left the sergeant to put a seal on the door and await the ambulance.
Arkwright was engaged in giving him his instructions when Constantine became aware of Civita at his elbow.
“That question about Bianchi,” he said in a low voice, “came really from you? The inspector did not ask me, but if he had I could have told him that Merger, so far as I am aware, could have had no connection with the Bianchi I used to see in Paris.”
He broke off as Arkwright turned and joined them.
He and Constantine descended the stairs in silence.
“Well, we’ve found Bianchi,” said Arkwright with a sigh of sheer weariness, as they turned their backs on the block of flats.
Constantine glanced at him.
“Isn’t that a little premature?” he asked. “I’ve just had Civita’s word for it that Meger is not Bianchi. He knew Bianchi well by sight in Paris.”
Arkwright came to an abrupt standstill.
“The devil!” he exclaimed. “Is Civita speaking the truth?”
Constantine shrugged his shoulders.
“I see no reason why he shouldn’t,” he said, “but I don’t profess to understand the inner workings of Civita’s mind! You’re going on the evidence of the snuff-box?”
“And the description. Meger answers to it. And you must admit that the whole story hangs together. The man comes to London, doesn’t go near Civita, whom he knows would help him, drinks himself blind in some unknown lodging, and then, when he hasn’t got the funds to get out of the country, is driven to appealing to the only person he knows. It fits in all right.”
“If the snuff-box is Anthony’s snuff-box and Meger is Bianchi. It all hangs on those two facts.”
Arkwright caught sight of a prowling taxi and hailed it.
“Civita or no Civita,” he said as they got in, “I’m willing to bet not only that Howells identifies this man as Bianchi, but that Andrews recognizes him as the chap he saw with Anthony! Will that satisfy you?”
“It won’t,” retorted Constantine briskly. “Civita is in as good a position to recognize Bianchi as Howells, and has no better reason to mislead us! However I’ll go so far as to call at the Yard to-morrow and give you an opportunity to flap your wings! I’m not by any means of Civita’s opinion that Meger was not connected with Bianchi in some way.”
He was as good as his word. Arkwright, who had been attending a conference, did not seem in the best of spirits.
“Well,” demanded Constantine, settling himself comfortably in his chair, “do I bite the dust?”
Arkwright ran his fingers through his hair.
“You do and you don’t,” he said with a rather rueful smile. “This business is getting me down, as our old cook used to say. Andrews has identified Meger. He’s certain that he’s the man he saw with Anthony that night. I had a word with Miss Anthony myself, and she is quite positive about the snuff-box. Says she knows it is her grandfather’s. I don’t mind telling you that’s good enough for me, though I admit that I shouldn’t like to take it to a jury. It’s purely circumstantial evidence, of course, but given the man’s subsequent behaviour, you must admit it is fairly convincing.”
“Meger was seen with Anthony, Anthony was found murdered and his snuff-box was found in Meger’s pocket,” recited Constantine blandly. “I suppose men have been hanged on less than that, but, as the solution of a problem, I find it a little childish. And why this official reticence on the subject of Bianchi?”
Arkwright managed to achieve a rather mirthless grin.
“This is where you begin to enjoy yourself,” he said resignedly. “Howells has viewed the corpse. He states emphatically that it is not that of Bianchi. So our most cherished theory goes west.”
CHAPTER XII
CONSTANTINE found his case, abstracted a cigarette, and lit it.
“So Meger’s just Meger,” he said. “Plain Meger. Have you found out anything more about him? Even Megers have a history, I suppose?”
“This one has.” Arkwright’s voice was grim. “I’ll tell you about that presently. Meanwhile, I’ve scored one more point which I should like to emphasize. Mrs. Berry, the landlady, has seen him.”
“Has she identified him?”
“She says that, save for the fact that he’s clean-shaven, he’s the ‘living spit’ of the man who ransacked Anthony’s room. We stuck a moustache on him and tried her again, and there’s no doubt that she thinks it’s the same man. She’s not a very reliable witness, of course, owing to her natural vagueness. Went all of a dither at the sight of the body, and it was all we could do to get her to look at it. And she admits that she didn’t pay much attention to the piano-tuner. All the same, I think she did recognize him. We went through his luggage, by the way. Nothing there. But, if he did take those pages out of the diary, he probably destroyed them.”
“Why should he take them if he’s not Bianchi?”
“We don’t know what passed between Anthony and his daughter,” Arkwright reminded him. “The conversation may not have related to Bianchi at all.”
“That’s true,” admitted Constantine. “So far as we know, she may have lost touch with Bianchi some time ago. The fact remains that she was taking drugs and must have been getting them somewhere. If we take that as our starting point we shan’t go far wrong.”
Arkwright leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
“Exactly. And how about this for an item of interest?” he said. “We got on to the Brussels police this morning, and it appears that they’ve had their eye on Meger for some time as being concerned in the traffic of drugs, but so far they’ve failed to get anything on him. It seems that he did work as an agent when he could get a commission, but owing to his drinking habits most of his old customers had dropped him. That side of the business was genuine enough, but, of course, it gave him unlimited opportunities for the other thing. They searched his rooms to-day, and we heard from them again about an hour ago. They’d got what they were looking for.”
“Drugs?”
“Cocaine. Twelve packets, each containing four hundred and sixteen grains. Just a nice size for smuggling. Also a useful list of addresses, unfortunately all on the other side of the Channel. Not much help to us, it’s true, but remember, Anthony’s daughter hadn’t been long in England.”
“Your theory being that she gave Meger away to her father and he tackled him, with fatal results to himself?”
“Well, that covers it, doesn’t it?” retorted Arkwright. “Combined with his possession of the snuff-box. If Merger didn’t kill Anthony, I’ll eat my hat!”
“And, which seems incredible, probably digest it,” said Constantine. “Does that mean that you are ringing down the curtain on the Anthony case?”
“I don’t say that,” admitted Arkwright reluctantly. “We’ve got some more spadework yet to do, but we can see ahead pretty clearly now. The Brussels people may stumble on something interesting in the course of rounding up his associates there. He wasn’t in England for nothing, you may be sure, and what we’re after are the agents over here. Once we get on to them we may get a line as to his movements during the past week.”
“In that case you haven’t completely lost inte
rest in Binns?”
Arkwright eyed him suspiciously. There was an undercurrent he did not like in Constantine’s voice.
“Binns? I’ve been inclined to wipe him out from the beginning. Our man reports that he’s behaving quite normally. Why, specially, Binns?”
“It’s gratifying, at any rate, to find that Manner isn’t known to the police,” said Constantine complacently. “There are times when I’ve felt that he almost too good to be true!”
Arkwright grinned uncertainly. He distrusted Constantine in this mood.
“So Manners is on that job! He hasn’t stolen a march on us, has he?”
“At least you’ll be gratified to hear that his verdict is the same as your own. He believes Binns had nothing to do with the murder. All the same, he’s made one interesting discovery. Binns has got Anthony’s key to the stage door.”
Arkwright whistled softly under his breath.
“He has, has he! And he’s kept it under his hat all this time! What’s his explanation?”
“None, so far. He let drop the fact that he’d got it, and Manners thought it better not to press the matter then. Give him time and he’ll get the rest of the story, I’ve no doubt.”
“What was the man’s object in keeping it dark?”
Constantine’s eyes twinkled.
“I’m afraid he’s got an unreasoning prejudice against the police,” he said demurely.
Arkwright groaned.
“Another little spot of bother,” he sighed. “And the probability is that the man’s not involved at all. He wouldn’t have told Manners even that if he were. Still, we shall have to follow it up.”
“In fact, thank you for nothing,” Constantine remarked plaintively. “Our services don’t seem to be appreciated.”
Arkwright laughed.
“Sorry, sir. But you don’t honestly believe that a chap like Binns is capable of drugging Anthony, administering the injection and disposing of the body, do you? This is a carefully planned job, and the fellow who did it was actuated by something a good deal stronger than a fancied grievance. What is your opinion of Binns?”
“That he had nothing to do with it wittingly. But it doesn’t follow that he hasn’t been made use of. I confess I should like to know how he got that key. Shall Manners carry on or will you tackle Binns yourself?”
“I’d better see him. I won’t give Manners away to him. We can’t ignore the fact that the murderer probably used that key when he brought in Anthony’s body. By the way, I turned the snuff-box over to the analyst. The snuff hadn’t been tampered with, so that wasn’t the way they got the old man.”
“It’s more likely he was given a drink somewhere and absorbed the chloral in that.”
“We’ve practically established the fact that he drank nothing at the Trastevere. Certainly he gave no order to any of the waiters, and, in any case, if he was given the knock-out drops immediately before the injection, it must have been after he was seen at the coffee-stall. Philbegge vouches for the coffee-stall proprietor, says he has known him for years, and Philbegge knows what he’s talking about. There was no one else at the stall at the time, otherwise it would be only reasonable to suppose that he was given the drug there.”
“The fact remains that, if your theory about Meger is right, he met him at the Trastevere. Did Meger go there more than once, I wonder?”
“According to Civita’s report to the sergeant, which you may like to see, by the way, he went there twice with him the day before he died. He doesn’t believe he would have shown up there during the week he was in London, seeing that he didn’t look him up, but he admits that he might have been there without his knowledge.”
“If there’s anything in what the Duchess says, he could hardly find a better market for his drugs than the Trastevere. That sort of thing may be going on without Civita’s knowledge, which would account for its popularity with a certain section of the public.”
Arkwright nodded.
“We’re keeping a pretty close eye on the Trastevere,” he said, “but so far we’ve no grounds for suspicion. I’ve got that Carroll boy under observation too. If he doesn’t lead us somewhere I shall be surprised, and, as I said, we may get a hint from the Brussels police.”
When Constantine left him Arkwright went straight to the Parthenon. He had a short interview with the manager in his office, and then Binns was sent for.
At the sight of Arkwright his head jerked nervously, then he stiffened and stood rigidly to attention.
“The inspector here’s enquiring into a purse that was lost on Saturday night,” said the manager. “Do you know anything about it?”
Binns shook him head.
“There’s no purse been found to my knowledge, sir,” he answered. “If one of the cleaners had picked it up she’d ’ave taken it to the office.”
“Did you go the round as usual on Saturday?” demanded the manager.
Binns met his eye with a rather glassy stare.
“Yes, sir. There wasn’t nothin’, beyond the usual odd gloves and handkerchiefs and such-like. They’re all in the office, except those that have been called for. There wasn’t no purse. I’ll stake my oath on that.”
“The purse was dropped somewhere in the back row of stalls. That’s right, isn’t it, Inspector?”
Arkwright nodded.
“I flashed my torch under those seats. There wasn’t no purse there,” persisted Binns.
The manager turned to Arkwright.
“That good enough for you, Inspector?” he asked.
Arkwright learned back in his chair and fixed a genial eye on Binns.
“Mind letting us have a look at your pockets?” he said cheerfully. “I’m not accusing you, and, as you probably know, I can’t force you to empty them, but it would be more satisfactory for you as well as for us if we can say you submitted to being searched.”
Binns reddened.
“If you think I’m a thief . . .” he began hotly.
“I don’t,” said Arkwright, “but I understand you nearly got the sack some time ago for behaviour which, to put it mildly, didn’t err on the side of honesty. You’ll be doing a good turn to yourself if you take this sensibly now.”
Binns hesitated. He had nothing to fear on the score of the purse, and he knew his record was against him.
“How do you know I ’aven’t got rid of it?” he demanded, with a surly frown.
“All the worse for you if you have,” was Arkwright’s rejoinder. “And all the easier for us. The notes are marked.”
“Well, I ain’t got them, see?” flashed the man, unbuttoning his coat and turning out the contents of his trouser pockets.
Arkwright watched the pile of miscellaneous articles on the table grow as Binns emptied one pocket after another. He was drawing a bow at a venture, in the hope that man carried the key to the stage door on his person. With an observant wife at home, the chances were that he did, but, so far, only two enormous keys tied together with a dirty piece of tape had materialized, and he began to think that his ruse had failed.
Leaning forward, he picked a shabby leather purse from the heap and opened it.
“You’ll find little enough in that,” grunted Binns. “And what there is was earned honestly, which is more than some can say.”
There was a wealth of innuendo in his voice. In his opinion the police subsisted entirely on the enormous bribes with which the undeserving rich bought their immunity.
Arkwright tipped the contents of the purse into his palm and added the little pile of silver to the heap on the table. Then he opened the inner compartment and took out a Yale key. For the space of a second his eye met that of the manager.
“This the lot?” he demanded.
The manager leaned forward, peering at the key.
“What’s that?” he exclaimed, sharply. “Looks like the key of the stage door. Wait a second.”
He thrust a hand into his pocket and took out a bunch of keys. Selecting one, he compared it with th
e key in Arkwright’s hand. He swung round on Binns.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
Binns’ eyes were wide and staring now, like those of a frightened child. Little beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He stuttered:
“I—I picked it up.”
Arkwright took up the interrogation.
“When?” he snapped.
“On Saturday night,” confessed the miserable Binns.
“Where?”
“Back row of the three-and-sixpennies. It was on the floor under the seat.”
“What time was this?”
“’Alf past eleven, just about. After the last ’ouse.”
“Did you recognize it?”
Binns’ overworked brain made an effort to choose, against time, between the relative merits of truth and duplicity, and failed. In desperation he blurted out the truth.
“Not at first I didn’t. Only afterwards, when I come to look at it before turnin’ it over to the office.”
“Why didn’t you turn it over?”
“I—I was afraid it’d get me into trouble,” the man confessed huskily. “There’d been all that talk about that door and Mr. Anthony’s key. As soon as I ’ad time to think of it I knew it must be ’is. There was only my word for it that I’d found it there.”
“There’s only your word for it now,” said Arkwright dryly. “You’ve done yourself no good by this. Why did you think you were in danger of being disbelieved?”
For the first time Binns looked him straight in the face.
“Because of that bit o’ trouble I ’ad,” he said, speaking now with a certain rough dignity. “There’s more than one ’ere ’eard me say what I thought of Mr. Anthony. Threatening, I suppose they’d call it, but I didn’t mean nothin’. There’s times when my tongue gets the better of me.”
He passed his hand with a bewildered gesture across him forehead. Arkwright was conscious of an odd conviction that the man was speaking the truth.
“Sure this account’s correct?” he demanded, indicating his notebook.
“On my oath it is,” Binns assured him earnestly. “Someone dropped it in those seats on Saturday night. I ran my torch over them last thing on the Friday, and I’ll swear there wasn’t nothin’ there then.”