by Peter Baron
Mr. Thyme rang a bell on his desk and almost at once a tall sallow young man appeared in the doorway.
“Have the goodness to bring me the Loseley tiara, Peach,” instructed Mr. Thyme, handing him a bunch of keys.
“In name only,” observed his lordship sotto voce, and received a cold glance from Peach, who had heard and correctly interpreted the remark.
Peach nodded respectfully and retired.
Elveden, standing a little apart, watched the proceedings with no visible signs of approval. His irritation appeared to distress Mr. Thyme.
“Won’t you sit down?” he invited. “Peach won’t be long, and I can assure you that the chair is quite comfortable.”
“Trust Thyme for that,” remarked the Duke. “Another alternative to accepting the dole, Marky, is to become a bank manager.”
They conversed idly for a few moments until Peach put in an appearance again.
He was carrying a square morocco-bound box which he tendered respectfully to his principal.
With a grand gesture, Mr. Thyme unfastened the box and lifted the lid.
“The tiara, gentlemen,” he said magnificently.
Sir Marcus picked up the shimmering ornament and handed it to the Inspector. It was a massive thing of gold, its triangular front studded with diamonds, large at the base and graduated until the single gem that adorned the apex was little bigger than a pin head.
“You will find a little catch in the circlet at the base behind the central stone,” said Sir Marcus, “I remember that the tiara was in the safe on the night that John died. In all probability he concealed the paper he refers to while I was out of the room. Allow me.”
He took the tiara from the Inspector’s hands.
Under his deft fingers a section of the circlet dropped down suddenly on small hinges, revealing a long hollow that ran nearly the length of the base.
The Inspector took the ornament hastily and examined it.
The hollow was empty!
“Someone,” said Freddie brightly, “is decidedly up a gum tree!”
XIII. AN INSPECTOR IS CURIOUS
Fenton admitted the Inspector.
“Good morning, sir,” he said, respectfully.
“Morning,” answered Elveden briefly. “Is Sir Marcus down yet?”
“Yes, sir. At the moment he is in the library with the Duke of Framlingham. Will you step into the morning room? Miss Richmond is there.”
Elveden nodded and, allowing the butler to relieve him of his hat and gloves, he followed him across the wide, old-fashioned hall.
Leslie, a slim, graceful figure in green, rose from the deep armchair in which she had been studying the morning papers.
“Well, Inspector? What heinous offense have we committed this time?”
“None,” he assured her. “I merely wish to have Sir Marcus’ aid on one or two rather knotty points.”
Leslie raised her eyebrows.
“Knotty points?” she murmured. “Can I be of any assistance? I’m rather a brain-storm on knotty points.”
“Fm afraid not, Miss Richmond,” Elveden replied, smiling.
She grinned up into his calm face impudently.
“A guardian sure is worth two wards uncertain, what?” she mocked.
At that moment Sir Marcus, in company with the Duke, entered the room.
“Sorry to disturb you so early, Sir Marcus,” said Elveden conventionally.
“Not at all,” answered the Baronet, courteously. “Whom are we going to arrest?”
“The family seems to have a guilty conscience,” said Elveden. “Miss Richmond seemed apprehensive, and I believe even poor old Fenton had his suspicions when he opened the door to me. I trust His Grace harbors no fears.”
“My blameless career won’t cause me any loss of sleep,” remarked the Duke.
Leslie rose to her feet.
“Mr. Elveden wants to speak to you privately, Marky,” she said, and linking arms with the Duke, she crossed the room, pausing at the door to add, with an impudent smile, “about a few rather knotty points! Come on, Erb, let’s leave them to their moldy old secrets.”
As soon as they had withdrawn, the two men sat down and Sir Marcus signified his willingness to listen.
They lighted cigarettes and the Inspector leant forward in his chair.
“I want to ask you a few questions, Sir. Marcus,” he said smoothly, “in connection with the Squid case.”
Sir Marcus nodded.
“Certainly,” he agreed, “although I am afraid I am hardly an authority.”
“I shall have to dig up a little ancient history,” continued the Inspector almost apologetically, and pausing as though he expected comment.
None was forthcoming and he resumed.
“Miss Richmond’s father was a friend of yours, wasn’t he, sir?”
“He was,” agreed the Baronet slowly, and his tone suggested that he was not greatly pleased at having the subject resurrected.
“This is painful, I know,” resumed Elveden, “but he died rather suddenly, did he not?”
“He was murdered here in this house,” said the Baronet in a hard voice.
“And you saw the Squid on the night of the murder?”
“That is so. I carry the scar he gave me to this day.”
His hand strayed absently to his right temple.
Elveden nodded. “As far as we know you are the only person who has ever seen the Squid—or at least the only person who has lived to tell of it.”
“I suppose so,” the Baronet agreed.
“The Squid’s motive in following John Richmond from Venice and in ultimately murdering him was to obtain something he was carrying,” pursued the Inspector thoughtfully. “Have you any idea of the nature of the thing that John Richmond brought with him from Venice?”
“Beyond the presumption that he carried it in his ebony stick—pure surmise, of course, but borne out by the fact that the stick was stolen—and that the deciphering of the code message suggests that it was an agreement of some kind—none,” answered Sir Marcus. “I am as ignorant of the contents of the agreement as you are yourself.”
The Inspector drew at his cigarette and was silent for a few moments.
Then: “Had you any particular reason for suppressing that message for nearly four years?”
“I had not, save that I was inclined, bearing in mind John’s serious condition and rather wild talk, to attribute it to the wanderings of a slightly unbalanced mind.”
He regarded his questioner curiously, but Elveden’s face betrayed nothing.
“Subsequent events have shown that the Squid did not obtain this agreement,” said the Inspector. “If it had any value, he would have used it long since. A fact which is verified by the robbery of your tiara a few nights previously.”
“I am at a loss to explain that occurrence,” mused Sir Marcus in a puzzled tone. “The fascination of diamonds for the Squid might explain it—in fact, I think that can be the only explanation. He could not possibly have gained access to the paper; it was shown to only three people, excluding yourself, all of whom I can vouch for.”
“Exactly,” agreed the Inspector, with narrowed eyes, “and with the exception of Mr. Thyme, no one else could obtain access to the tiara but yourself.”
“That is so,” replied his host, and he knitted his brows. “Forgive me, Inspector, but are you suggesting that I, myself, removed that agreement from the tiara?” His voice was cold and the Inspector hastened to counteract the impression he had created.
“Not at all,” he exclaimed quickly, but his eyes held the Baronet’s unflinchingly.
There was an awkward silence for a few moments which neither man seemed disposed to break.
“Reverting to the robbery here the other night,” Elveden said at length, “I met a well-known lag outside the house on the evening before the robbery.”
“Indeed?”
“One who, despite various long sentences, still follows the old path. A man kno
wn as Jerry the Lag!”
Sir Marcus started violently and a puzzled expression crept into his eyes.
It was Elveden’s turn to be surprised. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Jerry happens to be in my service,” said the other. “Employed on my estate. He is a man in whom I took considerable interest. In fact, I may say that I rather attribute his reformation to the start I gave him.”
Inspector Elveden was manifestly startled by this piece of information.
“I should hardly term it reformation,” he said slowly. “This man, I have every reason to believe, is actively employed by the Squid!”
Their glances met and in the eyes of each was surprise and doubt.
“To resume,” said Elveden. “There are many curious aspects of the case and not the least curious is the fact that your friend, Mr. Leicester, was arrested in your study on the night of the robbery.”
“A coincidence.” The Baronet waved his hand as though dismissing the fact. “And one that has already been explained. I knew Mr. Leicester’s reason for calling—to retrieve his cigarette case—and I withdrew the charge, or at least declined to make one. I was only pained that he should have been put to so much inconvenience.”
Inspector Elveden’s tone and expression were of studied indifference when he continued after hearing Sir Marcus out.
“Most of Mr. Leicester’s actions seem to be easily explained by a series of coincidences,” he said coolly. “For instance, he also is acquainted with Jerry the Lag.”
Had he thrown a bombshell he could not have surprised the Baronet more.
“That is ridiculous!” said Sir Marcus, after a pause. “Mr. Leicester is not acquainted with the Lag.”
“On the contrary,” retorted Elveden, “Jerry is a visitor to Mr. Leicester’s flat in Kensington and Mr. Leicester, whom I questioned, resorted to an obvious subterfuge in telling me that Jerry was the window cleaner.”
It was a hit, and the Inspector smiled sweetly as he saw the perturbed light in the other’s eyes.
“I fail to see, however, what bearing this has on the case in hand,” said Sir Marcus frigidly. He selected a cigarette and lighted it from the stub of the first.
“After the robbery was committed,” said Elveden with his pleasant smile, “I was convinced that Jerry was responsible. I must confess that Mr. Leicester’s detention came as a surprise to me at the time, but, looking back and taking into account various other angles of the case, I am inclined to think that that was the only course to pursue.”
“Meaning?”
“That a rose would smell as sweet by any other name,” replied the Inspector cryptically.
But Sir Marcus recognized the allusion and flushed slightly. “You are suggesting, I believe,” he said icily, “that Mr. Leicester masquerades under the guise of Jerry the Lag, as a common thief?”
“I am suggesting nothing, Sir Marcus,” returned Elveden smoothly. “I am merely leaving you to draw your own inference.” Tossing away his cigarette, he sat back in his chair, declining the other’s absentminded invitation to smoke again.
“Since you find the subject distasteful, we will discontinue it,” said Elveden calmly. “I believe you had that imitation tiara made some time ago?”
“I cannot recall exactly how long,” answered the Baronet in a preoccupied tone. “Soon after John’s death, I fancy.”
“It was fortunate that the Squid hesitated to rob you until you had had time to substitute it for the real tiara.”
“The paste imitation was constructed to meet such a contingency,” said the other disinterestedly. “I believe the Squid’s failing for diamonds is fairly well known.”
There was the hint of sarcasm behind the remark, but it left the Inspector untouched.
“As well known as the fact that the tiara was his first reverse,” he riposted pointedly. “Singular, isn’t it?”
“Which means?” demanded Loseley, looking his guest squarely in the eyes.
“That you are the only person—and there have been many victims—who has not suffered from the Squid’s interest. I believe he has some slight affection for you, Sir Marcus.”
It was a dangerous statement to make and it removed the buttons from the foils.
Sir Marcus rose to his feet and the Inspector rose with him. There was that in the eyes of both that forbade further fencing.
“Have you anything further to say?” asked Loseley, eyeing the other with studied insolence.
“Only,” murmured the Inspector sweetly, “that on the death of Miss Leslie Richmond you will come into something like eighty thousand pounds.”
For a moment it seemed as though Sir Marcus would return the abstract blow with a material one. With an effort he controlled himself and lowered his hand.
“You are well informed, Inspector.”
“Sufficiently so to be suspicious.”
“As fax as I have heard,” said the Baronet in measured tones, “you axe suggesting first that I have removed the agreement from the tiara myself, having purposefully withheld the message relating to it for four years. Secondly, that Mr. Leicester, who I would remind you is a close friend of mine, is in the pay of the Squid, masquerading as Jerry the Lag. Thirdly, that I am the only person who has seen the Squid and also the only person who has not suffered by his depredations, which hints either at my connivance in his schemes or that I am the Squid myself. And, fourthly, that it would be to my advantage to remove my ward and obtain her fortune—which last you seem to think likely to happen!”
The Inspector shrugged indifferently.
“I am not responsible for any construction you choose to put on the affair,” he pointed out.
“You leave me no choice,” replied Sir Marcus coldly. “You will have the goodness to leave this house. If you stay, I shall not be responsible for my actions.”
The Inspector smiled mockingly, and his white teeth gleamed.
“Qui s’excuse——“ he said lightly, and, bowing, left the room, almost colliding with the Duke, who was on the point of entering.
Sir Marcus dropped into the chair with a white face and poured himself out a drink from the decanter on the table.
They heard Fenton usher the Inspector out of the house.
“Elveden was in a hurry,” said the Duke serenely, and, seating himself, he poured out a stiff drink and drained it appreciatively.
Sir Marcus grunted savagely, lit a cigarette, took two puffs at it and threw it away impatiently.
“Is Leslie there?” he asked.
“She is in the garden,” answered His Grace wonderingly.
“Thank God for that,” snapped the Baronet. “I can express myself freely.”
The Duke studied his friend reflectively.
“The cogs of life seem to be grinding a little harshly this morning,” he ventured. “Be strong, Marcus. We all have our troubles. I myself have had a thin week.”
He helped himself to a cigarette.
“Curse your thin week!” snarled the other. “And curse that interfering jackanapes Elveden.”
“A praiseworthy sentiment. In what has the minion of the law fallen short of our expectations?”
“That’s the trouble,” Sir Marcus growled. “He inspects too dam’ much.”
“I had an idea that the Expector had been inspecting a little too closely,” His Grace observed humorously. “Unburden your soul and the secret sorrows thereof.”
“My only sorrow,” said his friend, “is that I did not strangle that man while I had the chance.”
He rose from his chair and paced the room angrily.
“The fellow has had the insufferable insolence to accuse me to my face of being the Squid,” rapped the £ate baronet, pausing in his stride. “Furthermore, he suggested that Freddie was a common thief, and threw out a lot of damned unpleasant insinuations. Bah!”
He sat down and fired out a verbatim report and, at its conclusion, rose to his feet again with a furious face and resumed his striding u
p and down the room.
“It is a pity,” sighed the Duke, “that you did not resent his impertinence in the only possible way.”
“Bah! I wouldn’t soil my hands,” Loseley ground out savagely. “I was thinking that his deplorable lapse might have been more fittingly rewarded with a boot!”
XIV. FREDDIE INTRUDES
Standing in the wide, pillared portico of the Nocturnes Club, Jerry peered inquisitively through the swing doors at the lobby beyond.
Every so often someone left the club, and as the big glass doors swung open, the strains of a jazz band momentarily burst forth, to die away again as the doors closed.
A few paces away, the gorgeous commissionaire looked Jerry over suspiciously, scratched his head and sniffed audibly.
“What do you want?” he demanded presently in an unfriendly tone.
“Wot’s that to you, Buttons?” Jerry snarled belligerently.
The outraged commissionaire expanded his gold-braided chest and took a purposeful step in Jerry’s direction.
“Look here, my man——“ he began ominously, but Jerry was not easily overawed.
“I am,” he jeered, “an’ it gives me a pain. Where’s the boss?”
The commissionaire paused and debated.
“I take it, you mean the manager?” he said coldly, still eyeing Jerry unfavorably. “Buttons” rankled.
“You’d take anythin’ if you wasn’t watched,” growled Jerry. “Well, where is he? I want to talk ter ‘im.”
A nasty expression crept to the face of the commissionaire. An even nastier expression crept to his lips, but he repressed it.
“What name?” he asked disdainfully.
“Lord Lumme!” retorted Jerry sarcastically. “An’ fer the luv of Mike, git a move on. Think I’m goin’ to stay ‘ere an’ die o’ starvation waitin’ fer yer to make hup yer mind?”
“Buttons” was revolving the advantages and disadvantages of forcibly ejecting the Lag, when the arrival of M. Blatz, the manager, effectively put an end to the project.
Jerry stepped forward and buttonholed the slight and sleek manager of the Nocturnes.
“You Mossoo Blatz?” he asked. “ ‘Cos if yer are, I wants a few words wiv yer.”