“Which job?”
“Why, the murder, of course. What’s the Inspector think?” He went on. “I know he ain’t holding ’em yet for that job—I was here when they were charged, but he’s a dark horse, he is,” he chuckled as at some particularly satisfying reminiscence ... “I’ve known him years.”
“Well, Griffiths, he hasn’t confided in me ... yet,” rejoined Roper, “but if you want my opinion, for what it’s worth, we aren’t by any means at the end of the case ... not by a long way.”
Griffiths showed signs of agreement, sagely. “I gave Dr. Elliott a hand when they brought the body down to the mortuary,” he announced with an obvious sense of importance, “unusual thing you know, Mr. Roper, a bloke strangled and stabbed like this one was—like the pictures,” he concluded with evident relish.
“Yes,” said Roper. “I can tell you it’s given the Inspector plenty to think about.”
“More in it than meets the eye, eh?” Griffiths delivered this profound opinion with a prodigious amount of head shaking and brow knitting.
“Shouldn’t be surprised—but clear out now—here comes the Governor.”
Griffiths adjusted his chin-strap. “Right-O—I’ll come and see you later.”
“Did I hear you talking, Roper?” said Baddeley, as he entered. “Who was it?” As I am entirely indebted to Baddeley himself for the substance of this chapter, I can say with assurance that he mistook the constable’s voice for that of Fitch, Sir Charles Considine’s butler, hence this rather peremptory opening question—but he was a man who took very few chances—and his mind at this particular time was casting, as it were, backwards and forwards, to grasp any point that seemed of the slightest significance.
“Constable Griffiths, sir,” replied Roper. “He’s been to Lewes, as you know, sir, with the two prisoners and just got back. They’re pretty quiet, he says,” volunteered Roper in addition. “Dazed-like.”
“Humph!” grunted Baddeley. “Those photographs ready yet?”
“Just about, sir, I think.” Roper went to the window and brought them back. Then extracted them, one by one, from their frames.
Baddeley glanced quickly at the first two or three—those of Prescott’s dead body lying as we had found it.
“I want the finger-prints and the photo of those on the Venetian dagger,” he said impatiently. “I’m puzzled, Roper, the whole case puzzles me—I want to see if any of the prints we got on those interesting letters of yours correspond with those we originally spotted on the dagger.”
“Very good, sir,” murmured Roper. “There’s a beauty there of the dagger prints”—he handed it over to his superior—“the others won’t be very long.”
“Thanks! A remarkable case, Roper, don’t you think?” He went on without giving his assistant time to reply. “A man murdered in a country house, with two weapons employed—although according to the medical testimony the shoe-lace did the job effectively and the dagger wasn’t needed. The body is found in the billiard room on the billiard-table—in evening dress and brown shoes. Where’s the motive?”
“Ah, that’s it, sir,” interposed Roper. “Find that and you’ll see daylight.”
“Well,” went on Baddeley, “there are three people against whom we can lodge a motive or a partial motive.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “(One) Webb—Prescott interrupted him or was in some way connected with him ... he had been out that night on some pretext. (Two) Lieutenant Barker—he had financial reasons for wishing Prescott out of the way—and his I.O.U. cannot be traced. (Three) Major Hornby—he was Barker’s friend and brother officer. And had lost money to Prescott similarly. Also he was the reverse of candid when I spoke to him.” He paused and considered. “They’re the three I’ve got something against, Roper, and one of those three had the shoe-lace in his pocket. Pretty conclusive, some people would say, and yet ... and yet. I’m not satisfied. Can you see the unusual features of this affair, Roper?”
“Seem to me a large number, sir,” answered Roper. “Do you mean any particular one?”
“I mean this. Everybody in the house has got the same alibi—of course an unsupported and unsatisfactory one, I admit—but there it is. ‘I was asleep, Inspector.’”
“I suppose if the murdered man were here and could speak, he’d say he was asleep too!” Roper grinned at the sally.
“Young Mr. Considine and Captain Arkwright admitted to a certain amount of wakefulness, sir,” he reminded the Inspector.
“Yes—I know. Arkwright heard the ‘Spider’—I’ve no doubt on that point—Jack Considine may have heard anything—Marshall—Mrs. Webb, if you prefer it—possibly leaving the billiard room—it’s an idea certainly.”
Roper pursed his lips together. “It’s the motives some peoplemayhave had, sir, the motives that have to be probed for. What’s that bit the French say about looking for a woman always?”
“Cherchez la femme,” said Baddeley. “I wonder.”
“Any one of the people up at the Manor may be guilty, sir, it seems to me,” continued the indefatigable Roper, “and then again it may come back quite simply and directly to ‘Spider’ Webb. The job is to pick out the main trail and not go dashing off into side tracks that eventually become blind alleys.”
“Very true, Roper, very true,” smiled Baddeley. “But it isn’t quite so easy as you imagine; one of your side tracks may turn out to be that main trail and what you think is the main trail, may prove to be only a side track.”
“That Mr. Bathurst’s a smart young fellow, sir. He’d have done well in our line, don’t you think so?”
“Perhaps! You can’t always tell. What about those prints?”
Roper took them out. “They’re all numbered, sir. And I’ve got the corresponding numbers in my note-book. And I fancy we’ve got pretty well everybody here. Everybody that’s likely, that is!” He paused. Then continued: “We haven’t got the ‘Spider’s,’ sir. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?... And I’m thinking his are the most likely.”
“No, I know, Roper. Easily get those from ‘the Yard’ if necessary.”
Roper arranged the photographs. “I’ll put them in numerical order, sir, that will simplify matters a bit.”
Baddeley picked up his magnifying glass and proceeded on his course of comparison. But one by one he laid the photos down again. Then suddenly he shot up from his seat.
“You’ve clicked, Roper!” he shouted. He looked at the back. “Number 9,” he exclaimed, “number nine for a certainty, look—the identical loops and whorls—who in the name of thunder is Nine—where’s your note-book—quick, man, quick!” The prints had come out clearly and distinctly. And when compared with the photograph of those on the Venetian dagger, there didn’t remain the shadow of a doubt that the same fingers had made them. Roper flicked the leaves of his note-book. “Number Nine, sir?” he queried. He ran his eye down the page. “Major Hornby!”
Baddeley gasped. “This beats the band, Roper, but all the same, mark my words, one of the three with a motive that’s known. Well, I’m blessed.”
Roper looked wise and said nothing.
Baddeley’s mind went back. “He practically refused all information when I questioned him, and told me to mind my own business. If he’s the murderer of Prescott he reckons we’ve got no proof at all ... he’ll try to put up a big bluff. Now where do I stand? All I can put against him so far is a motive, finger-prints on a dagger that has played some part in the crime ... anything else? I can’t put a truculent manner and attitude in as compromising evidence.” He paced the room—backwards and forwards. “Gets a darned sight more complicated every step,” he grumbled.
“This dagger was kept in the drawing-room, wasn’t it, sir?” said Roper.
“So I’m told. On what they called the curio table. What are you driving at?”
“Well, I don’t somehow think the ‘Spider’ ever got into the drawing-room.”
“Marshall may have taken it from the table.”
“Why don’t her finger-prints show then, sir?”
“True ... Major Hornby seems to have been the last person to have used it.”
“He could easily have taken it to his bedroom, sir,” continued Roper.
“Yes, he slept alone. It’s feasible. But why the deuce was Prescott outside that night?” Baddeley blazed. “Tell me that and I’ll tell you a lot more ... nothing I light on seems to have any bearing on that point. And till I know, I’m messing round in the dark.”
“Where does this Major Hornby hang out, sir?” questioned Roper.
“Don’t know at the moment, but Sir Charles Considine will let me know at once if I ask him. I think I will.”
Anthony and I were in the garden when the Inspector arrived. He looked worried and puzzled but determined.
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen, Sir Charles about and handy?”
Anthony looked at me. “Yes,” I said, “you’ll probably find him in the library.”
“Thank you.” He passed through into the house, and it was not for some days that I learned of the reason underlying his visit or what transpired at his interview with Sir Charles Considine. Our host, I imagine, was not too pleased at Baddeley’s reappearance. We had had a brief period of comparative quiet after the arrest of Webb and his wife, and Sir Charles was expecting to be left alone until the inquest. This advent of Baddeley disturbed him and brought back the sinister influences that he had been trying to forget.
“The address of Major Hornby? Of course you can have it! But surely, Inspector, you don’t harbor any suspicions against a gentleman of Major Hornby’s standing?”
“Not at all, Sir Charles,” replied Baddeley cheerfully. “I merely want a little more information from the Major on one particular point than he was able to give me when I saw him previously. That is all, sir.”
Sir Charles rummaged through his pigeonholes. “Major Hornby is a man of unimpeachable integrity, Baddeley—a British Officer—don’t forget—and—er—a gentleman. Here’s the address.” He turned a card over. Baddeley took it. “Melville’s Hotel, Canterbury,” he read.
“Thank you, Sir Charles. Please accept my sincere apologies for disturbing you. By the way—the inquest has been fixed for Thursday.”
Sir Charles thanked him, and the Inspector bowed himself out.
“I want you to motor me over to Canterbury, Roper,” he announced as soon as he got back. “Major Hornby’s staying there—it shouldn’t take us too long although, being Bank Holiday, the roads are certain to be pretty thick.” A couple of hours’ journey took them over, and shortly afterwards the car drew up outside Melville’s Hotel.
The Inspector sent up his card with the request that he might see the Manager. A tall man—dark and rather military-looking—quickly attended upon him.
Baddeley told him his errand. “Major Hornby is staying here—certainly—he arrived late on Saturday evening—but he is not in at the present moment.”
“Would he be likely to be long?” inquired the Inspector.
The Manager didn’t think so—he would speak to one of the waiters. Would the Inspector be kind enough to excuse him for a moment? Baddeley kicked his heels in the vestibule. But his patience was not strained for long. “Major Hornby is expected back for dinner—he has asked his waiter to reserve him a corner seat at one of the dining-tables. Will you wait, Inspector, or call back in about an hour?” Baddeley thought the matter over for a moment and decided to call back.
“Roper,” he said as he entered the car, “drive to a nice little pub, where we can get a Guinness and something to eat in a certain amount of seclusion. I’m getting a bit peckish.”
Now this was a job near Roper’s heart, and he lost little time in the fulfilment of the instruction. The saloon they entered was moderately full, and divided into two compartments, one of which was curtained off and designated, “Smoke Lounge.” Baddeley elected to remain in the ordinary compartment and was just settling down to the enjoyment of his “snack” when the fragment of a conversation from the other side of the curtain arrested his attention and screwed all his faculties to their highest pitch. “Well, Barker,” said a voice that sounded strangely familiar, “I’m glad I met you as you suggested—and I’m more than glad that you’ve come to me for advice. I’ve given it to you, and I hope you’ll decide to take it. It’s always as well in affairs of this kind, to make a clean breast to somebody. And I don’t imagine that the truth will ever be brought to light now—so you can rest in peace.”
Baddeley’s eyes met Roper’s—he put his finger to his lips.
“Thanks awfully, Major,” came the reply, “it’s been no end of a worry wondering what has been found out, and what hasn’t, and I’m deuced glad to have told you. I’ll say good-night”; and before Baddeley could offer any further warning—the heavy, dark-blue curtain parted and there stepped out Lieutenant Barker. Without noticing their presence, he strode across the apartment and disappeared. The Inspector gripped the edge of the table with his fingers. Then he leaned across and addressed his companion.
“I’m going to strike while the iron’s hot,” he whispered. “You stay here and listen—I’m going in there to have a word with Major Hornby. Don’t move from this table till you see me again.”
Roper accepted the situation with an understanding nod, and Baddeley pushed the curtains to one side and stepped through.
“Good-evening, Major Hornby,” he said cordially. “May I sit down?”
Major Hornby looked up in amazement. Then his breeding got the better of his inclinations. He suffered himself to return the Inspector’s greeting. He then turned nonchalantly to the table and emptied his glass. This accomplished he rose as though to go. Baddeley raised his hand.
“I want a word with you, Major,” he spoke very quietly, and not without dignity, “and, believe me, I have come some miles to get it.”
Major Hornby shrugged his shoulders. Then he spoke very coldly. “You are imposing a distinct strain on my forbearance, Inspector Baddeley—I have already given you all the information I can. That should satisfy even your fund of curiosity.”
“All the information youcan?” queried Baddeley, “or all the information you intend to give me?”
Hornby eyed him with strong disfavor. “Call it what you choose.”
Baddeley’s impatience mastered him. “Look here, Major,” he said, “I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, and I’m not going to beat about the bush.” Hornby raised his eyebrows.
“I’m afraid I’m at a loss to——”
Baddeley cut him short. Lowering his voice considerably he leaned right across the table, and something in his persistence compelled Hornby to listen attentively. “You will remember, Major, that Mr. Prescott besides having been strangled—had been stabbed at the base of the neck with a dagger—known to Sir Charles Considine, your late host, and to his intimates, as the Venetian dagger?”
Major Hornby showed signs of assent. The Inspector proceeded. “That dagger was prepared and photographed on my instructions, immediately after I first arrived on the scene, and on the result showed a distinct set of finger-marks.” His companion began to show evidence of interest. “Now, Major,” and here Baddeley grew grave, “I made it my business to obtain a set of finger-prints of the various people I encountered in the house”—he was studying Hornby very carefully now—“and I have compared the incriminating set with the specimens I managed to obtain.” He paused.
“I’m all attention, Inspector,” said the Major. “And you discovered——?”
“That the finger-prints wereyours—Major Hornby.”
“Really, Inspector—now that’s most interesting—when are you going to arrest me?”
Baddeley waved the sarcasm on one side. “Can you explain what I have just told you?”
Hornby pulled at his top lip, thoughtfully.
“Quite easily to a point,” he said. He looked at the Inspector, who showed no sign. Hornby went on. “I held that dagger in my hand on the evening before Prescott was murdered.”
“What were the circumstances?”
The Major smiled. “Nothing suspicious. After dinner that evening, we were talking about crime——”
Baddeley was immediately alert. “What? Who was?”
“All of us. The conversation was general. Why do you ask?”
“Who was responsible for the turn the conversation took? Anybody in particular—think carefully—it may be of the greatest importance?”
“Well, if you ask me, Inspector, it was Bathurst—he rather fancies himself, you know, in the sleuth line. Can’t think of anybody else. Yes, I’m sure he began it.”
Baddeley nodded. “All right! Go on!”
Hornby reflected. “Where was I?”
“Talking about crime,” muttered his companion grimly. “Only talking——”
“Oh yes! Well, the conversation got pretty well going—murders and detectives and what not, and it didn’t seem likely that cards would be started for some little time—and I wandered round the drawing-room. When I got to the curio table, as it was called, my eyes fell on the Venetian dagger. I couldn’t help thinking how it fitted in with the subject of the reigning conversation. I picked it up and examined it with some interest—and the thought came to me that it might have sent more than one soul into eternity.”
The Inspector listened eagerly, and with some impatience.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “What then?”
Major Hornby shook his head—“There’s nothing more to tell. I put the dagger back on the table and shortly afterwards started to play cards.”
Baddeley thought for a moment. His next question the Major thought surprising.
“Tell me, Major Hornby,” he said, “when you were examining the dagger, did you by any chance happen to notice if any person in the room was watching you?”
Hornby looked him straight in the eyes. “That’s very remarkable—because I did.”
“Who was it?” The Inspector’s eyes gleamed with excitement.
“Gerald Prescott!”
Baddeley pushed his chair back—then mastered his discomfiture. Hornby eyed him with cool nonchalance. “And I can tell you something else of importance. When I went to bed that night—the Venetian dagger had gone from the curio table!! Because I looked.”
The next morning Mary joined me in the garden—just after breakfast. She looked lovelier than ever, although it was obvious to the careful observer that she was troubled. “Bill,” she said, “you haven’t spoken to poor Mrs. Prescott since her arrival yesterday—she had all her meals in her room, you know—come and see her this morning—if only to please me. It’s been heart-breaking to talk to her. He was her only son.”
I was conscious of a certain feeling of resentment. It was absurd of her upsetting herself like this—Prescott was dead and it was all exceedingly sad and all that—but it didn’t please me to see the shadows in Mary’s face over it. I gently remonstrated with her.
“You mustn’t let yourself be worried about this affair, Mary,” I said, “it’s bad enough I know, and pretty sickening happening here and at this time—rotten for Sir Charles and your mother—but hang it all, it might have been a lot worse.”
She looked at me reproachfully. “What do you mean,” she asked, “in what way?”
“Well,” I responded, awkwardly I admit, “it might have been Jack—or—er Captain Arkwright—one of the family you might say—Prescott wasn’t exactly a ‘nearest and dearest.’”
She scanned my face curiously. “No, Bill,” she remarked very quietly, “he wasn’t exactly. But I’ve had to face his mother and I can’t forget that he was our guest and that it was in our house that he met his death—that he came to his death here,” she wrung her hands in the emotion of her distress—“it makes me feel so responsible.”
“Rot!” I exclaimed, “it might have happened to him anywhere—you can’t prevent a crime—now and then.”
“It might have, Bill, but it didn’t. And that’s just all that matters.”
“Again, it might have been worse, too, from the other standpoint.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother’s pearls. We’ve recovered them when the odds seemed pretty hopeless.”
“What do they matter? Bill”—she put her hand on my sleeve, “you can do me a favor. Tell Mr. Bathurst I should like to have a chat with him.”
“When?”
“Oh—when it’s convenient—this afternoon, say.”
“All right,” I replied. “What are you doing this morning?”
“I’m going to take Mrs. Prescott out of herself—if I can. Come and see her.”
I disliked the job as much as Mary had dreaded it, but courtesy demanded it.
Mrs. Prescott was a tall woman with white hair—somewhere I should judge in the early “fifties.” She was completely mistress of her feelings and gave an immediate impression of efficiency and capability. I learned afterwards that she had founded the florist’s business in Kensington that had achieved such remarkable success and had been the foundation stone of the family fortunes, and was herself at the time of which I speak a Justice of the Peace. The blow she had received had been a very heavy one, but she was unmistakably facing it with courage.
“Good-morning, Mr. Cunningham,” she greeted me quietly.
“You know me then, Mrs. Prescott?” I asked, not without surprise.
“Gerald”—there was a little catch in her throat—“pointed you out to me at Lords’ a month ago.”
I was momentarily at a loss. I had expected a grief-stricken woman bordering on hysteria, and this quiet and courageous resignation stirred me greatly.
“I see,” I responded. Then murmured a few words of condolence.
“Thank you,” she said, “thank you. As you say, Mr. Cunningham, his death is a terrible thing—but the idea that he has been murdered, and that his memory will be attached for always to that murder, I find even more terrible and nerve-racking. If I don’t summon all my strength to my aid—I fear I shall give way to the horror of it.”
I expressed my most sincere sympathy, and Mary Considine caught her two hands and pressed them.
“You’re wonderful,” she cried, “to endure things as you have. And I’m going to try to help you to endure them even better.”
Mrs. Prescott smiled very sweetly. “You are very kind, my dear,” she said. “But I feel this, Mr. Cunningham,” she turned in my direction, “that I owe it to my son’s memory to leave no stone unturned to find the man or woman who killed him.” The look of patient resignation on her face gave way to one of steady resolution. She continued—talking seemed to relieve her grief a little, perhaps.
“I’m certain of one thing. I’m absolutely certain, in my own mind, that when Gerald came down here to Considine Manor, he had no worries, no trouble on his mind, and that whatever dark passions encompassed his end—were awakened very recently.”
Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“Oh, don’t say that, Mrs. Prescott,” she said. “I can’t bear to think that this came to him when he was our guest—I’ve just been telling Mr. Cunningham the same thing.”
Mrs. Prescott smiled sadly. “You have nothing with which to reproach yourself, my dear. I just know that when Gerald came here he was intensely happy and glad to come. Therefore, whatever cause brought about his death, had its origin down here. That’s all I mean.” She put her arm round Mary’s shoulders. I heard a step behind—it was Anthony. Mary introduced him.
“I am pleased to meet Mr. Bathurst,” said Mrs. Prescott. “I have heard already from Sir Charles Considine of what you have done for him. Perhaps you will be able to do something for me.”
Anthony bowed. “I am at your service, Mrs. Prescott—command me. How can I help you?”
She repeated to him her previous words to us. Anthony knitted his brows.
“I appreciate,” he said, “the fact that you are speaking with intimate knowledge which makes what you say especially valuable—you are quite assured that your son had no shadow on his life when he came down here?”
“I am positive of it, Mr. Bathurst,” Mrs. Prescott replied. “Of course it may have been some phase of the robbery Mary has told me about, but something tells me it wasn’t—the cause lies outside that.” She shook her head.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Prescott,” interposed Anthony. “I should like to ask you a question—can you in any obscure or roundabout way connect your son—legitimately of course—with any previous jewel robbery?”
A look of amazement spread over her features.
Anthony continued quickly. “I’m afraid I’ve put it to you very awkwardly and clumsily—but this is what I’m driving at. Has he, for example, ever been stopping at a country house that has been robbed while he has been there? The kind of experience, we will say, that would cause him to be on thequi vivewere he confronted a second time with the possibility?”
“I don’t altogether follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” she answered, “so I don’t know whether I can answer you satisfactorily—but I don’t know of any connection of the kind you have indicated.”
“I have a reason for asking,” he intervened quickly. “There is abundant circumstantial evidence that your son, on the evening of the murder, may have been outside the billiard room window—almost in the same spot as this man Webb. If it were he, what took him there?”
“If he were there, Mr. Bathurst,” said Mrs. Prescott, “you may depend upon it, that he had a good and honorable reason for going.”
Anthony bowed. “I see no reason to doubt the accuracy of your opinion.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bathurst.”
“But, all the same, I must confess to being mystified with regard to those footprints.”
“The whole affair is a mystery,” she answered, “that may never be solved.”
“Not the whole affair, Mrs. Prescott—some aspects are becoming increasingly plain—and I hope in time to solve it all!” Anthony’s jaw set.
“That will mean a lot to me, Mr. Bathurst,” she said. “Perhaps more than I can tell you.” She turned to Mary. “I’ll come with you now, dear, as you suggested. Good-bye to you two gentlemen. But there, I’m sure to see you again.” They passed out of the room together and left us.
“What are you doing this morning, Holmes?” I sallied. Anthony looked at me whimsically.
“I’m thinking of having another look at things,” he said; “there are one or two things I should like to make more sure of.”
“What are they?” I inquired curiously.
“I should like to have a look at the billiard room—and Prescott’s bedroom,” he replied unconcernedly. “I’m building up a theory and I would like to test it in one or two places. Come with me?”
“Delighted,” I answered. “Billiard room first?”
“As you please,” said he. We ascended the stairs. In the sunshine of the morning, there seemed to remain no trace of the dreadful secret the room held. The table, bereft of its ghastly burden of a few days since, only spoke of the game it stood for. It was a difficult matter to realize all that had happened since the last game that had been played upon it.
“These chairs were overturned, Bill, and this poker was lying on the floor—remember?”
I did—and I said so. He went full length on the floor and took a magnifying-glass from his pocket.
“I’m rather sceptical about the magnifying-glass stunts you get in detective novels,” he muttered, “but I want an extra-special look at this floor-covering.
“No,” he said as he arose, “I can’t see any signs of any struggle—there are no scratches that would evade the naked eye, of feet moved uncontrollably like in a fight or wrestle. And what is more, Bill, I particularly noticed when Marshall gave the alarm, that although Prescott’s brown shoes were muddy—there was no trace of any mud on the floor here. Think of that, laddie.”
“It might happen so,” I ventured.
“Hardly likely, Bill! There was an appreciable amount of mud on the brown shoes, and one would reasonably expect to find a few traces if Prescott had been engaged in a struggle. In a fight or a wrestle—such as might have taken place here, there is far more pressure of the feet on the ground and certainly more friction than is got by ordinary walking—don’t you see?”
“Yes,” I conceded. “I see what you mean.”
“Yet,” he went on, “I am certain that there were no mud-marks on the floor. Which suggests a number of entertaining possibilities.” He frowned.
“You haven’t told me yet,” I urged, “of those three definite clues you picked up right at the outset. Still liking the look of them? I’m curious!”
“One of ’em has been dragged to light, Bill, and I’m very satisfied with its results—the other two I’m still keeping—for the time being at all events.”
I felt annoyed. All faithful Watsons were not treated in this cavalier manner. They were always admitted willingly and readily into the confidential intimacies. I voiced a complaint. I thought a semi-humorous strain might become the matter best.
“How, my dear Anthony,” I began, “can you reasonably expect to be guided by the best gleams of my superlative intelligence and highly-powered imagination, if you persist in withholding important information from me?” He flashed a smile at me. Then his face took on a more serious aspect.
“Pardon me, Bill—not exactly information. You have seen the same things as I have seen—I’m keeping nothing from you—the difference is that a certain two points made a vivid impression on me—and they didn’t on you.”
“All right, then,” I returned, “I plead guilty. What were they?”
“If I tell you, Bill, and eventually we find that their significance was much less than I imagine, you’ll never believe in me again—and I can’t possibly run the risk of that.”
I could see that nothing I could do would shake his determination. So I turned the subject.
“Are you in a hurry to look over Prescott’s bedroom again?”
“It depends on what you mean by a ‘hurry.’”
“Well, what about a 100 up before we go?” I took a cue and walked to the billiard-table.
“Right-O,” said Anthony. “A little relaxation won’t harm either of us.”
The three balls were in the bottom right-hand pocket where they had lain, presumably, for some days.
“Let’s have them,” I cried. “Spot or Plain?”
“Anything,” he answered. “Spot!” He put his flat hand, palm upwards, underneath the pocket and sent the balls rolling on to the green cloth.
“Go on,” I said, “break.” He opened by giving me the usual point. I replied by coming off the red ball on to the spot-ball and in attempting a second cannon I failed, leaving the red nicely in front of the bottom right-hand pocket. Anthony smiled in appreciative approval.
“Thank you, Bill!” He promptly potted the red. “I can see visions of a nice healthy little break here,” said he, as he sidled round to pick the red ball out. He plunged his hand into the pocket. Then I saw his face register surprise.
“What’s up?” I queried half-interestedly.
“Something down here in the pocket, Bill,” he returned. “A piece of paper.” He drew out a twisted piece of paper and smoothed it out with his fingers—it was a portion of envelope. In a second it flashed into my mind what it was. Something seemed to hammer it into my brain instantaneously. Before my tongue could give sound to the message that was flooding my brain Anthony spoke very quietly, and very gravely. I remember that I marvelled at the time that he could retain so undisturbed an equanimity.
“Bill,” he said, “Barker’s I.O.U.! By Jove!”
“How the devil did it come there?” I exclaimed.
He thought for a second or two before replying. “Well, taking all the circumstances into consideration, not such an unlikely place, after all, to find it. Prescott’s body lay across this table, near this particular pocket, and it’s quite conceivable that (1) the I.O.U. fell in some manner from his coat pocket into the billiard-table pocket or (2) the I.O.U. was taken from the body by the murderer, and dropped, either in the struggle or afterwards. The murderer might even have searched the room for it—assuming that he wanted it badly—and never imagined that it had fallen where it had.”
“Yes,” I assented. “I follow you. How was it”—I went on—“that you didn’t notice it when you took the balls out just now?”
“There were three balls in this pocket then. I knocked them out fromoutsidethe pocket—when I plunged my handinto get out the red ball, I felt this piece of envelope.”
“I see.”
“And there’s something more that I can contribute, Bill!” He wrinkled his forehead as was his habit when endeavoring to remember something very accurately or in extreme detail. “When we were called to this room at seven o’clock that morning by Marshall, the three balls were in the pocket then. I can recall them distinctly—Prescott’s body was lying across the bottom of the table. He was partly on his right shoulder, and his right arm was hanging over the side—very near the pocket where I’ve found the I.O.U. I can remember looking at the limp arm hanging there—and then looking into the pocket and seeing the balls. I can——” he stopped suddenly. “But there’s something wrong somewhere, there’s a difference—there’s a——” he thrust his hands into his pockets and paced the room. When he turned in my direction again, I could see that his eyes were closed. He was thinking hard. “It will come back to me,” he muttered. “There was the arm—there were the three balls—there was the dagger——” he snapped his fingers. Then he swung around.
“Got it?” I asked curiously.
“Got what?”
“Whatever was eluding you?”
He smiled. “I think so,” he answered, “anyway the three balls were there—it was impossible to see the piece of envelope even if we had thought of looking there. But, I must confess, it didn’t occur to me. And evidently also, it didn’t occur to the worthy Baddeley.”
“Going to tell him?” I queried.
“Afraid we ought to! Still I don’t see why we should ... yet. On second thoughts, I think we’ll put it back in its little nest ... in this selfsame pocket. For the time being, William, we will remember, we twain, that ‘Silence is Golden’ and that Inspector Baddeley didn’t call us a lot of ‘tight-lips’ unreasonably.”
I looked at the I.O.U. There it was as Barker had described it. Just a mere scrawl. But possibly it had cost a man his life. And might cost another his. “I.O.U. £208. Malcolm V. Barker.” Anthony held his hand out for it. “Let’s put it back, Bill. It will suit my book if it lie there for a time.” He tucked it away into the pocket. “Going on with the game?”
I shook my head. “I’ve lost interest—this new turn has done it. I don’t feel anything like so keen.”
“Neither do I. What about having another look at Prescott’s bedroom? You remember what I told you just now!”
But I was reluctant to turn my thoughts from our latest discovery. I was anxious to hear more of what Anthony thought with regard to it. Had he formed one of his brilliantly definite notions or was he still groping for an elusive factor and groping unsuccessfully? I determined to draw a bow at a venture. I might, by so doing, discover something of what lay in his mind.
“I’m afraid,” I ventured with an air of wisdom, “that this latest business brings the searchlight of suspicion on to Lieutenant Barker again—don’t you agree?” I looked at him intently, trying to read his thoughts.
“Why—particularly?”
“Doesn’t it make it appear,” I asked, “that Prescott was murdered for possession of that I.O.U.? £200 odd is a pretty substantial sum, you know, for a young officer to lose at a sitting. At least, I’d think so.”
“It’s a possibility,” came the reply, “but you can’t assert that the I.O.U. was a primary factor in the murder. I know that the I.O.U. has been discovered near the body, but after all, the explanation may be perfectly simple. Prescott, we will argue, taking the simple line that I have indicated, took the I.O.U. from Barker at the card-table, as we have been told, placed it in the breast-pocket of his dress-coat, and in the struggle that took place when he was done to death, the thing dropped from its place into the pocket of the billiard-table. I told you so just now.”
“Certainly a possibility,” I said, “but——”
“You don’t think so, eh?”
“Well, candidly,” I rejoined, “I’m not convinced.”
“Nor am I.” He smiled again. “I’m only discussing possibilities. Still”—he proceeded more slowly, “I’m inclined to think that this discovery tends to eliminate Barker from our list of suspects.”
“Can’t see it—quite,” I intervened. “I think it’s rather damaging to him.”
He looked at me keenly.
“I think this,” he said. “If Lieutenant Barker had been after that I.O.U.—sufficiently enthusiastic for its possession to murder a man—that once he had got his claws on it, he would have destroyed it.”
“How?” I said—“and where? He was bound to keep it for a time—he couldn’t destroy it directly he got it—he might have left traces—that would have inevitably incriminated him!” I was jubilant—I felt I had scored.
Anthony lit a cigarette. “Bill,” he conceded, “you’re right—that’s certainly a point that I had not considered!”
There was a tap at the door. “May I come in?” It was Mary Considine’s voice. I remembered what she had asked me in the garden that morning. “I hope I’m not intruding,” she spoke in unusually low tones, “or not interrupting any important conference. Am I? Be sure and tell me if I am.”
“Not at all,” responded Anthony. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I wanted a little consultation with you, Mr. Bathurst—didn’t Bill tell you—I asked him to tell you this morning? Did you forget, Bill?”
I pleaded guilty with apologies to both my companions.
“I am entirely at your service,” exclaimed Anthony. “Where would you like this little chat to take place? Here? Or elsewhere?”
“Here will be as convenient to me as anywhere, Mr. Bathurst—that is if you have no objection?”
“I?” He laughingly disclaimed any such idea. “None at all. Now, what have you got to tell me?”