Chapter XII.Robert ElleryIt had been a struggle for Ellery to keep away. He had heard nothing of the tragedy until Wednesday evening, when he had been to dine with his guardian, Harry Lucas, at Hampstead. There had been, of course, nothing in the morning papers, and he had not seen an evening paper. He had, indeed, spent the day in a long country walk, returning to Hampstead across the Heath in time to dress for dinner at his guardian’s house, where he always kept a change of clothes, and often stayed the night. His walk had been taken with a purpose—no less a purpose than going thoroughly with himself into the question of his feeling for Joan Cowper. He had been a silent witness of the scene at Sir Vernon’s party, when Joan had declared outright that nothing would ever make her marry John Prinsep. That outburst of hers had meant a great deal to him. He had hardly concealed from himself before the fact that he was head over ears in love with Joan; but he had always taught himself to regard his love as hopeless, and tried to make himself believe that he ought to get the better of it, and accept as a foregone conclusion Joan’s marriage with Prinsep. He had been told by Sir Vernon himself that they were engaged, and, of course, no word on the matter had passed between him and Joan.Her definite repudiation of the engagement had therefore come to him as a surprise, and, for the first time, had allowed him to think that his own suit might not be altogether hopeless. Joan liked him: that he knew well enough; but loving was, of course, another story, and he hardly allowed himself, even now, to hope that she loved him. But he made up his mind, after what had passed, first to spend the day in the country, thinking things over, or rather charging at full speed down the Middlesex lanes while the processes of thought went on of their own momentum. Then, he promised himself to tell his guardian in the evening exactly how matters stood, and to ask for his advice. Harry Lucas had known well how to make himself the friend and counsellor, as well as the guardian, of the young man.Ellery went straight upstairs and dressed without seeing his guardian. But, as soon as they met in the smoking-room before dinner, he saw that something very serious was the matter. Lucas had expected that Ellery would already have heard the news; but, when he found that he knew nothing, he told him the story in a few words, explaining how the bodies had been discovered, but saying nothing about clues or about any opinion he may have entertained as to the identity of the murderer—or the murderers. Lucas himself had been down to Liskeard House to offer his help: he had seen Sir Vernon for a few minutes, and had talked with Joan and Mary Woodman. He had also seen Superintendent Wilson at Scotland Yard, and offered any help it might be in his power to give. But, beyond the bare facts discovered in the morning—startling enough in themselves—he knew little, and, of course, at this stage the inquiries of Inspector Blaikie were only at their beginning.Ellery asked no questions at first. The news seemed for the moment to strike him dumb, and the first clear thought that arose in his mind was that, now at least, there could be no more question of Joan marrying Prinsep. Ellery had most cordially disliked and distrusted Prinsep, and he could not pretend to feel any great sorrow at his death. But he had greatly liked George Brooklyn, and, after his first thought, it was mainly the terrible sorrow that had come upon all those who were left that filled his mind. For a time he and Lucas spoke of nothing but the depth of the tragedy that had come upon the Brooklyns.But, by-and-by, Ellery’s curiosity began to assert itself. After all there was mystery as well as tragedy in the events of Tuesday night; and mystery had always exercised over him a strong fascination. “I feel a beast,” he said to his guardian, “for thinking of anything but the sorrow of it all; but I’m damned if I can help wanting to find out all about it.”“My dear Bob, that’s perfectly natural. It would be so in any one; but it’s more than natural in your case. You write detective novels; and here you are faced with a crime mystery in real life. You would be more than human if you didn’t want to unravel it. Besides, seriously enough, it wants unravelling, and I don’t think the police are going to have an easy time in finding out the truth.”Then Lucas told him of the strange clues that had been discovered—how all the evidence seemed to point to the conclusion that Prinsep had murdered George Brooklyn, and equally to the conclusion that George had murdered Prinsep.“Of course,” Lucas added, “that is physically quite impossible; and personally, I’m not in the least disposed to believe that either of them killed the other. I’m sure in my own mind that some one else killed both of them; but I haven’t a ghost of an idea who it can have been.”“And so there’s nothing been found out to throw suspicion on anybody else?”“So far as I know, nothing at all. You’d better do a bit of detective work on your own account.”Ellery said nothing in reply to that. While they had been talking, he had been turning over in his mind the question whether, after what had happened, he could possibly speak to his guardian about his love for Joan. He had told himself firmly that he could not; but, just when he had thought his mind made up, he found himself beginning to speak about it all the same. He was so full of it that he could not keep from declaring it.“Was Joan really engaged to Prinsep?” he asked.Harry Lucas had a good idea of Ellery’s reason for asking the question. But he gave no hint of this in his answer, preferring to let the young man speak or not of his own affairs, as might seem to him best.“No—that she never was,” he replied. “Long ago, Sir Vernon had set his heart on their marrying, and he always persisted in treating it as settled. Joan, I know, had told him again and again that she would not marry Prinsep; but he always put her off, and said that it would all come right in the end. Between ourselves, I don’t think Prinsep was really very keen on marrying Joan; but he was prepared to do it because Sir Vernon wanted it, and he was afraid he would not get the money if he refused. I don’t know that I ought to speak like that about him now that he’s dead: but you know very well that I disliked him, and it’s no use pretending that I didn’t.”Ellery felt his spirits rising as he heard what Lucas said—and again he accused himself of being a beast for feeling cheerful on such an occasion. No more was said then, and during dinner, while the servants were in the room, they talked of other things—of the play which Ellery was writing, of where he had been during the day, of many indifferent matters. They were both glad when dinner was over, and they could return to the smoking-room and be again alone.Then it was that Ellery told Lucas of his love for Joan. And then he had his surprise; for he found that his guardian had discovered that for himself long ago, and that he was being strongly encouraged to persist in his suit. “My dear boy,” said Lucas, “of course you’re in love with Joan, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find out before long that she’s in love with you. She’s a very fine young woman, and I couldn’t wish you better fortune than to win her. I hope you will, when the time comes. But, of course, you can’t make love to her just now. You will have to wait until this terrible affair is over.”“But, if I see her how can I possibly help telling her now—now that other fellow is out of the way? I know I shall simply blurt it out, and probably spoil my chance for good and all.”Lucas gave him some sage advice. He should go and see Joan, and offer to help in any way he could. But on no account must he make love to her yet awhile. From which it may be seen that Harry Lucas, up to date as he thought himself, had still some old-fashioned ideas about propriety.Ellery stayed the night at Hampstead, and went to bed in a mood of cheerfulness which, he told himself, was quite unforgivably brutal. He would go and see Joan the next day. He would try to follow his guardian’s advice: but, if he failed, well, he would fail, and he was not sure that to fail would be quite such a disaster as Lucas made out. After all, she had not been engaged to Prinsep; and why should he not say he loved her?The next morning Ellery left, after an early breakfast, without seeing his guardian, and went off for another long walk across the Heath and over to Mill Hill. His mood had changed, and he now told himself that to go and see Joan would be an intrusion, and that he must at least let some days pass before he went. He felt he could not see her without telling her of his love, and he was sure that to tell her now would be wrong. He tried to put the thing out of his mind, and, as long as he kept walking, he succeeded fairly well. But when, after a long day, he found himself back in his lodgings at Chelsea, he was soon aware that he would be fit for nothing else until he had seen her.He tried to go on with his work; but after a few attempts he put it aside as useless. Then he sat down to try to bring his mind to bear on the crime. He felt that he, as an amateur expert in “detecting,” ought to be able to see some light upon the conditions of the crime; but he could see none. At length he was obliged to tell himself that he had not nearly enough information to go upon, and that he could not hope to make any progress without going himself over the scene of the crime and hearing more of what the police had done. But how could he do that without going to Liskeard House? And how could he go there without seeing Joan? As he went to bed, he told himself that he could do nothing. But he was a healthy fellow, and his perplexity did not long interfere with his slumbers. Tired out by his long walk, he slept like a top.He was still in bed and asleep on the following morning when the landlady knocked at the door and told him that a gentleman, who would not state his business, was waiting to see him downstairs. Dressing hastily, he went down, and found a stranger standing before the fireplace. His visitor handed him a card, on which he read, “Inspector Gibbs, New Scotland Yard.” So they had come to ask him something about the murders.Inspector Blaikie, who had enough to do in following up the trail of Walter Brooklyn, had no time to act on his resolution to see Ellery and get from him an explanation of his movements on Tuesday after leaving Liskeard House. His colleague, Inspector Gibbs, had therefore been entrusted with this task. The police were not seriously disposed to think that Ellery had anything to do with the murders; but every one who had been at the house that night was worth interrogating, and Ellery was therefore to be questioned like the rest.Inspector Gibbs was a very polite young man, excellently groomed, and with an air of treating you as one man of the world treats another. Very politely he explained the purpose of his visit, and told Ellery that he must not suppose that, merely because the police asked him certain questions, there was any suspicion at all attaching to him. “But we must, you know, get all our facts quite complete.” Ellery said that he fully understood, and was prepared to answer any questions to the best of his power. “But the plain fact is,” he said, “that I know nothing at all about it.”He was first asked at what time he had left Liskeard House on Tuesday evening, and replied that it was a few minutes past ten—he could not say more exactly. No, he had not returned there later in the evening—he had gone straight back to Chelsea. At what time had he reached his rooms in Chelsea? About midnight. Not till he made that answer did it occur to him that there was anything in his movements it might be difficult to explain.“About midnight?” said the inspector, with a note of surprise in his voice. “But you said you went straight back after leaving Liskeard House.”“What I meant was that I went nowhere else in particular in between. As a matter of fact I walked back, and spent some time strolling up and down the Embankment before I returned to my rooms. I went down to Chelsea Bridge and walked right along the Embankment to Lots Road, and then back here to Tite Street. It was just about midnight when I let myself in.”“I see. And did you meet any one after you came in?”“No; but my landlady may have seen me come in. There was still a light in her room, which looks out over the front door.”Before the inspector left he saw the landlady, and confirmed this with her. She had seen Ellery come in at about midnight. There was nothing unusual in his taking a long evening stroll by the river on a fine night.But before he saw the landlady the inspector had further questions to ask of Ellery himself. “You say, then, that you were walking about for close on two hours between Liskeard House and Chelsea Embankment. Is there any one who can corroborate this?”Ellery thought for a moment. “Yes, there ought to be,” he said. “I met a friend who lives somewhere down here in Chelsea, at Hyde Park Corner, at about a quarter past ten, and he left me at the Lots Road end of the Embankment at about half-past eleven. We were together all that time.”“Will you give me his name and address?”Ellery paused for a moment, and then gave a nervous laugh. “Upon my word,” he said, “this is devilish awkward. I don’t know the chap’s address—I never have known it. All I do know is that he lives somewhere down the west end of Chelsea—not far from World’s End, I think he said.”“I dare say we can trace him,” said the inspector. “You had better tell me his profession as well as his name. Perhaps you know where he works.”“Good Lord, this is worse than ever,” said Ellery. “I can’t for the life of me remember what the fellow’s name is. It has slipped clean out of my memory.” Then, seeing a heightened look of surprise on the inspector’s face: “You see,” he added, “I hardly know him really. He’s only a casual acquaintance I’ve met a few times at the Club.” He paused and glanced at his visitor, in whose manner he was already conscious of a change.“Come, come, Mr. Ellery, surely you must be able to remember the man’s name. It’s not———”“I only wish I could. I almost had it then. It’s something like Forrest or Forrester or Foster, I’m nearly sure. But it isn’t any of those. I’m nearly certain it begins with an ‘F.’ ”“Isn’t it rather curious that you should have been walking about London for so long with a man you hardly know, and whose name even you can’t remember?”“It may be curious, inspector, and you may think I’m making it all up. I can see you’re inclined to think that. But what I’ve told is exactly what happened. I expect the name will come back to me soon—I have a way of just forgetting things like that every now and then.”“A most unfortunate way, if I may say so. I can only hope that your memory will soon come back. You realise, I suppose, that the consequences of your—lapse may be serious?”“Oh, nonsense, inspector. I don’t see anything so curious about it. I often get talking with chaps I don’t know from Adam; and I’m quite capable of forgetting the name of my dearest friend. What happened was that we were both walking home towards Chelsea, it was a beautifully fine night, and we got into an interesting conversation—about plays. I’m a playwright, you know, and I think he must be an actor. I mean, from the way he talked.”“Well, Mr. Ellery, I should advise you to make a strong effort to find that gentleman again, or to remember his name. No doubt it’s quite all right; but it will be best for you to have youralibiconfirmed.”Ellery saw that Inspector Gibbs was not quite sure whether to believe or disbelieve his story. After all, it did sound a bit fishy. It would be awkward, and quite fatal to his plans of acting as an amateur detective, if the police began seriously to suspect him of having had a hand in the murders. That would put a visit to Liskeard House—and to Joan—more than ever out of the question.Ellery promised to devote the day to an attempt to trace his missing acquaintance, and the inspector departed, with a last word of advice given as by one man of the world to another. But Ellery had an unpleasant feeling that until that fellow—what the devil was his name?—was run to earth, his movements would be carefully watched by the police. Which was not at all the development he had been expecting.The Chelsea Arts Club, where he had certainly sometimes met the fellow, seemed the best place to begin the search, and Ellery accordingly went round there to make his inquiries. But he drew blank. No one could place a fellow who lived in Chelsea—probably an actor—whose name was neither Foster nor Forrest nor Forrester, but something more or less like that. Every one he asked said it was too vague a description, or offered him suggestions which he at once rejected. Ellery began to feel that his job was not going to be easy. As he left the Club he was more than a little depressed, especially as he felt sure that a heavy-footed individual, who kept some distance behind, was under instructions to follow him. The police boots were unmistakable; he noticed them across the road as he came down the Club steps, and turning round a moment later, he saw their wearer following none too discreetly in his wake. “If that is the police idea of shadowing a man,” he said to himself, “I don’t think much of it. But perhaps they don’t mind my knowing.” Then he considered whether it was worth while to try giving his watcher the slip. But that, he reflected, would only make things worse, and get him suspected all the more. He must let himself be followed, and he might as well take it cheerfully. “With cat-like tread, upon the foe we steal,” he whistled, and laughed as he heard the feet of the law clumping along behind him.
It had been a struggle for Ellery to keep away. He had heard nothing of the tragedy until Wednesday evening, when he had been to dine with his guardian, Harry Lucas, at Hampstead. There had been, of course, nothing in the morning papers, and he had not seen an evening paper. He had, indeed, spent the day in a long country walk, returning to Hampstead across the Heath in time to dress for dinner at his guardian’s house, where he always kept a change of clothes, and often stayed the night. His walk had been taken with a purpose—no less a purpose than going thoroughly with himself into the question of his feeling for Joan Cowper. He had been a silent witness of the scene at Sir Vernon’s party, when Joan had declared outright that nothing would ever make her marry John Prinsep. That outburst of hers had meant a great deal to him. He had hardly concealed from himself before the fact that he was head over ears in love with Joan; but he had always taught himself to regard his love as hopeless, and tried to make himself believe that he ought to get the better of it, and accept as a foregone conclusion Joan’s marriage with Prinsep. He had been told by Sir Vernon himself that they were engaged, and, of course, no word on the matter had passed between him and Joan.
Her definite repudiation of the engagement had therefore come to him as a surprise, and, for the first time, had allowed him to think that his own suit might not be altogether hopeless. Joan liked him: that he knew well enough; but loving was, of course, another story, and he hardly allowed himself, even now, to hope that she loved him. But he made up his mind, after what had passed, first to spend the day in the country, thinking things over, or rather charging at full speed down the Middlesex lanes while the processes of thought went on of their own momentum. Then, he promised himself to tell his guardian in the evening exactly how matters stood, and to ask for his advice. Harry Lucas had known well how to make himself the friend and counsellor, as well as the guardian, of the young man.
Ellery went straight upstairs and dressed without seeing his guardian. But, as soon as they met in the smoking-room before dinner, he saw that something very serious was the matter. Lucas had expected that Ellery would already have heard the news; but, when he found that he knew nothing, he told him the story in a few words, explaining how the bodies had been discovered, but saying nothing about clues or about any opinion he may have entertained as to the identity of the murderer—or the murderers. Lucas himself had been down to Liskeard House to offer his help: he had seen Sir Vernon for a few minutes, and had talked with Joan and Mary Woodman. He had also seen Superintendent Wilson at Scotland Yard, and offered any help it might be in his power to give. But, beyond the bare facts discovered in the morning—startling enough in themselves—he knew little, and, of course, at this stage the inquiries of Inspector Blaikie were only at their beginning.
Ellery asked no questions at first. The news seemed for the moment to strike him dumb, and the first clear thought that arose in his mind was that, now at least, there could be no more question of Joan marrying Prinsep. Ellery had most cordially disliked and distrusted Prinsep, and he could not pretend to feel any great sorrow at his death. But he had greatly liked George Brooklyn, and, after his first thought, it was mainly the terrible sorrow that had come upon all those who were left that filled his mind. For a time he and Lucas spoke of nothing but the depth of the tragedy that had come upon the Brooklyns.
But, by-and-by, Ellery’s curiosity began to assert itself. After all there was mystery as well as tragedy in the events of Tuesday night; and mystery had always exercised over him a strong fascination. “I feel a beast,” he said to his guardian, “for thinking of anything but the sorrow of it all; but I’m damned if I can help wanting to find out all about it.”
“My dear Bob, that’s perfectly natural. It would be so in any one; but it’s more than natural in your case. You write detective novels; and here you are faced with a crime mystery in real life. You would be more than human if you didn’t want to unravel it. Besides, seriously enough, it wants unravelling, and I don’t think the police are going to have an easy time in finding out the truth.”
Then Lucas told him of the strange clues that had been discovered—how all the evidence seemed to point to the conclusion that Prinsep had murdered George Brooklyn, and equally to the conclusion that George had murdered Prinsep.
“Of course,” Lucas added, “that is physically quite impossible; and personally, I’m not in the least disposed to believe that either of them killed the other. I’m sure in my own mind that some one else killed both of them; but I haven’t a ghost of an idea who it can have been.”
“And so there’s nothing been found out to throw suspicion on anybody else?”
“So far as I know, nothing at all. You’d better do a bit of detective work on your own account.”
Ellery said nothing in reply to that. While they had been talking, he had been turning over in his mind the question whether, after what had happened, he could possibly speak to his guardian about his love for Joan. He had told himself firmly that he could not; but, just when he had thought his mind made up, he found himself beginning to speak about it all the same. He was so full of it that he could not keep from declaring it.
“Was Joan really engaged to Prinsep?” he asked.
Harry Lucas had a good idea of Ellery’s reason for asking the question. But he gave no hint of this in his answer, preferring to let the young man speak or not of his own affairs, as might seem to him best.
“No—that she never was,” he replied. “Long ago, Sir Vernon had set his heart on their marrying, and he always persisted in treating it as settled. Joan, I know, had told him again and again that she would not marry Prinsep; but he always put her off, and said that it would all come right in the end. Between ourselves, I don’t think Prinsep was really very keen on marrying Joan; but he was prepared to do it because Sir Vernon wanted it, and he was afraid he would not get the money if he refused. I don’t know that I ought to speak like that about him now that he’s dead: but you know very well that I disliked him, and it’s no use pretending that I didn’t.”
Ellery felt his spirits rising as he heard what Lucas said—and again he accused himself of being a beast for feeling cheerful on such an occasion. No more was said then, and during dinner, while the servants were in the room, they talked of other things—of the play which Ellery was writing, of where he had been during the day, of many indifferent matters. They were both glad when dinner was over, and they could return to the smoking-room and be again alone.
Then it was that Ellery told Lucas of his love for Joan. And then he had his surprise; for he found that his guardian had discovered that for himself long ago, and that he was being strongly encouraged to persist in his suit. “My dear boy,” said Lucas, “of course you’re in love with Joan, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find out before long that she’s in love with you. She’s a very fine young woman, and I couldn’t wish you better fortune than to win her. I hope you will, when the time comes. But, of course, you can’t make love to her just now. You will have to wait until this terrible affair is over.”
“But, if I see her how can I possibly help telling her now—now that other fellow is out of the way? I know I shall simply blurt it out, and probably spoil my chance for good and all.”
Lucas gave him some sage advice. He should go and see Joan, and offer to help in any way he could. But on no account must he make love to her yet awhile. From which it may be seen that Harry Lucas, up to date as he thought himself, had still some old-fashioned ideas about propriety.
Ellery stayed the night at Hampstead, and went to bed in a mood of cheerfulness which, he told himself, was quite unforgivably brutal. He would go and see Joan the next day. He would try to follow his guardian’s advice: but, if he failed, well, he would fail, and he was not sure that to fail would be quite such a disaster as Lucas made out. After all, she had not been engaged to Prinsep; and why should he not say he loved her?
The next morning Ellery left, after an early breakfast, without seeing his guardian, and went off for another long walk across the Heath and over to Mill Hill. His mood had changed, and he now told himself that to go and see Joan would be an intrusion, and that he must at least let some days pass before he went. He felt he could not see her without telling her of his love, and he was sure that to tell her now would be wrong. He tried to put the thing out of his mind, and, as long as he kept walking, he succeeded fairly well. But when, after a long day, he found himself back in his lodgings at Chelsea, he was soon aware that he would be fit for nothing else until he had seen her.
He tried to go on with his work; but after a few attempts he put it aside as useless. Then he sat down to try to bring his mind to bear on the crime. He felt that he, as an amateur expert in “detecting,” ought to be able to see some light upon the conditions of the crime; but he could see none. At length he was obliged to tell himself that he had not nearly enough information to go upon, and that he could not hope to make any progress without going himself over the scene of the crime and hearing more of what the police had done. But how could he do that without going to Liskeard House? And how could he go there without seeing Joan? As he went to bed, he told himself that he could do nothing. But he was a healthy fellow, and his perplexity did not long interfere with his slumbers. Tired out by his long walk, he slept like a top.
He was still in bed and asleep on the following morning when the landlady knocked at the door and told him that a gentleman, who would not state his business, was waiting to see him downstairs. Dressing hastily, he went down, and found a stranger standing before the fireplace. His visitor handed him a card, on which he read, “Inspector Gibbs, New Scotland Yard.” So they had come to ask him something about the murders.
Inspector Blaikie, who had enough to do in following up the trail of Walter Brooklyn, had no time to act on his resolution to see Ellery and get from him an explanation of his movements on Tuesday after leaving Liskeard House. His colleague, Inspector Gibbs, had therefore been entrusted with this task. The police were not seriously disposed to think that Ellery had anything to do with the murders; but every one who had been at the house that night was worth interrogating, and Ellery was therefore to be questioned like the rest.
Inspector Gibbs was a very polite young man, excellently groomed, and with an air of treating you as one man of the world treats another. Very politely he explained the purpose of his visit, and told Ellery that he must not suppose that, merely because the police asked him certain questions, there was any suspicion at all attaching to him. “But we must, you know, get all our facts quite complete.” Ellery said that he fully understood, and was prepared to answer any questions to the best of his power. “But the plain fact is,” he said, “that I know nothing at all about it.”
He was first asked at what time he had left Liskeard House on Tuesday evening, and replied that it was a few minutes past ten—he could not say more exactly. No, he had not returned there later in the evening—he had gone straight back to Chelsea. At what time had he reached his rooms in Chelsea? About midnight. Not till he made that answer did it occur to him that there was anything in his movements it might be difficult to explain.
“About midnight?” said the inspector, with a note of surprise in his voice. “But you said you went straight back after leaving Liskeard House.”
“What I meant was that I went nowhere else in particular in between. As a matter of fact I walked back, and spent some time strolling up and down the Embankment before I returned to my rooms. I went down to Chelsea Bridge and walked right along the Embankment to Lots Road, and then back here to Tite Street. It was just about midnight when I let myself in.”
“I see. And did you meet any one after you came in?”
“No; but my landlady may have seen me come in. There was still a light in her room, which looks out over the front door.”
Before the inspector left he saw the landlady, and confirmed this with her. She had seen Ellery come in at about midnight. There was nothing unusual in his taking a long evening stroll by the river on a fine night.
But before he saw the landlady the inspector had further questions to ask of Ellery himself. “You say, then, that you were walking about for close on two hours between Liskeard House and Chelsea Embankment. Is there any one who can corroborate this?”
Ellery thought for a moment. “Yes, there ought to be,” he said. “I met a friend who lives somewhere down here in Chelsea, at Hyde Park Corner, at about a quarter past ten, and he left me at the Lots Road end of the Embankment at about half-past eleven. We were together all that time.”
“Will you give me his name and address?”
Ellery paused for a moment, and then gave a nervous laugh. “Upon my word,” he said, “this is devilish awkward. I don’t know the chap’s address—I never have known it. All I do know is that he lives somewhere down the west end of Chelsea—not far from World’s End, I think he said.”
“I dare say we can trace him,” said the inspector. “You had better tell me his profession as well as his name. Perhaps you know where he works.”
“Good Lord, this is worse than ever,” said Ellery. “I can’t for the life of me remember what the fellow’s name is. It has slipped clean out of my memory.” Then, seeing a heightened look of surprise on the inspector’s face: “You see,” he added, “I hardly know him really. He’s only a casual acquaintance I’ve met a few times at the Club.” He paused and glanced at his visitor, in whose manner he was already conscious of a change.
“Come, come, Mr. Ellery, surely you must be able to remember the man’s name. It’s not———”
“I only wish I could. I almost had it then. It’s something like Forrest or Forrester or Foster, I’m nearly sure. But it isn’t any of those. I’m nearly certain it begins with an ‘F.’ ”
“Isn’t it rather curious that you should have been walking about London for so long with a man you hardly know, and whose name even you can’t remember?”
“It may be curious, inspector, and you may think I’m making it all up. I can see you’re inclined to think that. But what I’ve told is exactly what happened. I expect the name will come back to me soon—I have a way of just forgetting things like that every now and then.”
“A most unfortunate way, if I may say so. I can only hope that your memory will soon come back. You realise, I suppose, that the consequences of your—lapse may be serious?”
“Oh, nonsense, inspector. I don’t see anything so curious about it. I often get talking with chaps I don’t know from Adam; and I’m quite capable of forgetting the name of my dearest friend. What happened was that we were both walking home towards Chelsea, it was a beautifully fine night, and we got into an interesting conversation—about plays. I’m a playwright, you know, and I think he must be an actor. I mean, from the way he talked.”
“Well, Mr. Ellery, I should advise you to make a strong effort to find that gentleman again, or to remember his name. No doubt it’s quite all right; but it will be best for you to have youralibiconfirmed.”
Ellery saw that Inspector Gibbs was not quite sure whether to believe or disbelieve his story. After all, it did sound a bit fishy. It would be awkward, and quite fatal to his plans of acting as an amateur detective, if the police began seriously to suspect him of having had a hand in the murders. That would put a visit to Liskeard House—and to Joan—more than ever out of the question.
Ellery promised to devote the day to an attempt to trace his missing acquaintance, and the inspector departed, with a last word of advice given as by one man of the world to another. But Ellery had an unpleasant feeling that until that fellow—what the devil was his name?—was run to earth, his movements would be carefully watched by the police. Which was not at all the development he had been expecting.
The Chelsea Arts Club, where he had certainly sometimes met the fellow, seemed the best place to begin the search, and Ellery accordingly went round there to make his inquiries. But he drew blank. No one could place a fellow who lived in Chelsea—probably an actor—whose name was neither Foster nor Forrest nor Forrester, but something more or less like that. Every one he asked said it was too vague a description, or offered him suggestions which he at once rejected. Ellery began to feel that his job was not going to be easy. As he left the Club he was more than a little depressed, especially as he felt sure that a heavy-footed individual, who kept some distance behind, was under instructions to follow him. The police boots were unmistakable; he noticed them across the road as he came down the Club steps, and turning round a moment later, he saw their wearer following none too discreetly in his wake. “If that is the police idea of shadowing a man,” he said to himself, “I don’t think much of it. But perhaps they don’t mind my knowing.” Then he considered whether it was worth while to try giving his watcher the slip. But that, he reflected, would only make things worse, and get him suspected all the more. He must let himself be followed, and he might as well take it cheerfully. “With cat-like tread, upon the foe we steal,” he whistled, and laughed as he heard the feet of the law clumping along behind him.