The inspector rose.
"Only one thing. Will you kindly give me the names of your guests in the other room?"
Copplestone complied slowly. Inspector Fay wrote the names down.
"Thank you," he said, laying down his book. "I am sorry to have had to give you the pain of answering so many questions. I am afraid you are quite overwrought. I should advise you to try to get some sleep."
"Sleep," Copplestone murmured, rising weakly from his chair. "Sleep.... Good God."
The inspector himself made a gesture of fatigue.
"I only got back from another heavy case as your message came in," he apologized, stifling a yawn. "Tobacco is the only thingthat keeps me going. Could you give me a cigarette?"
Without answering, Copplestone languidly produced an elaborately jeweled gold cigarette-case, and handed it to the inspector.
There were two cigarettes in it.
Inspector Fay took one, with a perfectly impassive countenance, and returned the case. Copplestone replaced it in his pocket.
"Please give whatever instructions you like to my man," he said dully—"and let me know if you want me. I shall be in my room."
He turned, and moved away with slow heavy steps, disappearing between the same curtains through which, a few hours before, he had presented Christine Manderson to his guests.
The inspector stood looking after him, fingering the cigarette thoughtfully, a very curious expression on his face. He showed no further signs of fatigue.
"I wonder why you lied to me," he muttered—and laid the cigarette on the table.
He glanced down the list of names, and went to the door. The constable had mounted guard over his prisoners with extraordinary dignity.The voice of the danseuse was still raised in lamentation.
"Monsieur Dupont," the inspector called.
The constable passed on the summons—and Monsieur Dupont instantly obeyed it.
The Trail Of Corpses
The inspector closed the door behind him. "What has brought you back into the arena?" he asked quietly.
"A riddle," the Frenchman answered, in an equally low tone.
"It must have been something pretty big to have temptedyou," the inspector remarked, coming closer to him.
"It was," Monsieur Dupont admitted.
The other glanced cautiously towards the curtains at the far end of the room.
"Why are you here—in this house?" he demanded softly.
"By chance," Monsieur Dupont replied.
"Did you know Copplestone before?"
"I did not. I had never seen him. I came with my friend, Tranter."
"You were here all the evening?"
"Yes."
"Anything to tell me?" the inspector asked, looking at him intently.
Monsieur Dupont smiled.
"Only, my friend, that I imagine you will find it an interesting and somewhat unusual case."
"That's not enough—from you," the inspector retorted.
"If I may be permitted to advise—it is a case in which you would do well to ignore the obvious."
"I want more than that," insisted the inspector.
The huge Frenchman remained silent.
"You are not a man to waste your time on this kind of entertainment," said the inspector slowly. "Is there any connection between the crime to-night, and your so-called 'riddle'?"
"The connection of death," said Monsieur Dupont.
There was something of awe in his voice and manner.
"For two years," he said, "I have been following in the track of something, which, inthe words of our great Dumas—'must have passed this way, for I see a corpse.'"
"That quotation referred to a woman," said the inspector quickly.
"From me," returned Monsieur Dupont evenly, "it is sexless—at present."
The inspector frowned.
"Come," he said impatiently—"in what way are you mixed up in this?"
"In the way of my quotation—a corpse. I started my quest two years ago—over a dead body, torn and mutilated. At the end of the first year I found another dead body, torn and mutilated. I follow on and on—from one point to the next point—often with no more than the instinct of the hunter to guide me. And here, at the end of the second year, there is yet another dead body, torn and mutilated. It is horrible. I sicken. I wish I had remained in my retirement."
"What were the two previous crimes?" the inspector asked.
"Two women—two very beautiful women."
Inspector Fay started, staring at him.
"Miss Manderson was a beautiful woman," he said slowly.
Monsieur Dupont's enormous head nodded several times.
"She was," he agreed deliberately. "The most beautiful of the three."
There was silence for a moment. Then the inspector laid a hand on the Frenchman's shoulder.
"We have worked together a good many times in the past," he said, with more cordiality than before.
"We have, indeed," Monsieur Dupont responded pleasantly.
"And though your methods were always fanciful compared with our's, I know enough of your powers to ask you a simple, straight question."
"I am at your service," said Monsieur Dupont.
"You were here on the spot when this crime was committed. Who, or what, smashed the body of that unfortunate woman to pulp in this garden to-night?"
Monsieur Dupont's gigantic form seemed toacquire a new, strange dignity—a solemnity—as though he were in the presence, or speaking, of something before which humanity must bow its head.
"A Destroyer," he whispered. "A Destroyer who strikes with neither fear nor compunction—and passes on without pity or remorse. A Destroyer who is as old as the sins of men, and as young as the futures of their children."
"You always spoke in parables," the inspector exclaimed irritably. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Monsieur Dupont, "that I believe the thing which passed through this crooked garden to-night, leaving death so horribly behind it, is the same thing that has already passed on twice before me, and left the same death in its wake. I cannot tell you any more. Let us both go our own ways, as we have done so many times before. I do not wish to take any credit in this affair. If I am able to prove its connection with my own case, and to solve it, I shall hand the whole matter over to you."
The inspector appeared somewhat relieved.
Monsieur Dupont's eyes were fixed on an unframed photograph of Christine Manderson, which stood on a small cabinet in front of him.
"Please compound a felony," he said softly—and slipped it into his pocket.
"Where are you to be found?" the inspector asked.
"At the Hotel Savoy." He yawned. "I am very sleepy," he complained. "If you will finish with Mr. Tranter as soon as possible, he will take me back in his car."
He turned to the door.
"Stay," said the inspector.
He stopped.
"You have not lost your old fantastic kink," said the inspector, with a faint smile. "The last time we ran together you were five minutes ahead of me at the finish. This time—we will see who is the first to pass the post."
"My friend," said Monsieur Dupont, "I will do my best to give you a good race."
He passed out of the room. The inspector followed him to the door, and called for Mr. Tranter.
Tranter
"Mr. Tranter," said the inspector, "I understand that you were the last person to see Miss Manderson alive."
"I believe I was," Tranter replied.
The inspector sat down again at the table, and re-opened his note-book.
"Will you kindly tell me exactly what happened from the time you went out into the garden after dinner, and the time you left Miss Manderson?"
"We strolled away from the house together, in the direction of the river. The events of the evening seemed to have upset her very much, and she was nervous of the storm. We walked about, I should think, for nearly half an hour, until the lightning became very vivid——"
"Did you see or hear any one in that partof the garden?" the inspector interrupted.
"No. Most of the others went to the lawns, in the opposite direction. When the lightning became very vivid, Miss Manderson said she would return to the house, and asked me to go down to the lawns to find Mr. Copplestone, and send him in to her. She was obviously unwell."
"You will be able to show me the place where you left her?"
"I think so. It was very dark—but I remember that we had just passed under a number of rose-arches across the path."
"It was, I presume, further away from the house than the spot where the body was found?"
"The body was found close to the river, about half-way between the house and the place where I left her," Tranter replied.
"So we may surmise that she had got about half-way to the house before the attack was made. How far would that actually be?"
"Along those winding paths," Tranter calculated, "I should say roughly about a hundred and fifty yards."
"Did she start to walk to the house immediately you left her?"
"Yes. She started in that direction as I started in the other."
"Then," mused the inspector, "she must have met the criminal, whoever it was, at the most within three minutes of leaving you?"
"Presumably she must," Tranter agreed.
"And was that," pursued the inspector, "about the spot where she might have met the young man, Layton, who was, it appears, being chased out towards the river by Mr. Bolsover?"
"It might be. But I do not know anything about the chase. If I had known that Layton was in the garden, I should not have left her."
"Where did you find Mr. Copplestone?"
"On the lawns."
"How long after you parted from her?"
"Only a few minutes. Four or five."
"Was he alone?"
"Yes. He was looking for Miss Manderson himself. He went into the house at once."
Silence followed while the inspector added to his notes.
"Mr. Tranter," he said quietly—and his eyesrested for a moment on the cigarette on the table, "I have only one suggestion to make. You will understand that it is only a suggestion, but I want to be perfectly clear. Considering that this was the evening of Miss Manderson's engagement to Mr. Copplestone, might she not have been expected to have strolled away from the house, and to have spent that following half-hour, with him rather than with you?"
Tranter hesitated.
"I suppose she might," he admitted.
The inspector was looking at him sharply.
"It is a small point," he said smoothly. "Perhaps you can clear it up."
There was another pause. Tranter was plainly embarrassed.
"Inspector," he said at last, "I must, of course, tell you everything—but I should be obliged if for obvious reasons, you will keep as much as possible to yourself."
"That, sir," returned the inspector firmly, "you must leave to my discretion."
"I am content to do so," Tranter said. "The truth is—I had met Miss Manderson before."
"Ah!" said the inspector softly.
"I knew her first nearly six years ago, in Chicago. Her real name was not Christine Manderson."
The inspector's eyes began to brighten. He turned to a fresh page in his note-book.
"She took that name, she told me to-night, when she went on the stage in New York. She was really Thea Colville."
Inspector Fay started.
"Thea Colville? The Chicago adventuress?"
"I believe some people called her that," Tranter returned shortly.
"The woman who ruined Michael Cranbourne, son of Joshua Cranbourne, the Nitrate King?"
"She had finished with Cranbourne before I knew her," Tranter replied. "He was a scoundrel. Whatever happened, she certainly could not be blamed."
The inspector was making rapid notes.
"She was not so wild as she was painted," Tranter continued. "Women with such beauty as hers have a thousand temptations. Thesins of a beautiful woman are always many degrees blacker than the sins of a plain one. We became very intimate—and I am afraid I allowed her to expect more from me than I actually intended. I was called back to England unexpectedly, and heard nothing more of her until Mr. Copplestone brought her into this room to-night."
He stopped. Emotion had crept into his voice.
"During the most part of your conversation with her, were you walking about, or standing still?"
"Standing still."
"You have said that you did not hear any one moving about near you while you were speaking to her?"
"No."
"Were there trees or hedges about, where some one might have hidden to overhear you?"
"There was a hedge," Tranter replied. "But I did not notice the spot particularly."
"You will be able to point it out to me to-morrow."
"I think so. As I say, I did not particularly notice it—and the possibility of being overheard certainly did not occur to me. I am afraid at that moment caution was hardly a consideration with either of us."
The inspector closed his note-book.
"Unless circumstances compel me to do otherwise," he promised, "I will keep your story to myself. Will you tell me whether the announcement of Mr. Copplestone's engagement to Miss Manderson produced a noticeable effect on any particular person in the room? Please do not hesitate to answer."
"It certainly appeared to be unwelcome news to Mrs. Astley-Rolfe," Tranter replied, "but she very quickly recovered herself."
"It seemed, in fact, to be a considerable shock to her?"
"Yes."
"Were you in the room when this young man, James Layton, burst in?"
"I was. Monsieur Dupont and I had just arrived."
"It is true that he said that rather thanallow Miss Manderson to become engaged to Mr. Copplestone, he would tear her to pieces with his own hands?"
"Those were his exact words."
The inspector rose.
"I understand that you brought Monsieur Dupont here with you as your friend?" he remarked casually.
"Yes. He only arrived in London last night."
"Do you know him well?"
"Fairly," Tranter replied. "I am under a great obligation to him. He saved my life in Paris, a year ago."
"Has he mentioned anything of the business that has brought him to this country?" the inspector asked, moving to the door.
"Only that he had come to solve a strange riddle."
A faint, rather grim smile passed over the inspector's face.
"I am obliged to you, sir," he said, opening the door. "If you will kindly return here at ten o'clock in the morning—and bring Monsieur Dupont with you—I shall ask you to showme the various places you have referred to in the garden."
When Tranter returned to the waiting-room, he found Monsieur Dupont asleep in an armchair. The room was very quiet. The danseuse had subsided into an interim condition of mute tension. Mrs. Astley-Rolfe was deathly white, but perfectly composed. The men made occasional remarks to each other.
"Mrs. Astley-Rolfe," the inspector called.
Mrs. Astley-Rolfe
"Madam," said the inspector, placing a chair for her, "I need only trouble you with one or two questions. You will understand that it is necessary for me to account for each member of this party, so that I may know which of them can, or cannot, assist me in my investigations."
She sat down with a weary movement. Her hands trembled slightly.
"It is very dreadful," she shuddered. "Such a frightful crime is inconceivable. Who could have hated the poor girl so dreadfully?"
"That remains to be discovered," the inspector returned quietly. "I have no doubt we shall succeed in clearing it up."
"I hope you will," she said fervently. "Please ask me any questions you like."
The inspector kept his eyes fixed on his note-book.
"You went into the garden with the others after dinner?"
"Yes."
"Will you please tell me with whom, and in what part of the garden, you passed the time before the crime was discovered?"
"I was alone," she said slowly.
"The whole time?"
"Yes. I was not feeling very well, and did not want the trouble of talking. I walked away by myself."
"You know the way about the garden quite well?"
"Quite."
"In what direction did you walk?"
"To the croquet lawn."
"Did you see anything of the others?"
"No."
"Or hear any voices?"
"No."
"Nothing until the alarm was given?"
"Nothing. It was an isolated part of the garden. When I heard Mr. Delamere shouting,I ran back to the house, and found them on the lawn."
The inspector shot a keen glance at her.
"Did you know Miss Manderson well?"
"I had only met her three or four times."
"I suppose—being one of the most beautiful women on the American stage, and about to appear for the first time in London—you heard her a good deal talked about?"
"Yes." Her voice was just perceptibly harder. "People were taking great interest in her."
"Did you hear her private affairs, and mode of life, discussed at any time?"
"No."
"Or the name of James Layton, the millionaire philanthropist, mentioned in conjunction with her's?"
"Never."
"Thank you, madam. I need not trouble you any further. Will you kindly leave me your address, in case I should have to ask you for any more information?"
He wrote the address down, and bowed her out.
The Danseuse
"Madame Krashoff," summoned the inspector.
The danseuse was in a condition of the utmost distress.
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" she wept.
"Please calm yourself, madame," the inspector requested patiently.
"I ken nothin' o' the creeme!" she sobbed thoughtlessly.
"I am sure of that," he declared gravely. "I merely wish to establish the movements of every one here. With whom did you pass the time after you went out into the garden until the alarm was given?"
"Wi' M'soo Gluckstein," she whimpered.
"All the time?"
"N-no."
"How much of the time?"
She became more collected.
"He said to me something that made me angry," she replied, with a touch of viciousness. "I walk away from him. Then it rain, and I overtook him as I go back to the house."
"How long were you away from him?" the inspector asked.
"Ma foi, I cannot tell. Maybe ten minutes."
"Did you see any one else?"
"No."
"In what part of the garden were you when you left him?"
"Behind the tennis courts."
"That is some way from the river?"
"Yes, yes—ver' far away."
"Thank you, madame."
Mr. Gluckstein
The financier was extremely agitated, and tried to shake hands with the inspector.
"Mr. Gluckstein, I understand from Madame Krashoff that you were with her in the garden for the greater part of the time before the crime was discovered."
"I wath," the financier quivered—"indeed I wath, inthpector."
"Then she left you for about ten minutes?"
"Not tho much ath ten minutes," corrected the financier hastily.
"What did you do after she left you?"
"I stayed vere I vath—until the rain commenthed."
"Did you see any one else?"
"No one at allth."
"Thank you," said the inspector. "Pleaseleave me your address, in case I should want to ask you any further questions."
The financier produced a card with trembling fingers.
The Clergyman
"Mr. Delamere," said the inspector, "you discovered the body?"
"I did," replied the clergyman, with a shiver.
"Were you alone when you found it?"
"Yes. I had been walking with Mr. Bolsover for about quarter of an hour. Then he turned back to find some of the others, and I strolled on to the river."
"Did you meet any one else?"
"No."
"You saw nothing of this young man, Layton, who was chased towards the river by Mr. Bolsover?"
"Nothing whatever."
"No sounds of a struggle?"
"No. I heard nothing."
"Was the body lying in your path?"
"No. Some distance aside. I saw something white on the ground in one of the lightning flashes, and went to see what it was."
"I shall have to ask you to return here at ten o'clock, to show me the exact spot."
"Certainly."
"Thank you, Mr. Delamere."
Mr. Bolsolver
"My God!" exclaimed the manager, "what an appalling business!"
"It is," the inspector agreed shortly.
"She was to have appeared at my theater, too," said the manager ruefully.
"I understand that you found Layton sneaking about the house?"
"Yes. I first strolled out with Mr. Delamere. Then I left him, and went back to see where the others had got to, and saw Layton creeping round the side of the house towards the open drawing-room windows. He heard my footsteps on the path, and bolted."
"To the river?"
"Yes. I shouted for Mr. Copplestone, but there was no answer—so I followed him."
"You are quite certain it was Layton?"
"Perfectly. I saw his face in the light of the windows, and he was wearing the peculiar kind of slouch hat he had carried when he came into the room."
"Apparently no one saw him in the garden except yourself."
"Unfortunately not. I met the Frenchman, Monsieur Dupont, a little way from the river—but he had not seen him."
"It was a pity you did not manage to catch him," the inspector remarked.
"Confound it, yes! But it was easy to get away in such a garden as this. There wasn't a chance of finding him."
"What did you do, after meeting Monsieur Dupont?"
"We went on to the river together. I thought I saw a movement among the trees when the lightning lit them up—but there was nothing. I walked round about there for a few minutes, and then went back to warn Copplestone."
"Leaving Monsieur Dupont by the river?"
"Yes. Before I reached the house, I heard Mr. Delamere shouting the alarm."
"Thank you," said the inspector, closing his note-book. "I am afraid I shall have to trouble you to come here at ten o'clock and show me certain places in the garden."
"I am entirely at your disposal," said the manager.
He went out. The inspector sat down at the table, and remained perfectly still for half an hour.
The Trinity of Death
In Tranter's car, its owner and Monsieur Dupont started, at half-past one, on their return from the crooked house.
The storm had passed, and the air was fresh and cool. It was possibly the atmospheric clearance which accounted for the fact, that, however, fatigued he had been, or appeared to be, at the end of his conversation with the inspector, Monsieur Dupont was now particularly wide-awake and alert.
"Dieu!" he cried, "what a terrible crime! Almost to tear that woman to pieces—to crush her—to rend her! And what a woman!Ma foi, what a woman!"
There was a pause. Monsieur Dupont accepted and lit a cigar from Tranter's case.
"My friend," he said quietly, "I wish to be quite fair to you."
"Fair to me?" Tranter echoed, surprised.
"Something happened to-night which you doubtless believe to be unknown to every one except yourself."
Tranter turned to him quickly.
"I have not the habit," Monsieur Dupont continued, "of listening to private conversations between other people. It is only on very rare occasions that I have done so. I did so to-night."
"What do you mean?" Tranter exclaimed.
"In that horrible garden, before the crime was committed," pursued Monsieur Dupont evenly, "I lost my way. Such a garden must have been especially designed to cause innocent people to lose their way. I wandered about. How I wandered!"
"What did you overhear?" asked Tranter, in a strained voice.
"A conversation—between that unfortunate Mademoiselle Manderson, and yourself."
"You heard it?" Tranter cried sharply.
"I heard it," admitted Monsieur Dupont. "I heard a great part of it. I believe nearly all. I should not have done so. Understand,I make you all my apologies. It was improper to listen. But the storm, the surroundings, the scene itself, excited me. I listened."
Tranter remained silent.
"I continued to listen, until Mr. Bolsover found me. He was following that young man, Layton. I went with him to the river."
Tranter was still silent—staring straight in front of him with fixed eyes.
"You saw a picture of weakness," he said, at last. "I am not proud of it. I should much prefer to be able to think that no one had seen it. I gave Inspector Fay an account of the whole scene, and of my previous acquaintance with Christine Manderson. He promised to keep it to himself. I hope you will do the same."
"I shall indeed," the other assured him.
"I am only human," Tranter went on, with an effort—"more human than I thought. I resisted her once by taking flight. I couldn't resist her to-night."
He mastered his emotion.
"From the moment she first came into the room I was helpless. I knew what would comeof it—but I couldn't tear myself away. It was the whole spell—with all the new strength of memories. I knew she intended to find me alone in the garden." He paused. "I had to let her."
"Human nature," said Monsieur Dupont consolingly, "is human nature."
Silence followed. Monsieur Dupont thoughtfully puffed at his cigar.
"A crooked house in a crooked garden," he said, at length, "is a combination from which all honest people should shrink. Those who frequent it must be, for the most part, crooked people. They were, for the most part, crooked people to-night."
"It was a crooked evening from beginning to end," Tranter said wearily.
"It was a wicked evening," Monsieur Dupont declared—"full of wicked thoughts. A crime was the natural and logical end to such an evening. It would have been surprising if there had not been one."
He smoked vigorously for some moments—then made an expansive gesture.
"Are there not," he demanded, "houses andgardens and thunder-storms that awaken cruel and shameful impulses that would never be aroused in other houses and other gardens and other storms? Does not the influence of good and noble decorations uplift us to joy and patriotism? Why should not the influence of mean and sinful decorations degrade us to murder and destruction? The flags that fly over the innocent revels of children are innocent flags, and inspire kind feelings and happiness. But remove the same flags to a Bull-ring, and they become evil flags, inspiring lust for the blood and slaughter of helpless creatures—the basest of human instincts."
"You are fantastic," said Tranter, with a gloomy smile.
"In fantasy," returned Monsieur Dupont, "are the world's greatest truths."
He carefully deposed the ash from his cigar.
"Will you please tell me," he went on, "something more about our strange host to-night—the man who chooses so much crookedness to live in, when there is straightness to be had for the same price?"
"I know very little more about him than I told you last night," Tranter replied. "He is wealthy, and very eccentric. He seems to pass his life in a perpetual effort to be different from other people."
"He is more than eccentric," Monsieur Dupont stated. "He is mad. In a few years he will be a dangerous lunatic. And the Good God only knows what he may make of himself in the meantime."
"There are plenty of strange stories about him," Tranter said. "But I have always looked on them as greatly exaggerated."
"Probably," Monsieur Dupont remarked, "they were true."
"Whatever his reputation may be, women seem very ready to put up with his eccentricities, or pander to them, in return, no doubt, for big inroads into his banking account. He is very free with his money where the opposite sex is concerned."
"It is always so," said Monsieur Dupont, "with such men."
"He mixes chiefly in theatrical and bohemiancircles—and often by no means the most desirable of those. The better people look askance on him—but he is supremely indifferent to the opinions of others, and to all the conventions. Whatever he takes it into his head to do he does, quite regardless of the approval or disapproval of other people. He is certainly not a man I would introduce to any woman who possessed even the smallest degree of physical attraction. He is supposed to be quite unscrupulous in the attainment of his objects."
"Most of us are," said Monsieur Dupont. "But we dislike to admit it."
He looked steadily out of the window for a moment.
"I wonder," he said, turning back, "what he does with the rest of that house."
"The rest of the house?" Tranter repeated.
"It is very large," said Monsieur Dupont. "It is large enough for twenty men."
"In this country," Tranter smiled, "there is no law against one man living in a house large enough for twenty, if he chooses."
"When only a small part of a house is usedfor ordinary purposes," remarked Monsieur Dupont, "the remainder is often used for extraordinary ones."
"You know as much of the house as I do," Tranter returned.
"As a practical man," Monsieur Dupont continued, "you may smile when I speak of such a thing as 'psychic intuition.' But you may smile, and again you may smile. I possess that intuition strongly. It has been of great use to me. The moment I entered that house to-night, I knew it was a house of sin. I knew there were hidden things in it—things that were not for honest eyes to see. I do not say—at present—that they have any connection with the crime. But they are there."
"I do not smile at such instincts," Tranter said. "I quite admit that there is a strange, uncanny atmosphere about the place. And if there are secrets in it, I am equally ready to admit that they are probably bad ones."
"They are bad ones," declared Monsieur Dupont. "They could not be anything but bad ones. When that excellent Inspector Fay hassolved the mystery of the garden, he would be wise to turn his attention to the secrets of the house."
There was a pause.
"Did Layton kill her?" Tranter asked suddenly.
Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders.
"The evidence is against him," he replied judicially. "Your Coroner's jury will find him guilty, and the police will not look further. They will build up a strong case. They will doubtless find that he was cruelly treated by that poor girl, and was furious to know that she was engaged to another man. He threatened, in the presence of many witnesses, to kill her in a horrible way. He was seen later in the garden, and afterwards she was found—killed in exactly that horrible way. Who would not say that in his rage and jealousy he had fulfilled his threat? Every one will be perfectly satisfied. It is enough for justice if the most likely person is hanged. And, so far, he is not only the most likely, but the only, person."
"Perhaps so," Tranter acknowledged. "But—hedidn't look like a murderer. He looked a good fellow. Is there no other alternative?"
"Thereisan alternative," said Monsieur Dupont steadily.
"There is?"
"Yes."
Monsieur Dupont smoked composedly for a minute.
"My friend," he said—"are you inclined for an adventure?"
"I am rather busy," Tranter replied. "What is it?"
"Suppose ... I were to declare to you positively that James Layton is innocent—that he did not commit that crime in the crooked garden to-night—and that I do not intend to allow him to be hanged for a crime that he did not commit—would you give a certain amount of your time to help me to save him?"
"Certainly. I will do anything I can."
"Then," said Monsieur Dupont, "I answer the question you asked a moment ago. He didnotkill her."
"Who did?" Tranter demanded, looking at him in astonishment.
"That is another matter. It is one thing to say who did not—but quite another to say who did. That is for us to discover. There will be very little time. I think I can promise you excitement. Possibly there will be danger. You do not object to that?"
"I have faced a certain amount of danger in my time," Tranter replied.
"Good," said Monsieur Dupont. "Then we will set ourselves—quite apart from the efforts of our friend, Inspector Fay—to solve the mystery of the crooked garden. And we will not speak a word to any one of our intention."
"You seem to have some very definite ideas on the subject already," Tranter observed.
"Ah, no," demurred Monsieur Dupont—"do not credit me with the superhuman. We have a very difficult task before us."
"But what of your other object," Tranter inquired—"the 'riddle' that you came over to solve?"
"It may be," Monsieur Dupont replied carefully, "that there is some connection between my riddle and this dreadful affair to-night. At present I cannot say. Only events themselvescan prove that. But that very possibility compels me to take up a peculiar attitude—unfortunately a most necessary one. If you will assist me—as I beg you to do—you must be content to follow my guidance and instructions without question, and remain, as you call it, in the dark, until the time comes for all to be told."
"You are certainly the most mysterious person I have ever met!" Tranter exclaimed.
"It is not that I have the smallest doubt of yourself or your discretion," Monsieur Dupont hastened to explain. "On the contrary. It is simply that my position at this moment is an extraordinary one, and I cannot do what would seem to be the natural and ordinary thing. Will you help me on that understanding?"
"I will help you in any case," Tranter agreed, smiling slightly at his companion's intense seriousness. "What is to be my first task?"
"Your first task," said Monsieur Dupont gravely, "is to deposit me at the Hotel Savoy, and call for me later on your way back to Richmond."
Tranter spoke some instructions throughthe speaking-tube to the chauffeur. When he turned again, Monsieur Dupont was asleep. He did not open his eyes again until the car stopped at the Savoy.
Entering the hotel, he ascended to his room. In it, he mixed himself a whisky-and-soda, sat down at the writing-table, and unlocked a despatch-box.
He took out two photographs—each of a remarkably beautiful woman.
Under one was neatly written—
Colette d'Orsel. Nice. August 1900.
And under the other—
Margaret McCall. Boston. Dec. 1910.
From his pocket he took the photograph which the inspector had allowed him to appropriate, and laid it beside the others. The face that smiled up at him was the most beautiful of the three.
He dipped a pen in the ink, and wrote under it, in the same neat handwriting—
Christine Manderson. London. July 1919.
Without Trace
At ten o'clock, Tranter and Monsieur Dupont stood with Inspector Fay in the garden. The Rev. Percival Delamere joined them a few minutes later, and the theatrical manager arrived shortly afterwards. Finally, still in the same half-dazed condition, George Copplestone emerged from the house.
"Mon Dieu," Monsieur Dupont whispered quickly. "Look at that man!"
His face was white, with a sickly pasty whiteness. In the few hours that had passed he seemed to have wasted to a startling gauntness. His cheeks were drawn, his sunken eyes dull and filmy. He moved slowly and heavily, as if compelling himself under an utter weariness.
"What do you want first?" he asked the inspector curtly.
"First," replied Inspector Fay, "I want to be shown the spot where the body was found."
Copplestone led the way across the lawns. In the daylight Monsieur Dupont eagerly followed the maze of winding paths and hedges that had imprisoned him so helplessly in the darkness. It was a veritable looking-glass garden. The end of every path mocked its beginning. To reach an object it was necessary to walk away from it. To arrive at the bank of the river, Copplestone conducted his followers in the opposite direction.
"This garden might have been designed for a crime," the inspector remarked, as they turned yet another corner.
"It was," Monsieur Dupont agreed from the rear. "It was designed for the most abominable crime of making men and women go backwards instead of forwards. And last night it attained the height of its purpose."
For an instant Copplestone glanced back at him, a quickening in his dull eyes. A moment afterwards they turned a final corner, and emerged on to the broad lawns, sloping down to the edge of the river.
Copplestone halted, and looked round, measuring distances. Then he moved on, keeping close to the trees.
"About here, I think," said the clergyman, pausing.
Copplestone stopped a few paces ahead.
"It was very dark," he said, looking at the ground. "I don't think I knew exactly where we were. As near as I can judge, it was just here."
"There ought to have been some sign left to mark the place when the body was taken away," the inspector said sharply.
"You will find," said the quiet voice of Monsieur Dupont, "a pencil in the ground at the exact spot. It is a useful pencil, and I should be obliged if you would kindly return it to me."
The inspector shot him a rather grim smile. All, except Copplestone, bent down to look for the sign.
"Here it is," Tranter exclaimed, pulling a pencil out of the ground. They stood aside to give the inspector room.
"The rain has washed away any traces thatmight have helped us," that official grumbled, after a fruitless search.
"And even if it had not," the manager observed, "you would only have found traces of all of us, as we were all here."
The inspector continued his examination. Copplestone stood apart, his eyes fixed on the river. He did not appear to be taking the slightest interest in the proceedings.
"In what position was the body lying?" the inspector asked, looking up at the clergyman.
"It was so horribly contorted that it is difficult to say in what position itwaslying," the latter replied, bending down beside him. "The head, I think, lay towards the river, and the feet towards the trees."
"It was so when we came," Copplestone corroborated, without turning his head.
"There are no signs of a struggle here," said the inspector, straightening himself after another pause. "If there had been one, some of the heavier indications might have remained in spite of the rain."
"It is possible," Monsieur Dupont suggested, "that the body was carried here from the place where the struggle did take place."
"Quite possible," the inspector agreed. He turned to Tranter. "Will you show us now, Mr. Tranter, where you parted from Miss Manderson?"
"I am not familiar with the garden," Tranter replied. "I only know, as I told you last night, that we had just passed under some arches across the path. I do not know where they are."
"Mr. Copplestone will show us," said the inspector.
Copplestone started at the sound of his own name, and turned to them.
"What next?" he asked abruptly.
"The rose arches," returned the inspector.
Copplestone indicated an opening in the trees, some distance ahead of them.
"Over here," he directed, moving towards it.
There were twelve ornamental arches, overgrown with roses. Monsieur Dupont lookedat the wealth of flowers almost with reverence.
"So far," he muttered, "the only innocent things I have seen in this garden."
Tranter stopped at a point where several paths intersected.
"I left her here," he said. "I went down that path to the right, which she told me would lead to the main lawns where I should be most likely to Mr. Copplestone. She said she was going straight back to the house."
"She should have taken that path," Copplestone said, turning to one in another direction. "That is the way to the house."
"Did she know the garden well?" asked the inspector.
"Perfectly well."
"Still, she might easily have taken a wrong turning in the darkness."
"She might. But it is about the straightest path in the garden. I don't think she would have made a mistake."
Slowly and carefully Inspector Fay followed the path to the house, under the guidance of Copplestone. Every yard of the way was examined, but yielded nothing. The inspector'sface became darker and darker. He stopped when they turned a corner and found themselves at the house.
"She could not possibly have got so far as this before the attack was made," he said discontentedly.
"Impossible," agreed the manager. "If the murderer had killed her here, he would have left her here. He would not have taken the risk of dragging her all the way to the river."
"It seems a curious thing," the clergyman remarked, "that apparently she did not utter any cry for help."
"Ah!" said Monsieur Dupont quietly.
He looked at the clergyman with a new interest. Copplestone also glanced at him quickly.
"Even the thunder would hardly have drowned a sharp cry, and some one would surely have heard it."
"Probably she hadn't time," suggested the manager. "No doubt he sprang out and attacked her from the back. He must have been as quick as the lightning itself."
Monsieur Dupont drew Tranter aside.
"Our clerical friend does not realize the importance of his own point," he said softly. "But he has put his finger on the key to the whole mystery."
"The key?" Tranter repeated.
"If Christine Manderson had uttered a cry for help, this would have been a simple, straightforward case," said Monsieur Dupont. "In the fact that she did not lies the whole secret of the crime."
"Bolsover's reason would seem to be the obvious one," Tranter returned. "The assault must have been made so quickly that she had no time."
"Mr. Bolsover's reason is, as you say, the obvious one," admitted Monsieur Dupont. "But it is not the correct one. I have already warned Inspector Fay to disregard the obvious. If he will not take my advice, that is his affair."
"But what do you mean?" asked Tranter.
Monsieur Dupont's voice sank lower.
"Don't you see that a cry for help would have completely transformed the whole case? It would have brought it down in one crash toa human level. It is the silence—the utter, horrible silence—that makes it what it is. It is the silence——"
The inspector's voice recalled them.
"Now, Mr. Bolsover, just whereabouts was Layton when you disturbed him?"
"He was sneaking round there," the manager replied, pointing to a corner of the house, "towards the drawing-room windows."
"Which path did he run to when he saw you?"
"That one—to the river."
"Does that path communicate anywhere with the one which we presume Miss Manderson was following to the house?"
"Yes," said Copplestone.
They moved along the path indicated by the manager. It twisted about unproductively for some distance.
"How far was he in front of you?" asked the inspector.
"I don't know," confessed the manager. "I should say about ten yards when we started—but I am not much of a runner. I had lost him altogether before I got here."
They went on.
"That cursed rain," the inspector muttered.
"This is the branch that leads to the other path," said Copplestone, halting.
"And it was further along there, by that fir tree that I met Monsieur Dupont," added the manager.
"That is so," agreed Monsieur Dupont. "Layton certainly did not come beyond this point in my direction."
"By taking that branch," the inspector calculated, "he would have met Miss Manderson just at the time that the crime was committed."
"He would," said the manager.
Monsieur Dupont turned again to Tranter.
"We must be quick," he whispered, "Layton is already hanged."
"There doesn't seem to be much chance for him," returned Tranter. "It will be a very strong case. No criminal could complain at being hanged on such evidence."
"And yet," said Monsieur Dupont slowly, "so far as the actual crime is concerned, thereis not a single trace. Not one single trace. Is it not extraordinary?"
He doubled his fists.
"That luck!" he ground out angrily. "Again that luck!"
"What luck?" Tranter exclaimed.
"If that most unfortunate young man had not come here and made a fool of himself last night, the police might have searched forever without finding a clue. There is no clue here. And there was the rain. The very elements sweep up after the passing of the Destroyer."
"What on earth do you mean?" Tranter cried.
"Hush!" said Monsieur Dupont.
"I am obliged to you, gentlemen," said the inspector. "Your evidence will of course be required at the inquest, of which you will receive notice. I need not detain you any longer."
The clergyman and the manager hurried away. Monsieur Dupont lingered at the inspector's side, and Tranter strolled back with Copplestone.
"Well?" queried the inspector. "Not much doubt about it, is there?"
"You have a strong case," said Monsieur Dupont. "Very strong."
"You agree with it?"
Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders.
"At all events, I am not in position, at present, to contradict it."
"You will have your work cut out to build up another one," said the inspector complacently. "There isn't a trace."
"That is it," said the other sharply. "There is no trace. There is never a trace." He lowered his voice cautiously. "One point I recommend to you, as I have just recommended it to Tranter—that remark of Mr. Delamere that there was no cry for help."
"What of it?" returned the inspector.
"It is the key," said Monsieur Dupont.
He moved on abruptly, and overtook Tranter.
A Builder of Men
James Layton occupied two dingy rooms, in a dilapidated house, situated between a church and a public-house, in as squalid and unwholesome a street as any in the East End of London. In them he spent such time as was left to him—and it was not much—after his active ministrations among the denizens of the miserable neighborhood. They were scantily furnished, and of comforts there were none. He denied himself anything beyond the barest necessities of existence, with the exception of a few books and pipes, which were the companions of his odd moments of leisure, and he read and smoked in a hard wicker chair, destitute even of a cushion. He ate sparingly, of food scarcely better than that on which his neighbors subsisted, and drank little. His clothes were poor, his shirtsfrayed, and his boots patched—and his income was a thousand pounds a week.
In his work he was unusually broad-minded and unprejudiced. He spent none of his time in efforts to lure the occupants of the public-house on his left into the church on his right. Indeed, he was an excellent customer of the former institution, and was on the best of terms with its landlord, who was an ex-pugilist after his kind. He made no discrimination in the dispensation of his charity. He worked on the principle that before he reformed a man he must feed him—so before he attempted to deal with the mind he relieved the body. He was open-handed and unsuspicious—and wonderfully beloved. There were hundreds of people in that street, and many other streets, who would gladly have laid down their lives for him—and who imposed on him shockingly day after day in the minor matters of life. The Mad Philanthropist never turned away—never refused. He was a builder of Men. No one knew, or cared, who he was or whence he came. He never gave account of himself, or spoke of his own affairs. Curiosity was theone thing he resented. He enclosed himself, so far as private matters were concerned, within the fortifications of a reserve which no one had succeeded in penetrating. Though he held a thousand confidences, he made none. In listening to the experiences of others he never referred to his own, or even hinted whether they had been sweet or bitter. He went on his silent way—and the world was the better for him.
In his bare sitting-room he sat with his face between his hands. A girl knelt on the floor beside him.
She was a remarkable girl. Wild, wayward, with all the passions—brimful with untamed vitality—incapable of the common restraints. Her face was neither beautiful, nor, perhaps, even pretty—but Diana herself might have envied the full, lithe figure, the free grace of her movements. She was the creature of her desires—knowing no laws that opposed them. A Primitive Woman, from the dawn of the world.
"Jim," she pleaded. "Jim...."
He made no movement.
"Be a man," she whispered. "Pull yourself together."
He put her away from him roughly.
"I wish you'd go," he said dully. "I don't want you here."
Her face grew whiter. Her hands crept to him again. The light of a great love was in her eyes.
"Oh, Jim," she whispered, "I know I'm not like she was. I'm not beautiful. I'm not wonderful. I haven't anything that she had. Oh, I know all that ... so well."
He uncovered his face—it was haggard and bloodless, the face of a man in the throes of a mental hell—and looked at her, almost with revulsion.
"You?" he cried harshly. "You...? You dare to name yourself to me in the same breath with her? Get up, and look at yourself!" He pointed to a cracked mirror on the mantel-piece. "Look!" he said hoarsely, thrusting her away from him again. "Do you see how coarse and heavy and rough you are? She was light and delicate—like a snowflake.She never seemed to touch the ground. Your hair is like string—your hands are large—your voice is harsh. Her hair was like silk—gold silk in the sunshine. I could see through her hands. Her voice was music. I want you to go. You are in my way."
She sprang up, raging.
"She never loved you!" she cried. "She never cared for you—or even thought of you! She wasn't fit to touch you—to look at you!"
His face was aflame.
"Stop!" he shouted.
"I hate her!" she declared fiercely. "I hate her memory! I'm glad she's dead!"
He lunged forward from his chair, and seized her. In his fury he nearly struck her.
"As God's above us," he panted, "one more word...." His rage choked him. The words jammed in his throat.
She wrenched herself free. His arms dropped to his sides. He reeled dizzily.
"You may do what you like to me," she cried passionately. "I tell you—I'm glad she's dead! She deserved to die. She was wicked and cruel. I think God Himself destroyed her."
He sank back into his chair weakly. A sob shook him.
"God did not destroy her," he said slowly. "God never destroys. He only builds. It is men and women who destroy."
There was a long silence. She came close to him again, all her anger swallowed up in a great sympathy.
"Jim," she asked softly ... "was she so much to you?"
He became suddenly rigid.
"How did you come to know her? She wasn't your sort. She couldn't have had anything in common with you. What have you to do with women like that?"
His eyes narrowed threateningly. Her questions had struck him into a new alertness. She noticed that his knees were pressed together.
"The papers said she only came to England two months ago—for the first time. It hasn't all happened since then. I know it hasn't. There must have been something else. Something before. What was it?"
He sat glaring at her—locking and unlocking his hands.
"It all happened since then," he said jerkily. "I had never seen her before. There was nothing else."
"I don't believe it, Jim," she declared. "You are hiding something."
He avoided her steady gaze.
"Believe it or not, as you like," he retorted.
"People say there is some secret in your life," she said. "I believe there is. And I believe it was her secret too."
He lunged forward again, in a fresh paroxysm of fury.
"What is it to you?" he cried shrilly—"or to any one? Why do you pry? Suppose I have my secrets. They are no concern of yours. I give away my money—my life. Isn't it enough? What would you be—what would any of them be now—but for me? I work day and night for others. Can't I keep my soul to myself?"
"Jim," she said gently, "I'm not prying. I don't want to know your secrets. I onlywanted to make it lighter for you, if you'd let me."
"You can't make it lighter for me," he returned. "No one can make it lighter. I don't want to be interfered with. I want to be left alone. What right have you to try to judge me?"
"Judge you?" she echoed. "Who could want to judge you? Why, you are the noblest man in all the world. No one could do more good than you do. Every man, woman, and child here worships you, and would die for you."
His anger instantly subsided.
"Ah, yes!" he said greedily—"tell me that. That's what I want to hear. Tell me they worship me—that no one could do more good than I do—that men and women would die for me. Go on telling me that!"
Her voice thrilled with her love for him.
"You brought us light and life. You have raised hundreds—as you raised me—out of misery and filth. Think of all the children you have sent away from this poison into thegreen fields and the sunshine—who would have died."