CHAPTER VIIA MYSTERIOUS PEDDLER
HE WENT to the Millicents’ that afternoon, the bangle in his pocket, and found Jean unaffectedly glad to see him. Mrs. Millicent had said nothing to her daughter, but her manner had been that of one who approves. She liked Derrick and had conceived a genuine fondness for Edith. The contemplated summer in France was becoming a little indefinite. In a few moments she murmured something and disappeared. Derrick thought rapidly and looked straight into the girl’s clear eyes. Then he held out the bangle.
“Will you take this from me? It has a curious something about it.”
Jean hesitated, the look on his face being unmistakable. “It’s charming. Where did you get it?”
“From Burma,” he said slowly. “It arrived this morning by a peddler who is staying the night with Martin. He seemed grateful for my allowing it and insisted that I take this from his pack.”
She stared at the yellow circlet. “Does he know Martin?”
“He pretended that he did not, but Martin knew him without question and was horrified to see him.”
Jean did not speak, but her eyes were full of swift wonder. “And then?”
“Then it was my turn to pretend that I had noticed nothing. They are together now and will be till to-morrow morning, at any rate. That’s one reason I came here.”
She did not ask the other but slid the bangle on her wrist with a slow and lingering touch. Derrick’s gaze did not leave her. He saw the color flood and desert her cheek, and the pulse throbbing in her slim throat. How utterly desirable she was! This was the indescribable quality about which Edith had talked with a cheerfulness that he now saw must have cost her dearly; the thing that secured what all women at some time long to possess.
He waited breathlessly, but she was still silent. Her heart whispered one thing, but over her there yet hung a cloud of memories that well nigh blotted out all else. For so long she had thought of herself as the child of a foully murdered man, for so long had the menace seemed to be transferred to herself, that the promise of a future such as she believed she saw in Derrick’s eyes seemed almost as unreal as it was divine. She was already more than fond of him and admitted it in secret hours. It was something new and strange and alluring for the mind to feed on. But what escape would it mean till the secret of Beech Lodge had been read, and the weight lifted from her soul? She took the bangle because she did not want to hurt him, but her eyes avoided his.
“What do you think is going to happen now?” she asked shakily.
“I don’t know. I wanted to see you first of all. Do you remember such a man ever coming to Beech Lodge before?”
“What is he like?”
He told her, and she shook her head. “I can’t think of any one. Martin had no friends even in the village, and father had no visitors from the East. Can it be the image that brought him?”
“Nothing else, as I see it.”
“But how could he know it was there?”
Derrick smiled. “How did I know? It’s all part of the main puzzle, and perhaps the missing part. I hoped you might be able to tell me something that would throw some light on this man’s arrival. I have a queer idea that it closes the circle, and am going to get him into the study on some pretext.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, to begin with.”
“Have you told the police about him?”
“I’m not ready for the police yet. The first thing to find out is whether the study means anything to him. That little god, or devil, is there, safely out of sight and touch, but if the peddler is what I take him to be, he will know it, and if he has come here for it, some attempt will be made before long.”
“But what about you?” she asked nervously.
“He’s not interested in me, but I expect he has something to say to Martin. He’s probably saying it now. Oh, my dear!” he went on unconsciously, “don’t you see that we’re getting nearer to the end of it every hour?”
Nothing he might have said could have touched her more, or given her a swifter assurance of what lay next his heart. It moved her to see that he did not know he had said it. So tender was the thought that she hid it away to delight in after he had gone. She was ready to love in secret, but he must not know that yet. Then, in this new light, she was suddenly afraid for him.
“Are you quite sure there’s no danger?”
“The danger,” he said slowly, “is to the man who committed the crime.”
There was a little silence till instinctively they turned to other things. It was a strange talk, of the lips and mind only, veering sometimes to ground where as yet it was trespass to enter, and just as often diverted with a deftness that only added to the growing reality of what they both felt but must not declare. He studied the girl, wanting her the more as moments passed, finding in her the charm that is beyond explanation, delighting in her perception, caressing her with the arms of his spirit, and wondering a little at the strangeness of his own voice. Often in days to come they would remember this meeting and smile at each other.
And Jean, timid lest she show what must not yet be shown, discovered in him a companion of her fancy, a swift interpreter, creative, sensitive, and ambitious, whose nature was fresh and unexhausted. She did not realize how secluded a life had been hers. She only knew that never before had she met a man just like this. And, above all, he made her feel safe.
He walked thoughtfully back to Beech Lodge and, approaching the gates, unconsciously slackened his pace. He pictured the jade god in its hidden cabinet, ominous behind the mellow oak, its creamy fingers resting on its rigid miniature knees. Who had lifted this thing from the place where it should be, and where was that place? It had brought death to Millicent. What would it bring to others? He pictured Perkins, haunting the room of tragic memory that would not let her go. How much more did Perkins see than that to which she had sworn? He pictured Martin, his thick fingers among the rose-trees. What was written on the screen of Martin’s mind, what had jerked him out of the jungle, and why should fear be written on his swarthy face at sight of the stranger of that morning? How could he fear a man he did not know? But he did know him!
Pondering this last, and with the cottage but a few yards ahead, Derrick thought he could hear voices, and stepped close against the high hedge that fronted the grounds of Beech Lodge. Peering through this, he could make out the window of the cottage kitchen, and it was from here that the voices came. There was a little stirring of wind that made it difficult to distinguish anything clearly, but even at this distance it was evident that some kind of heated argument was in progress. Martin was speaking with a stubborn sort of rasp in his tones that carried with it a queer suggestion of nervousness, while the other man talked with a contemptuous lift in his voice as though he reminded the gardener of things he had culpably forgotten. Coming as close as he dared, and, leaning tensely forward, Derrick listened. He could not understand one word.
The men were using some unknown language, sometimes sharp, sometimes liquid, shooting it out with a speed that showed complete familiarity. Into Derrick’s brain flashed his sister’s description of how Perkins had talked in her sleep, and he knew that this was the same tongue. Breathless at the discovery, he listened the more intently. Martin was rapidly getting on the defensive, jabbering a jargon of defiance, in which, however, fear seemed always present. Derrick started at the sound of his own name, then Millicent’s, then Thursby’s. The word “Buddha” was repeated, but always linked to some unintelligible prefix, and never with the usual respect accorded to the god by the Oriental.
What the peddler now said appeared to take the form of some kind of pronouncement as though he were delivering a verdict, framed almost in a mysterious chant that sounded as though it came from an infinite distance. In the middle of this Martin burst forth in a great English oath, to which the stranger replied with one word that came like the hiss of a snake, whereat Martin choked audibly and fell silent. Then Derrick, his brain working like an engine, stepped back on the road, strolled on to the gate at his usual pace, and, turning in, went casually on to the house. No sooner had his foot touched the gravel than instantaneous silence spread in the cottage. And at that he smiled grimly.
Passing directly to the study, he closed the door and, making sure he was not observed from the lawn, opened the oak panel. Inside was the jade god and its waxen copy. Weighing these in either hand, he deliberated a moment; then, putting the original back, he closed the cabinet and dropped the model into his pocket. From the top drawer of the big desk he took a small automatic. Finally, with god and gun balancing each other in their concealment, he lit his pipe and strolled back toward the cottage.
This time he knew he was observed, for, as he neared the gates, Martin emerged from the front of the cottage and touched his cap. His face was of a curiously mottled appearance, and betrayed signs of great tension, but as his eyes met those of his master he pulled himself together and assumed his ordinary gruff though respectful manner. Derrick nodded affably.
“Well, Martin, what do you think of those Lady Hillingdons for next year? I see you’ve been at them.”
“They promise well, sir, but I don’t think so much of the Richmonds.”
“Sorry to hear that. Why not?”
“One thing, they weren’t properly pruned last winter, and for another the mildew’s been at them.”
“You don’t seem to think much of the man who was here last.”
“I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact!”
“And what do you make of your visitor of this morning? Does he know anything about flowers?”
“No, sir, flowers aren’t exactly in his line from what I make of him. Queer sort of chap, I should say, but I don’t take it there’s any harm in him.”
“He told me he came from the East. Does he know any of the parts you know?”
“Yes, sir, some.”
“Never happened to come across him before, did you?”
Martin stiffened ever so slightly. “No, sir, never set eyes on him. The East is a big bit of country, and there’s room for all kinds there.”
“You know some foreign lingos?”
“Yes, sir, a trader needs them if he’s going to do any business.”
“Have you tried your friend in that respect?”
“I tackled him just now with Hindustani, but that beat him.”
“It would beat me, too. Does he know any Malay?” Derrick smiled a little. “Not that I know any myself.”
“Only a word or two, sir.”
“Curious that two traders like you, both of whom have lived in the Orient, should have to fall back on English to converse.”
Martin’s eyes were unfathomable, and Derrick searched his mind for the next move. The man had twice been proved a liar, but the object of his lies was as remote as ever. Then suddenly came the thought of Perkins, babbling what was probably Malay in her dream-haunted sleep.
“I wonder if Perkins happens to know any of those Eastern lingos?”
The man’s face underwent a swift change. There was fear in it now. He ground his heel nervously into the soil, while the big fingers clenched tight. There was in his manner that which suggested a new anxiety, and for the moment he seemed oddly helpless.
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Derrick, but if I may make so bold, I wouldn’t try. She’s a queer woman, and”—here he touched his forehead meaningly—“she’s best left alone. Mr. Millicent never bothered her, and he knew her well.”
Derrick nodded. “You may be right. Where are you putting your visitor to-night?”
“On the floor in the kitchen, sir; he says that’s good enough for him. He’s about used up and asked if he might rest for another day or two. Showed me his feet. They’re in bad shape. I told him it was for you to say.”
Derrick felt a quickening of his pulse. Once again everything fitted in. The peddler would stay, but not on account of sore feet. He pressed his fingers against the image in his pocket, but his mind sped to the dark recess where the real god stared malevolently into the darkness and waited till his servants should gather at his baffling summons. Then he glanced at Martin, experiencing a throb of pity for one who was so secretly tortured. He began to see how the man must already have suffered, anticipating the inevitable, paying in advance, with the pangs of two years, part of the price of a blow that took place in a second. But there was no room now for compassion.
“Did you happen to see the inside of the peddler’s pack?” he asked carelessly.
Martin shook his head. “No, sir, he won’t trouble to show that to the likes of me.”
“I don’t know! I’d ask him if I were you, and have a look at them. They’ll probably remind you of a good many places you ought to know. Also I think I’d keep an eye on him to-night.”
“He’s all right so far as that’s concerned,” put in the gardener hastily.
“He may be, but one can never tell. I fancy he wouldn’t mind picking up anything portable, especially if it happened to be in his own line. One can never be sure about men like that. I’ve known them to wander about the country picking up odds and ends that were of no value to most people, but of particular interest to others. I’ve half a mind to send him along to the village as it is.”
“That will be all right, sir,” put in Martin hurriedly; “he’s a harmless old soul with not as much strength as a cat. I’ll stand good for him.”
He spoke with great earnestness and unconsciously raised his voice. Derrick at this moment felt his gaze drawn toward the cottage and, glancing over Martin’s shoulder, noted that at one of the tiny windows of the kitchen the blind had been drawn slightly aside. The window was open. Pitching his own tones a little higher, he looked straight into Martin’s troubled eyes.
“You remember that talk we had about Mr. Millicent’s death the first night you came to see me?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the gardener with reluctance.
“Well, I’ve said nothing about it since then, but I’ve thought a good deal. What about you?”
“I don’t forget it, either, Mr. Derrick, but what else is there to be said? I told you what I know.”
“Then I take it that nothing has occurred to you since?”
“What could occur, sir? It’s more than two years ago now. The poor gentleman’s cold in his grave, and the world has moved on. I’m trying to forget it as hard as I can.”
“Yes, I know, but sometimes, Martin, when a man comes back to a well-known place which is associated with an event like that, the mind takes a curious turn and pitches on something it did not see before. It’s almost as though the place had kept something up its sleeve to reveal later on. Perhaps it’s your friend’s arrival that has started me thinking.”
Martin sent him an indescribable glance. “I don’t quite follow, sir.”
“I was wondering,” went on Derrick in the same clear tones, “whether it was possible that any one answering to the description of this stranger had been hanging about the night Mr. Millicent was killed. Things like that have been known to happen.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk that way, sir.” Martin’s face was now desperate, and he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.
Derrick smiled reassuringly. “I can’t see that there’s any harm done by mentioning it, and it might be as well to let your friend know that we’re not asleep.”
The man winced as though struck. “Mr. Derrick, sir, if there’s anything you want to say about Mr. Millicent now, couldn’t we go a few steps up the drive? It isn’t wise, is it, that this fellow should know anything about it?”
“What’s the matter with you, Martin?”
“Nothing, sir, but I can’t help being upset when I talk about the thing.”
Derrick hesitated, then thrust the probe still deeper. “I can’t see what difference would be made if he did learn of it. However, let that go, and perhaps you’re right. You remember my asking you if anything was missed at that time?”
“Yes, sir, and I told you all I knew.”
“And the motive for the crime is as much a mystery to you as ever?”
Martin’s lips were trembling now, and he could only nod.
“Well, I had a chat the other day with a man who was on the case, and he told me that another thing, not that creese, was missed and has never been seen since. It was a sort of image, carved in jade.”
“I never heard of that, sir,” stammered Martin thickly.
“Yes, and apparently it had been picked up by Mr. Millicent in the East years before.”
Martin made a convulsive gesture. “Please, sir,” he begged, “don’t talk like that here.”
Simultaneously his gaze was drawn to the cottage window as though by mesmeric power. It seemed that now he had ceased to feel anything except a mounting fear that struck to his very heart. Little tremors ran through his massive frame, and he began to sway with a slow, rhythmic motion as if endeavoring to maintain his balance. His face was a changing mask in which there was not so much of guilt as of a deadly recognition that he was being overtaken by some remorseless destiny from which there was no escape. No longer a gardener, a pruner of rose-trees, or a traveler from far countries. He became in that moment a man under a curse.
Again Derrick felt a fleeting pang of pity for such torture, but remembered the triangle of death, with Martin standing at one corner. At the same time he sensed the strangeness of the situation, in which he, a dweller in a quiet country-side, should be inextricably involved in a problem so grim and unexpected. Might it be some period of fantasy or subconscious phase from which he would presently awaken? To this there were two apparent answers. One, the faint tingle that seemed to spread from the thing hidden in his clenched hand. The other, the picture of a girl waiting, waiting. At that, all thought of compassion vanished from his mind. It was real, all real, and destiny was at work in Beech Lodge. Then in a flash the next move became clear.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if this was the sort of thing that was missed from the desk?” He took the image from his pocket and balanced it openly in the palm of his hand. “Of course,” he added, fixing Martin with a steady eye, “you can’t tell me, because you say you never saw it.”
The gardener’s figure seemed to shrink visibly, and his eyes protruded. He made a choking sound, the blood rushed in a mottled flood to his cheeks, and the big hands clasped and unclasped mechanically. Derrick, staring at him, felt a throb of triumph and slid the image out of sight.
“God!” said Martin chokingly. “Oh, God! Where did you get that?”
Then he swung round and glared at the cottage.
Out of the door came the figure of the peddler, and Martin, watching him, made a gesture of despair foreign to so powerful a man. The stranger’s eyes were preternaturally bright, and there was now no trace of the weary limp with which he had moved only a few hours ago. His head was erect, the bent shoulders were straight, his body was lithe and had taken on something of the springy contours of youth. Instinctively Derrick’s fingers tightened round the image, but it was at him rather than at his pocket that Blunt looked first.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began, “but when I was smoking inside just now I couldn’t help hearing you say that some one had been killed in your house. Might I ask who it was?”
The audacity of the thing made Derrick blink. He could not trust himself to glance at Martin but knew that the gardener’s eyes were fixed intently on the peddler’s face. There followed an instant of silence. Derrick realized that he was hunting big game, the biggest game of all, and it behooved him to keep his head.
“Will you tell me first why the matter is of any interest to you?”
Blunt’s lips formed an inscrutable smile, but his gaze was as blank as sea-water.
“It’s of no more interest than anything else of the same kind, but I’ve seen a bit of that sort of thing in the East, and it may be I can be of use in getting at the bottom of it, if that’s not been done yet.”
Derrick pondered. “This was not the usual kind of sudden death, and there were no clues left.”
The man nodded understandingly. “There ain’t so many deaths of what you would call the usual kind where I come from, either, but there is most always a clue of some sort if one knows where to look. That’s a matter of instinct. Can’t explain it, but I reckon I’ve got it.”
Over Martin’s features crept a shade of admiration. Derrick saw this, and it stiffened his resolution. The hunt was afoot now, one against two. Soon, he was convinced, it would be one against three, when Perkins joined in. She would prove perhaps the most elusive of all. Then his mind jumped back to the man in front of him.
“I don’t see how a complete stranger could spot at first sight anything that skilled detectives failed to discover after very close examination,” he said coolly. “You’ll have to convince me that it’s something more than mere curiosity on your part before I go any further.”
“And against that there’s such a thing as looking at some object for so long that after a while one doesn’t see it at all. It’s the fresh eye that picks things up. Would it surprise you if I said that you’ve got something close to you at this minute that might be a clue, and you never guess it.”
Martin drew in his breath sharply, but Derrick’s eyes never left the stranger’s face.
“Isn’t that a rather wild shot of yours?”
“It may be, but I’ll risk it. I reckon I’ve sucked in something from the places I’ve been in that helps to get under the skin at times. Getting back to clues, this world is full of clues that go unnoticed just because people don’t know how to look at them. Same thing when you get so used to a thing that you can’t tell whether it’s in the room or not, without making sure. That’s because you don’t hear what it says.”
“Ah,” put in Derrick swiftly, “then you believe that things talk?”
“It’s the only talk worth listening to now and then.”
Derrick’s pulse quickened. “Is that what you depend on in this case?”
The peddler nodded. “Perhaps it would surprise you if I said that something was talking at this very minute, a queer kind of stuff that I only half get.”
Saying this, he lifted his eyes, and sent Derrick an extraordinary look. There was power in it, and a certain mesmeric weight, and in a strange but unmistakable fashion it invited the young man to acknowledge what he himself believed. This look stated very plainly that the stranger saw through Derrick’s camouflage, and also quite understood the present necessity for it; but it suggested, too, that behind the newcomer was an authority that as yet he had no intention to disclose. There were no words in which to phrase what Derrick felt. Presently, and as though to make the thing as easy as possible for the master of Beech Lodge, the little man gave a short laugh.
“You might as well let me try it, sir. If I fail there will be no harm done.”
Derrick, without realizing it, took his cue. “Well,” he said good-humouredly, “at any rate, you can’t do much harm by having a look at the room. What do you say, Martin? I’ll let you decide, since you’re responsible for Blunt while he’s here.”
Martin twisted his lips in a vain effort to speak, but it seemed that any reminder of responsibility was almost too much for him. He shot the peddler a swift glance, in which fear and respect were mingled, and when he looked at his master his eyes implored that he be not further involved. In that moment Martin acted like an honest man. Then the expression passed, and his face was once more a mask.
“That’s just as you feel about it, sir.”
Derrick turned to Blunt. “Well, then, you can come up, say, at six o’clock, and you’d better bring Martin with you. And, by the way,” he added, “if you want any details about this murder before you come, Martin knows a good deal more than I do, so you’d better pump him.”
Blunt shook his head. “It’s just as well I shouldn’t know anything at all, sir. Sometimes the more one thinks one knows the less one finds out.” Again he sent the young man that extraordinary look.
“All right; but if you change your mind, and Martin gets stuck, I’ll put you in touch with Perkins at the house.”
Martin started at this, but Blunt seemed unmoved. “Who might Perkins be?”
“The maid who was here when Mr. Millicent died. She found him.”
The man’s expression did not change in the slightest.
“I won’t want to bother her, sir; and look here, if you doubt my faith you can take my pack till you’re satisfied I’m straight. Anything else?”
His voice lifted as he spoke, and Derrick knew what he meant. The sharp eyes peering from the cottage window had missed nothing. The stranger was aware that something lay hidden in that pocket, nor could all his art conceal the hunger that was growing in his soul. Derrick, his mind tense, and realizing that every step taken now must inevitably affect the last scene of the drama, gripped the image with fingers that felt suddenly cold, then drew it out and dropped it carelessly into the peddler’s hand. The man quivered at the touch.
“While we’re on the subject, there’s something that may interest you. Ever see anything like it before?”
A tremor ran through the lean form, and the bright eyes became clouded with emotion. The brown fingers closed caressingly, till, all in a breath, a look of concentrated shrewdness spread over the swarthy face. The man stared at the molded wax, then at Derrick. “You clever devil!” was what the eyes said. He grasped the meaning of this model, there could be no doubt of that, and telegraphed an unconscious admiration to the one who had fashioned it. He scanned the small square base, the cloaked shoulders, the tiny folded hands, and the hellish sneer on the pygmy features, and nodded. Yes, it was all there, and nothing was there. A great gulf yawned between wax and jade. But the peddler remained master of himself, while Martin, at his elbow, seemed rooted to the ground.
“What do you think of it?” asked Derrick smoothly.
The peddler shook his head. “Of this, sir, nothing at all; but if I could see the original it might be another matter. Do you happen to have it?”
“I do, but not here. And it doesn’t belong to me. Ever see anything like it?”
Blunt nodded. “Yes, but not often. The original of this may have come from Indo-China, up northeast of the Bay of Bengal. I reckon it would be about five hundred years old. They don’t make them often nowadays. These things sometimes drift down into the Malay country, but they’re not supposed to. Look here, sir, I’ve a leaning for carved jade, which brings a good price from the Chinese, and I’ll trade you anything in my pack for the original of this.”
“But I’ve told you it’s not mine.”
“Maybe, sir, but if you’ll put me in touch with the owner I’ll make it worth his while to sell.”
“We’ll see about that later. Why did you say that these things are not supposed to get out of Indo-China?”
“Let me ask first, sir, if this ever brought any bad luck to the man who owned it?” He paused and smiled cynically. “I mean the original.”
Derrick nodded. The daring of it was prodigious.
“Does it happen to be the man you spoke of just now?”
“Yes.”
Again the odd smile, and the peddler handed back the image. “It’s a queer thing,” he said slowly, “but I’ve heard tell that the spirit of Buddha doesn’t like these things drifting about. It’s talk of the East, of course, and perhaps it isn’t worth much in England. But there’s something at work in those parts that gets hold of people without their knowing it. It isn’t so long ago that I was in a temple up country where there was something like this, and it just looked at me and dared me to steal it. I reckon I would have tried to if it hadn’t been guarded by about a hundred priests. It was the same size as this, and just as ugly, and carved out of jade, too.
“All round it there were the usual images, but arranged like rows of policemen. Next it was an empty stand, and I guessed that that was where another one just like it had been, but when I asked where it had got to there was a hell of an excitement, because the beggars thought perhaps I had it and had come after its mate. It took me all my time to get them quieted down. Queer sort of game, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Derrick, in a strained voice. “Anything else?”
“We had a lot of talk back and forth but didn’t get anywhere. They seemed to claim that the thing was a sort of link between what one saw and didn’t see, and in a way joined them up to make a kind of general picture. I didn’t take much stock in all that, for Indo-China is stuffed with temples where they palaver about such subjects year after year. So that, sir, is why I happen to be interested in the original of this, and if you could put me in the way of getting it I’d make it worth your while.”
Derrick glanced involuntarily at Martin. On the man’s face had settled a look of utter hopelessness. There was no sullenness now, nothing grim or repellent. His eyes, at times so furtive, held only despair. His figure was slack, the broad shoulders dropped, and the big hands hung inert by his side. As though conscious of his master’s scrutiny, he looked up and pulled himself spasmodically together.
“Well,” said Derrick, “I don’t know if the present owner puts any value on the thing, but I’ll find out.” He took back the wax impression and slipped it into his pocket. “I don’t suppose this model really interests you from what you tell me.”
The peddler shook his head. “The copy is dead,” he replied slowly, “but, from what I gathered in the East, the real thing may have a sort of life in it.”
“All right, I’ll see you both at six o’clock.”
The man touched his cap. Derrick strolled on through the white gates, and, turning to the right, took the road that led away from Bamberley. Following this a quarter of a mile, he left it abruptly, traversed a neighboring copse, and doubled back along a parallel lane. He walked fast and came to the village in a little more than half an hour. In the tiny police office sat Sergeant Burke. Derrick waved his hand, went in, and took the proffered chair. Burke’s face was full of sudden interest, but he asked no questions. Presently Derrick leaned forward.
“I think, sergeant, that an attempt at robbery will take place at Beech Lodge within the next hour or so.”
Burke sat up straighter than ever. “What’s that, sir?”
“I’ll explain in a minute, but first I want to make sure that, so far as the evidence went, no stranger was seen in the vicinity of the Lodge about the time of the murder.”
“No, sir. That seems to be without question.”
“No peddler or traveling tinker had been in Bamberley that week?”
“No, Mr. Derrick, these people are all licensed and registered, and we examine the license of every one who comes along. They are under the head of itinerant vendors.”
“Well, there’s an itinerant vendor at the Lodge now, and he’s more keen on buying than selling. He doesn’t make any bones of the fact that he’d like to get hold of the original of this.”
Derrick put the model on the table, and Burke fingered it curiously.
“Neat sort of job you’ve made of it, sir. Weighs about the same, too, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I put some shot inside the base and balanced it with the other. It’s the other that my peddler friend is coming to see at six o’clock. Martin will be there with him.”
“When did this fellow turn up?”
Derrick told him all that had happened, Burke’s face growing ever more tense, while he thrilled to the belief that the Millicent case was alive again.
“You haven’t missed much, sir,” he rambled presently. “Now what can I do?”
“At six o’clock those two men will be in the study. Blunt will be apparently in charge of Martin, whom I have made responsible for him, but actually I suspect it is the other way round. From what I can see, Martin is under Blunt’s thumb. Blunt will be asked if the room suggests anything to him in connection with the murder. He will probably pretend it does, and begin some kind of queer story, which may after all have something in it. I expect that he will in some way involve Martin, and that’s what Martin is in such fear of. At the same time, so far as Blunt is concerned, I can’t feel that Martin is so very important. It’s the image he’s after. Whether he can resist the impulse when he sees the real thing I can’t tell, but if he does not, that’s where you come in. The Millicent case will then start all over again with an attempted burglary, and I shall be in a position to testify that Martin lied to me about the burglar. And that’s as far as I can go at the moment.”
Burke nodded approvingly. “Then you want the grounds guarded?”
“Yes, in any way you think best. I would not bother about the front door; it would take too long to get out that way. The French window is the place.”
“The trap will be set at a quarter to six,” said Burke, glancing at the clock.
Derrick grinned contentedly. “It would be a bit of a feather in your cap, sergeant, if you could pull this thing off after two years.”
CHAPTER VIIITHE POWER OF THE UNKNOWN
DERRICK walked quickly back, slackening speed as he approached the Lodge, and reëntering the grounds from the direction in which he had started. There was a light in the cottage kitchen, but neither man came to the window as he passed. In the study he found Edith beside the tea-tray. She handed him his cup, and with it sent an inquiring glance.
“How’s your friend the peddler behaving himself, and what did Jean say?”
He flushed a little. “She didn’t say very much, but”—he smiled reminiscently—“she took the bangle.”
“I’m glad of that, my dear,” she said softly. “Had she ever heard anything of the peddler?”
“Not a word, nor has Sergeant Burke.”
“You’ve been there, too?”
He nodded. “I thought it best to have a chat with him. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Why, has anything happened?”
“No, but something may, and I want to be ready, in case.”
“I don’t understand, Jack. What do you anticipate?”
“Well, our friend has an odd idea that he may be able to suggest something that would help in the Millicent matter in the way of a clue if he could see the place where it happened. So I’m having him in here shortly with Martin, who doesn’t seem to fancy the visit at all. The sergeant won’t be in evidence, and they know nothing about him.”
“Oh!” she said slowly, “can I do anything except keep out of the way? I’ve an idea that’s what you want me to do.”
Derrick laughed. “It is, exactly. There’s one other thing. I’d like to see Perkins for a minute before the others come.”
Edith got up. “Then finish your tea, and I’ll send her in for the tray. She’s been even more queer than usual to-day, so I fancy she knows that man is here. Good luck to you, brother, and I’m so glad I know what you’re working for.” She bent over, kissed him impulsively, and went out.
He sat motionless for a moment, vibrant with the knowledge that he was playing for great stakes. Martin—the peddler—Perkins—the jade god—all intervened between him and the goal of his desire. At that his nerves seemed slowly to be turned to steel.
The door opened. Perkins came in and busied herself with the tray, and for the first time he noted that her fingers were trembling. Something of the transitory pity he had felt for Martin came over him, and he made a gesture toward a chair.
“Please sit down a minute, Perkins. I want to ask you something.”
She seated herself silently and sent him a blank glance.
“What I want to inquire is something more about Martin. Can you tell me nothing of his history before he came to Mr. Millicent?”
“Why should you ask me, sir?”
“Who else is there to inquire from? You occupy just the same trusted position that you have for years past. You’ve let me into your feelings enough to know that you perceive things that are not usually seen, and you’re aware that I’m doing what I can to clear up the mystery of your master’s death. Shall I say to you that I’m convinced you are trying to shield some one in this affair?”
“Don’t say that, sir,” she whispered shakily.
“What other conclusion can I come to?”
She stared at him as though he was an intruder on some strictly private domain and had come to rifle her very soul.
“Do you think there’s any connection between the murder and the arrival of this peddler?”
Perkins shook her head. She made no attempt to disguise her knowledge of the stranger’s advent and now seemed touched with the same helplessness that had so lately swept over Martin. Her hands were slack in her lap, and he noted their smoothness and strength.
“I’m afraid I cannot help,” she muttered.
He looked straight into the passionless eyes. “And yet you must know so much more than I do. Here, in this room, the voice of a dead man is sounding now, asking for vengeance. There are other voices, we have both heard them, but this is the clearest. Here your master died, and the evil thing triumphed, and you told me that fear came before he died, the fear that is worse than death. Can’t you hear that voice?”
The blank-faced woman shivered as he spoke, and Derrick knew that the truth had crept a little, a very little nearer than ever before. There was mystery in the study, but the greatest mystery of all was locked within this unresponsive breast. There was some chord which, if he could only touch it, would vibrate in unison with her guarded secret and unloose its bonds. Perkins trembled again and waited.
“He was good to you, as everyone has told me,” went on the steady voice, “and it seems that you were devoted to him. For six years you had his confidence and lived under this roof. I do not know what may have taken place before that, if anything, but is six years forgotten so soon?”
“Don’t!” she said brokenly. “Don’t!”
“Two men are coming here in a few moments,” he persisted. “Of one of them I know little, and nothing of the other. But I am assured that in the peddler’s heart are things at which I have not guessed. He, too, has his secret, or he would not be here. He poses as a stranger, but something tells me that he is no stranger to Martin, and perhaps not to you.”
“Why do you say that?” she flashed.
“It matters not why, but I have my reasons. It may be that there are now assembled all those who were here two years ago, and the Millicents are not far away. One of these men was in the grounds of Beech Lodge when its master met his death, Perkins; was the other here, too?”
He shot out these last words in a tone so sharp and commanding that the woman quailed visibly. Her fascinated eyes were fixed on him in a stare that began to be strangely hypnotic, till it seemed that she was receding visibly from his reach, dwindling to a distance, and leaving behind her only a baffling intelligence that mocked and dared him to follow if he could. She had recoiled, but with her secret locked tighter than ever. He became aware that fear, though fear was in her every motion, could not conquer her. She relied apparently on powers that from long use had become stronger than fear. When at last she spoke, it was as though a safe distance had been established and her spirit had caught its breath again. She seemed now safe from further probing.
“I have told you already what happened that night, how I found the master”—here she hesitated a little—“and then went for Martin. There was no one at the cottage but him. There is nothing else to be said.”
“And Blunt,” he said again. “The man who will be here in a few minutes, the man who is so anxious to enter this room, has he never been here before?”
“I am not Blunt’s keeper,” she parried. “I do not know, but”—and at this point an extraordinary light flickered through her dull eyes—“he may have been. I cannot see in the dark.”
“He made an offer for something this afternoon,” said Derrick quietly, “something that seemed of little worth to me.”
She looked at him silently, as though in contempt of his childishness.
He felt in his pocket and leaned forward. “The offer was for the original of this,” he replied, and put the wax image on the desk immediately in front of him.
In the next moment he snatched it away. Perkins, springing with convulsive strength, had laid her nervous grip on the model, her eyes suddenly ablaze with mad cupidity. In a fraction of time she was transfigured into a wild thing dominated by one uncontrollable desire, and her movement had the swiftness of light. Her hands closed like claws, but even as she touched the thing her grip relaxed, for in that instant she knew it was not real. She sent Derrick the same strange look of baffled incredulity he had received from the peddler, then sank back in her chair, trembling and unnerved. Her gaze rested on what lay safe in his grasp, wandered to the picture of her master, and round the paneled walls, searching for what she knew must be somewhere close at hand. The hunger in her eyes slackened, becoming reborn again as though fanned into life by this knowledge, till again she was almost a demon, urged by some driving force, terrible in its power.
Once more the light faded, the tense figure slowly relaxed, the face resumed the sphinx-like character to which he was so well accustomed, and there was before him the former Perkins, silent, mysterious, and remote. She quivered as though from the storm that had passed over her and, with her body limp, waited for what might come.
“Does Martin want the real image, too, like yourself and Blunt?” he asked deliberately.
She remained silent, her lips pressed tight.
“Then what is this thing?”
Even while he spoke there came to him the certain knowledge that in the emerald depths of the hidden figure lay that which passed man’s understanding. Nor could any man tell how this should be. The fact was potent enough, and, as to the rest, it mattered not when or why. The tiny god exemplified something for which there was no explanation. It was absurd to expect Perkins to make one. It rested in the abyss that yawns at the feet of all, whether they see it or not. Sometimes one might touch it in the darkness, only to lose it. The thought of it imposed sudden silence in careless hours and made the lips dry and the blood tingle as it does when we feel on our brows the touch of vanished fingers, and out of nothingness comes the echo of a remembered voice. No, there was no explanation. Perkins spoke after a stinging pause.
“Where did you find it? I mean the other?”
“It found me. Can you understand that?”
She nodded, her eyes still wide. “All the time I knew it was here. I could hear it talking, talking in the dark.”
“It has been there for two years, and I do not know how much longer. Did it send the fear that was worse than death?”
“What else could have sent it? But it was not on his desk when I found him.”
“Then if the man who killed your master had captured this as he hoped, there would have been no death here that night?”
“No,” she whispered, “no death, and perhaps no fear.”
“So that the man who wanted it then may after all be the same as the one who wants it now, and, having washed his hands, he returns for what he then sought?”
Again the sudden light in the baffling eyes, as of torches lit in the gloom. Derrick saw it and racked his brain. It was not an old thought that moved behind the mask now, but some conception new to that mysterious mentality. Were Blunt indeed the criminal, and assuming his return to recapture his prize, why should the suggestion of this produce so vivid a reaction? If this were the truth, why conceal it? What could this woman lose by coming into the open? She would write herself down a liar, and an innocent man be avenged. No, there was something else, and it beckoned a mystical finger to Derrick’s imagination and invited him on. The grim reality of the moment fell on him like a cloak. In a few more clock-ticks there would be others with whom to deal.
“Perkins,” he said evenly, “for better or worse this matter must soon take another form. Two men will shortly be in this room, and one of them in all probability is guilty of murder. You know this, and I know it. The hand of fate may descend suddenly and point clearly, or it may be that the innocent may suffer for the guilty. God forbid that this should happen, but it has happened before, and sometimes because those who knew the truth were not there to tell it or, knowing it, kept an infamous silence. I ask you again, has Blunt to your knowledge ever been at Beech Lodge before, and, if so, was he here at the time your master died?”
“I am not Blunt’s keeper,” repeated the woman.
Derrick slid the wax image into a drawer. “Thank you, Perkins. You’ve told me what I wanted to know.”
The door closed behind her. Derrick did not stir but waited till the last sound died away. The hour of decision had come, and there was but one thing to do. He took a glance at Millicent’s calm face, read in it a mute approval, and, opening the invisible panel, took the jade god from its dark recess.
Setting it a little on one side of the lamp, he stared hard into its pygmy countenance. There still sounded in his ears Blunt’s voice telling of strange gods in strange countries, and there came now the unforgettable whisper of the East, with its mystery, its scarlet passions, its swift terrors, its throbbing invitations, and the jungle call of its fevered life. There was more than that. On these miniature lips was set the smile of sardonic knowledge and the curve of utter evil. The lids that lay over the slant and lazy eyes were heavy with slumber, but it was a repose that carried with it no oblivion. Unnameable knowledge rested on the face, a knowledge that sneered at good and gathered to itself the wickedness of misty centuries. Here was the touch of supreme art, the superb assurance of a master hand, but the issue was to charge the mind with a blinding comprehension of all that decent men most strive to forget.
Still staring, he yielded unconsciously to the spell. Beech Lodge grew oddly indefinite. The landmarks of his mind seemed unsubstantial. He was free as the wind, with neither kith nor kin. He found himself wondering why for months he should have been possessed by the desire to avenge a man he never saw. The tiny green eyes suggested that Millicent, and even Millicent’s daughter, did not matter so much after all. “Come East,” they signaled, “where man can taste all the wild joys of life, and women know how to love as do no others. Books, what are books? Dead things and dusty against the curve of a breast and the languorous hours of tropic nights. Good is ever the same, and it is only evil that changes, assuming a thousand lovely shapes, inviting, alluring, the wine that, having tasted, no man may forget. Come and drink deep while your blood is hot. There are those who wait to show you the way, and soon it will be too late.”
Thus spoke the jade lips; thus cajoled the jade eyes. Even the milky fingers with their narrow, transparent nails seemed to lose their stiffness and beckon, while the blood deserted Derrick’s heart and the hair prickled on his head. He was listening to the soul of the man who had carved this thing, and what manner of man or devil could he be? But, whoever he was, he knew, Derrick felt that, and knew it utterly. Yes, life was short, too short. Perhaps the jade god was right!
His brain began to swim, and the image now to recede, now to approach, dwindling to a pin-point, and swiftly enlarging till it towered over him, when something drifted in from the outer world. He blinked like one wakened from sleep. It was a tapping at the French window. He got up and crossed the room unsteadily. There was visible through the glass a peaked hat, a broad, red face, and a pair of bright, inquiring eyes. He breathed deeply and with a sudden sense of relief. Here was something sane and strong and wholesome. It seemed to dear away the miasma that surrounded him.
He stepped out and found the sergeant flattened against the wall in a vain endeavor to minimize his own bulk.
“Got here as soon as I could, sir, and had a squint at the cottage; they’re both there. Peters is behind the hedge at the back. Anything new since I saw you?”
“There may be a good deal. I think it’s likely that the peddler is the man we want after all, and not Martin. The woman Perkins declines to say whether she has seen him before or not, also whether he was in this neighborhood the night of the murder.”
“Good enough, sir. That ought to help. Anything else?”
Derrick glanced at his watch. “Yes, the sight of the image produced on her the same effect precisely as it did on the others. She, too, tried to get it. That’s all there’s time to say now, sergeant. The men ought to be here in five minutes.”
“Are you armed, sir?”
“Yes, but I hardly think it’s necessary. You’ll be able to attend to that end of it. Mind you, I’m not at all sure that anything is going to happen. This is only a shot in the dark. Can you see the image on the desk quite clearly from where you are?”
“Yes. Is that the real one? It looks somehow more alive than the other.”
Derrick smiled. “Just what Blunt told me. The dummy wouldn’t serve the purpose with him, so we must take this chance. Don’t stir unless one of them tries to get away with it. If no such attempt is made, it’s for us to make the next move. I take it, sergeant, you’re willing to work with an amateur a little while longer?”
Burke nodded grimly. “I’ll follow any one who can lead me to the man who killed Mr. Millicent.”
He moved back and out of sight. It was nearly dark now, and Beech Lodge was encircled with ghostly shadows. Edith had obliterated herself in her bedroom, and was pretending to read. All she asked was that this too serious play-acting be concluded as soon as possible. It deranged the house and made her restless and uncomfortable. Derrick manipulated the curtains so that they hung partly open, revealing the French window, then seated himself at the desk and shot an oblique glance at the jade god. He was not afraid of it but experienced no desire to stare straight into those emerald eyes. He glanced at Millicent’s portrait, asking mutely whether so far all was well done, but Millicent seemed uninterested. What could he mean by that? Then steps in the hall, and low voices, and a tap at the door.
Came Perkins’s flat tones saying that Martin and Blunt were outside. She looked not at all at the image but seemed to know it was the original. Whatever emotion it may have aroused, she gave no sign, and he marveled at her self-repression.
“All right, they may come in, and I think you’d better stay in the room while they are here.”
A flicker of surprise flitted across the blank face. Then she nodded with only the ghost of a smile. It seemed that she was not unwilling to stay, and the smile was a little satirical and rather cruel, he thought. But he remembered that she was not Blunt’s keeper. In the next moment the men entered, their caps in their hands. Derrick leaned back in the big chair. The curtain was up now.
“Blunt,” he said with slow distinctness, “it may be that we are both wide of the mark in this attempt, and, frankly, I don’t see how you can be of any real assistance. It is only because you told me that sometimes you had been able to get under the skin of things that I’m making it. You understand that?”
The peddler nodded, and for an instant their eyes met. The man’s gaze swung back to the thing he had been staring at since he crossed the door-step. Irrepressible hunger and desire was in the stare. Derrick seemed oblivious to this.
“The murder took place in this room two years ago. Martin has told you that, I assume?”
“Yes, sir, he has.”
“It occurred between nine and ten at night. Over the mantel you will see a picture of Mr. Millicent, who was found dead in this chair where I am sitting. Apparently he had not time to make any defense. This jade thing used sometimes to stand in front of him, but it seems that it cannot have been there that night. It is not known, as yet”—here Derrick paused for a second—“how the murderer entered the house.”
He hesitated an instant, then looked suddenly at Perkins. “That’s right, isn’t it? It’s not known?”
“Not as yet, sir,” she answered slowly.
Martin made an involuntary gesture, but the peddler wheeled and sent the woman a swift and penetrating glance that had in it something of contempt, as though he had caught the drift of her words and they actually amused him.
“Can you tell me anything more, sir?”
“Yes, though it may be you know it already from Martin. The weapon that is believed to have been used has disappeared, a Malay creese that was always on this desk. No motive was then ascribed to the crime, but it now seems that this might have been robbery, which was unsuccessful. No strangers are shown to have been at the house that day, and not as far as Perkins is aware have any been here till very recently. No clues—and I take it that it is possible clues in which you are interested—were left. Now you can tell me if anything suggests itself to you. If you want to ask any questions, ask them.”
The bright eyes were fixed on the speaker’s face. Martin was rooted to the ground but cast furtive looks at the peddler, swerving from these to stare with a dumfounded expression at the image. He had nearly mastered his feelings, but there was a twitch in his fingers he could not manage to control. Perkins, her lean hands folded, regarded Blunt with a fixed and provocative gaze, as though inviting him to escape if he could from the net she was weaving. But Blunt seemed unmoved. His keen eyes slowly examined every angle of the room, scrutinized Millicent’s portrait with temporary interest, then traveled to desk and chair, mentally photographing their minutest detail. Finally he looked at the French window, and Derrick wondered if by chance he knew what waited outside.
“Was that door locked at the time?” he asked after a long pause.
Derrick turned to Perkins. “Was it?”
“Yes,” she said curtly.
“And the front door?”
“I am not sure of that. Mr. Millicent usually saw to it before he came up-stairs.”
Martin started. “What are you trying to get at?” His voice was rough and threatening, his eyes vicious.
For answer the peddler fixed on him a glittering stare, whereat the gardener blinked and was silent. Derrick caught his breath. The very air was now ominous.
“Anything changed here since the murder happened?” asked Blunt with a curious lift in his voice.
“Just what do you mean?”
“Things are talking to me now. They’re a bit confused, and all I can get is that this room may not be the same as it was then.”
Perkins put her hand to her throat. “How do you know?” she whispered.
Derrick leaned tensely forward. This was evidence, new evidence.
“Go on, Blunt. Tell me just what you’re after.”
“I mean, are things in the same place as when that man was killed?”
A slight sound escaped from Perkins, and her nostrils dilated, while Derrick caught a swift but meaning glance that passed between herself and the gardener.
“I don’t know; I never thought of that. Are they, Perkins?”
“No.” She spoke with a sort of satisfaction, not unmingled with surprise. “And,” she added meaningly, “no one else has asked that question for two years.”
“Why do you ask, Blunt?”
The peddler seemed untroubled. “In a way, I was told to,” he broke off, and regarded Perkins with absolute composure. “What change is there now?”
“The desk was in the other corner,” she said faintly, “and facing the window, and this screen was on the other side of the fireplace opposite the sofa.” She got this out with a quick look at Martin in which she seemed to expect his approval and almost thanks.
“Then any one sitting at the desk would naturally see out of the window but would not notice the door without turning?” put in Derrick sharply.
“Yes, sir, it was like that.”
“Well, Blunt, does all this take you anywhere?”
The peddler came a shade nearer the desk. His eyes were now half closed, and his dark features had smoothed out till they were strangely inexpressive. He might have been under the influence of a dream. The silence began to throb, and over Beech Lodge crept the touch of the mysterious East. None moved, for in that moment the jade god asserted his domination. The air seemed to palpitate, tremulous with unseen vibrations, and a whisper of wind drifted from the puttering fire. Then Blunt began to speak in a sort of half-chant without color or inflection, his voice sounding thin and clear and distant and carrying with it a nameless note of authority.
“I see far away a picture of a place, large and poorly lighted. Strange people are there, moving without sound, and strange smells are in the air. Around it there are many trees, and when one comes that way a whisper runs ahead through the forest, telling of his coming. I see a man not unlike this one”—here the peddler made a gesture at the portrait—“but dressed otherwise and with his skin dark like that of the quiet people. He has journeyed from across the sea, drawn there he knows not why, and saying nothing of the purpose of his journey, because he himself did not know it. Traveling slowly, and taking at times many false trails, he comes at last to this place, and, staying not long, goes away by night, but not empty-handed. Behind him he leaves sorrow and a great anger and fear.”
The voice trailed out uncertainly, and a shudder ran through the peddler’s body. His whole figure was now swaying, and his head moved with a slow rhythmic motion.
“Go on,” said Derrick tensely.
“Not far from this place there is another man, and to him many call as with one voice, and a burden is laid upon him, and after a little while he is not seen there any more. Meantime the first man has returned to his own land and the faces he knew best, and tried to shake off the memories of what he had done and that distant place. But he could not do this. Time went on, and always in his dreams he returned there and could not forget. The thing he had taken was his master. At first when he wanted it, he thought he loved it, and then learned it was not love but fear. It was a thing of power, and stronger than himself. Mystery was in it, and thereby it was able to give tongues to that which could not otherwise speak. It was a tongue for the dumb.”
Derrick nodded without knowing it. The world was full of clearing mists through which he began to perceive that which heretofore was hidden. His eyes wandered to Perkins. She stood rigid, as under a spell, her soul carried away by some invisible stream. Martin’s furtive gaze had changed, and his face was graven with despair, behind which moved desperate possibilities. Derrick saw these and thankfully remembered the man crouching against the wall outside.
“Go on,” he repeated.
“Others had heard that voice, thousands and thousands of them, and they too loved and hated and desired and feared this thing. It was always like this from the very first, because its hate had conquered love, and the fear in it was at war with desire. It had sucked in all that the hearts of men can feel, and because of its wisdom, and because it was at war with the spirit of Buddha, it had been kept close till that day. But only those on whom the spirit of Buddha rested might know the greatness and danger of this thing. And it was written that should it go from that place death would follow wherever it went.”
Something in the unbroken monotone captured the brain of Derrick, and the room swam. A mesmeric influence was at work. Everything around him began to slide, smoothly, imperceptibly. Was Millicent’s death so important after all? Soon it would be forgotten—with all else. What did he owe Millicent in any case? Why trouble to waste his time on another man’s affairs? Perkins, Martin, and even Blunt himself became blurred in this general indistinction, merging peacefully with other unrealities.
“So death came into this room, brother to fear, following the steps of the doomed. It was in no hurry but waited till fear had established itself firmly. There was not any escape, and there could be none, and the man who was to die walked between them for years, seeing their faces whichever way he turned.” The peddler waited an instant and leaned slightly toward Martin. “So it will be with the next appointed to die.”
Perkins was as though turned to stone, and Derrick’s breath came faster. There fell a stinging silence, while the atmosphere seemed to hum and quiver. Then from Martin proceeded a strange choking sound, and in that second Blunt leaped forward. With the swiftness of light he traversed the ten feet between him and the desk and grasped the image. At the mere touch of this, an amazing virility shot through his body, and he darted like a stone from a catapult across the room toward the French window. Derrick tried to shout, but his tongue had lost its power. Following a violent splintering of glass and wood, a bull-like roar from Burke, and the lithe figure was half-way over the lawn. Behind it lumbered the big frame of the sergeant, losing ground at every stride.
Oblivious of the others, Derrick dashed out and took up the chase. The jade god was in flight now. He had drawn level with Burke when there sounded directly ahead the noise of a struggle, a sharp whistle, the curse of a man who is strained to the utmost, and finally a strange, shrill cry. At that the sergeant slackened his pace.
“That’s Peters,” he panted, laboring for breath. “I gave him orders to station himself there behind the hedge, and a good job, too. He’s got our friend.”
Derrick sped on. “Come along,” he shouted over his shoulder. “He may need help.”
Burke grunted. “Not him, with a chap that size, but the little devil pushed his finger into my throat, and I saw stars. Make your own pace, sir, but it’s all right now.”
On the other side of the hedge the peddler lay flat, the constable bending over him. The face of the latter was flushed and the collar of his tunic torn. He saluted mechanically when Derrick ran up but said nothing till Burke arrived, breathing like a leaky bellows.
“I don’t know what to make of this, sergeant. The fellow ran practically into my arms before he knew where he was and put up no end of a fight. He got his finger into my throat and would have done me in if I hadn’t thrown him. Then he got up and went for me again like a wild animal. I got this thing away from him, and he spun round on his toes, put something in his mouth, and crumpled up. Now he looks as though he were dead, but I haven’t used any unnecessary force.”