It did not take more than twenty minutes to cover the distance between Portman Square and the Imperial Institute, and they found that aristocratic building a veritable whirlwind of repressed excitement. It was closed to the public, and downstairs in the outer hall was already assembled an army of expert packers, ready to despatch the units of the exhibition to their respective galleries. But toward none of these men did the two stolid-looking policemen give even a passing glance.
It was the redoubtable secretary whom Cleek was most anxious to see, and two minutes later found him in that gentleman's presence. Narkom's assertion that Mr. Belthouse was "half out of his mind over the matter" had prepared him to find an excitable, fear-shaken, harassed official, while his own expectations were of seeing a shifty-eyed individual who had succeeded in effecting a clever coup. He found instead a serious-faced, undemonstrative man of about forty-five, with the kindest eyes and the handsomest and most sympathetic countenance he had seen for many a day.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Headland," he said, heartily, after the first formalities were over; and Cleek, who had assumed, as he always did at first introduction, a heavy, befogged expression indicative of incompetence, felt his suspicions of Charles Galveston Belthouse melting away like snow beneath a winter sun. "This business has me distracted, and if you can hunt up any sort of clue that'll keep the directors quiet for a few days, I'll be only too glad. When I undertook to see this business through for my friend, the Marquis of Willingsley, I didn't expect to run up against the British police."
"It's a pretty tall order, Mr. Belthouse," said Cleek, scratching his head perplexedly, "but I'll have a thorough look around, anyway."
If he had anticipated any sign of confusion upon the part of Mr. Belthouse, he was wholly disappointed, for the man, with a sudden and unexpected burst of enthusiasm, seized his hand and pressed it warmly, saying heartily:
"Oh, do, Mr. Headland, do. Search anywhere, do anything that will get on to the track of the thieves. One blessing is, they cannot offer the statue for sale in open market. It is intrinsically utterly valueless, and what the object of stealing it at all is I can't imagine. Still it must be got back somehow, without the Italian Government's knowing what has happened. Personally, I don't mind saying, I'llgive every penny I have in the world, if only you can get it restored safe and sound."
Cleek darted a swift look at the speaker, but the man was evidently in dead earnest.
"Your sentiments do you credit, sir," he said, stolidly, "and I'll do my best. First of all, who was it that discovered the actual loss of the statue?"
"I did, myself," was the prompt reply. "I came early to see which statues were to be sent off first, and although some ten minutes were spent pacifying a confounded woman——"
Cleek twitched an inquiring eyebrow.
"Oh, an indignant female who stayed too late and got locked in all night."
Cleek looked at Mr. Narkom, as if mutely asking why he had not been told of this fact before, and Mr. Narkom looked back blankly at his ally.
"First I've heard of it," he said, quickly, and the secretary looked from one to the other in bewilderment. Then he laughed.
"Why, what's wrong? You don't think that a fat old woman could have smuggled out the Capitoline Venus in her reticule, do you? I never gave thought to her on that score. She says she got locked in one of the distant galleries, and though she hammered and shouted, she couldn't make a soul hear. She went off in a cab that one of our men fetched for her—wouldn't have a taxi, must have a fourwheeler—and swore vengeance against the whole board ofdirectors. She declared it had been done on purpose, and we should hear from her solicitors. Regular old virago, I do assure you."
"Did you get her name and address?" asked Cleek.
"Good gracious, no. I was only too glad to get rid of her. I dare say Thompson can give you the address she gave the cabby, though. I'll send for him, if you like."
"Yes, do, please," said Cleek. "I don't suppose there is any connection, but you never know your luck. What happened after the young lady—did you say?—had gone?"
"Young lady!" The secretary smiled broadly. "She was about sixty-five if a day, with a face like a full moon, and a ridiculous child's hat perched on her head. She was no Venus, I assure you. After she had gone I went upstairs with my friend, Doctor Montret—I had met him just coming down the Cromwell Road, and I was jolly glad he was with me—when we came plump on the body of poor Scott. The sight of it and that empty pedestal gave me all sorts of thoughts of murder and burglary, but Montret soon found that the poor fellow had died naturally. As I take it, he must have been making his rounds and when he came down the gallery, and discovered the loss, he dropped dead with the shock. But you shall see for yourself."
While talking he had led the way down onepassage and up another, till they were in the actual gallery from which the famous statue had so mysteriously vanished. It stood out in one of the wings of the Institute, its steel-barred windows on each side, being some thirty or forty feet clear from the ground. The walls were lined with pictures, not one of which obviously had been moved, and it seemed impossible for secret entry to have been made either during the day or the night.
The empty pedestal stood some six feet away from the wall, against which stood some heavy grouped figures and examples in plaster of bas-relief.
For a few minutes Cleek walked aimlessly round and round the gallery, his eyes dull and heavy, his face stupidly blank in expression.
Suddenly he looked up at the exquisitely painted ceiling and gave an inane little chuckle that caused the secretary to look at him in surprise.
"I see," he exclaimed. "I wondered where it came from; but I suppose you have had the ceiling repaired—eh, what?"
If ever a man looked puzzled, it was the secretary.
"Ceiling repaired?" he echoed. "Really, Mr. Headland, I can't understand you. What on earth makes you think that?"
Mr. Headland pointed to two or three flecks of powdered plaster, obviously dropped from the ceiling above, but the secretary only gave a little sniff of contempt.
"Vibration of the traffic," he exclaimed. "No one's been near the ceiling." He turned suddenly. "Ah, here is Thompson. If you think you will want that address——?" He was clearly not very taken with the deductive powers of Mr. Headland, and he showed it very plainly.
"Yes, sir," said Thompson, when Cleek had questioned him. "Quite plain I heard it: 'Imperial Mansions, Shepherd's Bush,' and I dare say I could find out from the cabman himself. He's sure to be on the stand outside."
Dismissed on this errand, he left the gallery, while Cleek wandered to the window, which looked out on a little courtyard. His eyes noted almost unconsciously the presence of a large moving van standing near the gateway to the street.
"Oh, Mr. Belthouse," he exclaimed, "going to move the blessed statues in a furniture van?"
Mr. Belthouse joined him, but his voice was even more irritable as he exclaimed:
"Certainly not; that must be for the effects of the caretaker. She has lived in the basement, but she said she was moving as soon as the exhibition was over. And now, perhaps, Mr. Headland, if you don't mind my saying so, my time is valuable. So if you will ask me anything else you want to know——?"
Cleek stopped short in his prowl at the top end of the gallery, and stood, looking the very picture of perplexity.
"This case fair stumps me, Mr. Belthouse, I must say. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me where this door leads to?"
He touched the frame of a door almost concealed by a huge picture which was hung across it.
"That? Oh, that, I believe, opens on to a passage which leads to the caretaker's quarters. Very estimable people, the Perrys, mother and daughter, and I should say the Institute people will be sorry to lose them. They are moving, as you noticed, and into the country. This door, though, has been kept locked and screwed up—you can see the screws for yourself, can't you?—so there has been no possible means of ingress or egress. Anything else, Mr. Headland?"
Mr. Headland shook his head dolefully.
"Nothing to be learned here. I think I'd like to get that address, the old woman's, you know," he added, meekly.
"Oh, that! Still thinking of that elderly Venus, eh? Well, I'll go and find Thompson for you myself," said the now openly sneering Mr. Belthouse.
"Any ideas, old chap?" whispered Mr. Narkom, as his ally bent down and touched another few flakes of plaster-like white powder.
"Bushels," was the laconic reply. "But when a mouse gets into a trap, what does it do?"
"Why, stays in, of course!" said the mystified Narkom, and Cleek gave a little satisfied laugh as helurched to the end of the hall where Mr. Charles Galveston Belthouse, in a supremely bad temper, arrived a moment later in company with the stalwart commissionaire, Thompson.
"No go, sir; no sign of that blessed cab, and the taxi men never noticed it on the stand before. They are rare in these parts nowadays, sir. I hardly expected to get one, only the good lady was set on it. Said she wouldn't go near one of those dangerous motor things, and the way she sniffed even at the cabby——!"
A queer little smile crept round Mr. Headland's mouth.
"It's of no importance, my man. I don't think we shall want either the cab or the good lady again."
The man returned to his own post, and Cleek followed the secretary from the gallery. But a little distance away he stopped short, feeling in his pocket, then uttered a little cry of dismay.
"I thought I heard it. Excuse me, sir, it's my pen. I dropped it. Won't keep you waiting a minute."
He turned and ran swiftly back, returning some three minutes later, the pen in his hand, a smile on his face, and still further patches of white on his coat that would have suggested to even a less keen observer than Mr. Narkom that he had been very near to the ceiling.
"And now to see the body, Mr. Belthouse," he said, briskly, looking placidly at that gentleman's perturbed face as he opened the door of a little room wherein had been borne the body of the unfortunate policeman.
The body was that of a man in the very prime of life, and but for the strangely set and rigid face might have been thought that of one asleep.
Cleek examined it minutely, even pulling down the lips and raising the closed eyelids. For a moment he stood looking down at the still figure, then he shut up his magnifying glass with a snap.
"Lucky thing that doctor friend of yours was at hand," he said, irrelevantly. "Known him long, by the way?"
"Well, no, not what you might call long," was the surprised reply. "We came over on board the same ship together a few months ago. He's a French-Canadian doctor, only on a visit, I believe. A charming man——" But his words apparently fell on deaf ears, for Cleek was again bending over the body, and before either of the men could save him his foot had caught on something and he measured his length on the polished floor, his wrist doubled beneath him. He was on his feet, immediately, with Narkom's assistance, but he surveyed his wrist with a rueful smile.
"It's a pity he isn't here now," he ejaculated. "I've done for my wrist this time—broken it, I think."
The secretary uttered a little sound indicative of mild sympathy.
"He'll turn up in a minute. I'll 'phone through to him. He is lodging quite near." And turning, Mr. Belthouse ran to the office on the other side of the hall.
"Is it broken, Cleek?" asked Mr. Narkom, anxiously, as he looked into his ally's face. A significant wink was the only response.
"I'd like to see that doctor who calls curari poisoning heart disease," he whispered. "Look." He turned and pulled down the collar of the dead man, showing a tiny red spot just under the chin, so small as to be hardly noticeable.
"Poisoned," he whispered, "but whether by our excellent secretary or the good doctor remains to be seen."
Two minutes later Mr. Belthouse rushed back into the room.
"I got him," he announced, triumphantly, "and I've sent for the caretaker and told her to bring some hot water and bandages. Nothing like hot water for sprains."
Cleek expressed himself in thorough agreement with this theory, and stood nursing his aching wrist until the caretaker herself entered with the articles.
She was a middle aged woman with a pale face anddeft hands, and Cleek gladly submitted his wrist to her manipulations, wincing slightly as her fingers touched the strained tendons.
His eyes were fixed on the ground, watching the drops of water splashing on to the polished floor that had brought him to grief.
"Did you hear our prisoner last night, Mrs. Perry?" said Belthouse, genially. "One of the blessed British public got shut in and said she almost knocked the place down trying to get help."
Mrs. Perry looked up placidly.
"The walls are very thick, sir, and we were tired out with packing, I expect. I certainly never heard a sound. There, sir, I think that's right." She looked at Cleek.
"Thank you, that will be all right now," he said, but without giving her another glance.
Mrs. Perry had left the room as silently as she entered it, when all at once Cleek gave a little cry of delight.
"Scotland!" he cried, his face lighting up with relief. "I've got it!"
"What?" exclaimed the secretary. "A clue?"
"No, no, the cure for my wrist," said Mr. Headland, fumbling in his pocket for his note-book, while Mr. Belthouse snorted indignantly. "Fancy my forgetting that incomparable liniment. Mr. Narkom, go and get me a bottle, there's a good chap; here's the name. Shan't need your precious doctornow, Mr. Belthouse. You can call in as you pass, Narkom, and tell him so. What's his address, Mr. Belthouse?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'll ring him up," said that gentleman. "But it's 716 Cromwell Road, I believe, if you want it."
"Mustn't waste a doctor's valuable time," said Mr. Headland, and Mr. Narkom darted off with a detached leaf from the note-book, as if the very life of his companion hung upon the desired compound. Left to himself, Cleek turned to the secretary.
"I'll have another look at that gallery of yours, Mr. Belthouse, and then I think my part of the job is at an end."
"And a good job, too," was the irritable response. "I tell you, I can't afford to waste more time this morning, and if that's all you can do——"
"One can't do more than one's best," was Mr. Headland's meek response, as with a queer little smile running up one side of his face he followed the secretary out of the room, up the passages, and into the fateful gallery.
"Now, what's the next thing?" asked Mr. Belthouse.
"I think," said Mr. Headland, scratching his head again, "I think it's a case of 'wait and see'."
Without apparently noticing the word which slipped out from the chaste lips of Mr. Belthouse,Cleek cocked his head on one side as if waiting for some expected sound.
He had not long to wait, for there came the distant sound of screaming and fighting. It came nearer and nearer, till at last, with a resounding crash, the picture over the panelled door came down with shattered glass and broken frame, the door swung open noiselessly and easily, and in the aperture stood the flushed and triumphant figure of Mr. Narkom.
"Right was I, old chap?" said Cleek in sharp, concise tones, at the sound of which Mr. Belthouse started violently.
"Right as a trivet. Just moving it into the cart. Petrie and Hammond have got her——"
This fact was now a self-evident one, as the stalwart officers just named appeared in the doorway, between them a struggling woman, in whose oaths in English and fluent French, disarranged hair and torn dress, Mr. Belthouse could hardly recognize the competent, "estimable" caretaker. But before he could speak a word there came a fresh interruption.
"Hallo! What is this? They tell me you want me, Mr. Belthouse," said a voice from the main doorway of the gallery.
"Doctor Montret!" said the secretary. "Come in, by all means. I cannot explain what this means, but——"
"Save yourself, Jules," shrieked the woman."Quick, fly! I was not in time. It is Cleek, see, he is here! Fly, fly——"
"So we have caught the pair of you, eh?" cried Cleek, who had silently worked his way round so that he stood between the sallow-faced, black-haired stranger, addressed as Doctor Montret, and the door.
"Quick, boys. Mr. Narkom, help me here," and there was a quick struggle, then the sound of clicking handcuffs. Cleek stood over his captive triumphantly, and gave a little laugh as he unrolled the wet cloths from his uninjured wrist.
"So my little trick succeeded, eh, Jules Berjet? And you, too, Marie Peret?"
"But what dees it all mean?" wailed Mr. Belthouse. "What have they done, Mr. Headland, or Cleek? I don't know what to think."
Cleek gave a short little laugh.
"Done! They nearly did you, Mr. Belthouse. What they did was to steal the Capitoline Venus tween them."
"The Capit—— Oh, impossible!" exclaimed the secretary, his eyes starting from his head.
"Impossible, is it?" laughed Cleek. "I don't think so. Do you, Marie Peret, when you've got such a clever cousin as Margot to pose as the statue? Oh! that hits the mark, does it? And a deep box-feather bed to conceal it in, too. What's that, Mr. Belthouse, where is the statue? Why, I should sayit is here. That's right, boys, bring her in. Got the moving men, too, did you? Good!"
Two more policemen, aided by Thompson, brought in a familiar white figure, the sight of which caused Mr. Belthouse to utter cries of delight and thanksgiving. It was evident that his experiences in America had been a lesson, for his relief was only too real.
"The Venus safe! Thank Heaven!" he repeated again and again.
"Yes," said Cleek, plucking away several feathers which still clung to her marble features. "None the worse, and no one need be the wiser." His voice grew very stern.
"None the wiser!" echoed Mr. Belthouse. "But what about the police? What will the charge be at the police court?"
"Murder, Mr. Belthouse," was the answer, "the murder of poor Scott out there. It was a neat trick to poison the man by means of an injection of curari and have the doctor accidentally near at hand to certify to heart disease. Bah! Take them away, men, and, Mr. Belthouse, give me a hand. We'll put the lady up on her pedestal again. Mr. Narkom, just look into the large urn over there, will you?"
Both gentlemen did as they were requested, and as Cleek and Mr. Belthouse stepped back from the pedestal, they watched Mr. Narkom as he stood with a white bundle from which powder dropped copiously.
Cleek gave a little exclamation of delight. "Poor old Dollops' Venus," he said, as he held up what was evidently a suit of white elastic tights such as are used on the stage.
"The lady who wore these you very kindly let out first thing this morning, Mr. Belthouse, and if ever Margot, Queen of the Apaches, and at one time one of the finest artists' models in Paris, enjoyed herself, it was when she passed through your fingers so neatly.
"What's that, Mr. Narkom? How did I guess? But I didn't guess. I was shown it. Look at the tiny flakes of white, especially behind the pedestal and close to the big urn, where she stood well powdered ready to turn to marble if any one were heard approaching. The statue had been lifted down and taken through that door to Marie Peret. The door screwed up, Mr. Belthouse? Nothing of the kind. The screw-heads are there, and glued down, but the screws themselves have been cut through by a fine metal saw, as I found when I came back again—for my pen.
"Margot, I take it, in the tights, her face and hands whitened, took the place of the statue for the last quarter of an hour before closing time. I suppose they were afraid to leave it until the night time for fear they were heard by the guards and policemen. Probably poor Scott was thinking of Dollops—he's a young friend of mine, Mr. Belthouse,who thought he saw an empty pedestal, and he was right! Well, Scott must have come to examine the Capitoline Venus for himself, only to have it fling itself on him and do only too deadly execution with a poisoned needle, all ready for just such an emergency. No, Mr. Belthouse, the Apaches make burglary a fine art, I can tell you; they were prepared for everything and everybody——"
"Except Hamilton Cleek," said Mr. Belthouse, with a little smile. "You certainly have performed a miracle."
Cleek smiled oddly.
"I would like to have caught Margot," he said, musingly, "and it was a clever trick to divert suspicion right away from the caretaker by posing as an indignant sightseer, locked up all night, but there was too much deafness on the part of the others concerned."
"Even then I don't know why you suspected Mrs. Perry," said Mr. Belthouse, as they retraced their steps to the entrance hall.
Cleek laughed again.
"I suspected everybody," he replied, "yourself included, until I saw Marie. Then if a straw will show you which way the wind blows, the presence of many feathers clinging to the lady's skirts and the sight of that very deep French-made feather bed being moved out by two French-looking moving men told me the rest.
"Good-bye, Mr. Belthouse, and here's to our next meeting."
He stepped into the waiting limousine and was whizzed away with Mr. Narkom beaming beside him.
"Let's hope we have a few weeks' peace," said Cleek with a little gesture of weariness as the car drew up at his lodging, and he took leave of Mr. Narkom.
But his hope was not to be realized. In fact, no sooner was Mr. Narkom back at the Yard, than Cleek's telephone was ringing and he was being given the details of as complicated a business as the Yard had ever tackled.
He groaned in spirit, but promised to be right over as soon as he had had some food and a chance "at least to change my collar."
This last had been added in a doleful voice when the Superintendent had given him the news that this new case was to take them to the end, nearly, of England—to Westmoreland.
If you know anything of the county of Westmoreland you will know the chief market-town of Merton Sheppard, and if you know Merton Sheppard, you will know there is only one important building in that town besides the massive Town Hall, and that building is the Westmoreland Union Bank—a private concern,well backed by every wealthy magnate in the surrounding district, and patronized by everyone from the highest to the lowest degree.
Anybody will point the building out to you, because of its imposing exterior, and because everyone in the whole county brings his money to Mr. Naylor-Brent, to do with it what he wills. For Mr. Naylor-Brent is the manager, and besides being known far and wide for his integrity, his uprightness of purpose, and his strict sense of justice, he acts to the poorer inhabitants of Merton Sheppard as a sort of father-confessor in all their troubles, both of a social and a financial character.
That afternoon, while Mr. Narkom and his ally were being borne swiftly, if somewhat reluctantly, toward him, Mr. Naylor-Brent was pacing the narrow confines of his handsomely appointed room in the bank, visibly disturbed. That he was awaiting the arrival of someone was evident by his frequent glance at the marble clock which stood on the mantelshelf and which bore across its base a silver plate upon which were inscribed the names of fifteen or more "grateful customers" whose money had passed successfully through his managerial hands.
At length the door opened, after a discreet knock upon its oaken panels, and an old, bent, and almost decrepit clerk ushered in the portly figure of Mr. Narkom, followed by a heavily built, dull-looking person in navy blue.
Mr. Naylor-Brent's good-looking rugged face took on an expression of the keenest relief.
"Mr. Narkom himself! This is indeed more than I expected!" he said with extended hand. "We had the pleasure of meeting once in London, some years ago. Perhaps you have forgotten——?"
Mr. Narkom's bland face wrinkled into a smile of appreciation.
"Oh, no, I haven't," he returned, pleasantly. "I remember quite distinctly. I decided to answer your wire in person, and bring with me one of my best men—friend and colleague you know—Mr. George Headland."
"Pleased to meet you, sir. And if you'll both sit down we can go into the matter at once. That's a comfortable chair over there, Mr. Headland."
They seated themselves, and Mr. Narkom, clearing his throat, proceeded in his usual official manner to "take the floor."
"I understand from headquarters," said he, "that you have had an exceptionally large deposit of banknotes sent up from London for payments in connection with your new canal. Isn't that so, Mr. Brent? I trust the trouble you mentioned in your telegram has nothing to do with this money."
Mr. Naylor-Brent's face paled considerably, and his voice had an anxious note in it when he spoke.
"Gad, sir, but it has!" he ejaculated. "That's the trouble itself. Every single banknote is gone—£200,000is gone and not a trace of it! Heaven only knows what I'm going to do about it, Mr. Narkom, but that's how the matter stands. Every penny isgone!"
"Gone!"
Mr. Narkom drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead vigorously—a sure sign of nervous excitement—while Mr. Headland exclaimed loudly, "Well, I'm hanged!"
"Someone certainly will be," rapped out Mr. Brent, sharply. "For not only have the notes vanished, but I've lost the best night-watchman I ever had, a good, trustworthy man——"
"Lost him?" put in Mr. Headland, curiously. "What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Brent? Did he vanish with the notes?"
"What? Will Simmons! Never in this world! He's not that kind. The man that offered Will Simmons a bribe to betray his trust would answer for it with his life. A more faithful servant or better fellow never drew breath. No, it's dead he is, Mr. Headland, and—I can hardly speak of it yet! I feel so much to blame for putting him on the job at all, but you see we've had a regular series of petty thefts lately: small sums unable to be accounted for, safes opened in the most mysterious manner, and money abstracted—though never any large sums, fortunately—even the clerks' coats have not been left untouched. I have had a constant watch keptbut all in vain. So, naturally, when this big deposit came to hand on Tuesday morning, I determined that special precautions should be taken at night, and put poor old Simmons down in the vault with the bank's watchdog for company. That was the last time I saw him alive! He was found writhing in convulsions, and by the time the doctor arrived upon the scene, he was dead; the safe was found open, and every note wasgone!"
"Bad business, indeed!" declared Mr. Headland, with a shake of the head. "No idea as to the cause of death, Mr. Brent? What was the doctor's verdict?"
Mr. Naylor-Brent's face clouded.
"That's the very dickens of it. He didn't quite know. Said it was evidently a case of poisoning, but was unable to decide further, or to find out what sort of poison, if any, had been used."
"H'm. I see. And what did the local police say? Have they found any clues yet?"
The manager flushed, and he gave vent to a forced laugh.
"As a matter of fact," he responded, "the local police know nothing about it. I have kept the loss an entire secret until I could call in the help of Scotland Yard."
"A secret, Mr. Brent, withsucha loss!" ejaculated Mr. Narkom. "That's surely an unusual course to pursue. When a bank loses such a large sum ofmoney, and in banknotes—the most easily handled commodity in the world—and in addition a mysterious murder takes place, one would naturally expect that the first act would be to call in the officers of the law, that is—unless—I see——"
"Well, it's more than I do!" responded Mr. Brent, sadly. "Do you see any light, however?"
"Hardly that. But it stands to reason that if you are prepared to make good the loss—a course to which there seems no alternative—there is an obvious possibility that you yourself have some faint idea as to who the criminal is, and are anxious that your suspicions should not be verified."
Mr. Headland (otherwise Cleek) looked at his friend with considerable admiration shining in his eyes. "Beginning to use his old head at last!" he thought as he watched the Superintendent's keen face. And then aloud, "Exactly my thought, Mr. Narkom. Perhaps Mr. Brent could enlighten us as to his suspicions, for I'm positive that he has some tucked away somewhere in his mind."
"Jove, if you're not almost supernatural, Mr. Headland!" returned that gentleman with a heavy sigh. "You have certainly unearthed something which I thought was hidden only in my own soul. That is exactly the reason I have kept silent; my suspicions, were I to voice them, might—er—drag the person accused still deeper into the mire of his own foolishness. There's Patterson, for instance, hewould arrest him on sight without the slightest compunction."
"Patterson?" threw in Cleek, quickly. "Patterson—the name's familiar. Don't suppose, though, that it would be the same one—it is a common enough name. Company promoter who made a pile on copper the first year of the war, and retired with 'the swag'—to put it brutally. 'Tisn't that chap, I suppose?"
"The identical man!" returned Mr. Brent, excitedly. "He came here some five years ago, bought up Mount Morris Court—a fine place having a view of the whole town—and he has lately started to run an opposition bank to ours, doing everything in his power to overthrow my position here. It's—it's spite, I believe, against myself as well as George. The young fool had the impudence to ask his daughter's hand, and what was more, ran off with her and they were married, which increased Patterson's hatred of us both almost to insanity."
"H'm. I see," said Cleek. "Who is George?"
"George Barrington, my stepson, Mr. Headland; unfortunately for me, my late wife's boy by her first marriage. I have to admit it, regretfully enough, he was the cause of his mother's death. He literally broke her heart by his wild living, and I was only too glad to give him a small allowance—which, however, helped him with his unhappy marriage—and hoped to see the last of him."
Cleek twitched up an inquiring eyebrow.
"Unhappy, Mr. Brent?" he queried. "But I understood from you a moment ago that it was a love match."
"In the beginning it was purely a question of love, Mr. Headland," responded the manager, gravely. "But as you know, when poverty comes in at the door, love sometimes flies out of the window, and from all accounts, the former Miss Patterson never ceases to regret the day she became Mrs. George Barrington. George has been hanging about here this last week or two, and I noticed him trying to renew acquaintance with old Simmons only a day or two ago in the bar of the Rose and Anchor. He—he was also seen prowling round the bank on Tuesday night. So now you know why I was loath to set the ball rolling; old man Patterson would lift the sky to get the chance to have that young waster imprisoned, to say nothing of defaming my personal character at the same time.
"Sooner than that I must endeavour to raise sufficient money by private means to replace the notes—but the death of old Simmons is, of course, another matter. His murderer must and shall be brought to justice while I have a penny piece in my pocket."
His voice broke suddenly into a harsh sob, and for a moment his hands covered his face. Then he shook himself free of his emotion.
"We will all do our best on that score, Mr. Brent,"said Mr. Narkom, after a somewhat lengthy silence. "It is a most unfortunate tragedy indeed, almost a dual one, one might say, but I think you can safely trust yourself in our hands, eh, Headland?"
Cleek bowed his head, while Mr. Brent smiled appreciation of the Superintendent's kindly sympathy.
"I know I can," he said, warmly. "Believe me, Mr. Narkom, and you, too, Mr. Headland, I am perfectly content to leave myself with you. But I have my suspicions, and strong ones they are, too, and I would not mind laying a bet that Patterson has engineered the whole scheme and is quietly laughing up his sleeve at me."
"That's a bold assertion, Mr. Brent," put in Cleek, quietly.
"But justified by facts, Mr. Headland. He has twice tried to bribe Simmons away from me, and last year offered Calcott, my head clerk, a sum of £5,000 to let him have the list of our clients!"
"Oho!" said Cleek in two different tones. "One of that sort is he? Not content with a fortune won by profiteering, he must try and ruin others; and having failed to get hold of your list of clients, he tries the bogus game of theft, and gambles on that. H'm! Well, young Barrington may be only a coincidence after all, Mr. Brent. I shouldn't worry too much about him if I were you. Suppose you tell Mr. Narkom and myself the details, right from the beginning,please. When was the murder discovered and who discovered it?"
Mr. Naylor-Brent leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily as he polished his gold glasses.
"For an affair of such tragic importance, Mr. Headland," he said, "it is singularly lacking in details. There is really nothing more to tell you than that at 6 o'clock, when I myself retired from the bank to my private rooms overhead, I left poor Simmons on guard over the safe; at half-past nine I was fetched down by the inspector on the beat, who had left young Wilson with the body. After that——"
Cleek lifted a silencing hand.
"One moment," he said. "Who is young Wilson, Mr. Brent, and why should he instead of the inspector have been left alone with the body?"
"Wilson is one of the cashiers, Mr. Headland—a nice lad. It seems he found the bank's outer door unlatched, and called up the constable on the beat; as luck would have it the inspector happened along, and down they went into the vaults together. But as to why the inspector left young Wilson with the body instead of sending him up for me—well, frankly, I had never given the thing a thought until now."
"I see. Funny thing this chap Wilson should have made straight for the vaults, though. Did he expect a murder or robbery beforehand? Was he acquaintedwith the fact that the notes were there, Mr. Brent?"
"No. He knew nothing whatever about them. No one did—that is, no one but the head clerk, Mr. Calcott, myself, and old Simmons. In bank matters, you know, the less said about such things the better, and——"
Mr. Narkom nodded.
"Very wise, very wise indeed!" he said, approvingly. "One can't be too careful in money matters, and if I may say so, bank pay being none too high, the temptation must sometimes be rather great. I've a couple of nephews in the bank myself——"
Cleek's eyes silenced him as though there had been a spoken word.
"This Wilson, Mr. Brent," Cleek asked, quietly, "is he a young man?"
"Oh—quite young. Not more than four or five and twenty, I should say. Came from London with an excellent reference, and so far has given every satisfaction. Universal favourite with the firm, and also with old Simmons himself. I believe the two used sometimes to lunch together, and were firm friends. It seems almost a coincidence that the old man should have died in the boy's arms."
"He made no statement, I suppose, before he died, to give an idea of the assassin? But of course you wouldn't know that, as you weren't there."
"As it happens I do, Mr. Headland. Young Wilson,who is frightfully upset—in fact, the shock of the thing has completely shattered his nerves, never very strong at the best of times—says that the old man just writhed and writhed, and muttered something about a rope. Then he fell back dead."
"A rope?" asked Cleek in surprise. "Was he tied or bound then?"
"That's just it. There was no sign of anything whatever to do with a rope about him. It was possibly a death delusion, or something of the sort. Perhaps the poor old chap was semi-conscious."
"Undoubtedly. And now just one more question, Mr. Brent, before I tire your patience out. We policemen, you know, are terrible nuisances. What time was it when young Wilson discovered the door of the bank unlatched?"
"About half-past nine. I had just noticed my clock striking the half-hour, when I was disturbed by the inspector——"
"And wasn't it a bit unusual for a clerk to come back to the bank at that hour—unless he was working overtime?"
Mr. Naylor-Brent's fine head went back with a gesture which conveyed to Cleek the knowledge that he was not in the habit of working any of his employees beyond the given time.
"He was doing nothing of the sort, Mr. Headland," he responded, a trifle brusquely. "Our firm is particularly keen about the question of working hours.Wilson tells me he came back for his watch which he left behind him, and——"
"And the door was conveniently unlatched and ready, so he simply fetched in the inspector, and took him straight down into the vaults. Didn't get his watch, I suppose?"
Mr. Naylor-Brent jumped suddenly to his feet, all his quiet self-possession gone for the moment.
"Gad! I never thought of that. Hang it all, man, you're making a bigger puzzle of it than ever. You're not insinuating that that boy murdered old Simmons, are you? I can't believe that."
"I'm not insinuating anything," responded Cleek, blandly. "But I have to look at things from every angle. When you got downstairs with the inspector, Mr. Brent, did you happen to notice the safe or not?"
"Yes, I did. Indeed, I fear that was my first thought—it was natural, with £200,000 Bank of England notes to be responsible for—and at first I thought everything was all right. Then young Wilson told me that he himself had closed the safe door.... What are you smiling at, Mr. Headland? It's no laughing matter, I assure you!"
The queer little one-sided smile, so indicative of the man, travelled for a moment up Cleek's cheek and was gone again in a twinkling.
"Nothing," he responded, briefly. "Just a passing thought. Then you mean to say young Wilsonclosed the safe. Did he know the notes had vanished? But of course you said he knew nothing of them. But if they were there when he looked in——"
His voice trailed into silence, and he let the rest of the sentence go by default. Mr. Brent's face flushed crimson with excitement.
"Why, at any rate," he ejaculated, "the money wasn't stolen until young Wilson sent the inspector up for me. And we let him walk quietly out! You were right, Mr. Headland, if I had only done my duty and told Inspector Corkran at once——"
"Steady, man, steady. I don't say itisso," put in Cleek with a quiet little smile. "I'm only trying to find light——"
"And making it a dashed sight blacker still, begging your pardon," returned Mr. Brent, briskly.
"That's as may be. But the devil isn't always as black as he is painted," responded Cleek. "I'd like to see this Wilson, Mr. Brent, unless he is so ill he hasn't been able to attend the office."
"Oh, he's back at work to-day, and I'll have him here in a twinkling."
And almost in a twinkling he arrived—a young, slim, pallid youngster, rather given to over-brightness in his choice of ties, and somewhat better dressed than is the lot of most bank clerks. Cleek noted the pearl pin, the well-cut suit he wore, and for a moment his face wore a strange look.
Mr. Naylor-Brent's brisk voice broke the silence.
"These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard, Wilson," he said, sharply, "and they want to know just what happened here on Tuesday night. Tell them all you know, please."
Young Wilson's pale face went a queer drab shade like newly baked bread. He began to tremble visibly.
"Happened, sir—happened?" he stammered. "How should I know what happened? I—I only got there just in time and——"
"Yes, yes. We know just when you got there, Mr. Wilson," said Cleek, "but what we want to know is what induced you to go down into the vaults when you fetched the inspector? It seemed a rather unnecessary journey, to say the least of it."
"I heard a cry—at least——"
"Right through the closed door of a nine-inch concrete walled vault, Wilson?" struck in Mr. Brent, promptly. "Simmons had been shut in there by myself, Mr. Headland, and——"
"Shut in, Mr. Brent? Shut in, did you say? Then how did Mr. Wilson here and the inspector enter?"
Young Wilson stretched out his hand imploringly.
"The door was open," he stammered. "I swear it on my honour. And the safe was open, and—and the notes were gone!"
"What notes?" It was Mr. Brent's voice which broke the momentary silence, as he realized the significance of the admission. For answer the young man dropped his face into his shaking hands.
"Oh, the notes—the £200,000! You may think what you like, sir, but I swear I am innocent! I never touched the money, nor did I touch my—Mr. Simmons. I swear it, I swear it!"
"Don't swear too strongly, or you may have to 'un-swear' again," struck in Cleek, severely. "Mr. Narkom and I would like to have a look at the vault itself, and see the body, if you have no objection, Mr. Brent."
"Certainly. Wilson, you had better come along with us. We might need you. This way, gentlemen."
Speaking, the manager rose to his feet, opened the door of his private office, and proceeded downstairs by way of an equally private staircase, to the vaults below. Cleek, Mr. Narkom, and young Wilson—very much agitated at the coming ordeal—brought up the rear. As they passed the door leading into the bank, for the use of the clerks, old Calcott came out, and paused respectfully in front of the manager.
"If you will excuse me, sir," he said, "I thought perhaps you might like to see this."
He held out a Bank of England £5 note, and Mr. Brent took it and examined it critically. Then a little cry broke from his lips.
"A 541063!" he exclaimed. "Good heavens, Calcott, where did this come from? Who——?"
Calcott rubbed his old hands together as though he were enjoying a tit-bit with much satisfaction.
"Half-an-hour ago, sir, Mr. George Barrington brought it in, and wanted smaller change."
George Barrington! The members of the little party looked at one another in amazement, and Cleek noticed for a moment that young Wilson's tense face relaxed. Mr. George Barrington, eh! The curious little one-sided smile travelled up Cleek's cheek and was gone. The party continued their way downstairs, somewhat silenced by this new development.
A narrow, dark corridor led to the vault itself, which was by no means a large chamber, but remarkable for the extreme solidity of its building. It was concrete, as most vaults are, and lit only by a single electric light, which, when switched on, shone dully against the gray stone walls. The only ventilation it boasted was provided by means of a row of small holes, about an inch in diameter, across one wall—that nearest to the passage—and exactly facing the safe. So small were they that it seemed almost as if not even a mouse could get through one of them, should a mouse be so minded. These holes were placed so low down that it was physically impossible to see through them, and though Cleek's eyes remarked their appearance there in the vault, hesaid nothing and seemed to pay little attention to them.
A speedy glance round the room gave him all the details of it! The safe against the wall, the figure of the old bank servant beside it, sleeping his last sleep, and guarding the vault in death as he had not been able to do in life. Cleek crossed toward him, and then stopped suddenly, peering down at what seemed a little twist of paper.
"Hullo!" he said. "Surely you don't allow smoking in the vault, Mr. Brent? Not that it could do much harm, but——"
"Certainly not, Mr. Headland," returned the manager, warmly. "That is strictly against orders." He glared at young Wilson, who, nervous as he had been before, became obviously more flustered than ever.
"I don't smoke, sir," he stammered in answer to that managerial look of accusation.
"Glad to hear it." Cleek stroked his cigarette-case lovingly inside his pocket as though in apology for the libel. "But it's my mistake; not a cigarette end at all, just a twist of paper. Of no account, anyway." He stooped to pick it up, and then giving his hand a flirt, appeared to have tossed it away. Only Mr. Narkom, used to the ways of his famous associate, saw that he had "palmed" it into his pocket. Then Cleek crossed the room and stood a moment looking down at the body, lying there huddled and distortedin the death agony that had so cruelly and mysteriously seized him.
So this was Will Simmons! Well, if the face is any index to the character—which in nine cases out of ten it isn't—then Mr. Naylor-Brent's confidence had certainly not been misplaced. A fine, clean, rugged face this, with set lips, a face that would never fail a friend, and never forgive an enemy. Young Wilson, who had stepped up beside Cleek, shivered suddenly as he looked down at the body, and closed his eyes.
Mr. Brent's voice broke the silence that the sight of death so often brings.
"I think," he said, quietly, "if you don't mind, gentlemen, I'll get back to my office. There are important matters at stake just now, so if you'll excuse me—it's near closing time, you know, and there are many important matters to see to. Wilson, you stay here with these gentlemen, and render any assistance that you can. Show them round if they wish it. You need not resume work to-day. Anything which you wish to know, please call upon me.
"Thanks. We'll remember." Cleek bowed ceremoniously as the manager retreated. "But no doubt Mr. Wilson here will give us all the assistance we require, Mr. Brent. We'll make an examination of the body first, and let you know the verdict!"
The door closed on Mr. Brent's figure, and Cleekand Mr. Narkom and young Wilson were alone with the dead.
Cleek went down upon his knees before the still figure, and examined it from end to end. The clenched hands were put to the keenest scrutiny, but he passed no comment, only glancing now and again from those same hands to the figure of the young cashier who stood trembling beside him.
"H'm, convulsions," he finally said, softly, to himself, and Mr. Narkom watched his face with intense eagerness. "Might be aconite—but how administered?" Again he stood silent, his brain moving swiftly down an avenue of thought, and if the thoughts could have been seen, they would have shown something like this: Convulsions—writhing—twisting—tied up in knots of pain—arope.
Suddenly he wheeled swiftly upon Wilson, his face a mask for his emotions.
"Look here," he said, sternly, "I want you to tell me the exact truth, Mr. Wilson. It's the wisest way when dealing with the police, you know. Are you positively certain Simmons said nothing as to the cause of his death? What exactly were his last words to you?"
"I begged him to tell me who it was who had injured him," replied Wilson in a shaking voice, "but all he could say was, 'The rope—mind the rope—the rope of fear—the rope of fear,' and then he was gone. But there was no sign of a rope, Mr. Headland,and I can't imagine what the—dear—old—man was driving at. And now to think he is dead—dead——"
His voice broke, and was silent for a moment. Once again Cleek spoke:
"And you saw nothing, heard nothing?"
"Well—I hardly know. There was a sound—a faint whisper, reedlike and thin, almost like a long-drawn sigh. I really thought I must have imagined it, and when I listened again it had gone. After that I rushed to the safe and——"
"Why did you do that?"
"Because he had told me at dinner time about the notes, and made me promise I wouldn't mention it, and I was afraid someone had stolen them."
"Is it likely that any one overheard your conversation then? Where were you lunching?"
"In the Rose and Crown." Wilson's voice trembled again as though the actual recalling of the thing terrified him anew. "Simmons and I often had lunch together. There was no one else at our table, and the place was practically empty. The only person near was old Ramagee, the black chap who keeps the Indian bazaar in the town. He's an old inhabitant, but even now hardly understands English, and most of the time he's so drugged with opium that if he did hear he'd never understand. He was certainly blind to the world that lunch time—because my—my friend, Simmons, I mean, noticed it."
"Indeed!" Cleek stroked his chin thoughtfully for some moments. Then he sniffed the air, and uttered a casual remark: "Fond of sweets still, are you, Mr. Wilson? Peppermint drops or aniseed balls, eh?"
Mr. Narkom's eyes fairly bulged with amazement, and young Wilson flushed angrily.
"I am not such a fool as all that, Mr. Headland," he said, quickly. "If I don't smoke, I certainly don't go about sucking candy like a kid. I never cared for it as a youngster and I haven't had any for a cat's age. What made you ask?"
"Nothing, simply my fancy." But, nevertheless, Cleek continued to sniff, and then suddenly, with a little excited sound, went down on his hands and knees and began examining the stone floor.
"It's not possible—and yet—and yet. I must be right," he said, softly, getting to his feet at last. "'A rope of fear' was what he said, wasn't it? 'A rope of fear.'" He crossed suddenly to the safe, and bending over it, examined the handle and doors critically. And at that moment Mr. Brent reappeared. Cleek switched round upon his heel, and smiled across at him.
"Able to spare us a little more of your valuable time, Mr. Brent?" he asked, politely. "Well, I was just coming up. There's nothing really to be gained here. I have been looking over the safe for fingerprints, and there's not much doubt about whose theyare. Mr. Wilson here had better come upstairs and tell us just exactly what he did with the notes, and——"
Young Wilson's face went suddenly gray. He clenched his hands together and breathed hard like a spent runner.
"I tell you they were gone," he cried, desperately. "They were gone. I looked for them, and didn't find them. They were gone—gone—gone!"
But Cleek seemed not to take the slightest notice of him, and swinging upon his heel followed in the wake of the manager's broad back, while Wilson perforce had to return with Mr. Narkom. Half way up the stairs, however, Cleek suddenly stopped and gave vent to a hurried ejaculation.
"Silly idiot that I am!" he said, crossly. "I have left my magnifying glass on top of the safe—and it's the most necessary tool we policemen have. Don't bother to come, Mr. Brent, if you'll just lend me the keys of the vault. Thanks, I'll be right back."
It was certainly not much more than a moment when he did return, and the other members of the little party had barely reached the private office when he fairly rushed in after them. There was a look of supreme satisfaction in his eyes.
"Here it is," he said, lifting the glass up for all to see. "And look here, Mr. Brent, I've changed my mind about discussing the matter any further here.The best thing you can do is to go down in a cab with Mr. Narkom to the police station and get a warrant for this young man's arrest—no, don't speak, Mr. Wilson, I've not finished yet—and take him along with you. I will stay here and just scribble down the facts. It'll save no end of bother, and we can take our man straight up to London with us, under proper arrest. I shan't be more than ten minutes at the most."
Mr. Brent nodded assent.
"As you please, Mr. Headland," he said, gravely. "We'll go along at once. Wilson, you understand you are to come with us? It's no use trying to get away from it, man, you're up against it now. You'd better just keep a stiff upper lip and face the music. I'm ready, Mr. Narkom."
Quietly they took their departure, in a hastily found cab, leaving Cleek, the picture of stolid policemanism, with note-book and pencil in hand, busily inscribing what he was pleased to call "the facts."
Only "ten minutes" Cleek had asked for, but it was nearer twenty before he was ushered out of the side entrance of the bank by the old housekeeper, and though perhaps it was only sheer luck that nearly caused him to tumble into the arms of Mr. George Barrington—whom he recognized from the word picture of that gentleman given by Mr. Brent some time before—it was decidedly by arrangement that, after a few careless words on the part of Cleek, Mr.Barrington, his face blank with astonishment, accompanied this stranger down to the police station.
They found a grim little party awaiting them, but at sight of Cleek's face Mr. Narkom started forward and put a hand upon his friend's arm.
"What have you found, Headland?" he asked, excitedly.
"Just what I expected to find," came the triumphant reply. "Now, Mr. Wilson, you are going to hear the end of the story. Do you want to see what I found, gentlemen? Here it is." He fumbled in his big coat pocket for a moment and pulled out a parcel which crackled crisply. "The notes!"
"Good God!" It was young Wilson who spoke.
"Yes, averygood God—even to sinners, Mr. Wilson. We don't always deserve all the goodness we get, you know," Cleek went on. "The notes are found, you see; the notes, you murderer, you despicable thief, the notes which were entrusted to your care by the innocent people who pinned their faith to you."
Speaking, he leaped forward, past the waiting inspector and Mr. Narkom, past the shabby, down-at-heel figure of George Barrington, past the slim, shaking Wilson, and straight at the substantial figure of Mr. Naylor-Brent, as he stood leaning with one arm upon the inspector's high desk.
So surprising, so unexpected was the attack, that his victim was overpowered and the bracelets snappedupon his wrists before any one present had begun to realize exactly what had happened.
Then Cleek rose to his feet.
"What's that, Inspector?" he said in answer to a hurriedly spoken query. "A mistake? Oh, dear, no. No mistake whatever. Our friend here understands that quite well. Thought you'd have escaped with that £200,000 and left your confederates to bear the brunt of the whole thing, did you? Or else young Wilson here whom you'd so terrorized! A very pretty plot, indeed, only Hamilton Cleek happened to come along instead of Mr. George Headland and show you a thing or two about plots."
"Hamilton Cleek!" The name fell from every pair of lips, and even Brent himself stared at this wizard whom all the world knew, and who unfortunately had crossed his path when he least wanted him.
"Yes, Hamilton Cleek, gentlemen. Cleek of Scotland Yard. And a very good thing for you, Mr. Wilson, that I happened to come along. Things looked very black for you, you know, and those beastly nerves of yours made it worse. And if it hadn't been for this cad's confederate——"
"Confederate, Mr. Cleek?" put in Wilson, shakily. "I—I don't understand. Who could have been his confederate?"
"None other than old Ramagee," responded Cleek. "You'll find him drugged as usual, in the Rose and Crown. I've seen him there only a while ago. Butnow he is minus a constant companion of his.... And here is the actual murderer."
He put his hand into another capacious pocket, and drew forth a smallish, glass box.
"The Rope of Fear, gentlemen," he said, quietly, "a vicious little rattler of the most deadly sort. And it won't be long before that gentleman there becomes acquainted with another sort of rope. Take him away, Inspector. The bare sight of him hurts an honest man's eyes."
And they took Mr. Naylor-Brent away forthwith, a writhing, furious Thing, utterly transformed from the genial personality which had for so long swindled and outwitted a trusting public.
As the door closed upon them, Cleek turned to young Wilson and held out his hand.
"I'm sorry to have accused you as I did," he said, softly, with a little smile, "but that is a policeman's way, you know. Strategy is part of the game—though it was a poor trick of mine to cause you additional pain. You must forgive me. I don't doubt the death of your father was a great shock, although you tried manfully to conceal the relationship. No doubt it was his wish—not yours."
A sudden transformation came over Wilson's pale, haggard face. It was like the sun shining after a heavy storm.
"You—knew?" he said, over and over again."Youknew? Oh, Mr. Cleek, now I can speak out at last. Father always wanted me to be a gentleman, and he's spent every penny he possessed to get me well enough educated to enter the bank. He was mad for money, mad for anything which was going to better my position. And—and I was afraid when he told me about the notes, he might be tempted——Oh! It was dreadful of me, I know, to think of it, but I knew he doted on me. I was afraid he might try and take one or two of them, hoping they wouldn't be missed out of so great an amount. You see, we'd been in money difficulties and were still paying off my college fees after all this time. So I went back to keep watch with him—and found him dying—though how youknew——"
His voice trailed off into silence, and Cleek smiled kindly.
"By the identical shape of your hands, my boy. I never saw two pairs of hands so much alike in all my life. And then your agitation made me risk the guess.... What's that, Inspector? How was the murder committed, and what did this little rattler have to do with it? Well, quite simple. The snake was put in the safe with the notes, and a trail of aniseed—of which snakes are very fond, you know—laid from there to the foot of old Simmons. The safe door was left ajar—though in the half dusk the old man certainly never noticed it. I found all this out from those few words of Wilson's about'the rope,' and from his having heard a reedlike sound. I had to do some hard thinking, I can tell you. When I went downstairs again, Mr. Narkom, after my magnifying glass, I turned down poor Simmons' sock and found the mark I expected—the snake had crawled up his leg and struck home.
"Why did I suspect Mr. Brent? Well, it was obvious almost from the very first, for he was so anxious to throw suspicion upon Mr. Barrington here, and Wilson—with Patterson thrown in for good measure. Then again it was certain that no one else would have been allowed into the vault by Simmons, much less to go to the safe itself, and open it with the keys. That he did go to the safe was apparent by the fingerprints upon it, and as they, too, smelt of aniseed, the whole thing began to look decidedly funny. The trail of aniseed led straight to where Simmons lay, so I can only suppose that after Brent released the snake—the trail, of course, having been laid beforehand, when he was alone—Brent must have stood and waited until he saw it actually strike, and—— How do I know that, Mr. Wilson? Well, he smoked a cigarette there, anyhow. The stub I found bore the same name as those in his box, and it was smoked identically the same way as a couple which lay in his ashtray.
"I could only conclude that he was waiting for something to happen, and as the snake struck, he grabbed up the bundle of notes, quite forgettingto close the safe door, and rushed out of the vault. Ramagee was in the corridor outside, and probably whistled the snake back through the ventilating holes near the floor, instead of venturing near the body himself. You remember, you heard the sound of that pipe, Mr. Wilson? Ramagee probably made his escape while the Inspector was upstairs. Unfortunately for him, he ran right into Mr. George Barrington here, and when, as he tells me, he later told Brent about seeing Ramagee, well, the whole thing became as plain as a pikestaff."
"Yes," put in George Barrington, excitedly, taking up the tale in his weak, rather silly voice, "my stepfather refused to believe me, and gave me £20 in notes to go away. I suppose he didn't notice they were some of the stolen ones. I changed one of them at the bank this morning, but I had no idea how important they were until I knocked into Mr.—Mr. Cleek here. And he made me come along with him."
Mr. Narkom looked at Cleek, and Cleek looked at Mr. Narkom, and the blank wonder of the Superintendent's eyes caused him to smile.
"Another feather in the cap of foolish old Scotland Yard, isn't it?" said Cleek. "Time we made tracks, I think. Coming our way, Mr. Wilson? We'll see you back home if you like. You're too upset to go on alone. Good afternoon, Inspector, and—good-bye. I'll leave the case with you. It's safe enoughin your hands, but if you take my tip you'll put that human beast in as tight a lock-up as the station affords."
Then he linked one arm in Mr. Narkom's and the other arm in that of the admiring and wholly speechless Wilson, and went into the sunshine.