Mr. Stott combined the implacable qualities of the
feudal lord with an amiable leaning toward the society
and approval of his fellow men. There was a cafe near
his office which was extensively patronized by grave
business men, directors, bank managers and superior
cashiers. The price of luncheon had been scientifically
fixed by the proprietor, so that whilst it was within the
means of men of substance and standing, it was just beyond
the reach of those whose limited incomes did not
permit the luxury of lunching at Toby’s, though it was
well worth the money to sit at meat with men who had
offices labelled “private” and drove to their business in
polished limousines.
Mr. Stott referred to the wistful folk who passed the
door of Toby’s to be swallowed up in less exclusive establishments,
as the hoi polloi, which he understood was
an Italian expression. Toby’s had almost acquired the
status of a club. Occasionally, ignorant strangers wandered
in to test the gastronomical excellence of the
kitchen, and these were usually accommodated in obscure
corners away from the hearing of intimate gossip.
Mr. Stott had recently become a person to be listened
to with respect, and the necessity for keeping the regular
patrons of Toby’s aloof from the vulgar herd, was doubly
urgent by reason of the very important matters that had
to be discussed.
“What I can’t understand, Stott,” said one of his
hearers, “is why the devil didn’t you send for the police?”
Mr. Stott smiled mysteriously.
“The police should have been there,” he said, “and by-the-way,
I need not remind you fellows that what I say
to you is in absolute confidence. I am scared out of my
life lest that babbling servant of mine starts talking. You
can never trust these gossiping girls. I confess, though,
that I had half a mind, not to send for the police, but
to tackle the Chinks myself. I should have done it, too,
but the girl was so frightened of being left alone.”
“Have they come since?” asked another interested
hearer.
“No; nor the woman—you remember that I told you
of the woman who used to drive up to Mayfield every
night in her car?”
“It seems to me that the police ought to know,” interrupted
the first speaker. “One of your servants is
bound to talk. As you say, you can’t trust ’em! And
then the authorities will want to know why you haven’t
reported the matter.”
“It is not my business,” said Mr. Stott pharisaically,
“It is for the police to get busy. I’m not at all surprised
that the coroner’s jury made the remark they did. Here
is a man murdered—”
He exhibited the crime graphically.
“At any rate, I’m keeping out of it—these Chinese
criminals are dangerous fellows to monkey with.”
He had paid his bill and was walking out of the cafe,
when somebody touched him on the arm, and he swung
round to see a tall, melancholy and long faced man.
“Excuse me; Mr. Stott, I believe?”
“That is my name. I haven’t the pleasure—”
“My name is Carver—I am an Inspector of Police,
and I want you to tell me something about what was seen
outside of Mayfield, both before and after the murder.”
Mr. Stott’s face fell.
“That servant of mine has been talking,” he said annoyed.
“I knew she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
“I know nothing about your servant, sir,” said Carver,
sadly, “but I have been sitting in Toby’s for the past
three days and I have heard quite a lot. It sounded to
me almost as if you were the principal speaker on the
subject, but maybe I was mistaken.”
“I shall say nothing,” said Mr. Stott firmly, and the
detective sighed.
“I shouldn’t hurry to make up my mind on that subject
if I were you,” he said, “it is certain to be a difficult
business explaining to the Public Prosecutor why you
have kept silence so long—it looks very suspicious, you
know, Mr. Stott.”
Mr. Stott was aghast.
“Suspicious—me—Good heavens! Come to my office,
Mr. Carver—suspicious! I knew I should be dragged
into it! I’ll fire Eline tonight!”
When Tab in the course of duty, called that night at
the station, he heard the story from Carver.
“If the poor nut had only had the pluck to telephone
to the police when the girl first told him the story, we
could have caught those birds. As it is, there’s no sense
in keeping the house under observation any longer. Who
was the woman? That puzzles me. Who was the
woman who, night after night, garaged her car in Trasmere’s
garden and let herself into the house carrying a
square black bag?”
Tab did not answer. The identity of the woman was
no mystery to him. She was Ursula Ardfern.
The fabric of supposition fitted piece to piece. He
remembered how he had come upon her in the deserted
streets at dawn surveying a burst tyre and the plainness
of her dress. Inside the car was a square black case,
but—
Ursula working hand in glove with Chinamen; Ursula
privy to these stealthy coming and goings, these midnight
burglaries at Mayfield? That was unthinkable.
“—their reason for breaking in after we had left the
place is beyond me,” Carver was saying. “I can only suppose
that they hoped that we had overlooked something
of value.”
“In Mayfield?—there is nothing there now?”
“Only the furniture and one or two articles we took
away but have since returned, such as the green lacquer
box. As a matter of fact, they only went back yesterday.
Mr. Lander thought of selling all the furniture and effects
by auction, and I believe that before he left he put
the matter in the hands of an agent. The Chinamen intrigue
me,” he said, “though it is by no means certain that
both Stott and his servant aren’t mistaken. I gather they
were considerably panic stricken and even I wouldn’t undertake
to distinguish a Chinaman from a European by
the light of a match.”
Tab went up into Carver’s private office, and they sat
talking until close on eleven o’clock, at which hour their
conversation was violently interrupted by the ring of the
telephone.
“Call through for you, sir,” said the voice of the sergeant
on the desk, and a second later Carver recognised
the agitated voice of Mr. Stott.
“They’re here now! They’ve just gone in! The woman
has opened the door—they’ve just gone in!”
“Who? Is that Stott—do you mean into Mayfield?”
asked Carver quickly.
“Yes! I saw them with my own eyes. The woman’s
car is outside the door.”
“Go and get its number, quick,” said Carver sharply,
“find a policeman and tell him, and if you can’t find one,
detain the woman yourself.”
He heard Mr. Stott’s feeble expostulation, and jumped
for his hat.
They boarded the first taxi-cab they could find, and
raced through the town at a break-neck pace, turning into
one end of the quiet avenue in which Mayfield was situated,
just as the tail lights of a car turned the corner at
the other end.
Mr. Stott was standing on the side-walk, pointing
dumbly, but with hysterical gestures, at the place where
the car had been.
“They’ve gone,” he said hollowly. “—couldn’t find a
policeman: they’ve gone!”
“So I notice,” said Carver. “Did you take the number
of the car?”
Mr. Stott shook his head and made a choking noise
in his throat. Presently he commanded his speech.
“Covered over with black paper,” he said.
“Who was it?”
“A Chinaman and a woman,” said the other.
“Why in hell didn’t you stop them?” snapped Carver.
“A Chinaman and a woman,” repeated Stott miserably.
“What was she like?”
“I didn’t get near enough to see,” Mr. Stott made the
confession without shame. “There ought to have been
police here—lots of police—. It is disgraceful. I am
going to write to the—”
They left him quivering threats. Carver ran across
the concrete garden, unlocked the door and switched on
all the lights in the hall. Nothing, so far as he could
see, had been disturbed. The door to the vault was
locked, and had not been tampered with. Apparently
the dining-room had. The fireplace of the house was a
broad deep cavity lined with red brick, and pointed with
a yellow cement. An electric radiator had replaced the
stove, and Carter had made a very thorough examination
both of the recess and of the wide chimney above.
But he saw at a glance that his inspection had been short
of perfect. One of the bricks had been taken out. It
lay on the table, with its steel lid open, and Carver surveyed
it thoughtfully.
“That is one on me,” he said. “It looks like the face
of a brick, doesn’t it? Look at that artistic cement pointing
all round the edge? It isn’t cement at all, but steel.
In fact, this must be about the only secret drawer in the
house. I ought to have made more thorough enquiries
from the builders.”
The box was empty except for a tiny rubber band.
They found its fellow on the table.
“There was something of importance in that box which
has been taken out; probably a bundle of papers, more
likely two bundles. The rubber bands suggest two.
Anyway, they’re gone.”
He glanced around the room.
“And the green lacquer box has gone,” he said. “I
know it was here, because I put it on the mantelshelf with
my own hands.”
He opened the door leading to the vault and satisfied
himself that nobody had gained admission to the underground
room.
“We had better go along and see this police critic,” he
said grimly.
It appeared that he had done Mr. Stott an injustice,
for greatly fearing, he had crossed the road whilst the
people were in the house, and he had made honest attempts
to find a policeman, having sent the toothachy
Eline on that errand, which was successful, if the success
was somewhat belated, for the policeman arrived
with her whilst the Inspector was talking to the merchant.
“I not only crossed the road,” said Mr. Stott, “but I
went inside the garden. They must have seen me, for
the light in the dining-room went out suddenly, and they
came flying down the steps together.”
“And passed you, of course?”
“They did not pass me,” explained Mr. Stott emphatically,
“because I was on the other side of the road before
they were out of the gate. I do not think anything
would have passed me.”
“What was the woman like?” asked Carver again.
“I have an idea she was young, but I did not see her
face. She was dressed in black and as far as I could
see, veiled. The other man was small; he only came up
to her shoulder.”
“That is that,” said Carver disconsolately, when they
came away. “They ought to have been caught, if that
man had the spunk of a rabbit. You are very silent, Tab—what
are you thinking?”
“I am wondering,” said Tab truthfully, “just wondering.”
“What are you wondering?” growled the other.
“I am wondering whether old Trasmere was a much
worse man than any of us imagine,” said Tab calmly.
