The Daffodil Mystery Page 23

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE NIGHT VISITOR

  Tarling was less in a dilemma than in that condition of uncertainty whichis produced by having no definite plans one way or the other. There wasno immediate necessity for his return to town and his annoyance atfinding the last train gone was due rather to a natural desire to sleepin his own bed, than to any other cause. He might have got a car from alocal garage, and motored to London, if there had been any particularurgency, but, he told himself, he might as well spend the night inHertford as in Bond Street.

  If he had any leanings towards staying at Hertford it was because he wasanxious to examine the contents of the wallet at his leisure. If he hadany call to town it might be discovered in his anxiety as to what hadhappened to Odette Rider; whether she had returned to her hotel or wasstill marked "missing" by the police. He could, at any rate, get intocommunication with Scotland Yard and satisfy his mind on that point. Heturned back from the station in search of lodgings. He was to find thatit was not so easy to get rooms as he had imagined. The best hotel in theplace was crowded out as a result of an agricultural convention which wasbeing held in the town. He was sent on to another hotel, only to findthat the same state of congestion existed, and finally after half anhour's search he found accommodation at a small commercial hotel whichwas surprisingly empty.

  His first step was to get into communication with London and this wasestablished without delay. Nothing had been heard of Odette Rider, andthe only news of importance was that the ex-convict, Sam Stay, hadescaped from the county lunatic asylum to which he had been removed.

  Tarling went up to the commodious sitting-room. He was mildly interestedin the news about Stay, for the man had been a disappointment. Thiscriminal, whose love for Thornton Lyne had, as Tarling suspected rightly,been responsible for his mental collapse, might have supplied a greatdeal of information as to the events which led up to the day of themurder, and his dramatic breakdown had removed a witness who might haveoffered material assistance to the police.

  Tarling closed the door of his sitting-room behind him, pulled the walletfrom his pocket and laid it on the table. He tried first with his ownkeys to unfasten the flap but the locks defied him. The heaviness of thewallet surprised and piqued him, but he was soon to find an explanationfor its extraordinary weight. He opened his pocket-knife and began to cutaway the leather about the locks, and uttered an exclamation.

  So that was the reason for the heaviness of the pouch--it was onlyleather-covered! Beneath this cover was a lining of fine steel mail. Thewallet was really a steel chain bag, the locks being welded to the chainand absolutely immovable. He threw the wallet back on the table with alaugh. He must restrain his curiosity until he got back to the Yard,where the experts would make short work of the best locks which were everinvented. Whilst he sat watching the thing upon the table and turningover in his mind the possibility of its contents, he heard footsteps passhis door and mount the stairway opposite which his sitting-room wassituated. Visitors in the same plight as himself, he thought.

  Somehow, being in a strange room amidst unfamiliar surroundings, gave thecase a new aspect. It was an aspect of unreality. They were all sounreal, the characters in this strange drama.

  Thornton Lyne seemed fantastic, and fantastic indeed was his end.Milburgh, with his perpetual smirk, his little stoop, his broad, fat faceand half-bald head; Mrs. Rider, a pale ghost of a woman who flitted inand out of the story, or rather hovered about it, never seeming tointrude, yet never wholly separated from its tragic process; Ling Chu,imperturbable, bringing with him the atmosphere of that land of intrigueand mystery and motive, China. Odette Rider alone was real. She was life;warm, palpitating, wonderful.

  Tarling frowned and rose stiffly from his chair. He despised himself alittle for this weakness of his. Odette Rider! A woman still undersuspicion of murder, a woman whom it was his duty, if she were guilty, tobring to the scaffold, and the thought of her turned him hot and cold!

  He passed through to his bedroom which adjoined the sitting-room, put thewallet on a table by the side of his bed, locked the bedroom door, openedthe windows and prepared himself, as best he could, for the night.

  There was a train leaving Hertford at five in the morning and he hadarranged to be called in time to catch it. He took off his boots, coat,vest, collar and tie, unbuckled his belt--he was one of those eccentricsto whom the braces of civilisation were anathema--and lay down on theoutside of the bed, pulling the eiderdown over him. Sleep did not come tohim readily. He turned from side to side, thinking, thinking, thinking.

  Suppose there had been some mistake in the time of the accident atAshford? Suppose the doctors were wrong and Thornton Lyne was murderedat an earlier hour? Suppose Odette Rider was in reality acold-blooded----. He growled away the thought.

  He heard the church clock strike the hour of two and waited impatientlyfor the quarter to chime--he had heard every quarter since he had retiredto bed. But he did not hear that quarter. He must have fallen into anuneasy sleep for he began to dream. He dreamt he was in China again andhad fallen into the hands of that baneful society, the "Cheerful Hearts."He was in a temple, lying on a great black slab of stone, bound hand andfoot, and above him he saw the leader of the gang, knife in hand, peeringdown into his face with a malicious grin--and it was the face of OdetteRider! He saw the knife raised and woke sweating.

  The church clock was booming three and a deep silence lay on the world.But there was somebody in his room. He knew that and lay motionless,peering out of half-closed eyes from one corner to the other. There wasnobody to be seen, nothing to be heard, but his sixth sense told him thatsomebody was present. He reached out his hand carefully and silently tothe table and searched for the wallet. It was gone!

  Then he heard the creak of a board and it came from the direction of thedoor leading to the sitting-room. With one bound he was out of bed intime to see the door flung open and a figure slip through. He was afterit in a second. The burglar might have escaped, but unexpectedly therewas a crash and a cry. He had fallen over a chair and before he couldrise Tarling was on him and had flung him back. He leapt to the door, itwas open. He banged it close and turned the key.

  "Now, let's have a look at you," said Tarling grimly and switched on thelight.

  He fell back against the door, his mouth open in amazement, for theintruder was Odette Rider, and in her hand she held the stolen wallet.