The Daffodil Mystery Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  THE WOMAN IN THE CASE

  "May I keep this telegram?" asked Tarling.

  The woman nodded. He saw that she was nervous, ill at ease and worried.

  "I can't quite understand why Odette should not come," she said. "Isthere any particular reason?"

  "That I can't say," said Tarling. "But please don't let it worry you,Mrs. Rider. She probably changed her mind at the last moment and isstaying with friends in town."

  "Then you haven't seen her?" asked Mrs. Rider anxiously.

  "I haven't seen her for several days."

  "Is anything wrong?" Her voice shook for a second, but she recoveredherself. "You see," she made an attempt to smile. "I have been in thehouse for two or three days, and I have seen neither Odette nor--noranybody else," she added quickly.

  Who was she expecting to see, wondered Tarling, and why did she checkherself? Was it possible that she had not heard of the murder? Hedetermined to test her.

  "Your daughter is probably detained in town owing to Mr. Lyne's death,"he said, watching her closely.

  She started and went white.

  "Mr. Lyne's death?" she stammered. "Has he died? That young man?"

  "He was murdered in Hyde Park yesterday morning," said Tarling, and shestaggered back and collapsed into a chair.

  "Murdered! Murdered!" she whispered. "Oh, God! Not that, not that!"

  Her face was ashen white, and she was shaking in every limb, this statelywoman who had walked so serenely into the drawing-room a few minutesbefore.

  Presently she covered her face with her hands and began to weep softlyand Tarling waited.

  "Did you know Mr. Lyne?" he asked after a while.

  She shook her head.

  "Have you heard any stories about Mr. Lyne?"

  She looked up.

  "None," she said listlessly, "except that he was--not a very nice man."

  "Forgive me asking you, but are you very much interested--" He hesitated,and she lifted her head.

  He did not know how to put this question into words. It puzzled him thatthe daughter of this woman, who was evidently well off, should be engagedin a more or less humble capacity in Lyne's Store. He wanted to knowwhether she knew that the girl had been dismissed, and whether that mademuch difference to her. Then again, his conversation with Odette Riderhad not led him to the conclusion that she could afford to throw up herwork. She spoke of finding another job, and that did not sound as thoughher mother was in a good position.

  "Is there any necessity for your daughter working for a living?" he askedbluntly, and she dropped her eyes.

  "It is her wish," she said in a low voice. "She does not get on withpeople about here," she added hastily.

  There was a brief silence, then he rose and offered his hand.

  "I do hope I haven't worried you with my questions," he said, "and Idaresay you wonder why I have come. I will tell you candidly that I amengaged in investigating this murder, and I was hoping to hear that yourdaughter, in common with the other people who were brought into contactwith Mr. Lyne, might give me some thread of a clue which would lead tomore important things."

  "A detective?" she asked, and he could have sworn there was horror in hereyes.

  "A sort of detective," he laughed, "but not a formidable one, I hope,Mrs. Rider."

  She saw him to the door, and watched him as he disappeared down thedrive; then walked slowly back to the room and stood against the marblemantelpiece, her head upon her arms, weeping softly.

  Jack Tarling left Hertford more confused than ever. He had instructed thefly driver to wait for him at the gates, and this worthy he proceeded topump.

  Mrs. Rider had been living in Hertford for four years, and was greatlyrespected. Did the cabman know the daughter? Oh yes, he had seen theyoung lady once or twice, but "She don't come very often," he explained."By all accounts she doesn't get on with her father."

  "Her father? I did not know she had a father," said Tarling in surprise.

  Yes, there was a father. He was an infrequent visitor, and usually cameup from London by the late train and was driven in his own brougham tothe house. He had not seen him--indeed, very few people had, but by allaccounts he was a very nice man, and well-connected in the City.

  Tarling had telegraphed to the assistant who had been placed at hisdisposal by Scotland Yard, and Detective-Inspector Whiteside was waitingfor him at the station.

  "Any fresh news?" asked Tarling.

  "Yes, sir, there's rather an important clue come to light," saidWhiteside. "I've got the car here, sir, and we might discuss it on theway back to the Yard."

  "What is it?" asked Tarling.

  "We got it from Mr. Lyne's manservant," said the inspector. "It appearsthat the butler had been going through Mr. Lyne's things, acting oninstructions from headquarters, and in a corner of his writing-desk atelegram was discovered. I'll show it you when I get to the Yard. It hasa very important bearing upon the case, and I think may lead us to themurderer."

  On the word "telegram" Tarling felt mechanically in his pockets for thewire which Mrs. Rider had given him from her daughter. Now he took it outand read it again. It had been handed in at the General Post Office atnine o'clock exactly.

  "That's extraordinary, sir," Detective-Inspector Whiteside, sitting byhis side, had overlooked the wire.

  "What is extraordinary?" asked Tarling with an air of surprise.

  "I happened to see the signature to that wire--'Odette,' isn't it?" saidthe Scotland Yard man.

  "Yes," nodded Tarling. "Why? What is there extraordinary in that?"

  "Well, sir," said Whiteside, "it's something of a coincidence that thetelegram which was found in Mr. Lyne's desk, and making an appointmentwith him at a certain flat in the Edgware Road, was also signed 'Odette,'and," he bent forward, looking at the wire still in the astonishedTarling's hand, "and," he said in triumph, "it was handed in exactly atthe same time as that!"

  An examination of the telegram at Scotland Yard left no doubt in thedetective's mind that Whiteside had spoken nothing but the truth. Anurgent message was despatched to the General Post Office, and in twohours the original telegrams were before him. They were both written inthe same hand. The first to her mother, saying that she could not come;the second to Lyne, running:

  "Will you see me at my flat to-night at eleven o'clock? ODETTE RIDER."

  Tarling's heart sank within him. This amazing news was stunning. It wasimpossible, impossible, he told himself again and again, that this girlcould have killed Lyne. Suppose she had? Where had they met? Had theygone driving together, and had she shot him in making the circuit of thePark? But why should he be wearing list slippers? Why should his coat beoff, and why should the night-dress be bound round and round his body?

  He thought the matter out, but the more he thought the more puzzled hebecame. It was a very depressed man who interviewed an authority thatnight and secured from him a search warrant.

  Armed with this and accompanied by Whiteside he made his way to the flatin Edgware Road, and, showing his authority, secured a pass-key from thehall porter, who was also the caretaker of the building. Tarlingremembered the last time he had gone to the flat, and it was with afeeling of intense pity for the girl that he turned the key in the lockand stepped into the little hall, reaching out his hand and switching onthe light as he did so.

  There was nothing in the hall to suggest anything unusual. There was justthat close and musty smell which is peculiar to all buildings which havebeen shut up, even for a few days.

  But there was something else.

  Tarling sniffed and Whiteside sniffed. A dull, "burnt" smell, somepungent, "scorched" odour, which he recognised as the stale stench ofexploded cordite. He went into the tiny dining-room; everything was neat,nothing displaced.

  "That's curious," said Whiteside, pointing to the sideboard, and Tarlingsaw a deep glass vase half filled with daffodils. Two or three blossomshad either fallen or had been pulled out, and were lying, s
hrivelled anddead, on the polished surface of the sideboard.

  "Humph!" said Tarling. "I don't like this very much."

  He turned and walked back into the hall and opened another door, whichstood ajar. Again he turned on the light. He was in the girl's bedroom.He stopped dead, and slowly examined the room. But for the disorderedappearance of the chest of drawers, there was nothing unusual in theappearance of the room. At the open doors of the bureau a little heap offemale attire had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor. All these wereeloquent of hasty action. Still more was a small suit-case, half packed,an the bed, also left in a great hurry.

  Tarling stepped into the room, and if he had been half blind he could nothave missed the last and most damning evidence of all. The carpet was ofa biscuit colour and covered the room flush to the wainscot. Opposite thefireplace was a big, dark red, irregular stain.

  Tarling's face grew tense.

  "This is where Lyne was shot," he said.

  "And look there!" said Whiteside excitedly, pointing to the chest ofdrawers.

  Tarling stepped quickly across the room and pulled out a garmentwhich hung over the edge of the drawer. It was a night-dress--a silknight-dress with two little sprays of forget-me-nots embroideredon the sleeves. It was the companion to that which had been found aboutLyne's body. And there was something more. The removal of the garmentfrom the drawer disclosed a mark on the white enamel of the bureau. Itwas a bloody thumb print!

  The detective looked round at his assistant, and the expression of hisface was set in its hardest mask.

  "Whiteside," he said quietly, "swear out a warrant for the arrest ofOdette Rider on a charge of wilful murder. Telegraph all stations todetain this girl, and let me know the result."

  Without another word he turned from the room and walked back to hislodgings.