Elk 04 White Face Page 8

  “We’ve found nothing and nobody,” said the senior. “We searched the yard, but there wasn’t a sign of a man, though there were plenty of places where he could have hidden.”

  “And the wicket gate?”

  “That was ajar,” replied the detective. “Albert, the night watchman, swore that it hadn’t been opened. It’s against the rules to open the wicket gate unless there’s a fire.”

  “Maybe there was a fire,” suggested Mason. “It’s a good night for a fire. All right, you can come along with me.”

  They had only a few yards to go before they came to the place where the pavement, the private yard road and the railway arch formed a triangle.

  “This is where the body was found.” suggested Michael, and Mason indicated the spot.

  He was still whistling when he walked to the green-painted wicket door and pushed. It was locked now. If he’d only thought of trying that door—but if there had been a man behind it he would have had the sense to have shot in the bolts. He must have been hiding in there when Elk was searching the yard for the pocket case and watch. But if Mrs. Albert had talked—

  He confided his woes to Michael, a safe and sure recipient, for Michael Quigley knew just what not to print.

  “You get that sort of thing in all these cases,” said Michael philosophically. “And you expect it, anyway. Nobody tells the truth, because there’s some twiddling little thing to hide that may bring discredit upon them. Personally, I can’t understand their mentality.”

  His eyes roved over the pavement.

  “You searched the gutter, I suppose? There’s a distinct slope to this sidewalk.”

  Mason looked inquiringly at one of the detectives, but nobody could tell him anything except that the traps where storm water runs had been emptied and the mud at the bottom carefully searched, without anything of value being found.

  Michael straddled the gutter, and, pulling up his sleeve, ran his fingers through the slowly moving water, groping…

  “First shot!” he cried exultantly. “What’s this?”

  Mason took it in his hand. It looked like a button or a tiny brown electric light bulb. One of the detectives put his light upon the find as it lay in Mason’s hand.

  “It looks to me like a capsule,” said Michael, turning it over curiously.

  It was indeed a tiny capsule of thin glass, containing something the colour of which was indistinguishable.

  “I seem to know the shape, too. Now where the devil have I seen those before?”

  “It can go to the police analyst, anyway,” said Mason, and put it carefully in his pocket. “Mike, you’re lucky: try again.”

  Michael’s wet hand went through the water, but he could find nothing. And then he saw what hundreds of pairs of eyes, focused on that strip of pavement, had not seen. It lay poised upon the sharp edge of the kerb, as if it had been carefully placed there, though it must have rolled and fallen into its position through no other agent than the force of gravity. The long stone hung over the kerb: the platinum circle was so dulled with rain that it was indistinguishable from the granite on which it rested.

  He picked it up, his heart thumping painfully.

  “What is this?”

  Mason took it from his unwilling hand.

  “A ring! To think those poor, blind bats—a ruby ring! I suppose the ruby’s an imitation, but it looks ruby.”

  Michael Quigley said nothing. The men were swaying blurs of shadow; he found a difficulty in breathing. Something in his attitude must have attracted Mason’s attention, for he looked at him sharply.

  “What’s the matter with you? God Almighty, you look like a dead man! It was stooping down that did it—the blood rushing to your head, eh?”

  Michael knew Mason well enough to realise that Superintendent Mason was advancing an excuse for the benefit of the other detectives, and this was confirmed when he sent them left and right groping vainly through the gutters for some new clue. Then it was, he took Michael’s arm.

  “Son,” he said kindly, “You’ve seen that ring before, haven’t you?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “What’s the use of telling me a lie?” Mason’s voice was reproachful and hurt.

  “I don’t remember seeing it before,” said Michael harshly. It did not sound like his voice speaking.

  “Hiding up?” said Mason gently. “What’s the use? Somebody’s bound to come along and blow it all. You were saying only a minute ago how silly it was to keep things from the police—twiddling little things that don’t count. And you couldn’t understand their mentality. Are you understanding their mentality any better?”

  “I’ve never seen that ring before.”

  It required a mighty effort on his part for Michael to make this statement. Mr. Mason was by nature a sceptic and not easily convinced.

  “You’ve seen it before and you know whom it belongs to. Listen, Michael! I’m not going to be sympathetic with you and I’m not going to try any of the monkey tricks that I use with half-witted criminals. You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble and somebody else more, if you take me into your confidence. It doesn’t mean that the person who owns that ring is going to be pinched, or that they’re booked for pads of publicity—you know me too well for that. Hiding up, as you say, is one of the curses of the business.”

  Michael had recovered himself by now.

  “You’ll be pinching me for the murder in a minute,” he said lightly. “No, I don’t know that stone at all. I was a little dizzy from trying to do stunts in the gutter with my head between my legs. Try it yourself and see what effect it has on you.”

  Mason looked at him for a long time, then at the ring.

  “A lady’s ring, I should say.” He tried it on his little finger. “And a little finger ring. It doesn’t go any farther than the top of mine. That will mean publicity,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to say anything against you newspaper men, Michael, but you certainly spread yourselves on a mysterious clue like this, and I shouldn’t be surprised to find a portrait of the young lady—”

  He stopped suddenly.

  “Not Miss Harman?”

  “No,” said Michael loudly.

  “Liar,” retorted Mr. Mason. “It’s Miss Harman’s ring! And you knew it the moment you saw it!”

  He looked at the jewel for a while, then put it into his pocket.

  “This man who was murdered was a South African?” asked Mike.

  Mason nodded.

  “Had he come recently from South Africa?”

  “We don’t know, but we guess within the last week or two.”

  “What is his name?”

  “We don’t even know that, except that it’s Donald.”

  His jaw dropped; his large protruding eyes opened to their widest extent.

  “Whom is Miss Harman going to marry?” he asked.

  “An Irishman named Feeney,” said Michael mendaciously. “No, as a matter of fact, Mason, she’s marrying me. But I’ve had a little tiff with her. Can I see the body?”

  “Let’s go together and make an evening of it,” said Mason, and linked arms with him.

  Their gruesome errand lasted only a few minutes and left Michael more puzzled than ever. Puzzled and terribly distressed. There was no question at all that the man who had dropped that ring, whether it was the dead man or the murderer, was the romantic lover. He must find out the truth at all costs.

  He left Mason at the police station and ran out, almost knocking down a girl who was hesitating at the foot of the station steps.

  “Michael…Michael!” she gasped, and clutched him by the arm. “They told me you were here. I had to see you…Oh, Michael, I’ve been a fool and I do want help terribly badly!”

  He looked at her with momentary suspicion.

  “How long have you been here, Janice?” he asked.

  “I’ve just arrived. There’s my car.” She pointed to its dim lights. The shoulders of her skin coat were wet with rain. “Could we go anyw
here? I want to speak to you. There’s been a murder, hasn’t there?”

  He nodded.

  “How dreadful! But I’m glad I knew where I could find you. There always seem to be murders here,” she shuddered. “And I’ve been murdered, too, Michael. All my vanity, all my pride—if it’s true. And I feel that you are the only person that can bring them to life again. Where can we go?”

  He hesitated. He had supplied the needs of the last edition; there was nothing more for him to write tonight, though his work was by no means done. He went back to the car. She was in so pitiable a condition that he took the wheel from her hand and drove her to Bury Street. He had never been in her flat before, so that he was a stranger to the maid who opened the door.

  Janice led the way to the pretty little drawing-room and closed the door.

  “Take your coat off,” he commanded before she started speaking. “Your shoes and your stockings are all wet—go and change them.”

  She went meekly, and returned in a few minutes with a dressing-gown wrapped round her, and cowered down in a low arm-chair before an electric radiator.

  “Here’s the cablegram I had.”

  She handed him a folded paper without looking up.

  “Wait! Before you read it I want to tell you. He said he had a farm in Paarl and he was very anxious to buy an adjoining property…and I was buying it for him and cabled out to Van Zyl, that awfully nice boy I spoke to you about, and told him to buy it. That is his answer.”

  He opened the telegram. It was a long message.

  “The property you mention is not at Paarl but in Constantia adjoining the convict prison. It is not and never has been for sale. Donald Bateman, whom you mention as proprietor, is unknown as landowner either here or in Rhodesia. My friend Public Prosecutor is afraid man you mention is Donald Bateman, who served nine months imprisonment at Constantia for land frauds; tall, rather good-looking man, long scar under his chin, grey eyes. He left by “Balmoral Castle” five weeks ago en route England. His frauds take shape of persuading people advance money buy property and decamping with deposit. Please forgive if this little melodramatic. Always anxious to serve. Carl.”

  He folded the telegram aim looked at her oddly.

  And then he said in a strange voice:

  “The scar under the chin. It’s curious, that’s the first thing I noticed.”

  She turned and looked up at him, startled.

  “You haven’t seen him? You told me you hadn’t. When did you see him?”

  Michael licked his dry lips. Donald Bateman! So that was his name! He walked across to her and laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “My dear, how perfectly rotten for you!” he said huskily. “Isn’t it?”

  “Do you think that is true? That he is—what Carl says he is?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You gave him the ring, didn’t you?”

  She made an impatient little gesture.

  “That was nothing; it had no value except a sentimental one—which made it rather appropriate,” she added bitterly.

  There was something he had to ask, something so difficult that he could hardly frame the words.

  “There are no complications, are there?”

  She looked up at him wonderingly.

  “Complications? What do you mean, Michael?”

  She saw that he avoided her gaze.

  “Well, I mean, you aren’t married already secretly married, you know? It can be done three days.”

  She shook her head.

  “Why should I? Of course not.”

  He fetched a long sigh of relief.

  “Thank the Lord for that!” he said. “Are you fond of him? Not too fond, are you, Janice?”

  “No. I’ve been a mad schoolgirl, haven’t I? I’ve been realising it all the evening, that I didn’t—love him. I wonder if you’ll believe it…I haven’t even kissed him-ugh!”

  He patted her shoulder gently.

  “Naturally my pride is hurt, but I haven’t crashed so utterly as I should if I—well, if this thing had gone on before I found it out. You’ll never laugh at me, will you, Michael?”

  She put up her hand and laid it on that which rested on her shoulder.

  “No, I shan’t laugh at you.”

  She sat gazing into the glowing electric fire, and then:

  “Why did you ask about the ring?”

  He made the plunge.

  “Because I’ve been lying about it to Mason—Superintendent Mason of Scotland Yard.”

  She was up on her feet instantly, here eyes wide with alarm.

  “Scotland Yard! Have they got the ring? Have they arrested him? Michael, what is it?” She gripped his arm. “You’re hiding something—what is it?”

  “I’ve been hiding something—yes. I’ve been hiding from Mason the fact that the ring was yours. It was in Endley Street. I picked it up myself, near the place where the body of a murdered man was found.”

  “A murdered man was found in Endley Street.” She repeated the words slowly. “That was the case you were on…Who was it? Not Donald Bateman?”

  He nodded.

  “O God, how awful!”

  He thought she was going to faint, but when he reached out to catch her she pushed him back.

  “He was stabbed by some person unknown,” said Michael. “I—I’ve seen him. That’s how I knew about the scar.”

  She was very still and white but she showed no other signs of distress.

  “What was he doing there?” she asked. “He didn’t know the neighbourhood; he told me to-day he’d never been there before in his life. Nobody knows who did it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nobody. When I saw the ring I recognised it at once. Like a fool I gave myself away, and Mason, who’s as sharp as a packet of needles, knew I was lying when I told him I had never seen it before. He may advertise the ring tomorrow unless I tell him.”

  “Then tell him,” she said instantly. “Dead! It’s unbelievable!”

  She sat down in the chair again, her face in her hands. He thought she was on the verge of a breakdown, but when she raised her face to him her eyes were tearless.

  “You had better go back, my dear. I shan’t do anything stupid—but I’m afraid I shan’t sleep. Will you come early in the morning and let me know what has been discovered? I intended going to see Dr. Marford tomorrow to ask him to let me come back to the clinic, but I don’t think I can for a day or two.”

  “I don’t want to leave you like this,” he said, but she smiled faintly.

  “You’re talking as if I were a mid-Victorian heroine,” she said. “No, my dear, you go. I’d like to be alone for a little while.”

  And then, to his great embarrassment, she raised his hand and kissed it.

  “I’m being motherly,” she said.

  If there were no tears in her eyes, pain was there. He thought it wise of him to leave at once, and he went back to Tidal Basin to find the streets alive with police, for two important things had happened; two new phases of the drama had been enacted in his absence.

  CHAPTER X

  A framed photograph is not a difficult object to find, and black boxes in which ladies keep their treasures deposited beneath their beds are far from becoming rarities. Mason would have liked to have Elk with him, but the sergeant had gone on to join Bray. A watch was being kept on the block in which Louis Landor’s apartments were situated. Bray had telephoned through that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Landor was yet at home. Evidently something was wrong here, for the servant, who had returned and was awaiting admission, told Bray that she had been sent out earlier in the day, that there had been some sort of trouble between a couple that were hitherto happily married. She had been told she need not return until late. Bray had found her waiting disconsolately outside the flat, and had persuaded her to spend the night with a sister who lived in the neighbourhood. “One thing she told me,” said Bray over the wire; “the flat is packed with South African curios. If this girl’s story is true, there
are two knives similar to the one with which the murder was committed—they hang on a belt in the hall. She described the sheath exactly, and said they both had the initials of Landor, and that he got them as prizes in South America, where he lived for some years.”

  “Hang on,” were Mason’s instructions. “Elk’s gone up to join you. Report to me here or at Scotland Yard. I am making a search on my own.”

  He had on his desk the contents of Mrs. Weston’s bag, including the worn hypodermic case that Dr. Marford had produced. The case puzzled him, because it was old and the little syringe had evidently been used many times. And yet Marford had given it as his opinion that the woman was not an addict and that it was only the second time that the needle had been used.

  There were a few letters, a bill or two from a West End milliner. Evidently Lorna Weston, in spite of the poverty-stricken neighbourhood in which she lived, spared no expense in the adornment of her person. He found two five-pound notes, half a dozen Treasury bills, a little silver and a bunch of keys, and it was with these keys that, in company with Sergeant Shale, he made his way to the mystery woman’s apartments.

  What Mrs. Albert had described as “the grand part of Tidal Basin,” consisted of two or three streets of well-built villas. There were several shops here, and it was over one of these, a large grocery store, that Mrs. Weston had her apartments, which were approached by a side door and a short passage. From this ran a flight of rather steep steps to a landing above.

  The place was fitted with electric light and had, he saw, a telephone of its own. He climbed the stairs and was staggered to find that the landing had been painted and decorated in the West End style. Parchment-covered walls, white metal wall-brackets and soft-shaded lamps gave the approach to the apartment the appearance of luxury.

  The front room was the parlour, and was tastefully furnished, and this was the case with the other rooms, including an expensively fitted kitchenette.

  Mr. Mason was essentially a man of the world. He knew that this style of living was consistent with the earnings of no profession, reputable or otherwise. Either Mrs. Weston had a private income of her own or else—

  He remembered that the woman at the police station had spoken of her coming into a lot of money. That might be an explanation. But why did she choose this ghastly neighbourhood in which to live?