Books: Number Seventeen
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Louis Tracy >> Number Seventeen
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"Ring me up when the detectives have gone. I shall esteem your
assistance during this crisis as a real service."
For the life of him, Theydon could not frame the protest which ought
to have been made without delay and without hesitation.
"Yes," he said. "I'll do that. You can trust me absolutely."
Thus was he committed to secrecy. That promise sealed his lips.
CHAPTER III
IN THE TOILS
Theydon, though blessed, or cursed, with an active imagination-- which
must surely be the prime equipment of a novelist-- was shrewd and
level-headed in dealing with everyday affairs.
It was no small achievement that the son of a country rector, aided
only by a stout heart, a university education and an excellent
physique-- good recommendations, each and all, but forming the
stock-in-trade of many a man on whose subsequent career "failure" is
writ large-- should have forced himself to the front rank of the most
overcrowded among the professions before attaining his twenty-sixth
year.
It may be taken for granted, therefore, that he was not lacking in the
qualities of close observation and critical analysis. He would, for
instance, be readier than the majority of his fellows to note the
small beginnings of events destined to become important.
Often, of course, his deductions would prove erroneous, but the mere
fact that he habitually exercised his wits in such a way rendered it
equally certain that his judgment would be accurate sometimes. One
such occasion presented itself a few seconds after he had left the
Forbes mansion.
A taxi, summoned by a footman, was in waiting, and Theydon was
crossing the pavement when he noticed a gray landaulet car at rest
beneath the trees at some distance. Mr. Forbes's house stood in a
square, and the gray car had been drawn up on the quiet side of the
roadway, being stationed there, apparently, to await its owner's
behest. Gray cars are common enough in London, but they are usually of
the touring class.
Not often does one see a gray-painted landaulet; hence, the odd though
hardly remarkable fact occurred to Theydon that a precisely similar
gray automobile had occupied the center of the station yard at
Waterloo when he took a taxi from the rank.
Admittedly he was in a nervous and excited state. It could hardly be
otherwise after the strain of that astounding conversation with
Forbes, and there was no prospect of the tension being relaxed until
the close of the interview with the detectives, which he now regarded
as the worse ordeal of the two.
But this subconscious neurasthenia in no wise affected the reflex
action of his ordinary faculties. When, on leaving the square, and
while his cab was rattling along an aristocratic thoroughfare leading
to Knightsbridge, he peered through a tiny observation window in the
back of the vehicle, and ascertained that the gray car was stealing
along quietly about a hundred yards in the rear, he began to believe
that its presence both at Waterloo and outside Mr. Forbes's residence
could not be wholly accidental. When he had watched its persistent
treading on his heels along Piccadilly its intent became almost
unmistakable.
The route to Innesmore Mansions traversed some of London's main
arteries, but, despite the rush of traffic due to the first flight of
homewardbound playgoers, the gray car kept steadily on his track.
Amused at first, be became angry because of a notion which grew out of
the wonderment of finding himself the object of this persistent
espionage.
To make sure, and at the same time discover the sort of person who was
spying on him, he adopted a ruse. Leaning out, when about to cross
Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road, he said to his driver: "Turn
sharp to the right in Store Street, and pull up. I'll tell you when to
go on again."
The man obeyed. Theydon posted himself at the outer window, and in a
space of time so short that the excellence of the gray car's
accelerator was amply demonstrated, the pursuer swung into sight. A
stolid-faced chauffeur at the wheel did not appear discomfited at
coming on his quarry thus unexpectedly. He whirled past, seemingly
quite oblivious of Theydon's fixed stare. Though the weather was mild
he wore an overcoat with upturned collar, so that between its
protecting flaps and a low-peaked cap his face was well hidden. Still,
Theydon received an impression of a curiously wooden physiognomy.
The man might have been an automaton for all the heed he gave to the
taxi or its inquisitive occupant. But his aspect was almost forgotten
in the far stranger discovery that the car was empty. Both windows
were open, and the bright lights of a corner shop flashed into the
interior, yet not a soul was visible. Moreover, the car sped on
unhesitatingly, stopping some two hundred yards ahead.
So far as Theydon could tell, no one alighted. He jotted down the
number-- XY 1314-- on his shirt cuff.
"Did you happen to see that car waiting near the house I came from?"
he said to the taxi man, who, of course, provided an interested
audience of one.
"Yes, sir," was the ready answer. "It's not a London car. I've never
seen them letters afore."
"In other words, it may be a faked number."
"Likely enough, sir, but rather risky. The police are quick at
spotting that sort of thing."
"Can you take a hand in the game? I want to know where that car goes
to."
The man grinned.
"I wouldn't like to humbug you, sir. That there machine can lose me
quicker'n a Derby winner could pass a keb horse. Didn't you hear the
hum of the engine as it went by?"
"Thanks. Now go ahead to Innesmore Mansions."
He was paying the driver when the gray car stole quietly past the end
of the street, and that was the last he saw of it.
"There it goes again, sir," said the man. "Tell you wot, gimme your
name an' address. I'll make a few inquiries, an' keep me eyes open as
well. Then, if I hear anythink, I'll let you know."
Theydon scribbled the number of his flat on a card.
"There you are," he said. "Even if I happen to be out, I'll leave
instructions that you are to be paid half a crown for your trouble if
you call. By the way, what is your name?"
"Evans, sir."
There was really little doubt in Theydon's mind as to the reason why
he had been followed. He was fuming about it when Bates met him in the
hall of No. 18 with the whisper:
"Them two are waiting here now, sir."
Theydon glanced at his watch. The hour was ten minutes past eleven.
"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen," he said, on entering the sitting room and
finding the detectives seated at his table, seemingly comparing notes,
because the Chief Inspector was talking, while Furneaux, the
diminutive, was glancing at a notebook.
"We have no reason to complain of being kept waiting a few minutes in
such comfortable quarters," said Winter pleasantly.
"O, I fancy I was detained by some zealous assistant of yours," said
Theydon, determined to carry the war into the enemy's territory.
At that Furneaux looked up quickly.
"Will you kindly tell me just what you mean, Mr. Theydon?" said
Winter.
"Why? Is it news to you that a gray limousine car stalked me from
Waterloo to-- to my friend's house, waited there three hours or more,
and has carefully escorted me home? I dislike that sort of thing.
Moreover, it strikes me as stupid. I didn't kill Mrs. Lester. It will
save you and me a good deal of time and worry if you accept that plain
statement as a fact."
"Won't you sit down?" said Winter quietly. "And-- may I smoke? I
didn't like to ask Bates for permission to light up in your absence."
Theydon was not to be outdone in coolness. He opened a corner cupboard
and produced various boxes.
"The cigars are genuine Havanas," he said. "A birthday present from a
maiden aunt, who is wise enough to judge the quality of tobacco by the
price. Here, too, are Virginian, Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes."
Winter inspected the cigars gravely.
"By Jove!" he cried, his big eyes bulging in joyous surprise. "Last
year's crop from the Don Juan y Guerrero plantation. Treasure that
aunt of yours, Mr. Theydon. None but herself can be her equal."
Theydon saw that the little man did not follow his chief's example.
"Don't you smoke?" he said.
"No, but if you'll not be horrified, I would like to smell one of
those Turks."
"Smell it?"
"Yes. That is the only way to enjoy the aroma and avoid nicotine
poisoning. My worthy chief dulls a sound intellect by the cigar habit.
What is worse, he excites a nervous system which is normally somewhat
bovine. You, also, I take it, are a confirmed smoker, so both of you
are at cross-purposes already."
Furneaux's voice was pitched in the curious piping note usually
associated with comic relief in a melodrama, but his wizened face was
solemn as a red Indian's. It was Theydon who smiled. His preconceived
ideas as to the appearance and demeanor of the London detective were
shattered. Really, there was no need to take these two seriously.
Winter, while lighting the cigar, grinned amiably at his colleague.
Furneaux passed a cigarette to and fro under his nostrils and sniffed.
Theydon reached for a pipe and tobacco jar and drew up a chair.
"Well," he said, "it is not my business to criticise your methods. I
have very little to tell you. I suppose Bates--"
"The really important thing is this car which followed you tonight,"
broke in Winter. "The details are fresh in your memory. What type of
car was it? Did you see the driver and occupants? What's its number?"
Theydon had not expected these questions. He looked his astonishment.
"Ha!" cackled Furneaux. "What did I tell you?"
"O, shut up!" growled Winter. "I am asking just what you yourself are
itching to know."
"May I take it that the car has not been dogging me by your
instructions?" said Theydon. He was inclined to be skeptical, yet the
Chief Inspector seemed to have spoken quite candidly.
"Yes," said Winter, meeting the other's glance squarely. "We have no
reason on earth to doubt the truth of anything you have said, or may
say, with regard to this inquiry. The car is not ours. This is the
first we have heard of it. We accepted your word, Mr. Theydon, that
you were dining with a friend. Perhaps you will tell us now what his
name is and where he lives."
Theydon hesitated the fraction of a second. That, he knew instantly,
was a blunder, so he proceeded to rectify it.
"I was dining with Mr. James Creighton Forbes, of No. 11, Fortescue
Square," be said. "Probably you are acquainted with his name, so you
will realize that if my evidence proves of the slightest value I would
not like any reference to be made to the fact that I was his guest
tonight."
"I don't see how that can possibly enter into the matter, except in
its bearing on this mysterious car."
Though Winter was taking the lead, Theydon was aware that Furneaux,
who had given him scant attention hitherto, was now looking at him
fixedly. He imagined that the queer little man was all agog to learn
something about the automobile which had thrust itself so abruptly
into the affair.
"Exactly," he agreed. "I visited Mr. Forbes tonight for the first
time. We are mutually interested in aviation. That is why I went to
Brooklands today, and the invitation to dinner was the outcome of a
letter of introduction given me by Professor Scarth."
Then, thinking he had said enough on that point, he described the gray
car and its stolid-faced chauffeur to the best of his ability. He told
of the brief chat with the taxi driver and its result.
"Good!" nodded Winter. "I'm glad you did that. It may help. I am
doubtful of any information turning up, but you never can tell. The
number plate, at any rate, is certainly misleading. Now, about last
night? Try and be as accurate as possible with regard to time. Can you
give us the exact hour when you returned home?"
"I happened to note by the clock on the mantelpiece that I came in at
11:35."
Winter compared the clock's time with his watch.
"You had been to a theater?" he said.
"Yes-- Daly's."
"It was raining heavily. Did you take a cab?"
"Yes."
"Were you delayed? The piece ended at 11:05."
"My cab met with a slight accident."
"What sort of accident?"
Theydon explained.
"In all likelihood you can discover the driver," he smiled, "and he
will establish my alibi."
His tone seemed to annoy Furneaux, who broke in:
"Don't you write novels?"
"Yes."
"Sensational?"
"Occasionally."
"Then you ought to be tickled to death, as the Americans say, at being
mixed up in a first-rate murder. This is no ordinary crime. Several
people will be older and wiser before the culprit is found and
hanged."
"What Mr. Furneaux has in mind," purred Winter cheerfully, "is the
curious habit of some witnesses when questioned by the police. They
arm themselves against attack, as it were. You see, Mr. Theydon, we
suspect nobody. We try to ascertain facts, and hope to deduce a theory
from them. Over and over again we are mistaken. We are no more astute
than other men. Our sole advantage is a wide experience of criminal
methods. The detective of romance-- if you'll forgive the allusion--
simply doesn't exist in real life."
"I accept the rebuke," said Theydon. "I suppose the gray car was still
rankling in my mind. From this moment I start afresh. At any rate, the
man who brought me from the theater might check my recollection of the
time."
Winter nodded. He was evidently pleased that Theydon was inclined to
share his view of the difficulties Scotland Yard encountered in its
fight against malefactors.
"Did you see or meet any one in particular while your car approached
these mansions, or when you ascended the stairs?"
"No," said Theydon.
He perceived intuitively that if the detectives found the driver of
the taxi which brought him from the theater it was possible the man
might have noticed Forbes, who had certainly been scrutinized a few
minutes later by a policeman, so he hastened to add:
"You said 'any one in particular.' I did see a tall, well-dressed
gentleman at the corner of the street, but there is nothing remarkable
in that."
"Which way was he heading?"
"In this direction."
"Then it is conceivable that he might be the man who called on Mrs.
Lester?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you pretty sure he was the man?"
Theydon permitted himself to look astonished.
"I?" he said. "How can I be sure? If you mean that, judging from the
interval of time between my seeing him at the corner and the sound of
footsteps on the stairs, followed by the opening of the door at No.
17, it could be he, I accept that."
Winter nodded again. Apparently he was content with Theydon's
correction.
"As the weather was bad, you probably hurried in when your cab
stopped?" he said.
"That is equivalent to saying you credit me with sense enough to get
in out of the wet," smiled Theydon.
"Just so. And you wore an overcoat, which you removed on entering your
hall?"
"Yes," and Theydon's tone showed a certain bewilderment at these
trivialities.
"Then if you paid no special heed to the movements of the tall
gentleman you have mentioned, why did you open one of these windows
and look out soon after Bates went to the post?"
Theydon flushed like a schoolboy caught by a master under
circumstances which youth generally describes as "a clean cop."
"How on earth do you know I looked out?" he almost gasped.
"I'll tell you willingly. The discovery was Mr. Furneaux's, not mine.
When we came here this morning, and ascertained that you had been out
at a late hour last night, we asked your man if he could enlighten us
as to your movements. He did so. To the best of his belief you dined
at a club, and occupied a stall at Daly's Theater subsequently. He was
sure, too, you had not walked home through the rain, so it was easy to
draw the conclusion that you returned in a covered vehicle. Mr.
Furneaux requested Bates to produce the clothes you had worn, which,
owing to the uproar created by the news of the murder, had not been
brushed and put away. As a consequence the silk collar and part of the
back of your dress-coat bore the marks of raindrops. How had they got
there? The only logical deduction was that you had thrust your head
and shoulders through a window, and the time of the action is
established almost beyond doubt, because you had changed the coat when
Bates came from the pillar-box. It was either directly after you came
in, or while Bates was absent. Of course you may have looked out
twice. Did you? Whether once or twice, why did you do it?"
Theydon's feelings changed rapidly while Winter was delivering this
very convincing analysis of a few simple facts. He had passed at a
bound from the detected schoolboy stage to that of a man forcing his
way through a thicket who finds himself on the very lip of a
precipice.
He remembered hazily that Bates had said something at Waterloo with
regard to the manner in which the detectives, especially Furneaux, had
questioned him. But it was too late to apply the warning thus
conveyed. If he faltered now he was forever discredited. These men
would read his perplexed face as if it were a printed page. In his
distress be was prepared to hear Winter or that little satyr,
Furneaux, say mockingly:
"Why are you trying to screen James Creighton Forbes? What is he to
you? What matter his fame or social rank? We are here to see that
justice is done. Out with the truth, let who may suffer."
But neither of the pair said anything of the sort. Furneaux only
interjected a sarcastic comment.
"You will observe, Mr. Theydon, that even in a minor instance of
deductive reasoning, such as this, the man who smells rather than the
man who smokes tobacco solves the problem promptly."
Theydon threw out his hands in token of surrender. He thought he saw a
means of escape, and took it unhesitatingly.
"I'm vanquished," he said. "You force me to admit that I do know a
little, a very little, more than I have confessed hitherto about the
man who visited Mrs. Lester's flat last night. I have said nothing
about the matter thus far because I didn't want to be convicted of a
piece of idle curiosity worthy of a gossip-loving housemaid. I noticed
the man I have described staring at the name tablet of the street as
my cab turned the corner. I did not know him. I had never seen him
before last night, but he was of such distinguished appearance and his
face was of so rare a type that I was interested and wished to
ascertain, if possible, on whom he meant calling if, as it seemed, he
was searching for an address in these flats. Therefore, I did look
out, and saw him enter the doorway beneath. In due course I heard him
arrive at Mrs. Lester's door-- that is, I assume it was he. Five
minutes later Bates and I heard him depart. To make sure, I looked out
a second time. If you ask me why I behaved in that way I cannot tell
you. I have occupied this flat during the past five months, and I have
never previously, within my recollection, lifted a window and gazed
out to watch anybody's comings and goings. The thing is inexplicable.
All I can say is that it just happened."
"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"
"Yes."
Theydon gave the assurance readily. It was beyond credence that either
detective should put the one question to which he was now firmly
resolved to give a misleading answer, and in this belief he was
justified, since not even Furneaux's uncanny intelligence could
suggest the fantastic notion that the man who walked through the rain
the previous night and the man with whom Theydon had dined that
evening were one and the same person.
"I don't blame you for adopting a policy of partial concealment," said
the Chief Inspector, spryly. "You are not the first, and you certainly
will not be the last witness from whom the police have to drag the
facts. Now that we have reached more intimate terms, can you help by
describing this stranger?"
Theydon complied at once. He drew just such a general sketch of Forbes
as a skilled observer of men might be expected to formulate after one
direct glance close at hand, supplemented by a view into a lamp-lit
street from a second-storey window on a rainy night.
"So far, so good," said Winter. "You have contrived to fill in several
details lacking in the description supplied by a policeman who chanced
to be standing at the corner when Mrs. Lester's visitor posted a
letter. Did you notice that?"
"Yes. Indeed, I believed that, whether intentionally or not, he held
an open umbrella at an angle which prevented the constable from seeing
his face."
"In fact, it's marvellous what you really do know when your memory is
jogged," snapped Furneaux.
Theydon did not resent the sarcasm. He smiled candidly into the little
detective's eyes.
"I suppose I deserve that," he said meekly.
"Why did you hide your knowledge of Mrs. Lester's visitor from your
man Bates?"
"I was rather ashamed of the subterfuge adopted in order to get him
out of the room while I opened the window the first time."
"That was understandable last night, but I fail to follow your
reasoning for a policy of silence when we told you at Waterloo that
Mrs. Lester had been killed."
"I was utterly taken aback by your news. I wanted time to think. I
never meant to hide any material fact at this interview."
"You have contrived to delay and hamper our inquiry for twelve hours--
twenty-four in reality. I can't make you out, Mr. Theydon. You would
never have said a word about your very accurate acquaintance with this
mysterious stranger's appearance had not last night's rainstorm left
its legible record on your clothes. Do you now vouch for it that the
man was completely unknown to you?"
"You are pleased to be severe, Mr. Furneaux, but, having placed myself
in a false position, I must accept your strictures. I assure you, on
my honor, that the man I saw was an absolute stranger."
Happily, Theydon was under no compulsion to choose his words. He met
the detective's searching gaze unflinchingly. Fate, after terrifying
him, had been kind. If Furneaux had expressed himself differently--
if, for instance, he had said: "Had you ever before seen the man?" or
"Have you now any reason for believing that you know his name?"-- he
would have forced Theydon's hand in a way he was far from suspecting.
"It may surprise you to hear," piped the shrill, cracked voice, "that
there are dozens of policemen walking about London who would arrest
you on suspicion had you treated them as you have treated us."
"Then I can only say that I am fortunate in my inquisitors," smiled
Theydon.
Winter held up a massive fist in deprecation of these acerbities.
"You have nothing more to tell us?" he queried.
"Nothing!"
"Then we need not trouble you further tonight. Of course, if luck
favors us and we find the gentleman with the classical features-- the
most unlikely person to commit a murder I have ever heard of-- we
shall want you to identify him."
"I am at your service at any time. But before you go won't you
enlighten me somewhat? What did really happen? I have not even seen a
newspaper account of the crime."
"Would you care to examine No. 17?"
It was Furneaux who put the question, and Theydon was genuinely
astonished.
"Do you mean--" he began, but Furneaux laughed, almost savagely.
"I mean Mrs. Lester's flat," he said. "The poor woman's body is at the
mortuary. If you come with us we can reconstruct the crime. It
occurred about this very hour if the doctor's calculations are well
founded."
Theydon rose.
"I shall be most-- interested," he said. "By the way, Mr. Furneaux,
yours is a French name. Are you a Frenchman, may I ask?"
"A Jersey man. You think I am adopting some of the methods of the
French juge d'instruction, eh?"
"No. I cannot bring myself to believe that you regard me as a
murderer."
The three passed out into the hall. Mr. and Mrs. Bates immediately
showed scared faces at the kitchen door.
"It's all right, Bates," said Theydon airily. "I'm not a prisoner.
I'll be with you again in a few minutes."
But Bates was profoundly disturbed.
"Wot beats me," he said to his wife when they were alone, "is why that
little ferret wanted to see the guv'nor's clothes. I looked 'em over
carefully afterwards, an' there wasn't a speck on 'em except some
spots of rain on the coat collar. It's a queer business, no matter how
you look at it. Mr. Theydon's manner was strange when he kem in last
night. He seemed to be list'nin' for something. I don't know wot to
make of it, Eliza. I reely don't."
In effect, since no man is a hero to his valet, what would Tomlinson,
butler at No. 11 Fortescue Square, have thought of his master if told
that Mrs. Lester's last known visitor was James Creighton Forbes?
CHAPTER IV
A TELEPHONIC TALK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
Theydon's journalistic experiences had been, for the most part, those
of the "special correspondent," or descriptive writer. He had never
entered one of those fetid slums of a great city in which, too often,
murder is done, never sickened with the physical nausea of death in
its most revolting aspect, when some unhappy wretch's foul body serves
only to further pollute air already vile.
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