He ran upstairs and made a quick but efficient search of the premises. But there was no one concealed anywhere.
Then he spoke to Ellen. After breaking the news to her, and waiting for her first lamentations and invocations to the Saints to have exhausted themselves, he asked a few questions.
"Had anyone come to the house that afternoon asking for Miss Glen? No one whatsoever. Had she herself been upstairs at all that evening? Yes, she'd gone up at six o'clock as usual to draw the curtains-or it might have been a few minutes after six. Anyway it was just before that wild fellow come breaking the knocker down. She'd run downstairs to answer the door. And him a black hearted murderer at the time."
Tommy let it go at that. But he still felt a curious pity for Reilly, an unwillingness to believe the worst of him. And yet there was no one else who could have murdered Gilda Glen. Mrs. Honeycott and Ellen had been the only two people in the house.
He heard voices in the hall, and went out to find Tuppence and the policeman from the beat outside. The latter had produced a notebook, and a rather blunt pencil which he licked surreptitiously. He went upstairs and surveyed the victim stolidly, merely remarking that if he was to touch anything the Inspector would give him beans. He listened to all Mrs. Honeycott's hysterical outbursts and confused explanations, and occasionally he wrote something down. His presence was calming and soothing.
Tommy finally got him alone for a minute or two on the steps outside, ere he departed to telephone headquarters.
"Look here," said Tommy. "You saw the deceased turning in at the gate, you say. Are you sure she was alone?"
"Oh, she was alone all right. Nobody with her."
"And between that time and when you met us, nobody came out of the gate?"
"Not a soul."
"You'd have seen them if they had?"
"In course I should. Nobody come out till that wild chap did."
The majesty of the law moved portentously down the steps and paused by the white gate post which bore the imprint of a hand in red.
"Kind of amateur he must have been," he said pityingly. "To leave a thing like that."
Then he swung out into the road.
It was the day after the crime. Tommy and Tuppence were still at the Grand Hotel, but Tommy had thought it prudent to discard his clerical disguise.
James Reilly had been apprehended, and was in custody. His solicitor, Mr. Marvell, had just finished a lengthy conversation with Tommy on the subject of the crime.
"I never would have believed it of James Reilly," he said simply. "He's always been a man of violent speech, but that's all."
Tommy nodded.
"If you disperse energy in speech, it doesn't leave you too much over for action. What I realise is that I shall be one of the principal witnesses against him. That conversation he had with me just before the crime was particularly damning. And in spite of everything, I like the man, and if there was anyone else to suspect, I should believe him to be innocent. What's his own story?"
The solicitor pursed up his lips.
"He declares that he found her lying there dead. But that's impossible, of course. He's using the first lie that comes into his head."
"Because, if he happened to be speaking the truth, it would mean that our garrulous Mrs. Honeycott committed the crime-and that is fantastic. Yes, he must have done it."
"The maid heard her cry out, remember."
"The maid-yes-"
Tommy was silent a moment. Then he said thoughtfully:
"What credulous creatures we are, really. We believe evidence as though it were gospel truth. And what is it ready? Only the impressions conveyed to the mind by the senses- and suppose they're the wrong impressions?"
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh! we all know that there are unreliable witnesses, witnesses who remember more and more as time goes on, with no real intention to deceive."
"I don't mean only that. I mean all of us-we say things that aren't really so, and never know that we've done so. For instance, both you and I, without doubt, have said some time or other 'There's the post,' when what we really meant was that we'd heard a double knock and the rattle of the letter box. Nine times out of ten we'd be right, and it would be the post, but just possibly the tenth time it might be only a little urchin playing a joke on us. See what I mean?"
"Ye-es," said Mr. Marvell slowly. "But I don't see what you're driving at?"
"Don't you? I'm not sure that I do myself. But I'm beginning to see. It's like the stick, Tuppence. You remember? One end of it pointed one way-but the other end always points the opposite way. It depends whether you get hold of it by the right end. Doors open-but they also shut. People go upstairs, but they also go downstairs. Boxes shut, but they also open."
"What do you mean?" demanded Tuppence.
"It's so ridiculously easy, really," said Tommy. "And yet it's only just come to me. How do you know when a person's come into the house? You hear the door open and bang to, and if you re expecting anyone to come in, you will be quite sure it is them. But it might just as easily be someone going out."
"But Miss Glen didn't go out?"
"No, I know she didn't. But someone else did-the murderer."
"But how did she get in, then?"
"She came in whilst Mrs. Honeycott was in the kitchen talking to Ellen. They didn't hear her. Mrs. Honeycott went back to the drawing-room, wondered if her sister had come in and began to put the clock right, and then, as she thought, she heard her come in and go upstairs."
"Well, what about that? The footsteps going upstairs?"
"That was Ellen, going up to draw the curtains. You remember, Mrs. Honeycott said her sister paused before going up. That pause was just the time needed for Ellen to come out from the kitchen into the hall. She just missed seeing the murderer."
"But Tommy," cried Tuppence. "The cry she gave?"
"That was James Reilly. Didn't you notice what a high pitched voice he has? In moments of great emotion, men often squeal just like a woman."
"But the murderer? We'd have seen him?"
"We did see him. We even stood talking to him. Do you remember the sudden way that policeman appeared? That was because he stepped out of the gate, just after the mist cleared from the road. It made us jump, don't you remember? After all, though we never think of them as that, policemen are men just like any other men. They love and they hate. They marry. . . .
"I think Gilda Glen met her husband suddenly just outside that gate, and took him in with her to thrash the matter out. He hadn't Reilly's relief of violent words, remember. He just saw red-and he had his truncheon handy. . . ."
13. THE CRACKLER
"Tuppence," said Tommy, "we shall have to move into a much larger office."
"Nonsense," said Tuppence, "You mustn't get swollen headed and think you are a millionaire just because you solved two or three twopenny halfpenny cases with the aid of the most amazing luck."
"What some call luck, others call skill."
"Of course if you really think you are Sherlock Holmes, Thorndyke, McCarty and the Brothers Okewood all rolled into one there is no more to be said. Personally I would much rather have luck on my side than all the skill in the world."
"Perhaps there is something in that," conceded Tommy. "All the same, Tuppence, we do need a larger office."
"Why?"
"The Classics," said Tommy. "We need several hundreds of yards of extra book shelf if Edgar Wallace is to be properly represented."
"We haven't had an Edgar Wallace case yet."
"I am afraid we never shall," said Tommy. "If you notice he never does give the amateur sleuth much of a chance. It is all stern Scotland Yard kind of stuff-the real thing and no base counterfeit."
Albert, the office boy, appeared at the door.
"Inspector Marriot to see you," he announced.
"The mystery man of Scotland Yard" murmured Tommy.
"The busiest of the Busies," said Tuppence. "Or is it 'Noses?' I a
lways get mixed between Busies and Noses."
The Inspector advanced upon them with a beaming smile of welcome.
"Well and how are things?" he asked breezily. "None the worse for our little adventure the other day?"
"Oh! rather not," said Tuppence. "Too, too marvellous, wasn't it?"
"Well, I don't know that I would describe it exactly that way myself," said Marriot cautiously.
"What has brought you here today, Marriott?" asked Tommy. "Not just solicitude for our nervous systems, is it?"
"No," said the Inspector. "It is work for the brilliant Mr. Blunt."
"Ha!" said Tommy. "Let me put my brilliant expression on."
"I have come to make you a proposition, Mr. Beresford. What would you say to rounding up a really big gang?"
"Is there such a thing?" asked Tommy.
"What do you mean, is there such a thing?"
"I always thought that gangs were confined to fiction-like master crooks, and super criminals."
“The master crook isn't very common," agreed the Inspector. "But Lord bless you, sir, there's any amount of gangs knocking about."
"I don't know that I should be at my best dealing with a gang," said Tommy. "The amateur crime, the crime of quiet family life-that is where I flatter myself that I shine. Drama of strong domestic interest. That's the thing-with Tuppence at hand to supply all those little feminine details which are so important, and so apt to be ignored by the denser male."
His eloquence was arrested abruptly, as Tuppence threw a cushion at him and requested him not to talk nonsense.
"Will have your little bit of fun, won't you, sir?" said Inspector Marriot, smiling paternally at them both. "If you'll not take offense at my saying so, it's a pleasure to see two your" people enjoying life as much as you two do."
"Do we enjoy life?" said Tuppence, opening her eyes very wide. "I suppose we do. I've never thought about it before."
"To return to that gang you were talking about," said Tommy. "In spite of my extensive private practice, Duchesses, millionaires, and all the best charwomen-I might perhaps condescend to look into the matter for you. I don't like to see Scotland Yard at fault. You'll have the Daily Mail after you before you know where you are."
"As I said before, you must have your bit of fun. Well, it's like this." Again he hitched his chair forward. "There's any amount of forged notes going about just now-hundreds of 'em! The amount of counterfeit Treasury notes in circulation would surprise you. Most artistic bit of work it is. Here's one of 'em."
He took a one pound note from his pocket and handed it to Tommy.
"Looks all right, doesn't it?"
Tommy examined the note with great interest.
"By Jove, I'd never spot there was anything wrong with that."
"No more would most people. Now here's a genuine one. I'll show you the differences-very slight they are, but you'll soon learn to tell them apart. Take this magnifying glass."
At the end of five minutes' coaching, both Tommy and Tuppence were fairly expert.
"What do you want us to do, Inspector Marriot?" asked Tuppence. "Just keep our eyes open for these things?"
"A great deal more than that, Mrs. Beresford. I'm pinning my faith on you to get to the bottom of the matter. You see we've discovered that the notes are being circulated from the West End. Somebody pretty high up in the social scale is doing the distributing. They're passing them the other side of the Channel as well. Now there's a certain person who is interesting us very much. A Major Laidlaw-perhaps you've heard the name?"
"I think I have," said Tommy. "Connected with racing, isn't that it?"
"Yes. Major Laidlaw is pretty well known in connection with the Turf. There's nothing actually against him, but there's a general impression that he's been a bit too smart over one or two rather shady transactions. Men in the know look queer when he's mentioned. Nobody knows much of his past or where he came from. He's got a very attractive French wife who's seen about everywhere with a train of admirers. They must spend a lot of money, the Laidlaws, and I'd like to know where it comes from."
"Possibly from the train of admirers," suggested Tommy.
"That's the general idea. But I'm not so sure. It may be coincidence, but a lot of notes have been forthcoming from a certain very smart little gambling club which is much frequented by the Laidlaws and their set. This racing, gambling set get rid of a lot of loose money in notes. There couldn't be a better way of getting it into circulation."
"And where do we come in?"
"This way. Young St. Vincent and his wife are friends of yours, I understand? They're in pretty thick with the Laidlaw set-though not as thick as they were. Through them it will be easy for you to get a footing in the same set in a way that none of our people could attempt. There's no likelihood of their spotting you. You'll have an ideal opportunity."
"What have we got to find out exactly?"
"Where they get the stuff from, if they are passing it."
"Quite so," said Tommy. "Major Laidlaw goes out with an empty suitcase. When he returns it is crammed to the bursting point with Treasury notes. How is it done? I sleuth him and find out. Is that the idea?"
"More or less. But don't neglect the lady, and her father, M. Heroulade. Remember the notes are being passed on both sides of the Channel."
"My dear Marriot," exclaimed Tommy reproachfully. "Blunt's Brilliant Detectives do not know the meaning of the word neglect."
The Inspector rose.
"Well, good luck to you," he said, and departed.
"Slush," said Tuppence enthusiastically.
"Eh?" said Tommy perplexed.
"Counterfeit money," explained Tuppence. "It is always called Slush. I know I'm right. Oh, Tommy, we have got an Edgar Wallace case. At last we are Busies."
"We are," said Tommy, "and we are out to get The Crackler and we will get him good."
"Did you say The Cackler or The Crackler?"
"The Crackler."
"Oh, what is a Crackler?"
"A new word that I have coined," said Tommy. "Descriptive of one who passes false notes into circulation. Bank notes crackle; therefore he is called a Crackler. Nothing could be more simple."
"That is rather a good idea," said Tuppence, "it makes it seem more real. I like the Rustler myself. Much more descriptive and sinister."
"No," said Tommy, "I said the Crackler first and I stick to it.”
"I shall enjoy this case," said Tuppence. "Lots of Night Clubs and cocktails in it. I shall buy some eyelash black to-morrow."
"Your eyelashes are black already," objected her husband.
"I could make them blacker," said Tuppence, "and cherry lip stick would be useful too. That ultra bright kind."
"Tuppence," said Tommy, "you're a real rake at heart. What a good thing it is that you are married to a sober steady middle aged man like myself."
"You wait," said Tuppence. "When you have been to the Python Club a bit you mayn't be so sober yourself."
Tommy produced from a cupboard various bottles, two glasses, and a cocktail shaker.
"Let's start now," he said. "We are after you, Crackler, and we mean to get you."
14. THE CRACKLER (continued)
Making the acquaintance of the Laidlaws proved an easy affair. Tommy and Tuppence, young, well dressed, eager for life and with apparently money to burn, were soon made free of that particular coterie in which the Laidlaws had their being.
Major Laidlaw was a tall fair man, typically English in appearance, with a hearty sportsmanlike manner, slightly belied by the hard lines round his eyes and the occasional quick sideways glance that assorted oddly with his supposed character.
He was a very dexterous card player, and Tommy noticed that when the stakes were high he seldom rose from the table a loser.
Marguerite Laidlaw was quite a different proposition. She was a charming creature, with the slenderness of a wood nymph and the face of a Greuze picture. Her dainty broken English was fascinating, and Tommy
felt that it was no wonder most men were her slaves. She seemed to take a great fancy to Tommy from the first, and playing his part, he allowed himself to be swept into her train.
"My Tommee," she would say. "But positively I cannot go without my Tommee. His 'air, eet ees the color of the sunset, ees eet not?"
Her father was a more sinister figure. Very correct, very upright, with his little black beard and his watchful eyes.
Tuppence was the first to report progress. She came to Tommy with ten one pound notes.
"Have a look at these. They're wrong 'uns, aren't they?"
Tommy examined them and confirmed.Tuppence's diagnosis.
"Where did you get them from?"
"That boy, Jimmy Faulkener. Marguerite Laidlaw gave them to him to put on a horse for her. I said I wanted small notes, and gave him a tenner in exchange."
"All new and crisp," said Tommy thoughtfully. "They can't have passed through many hands. I suppose young Faulkener is all right?"
"Jimmy? Oh! he's a dear. He and I are becoming great Friends."
"So I have noticed," said Tommy coldly. "Do you really think it is necessary?"
"Oh! it isn't business," said Tuppence cheerily. "It's pleasure. He's such a nice boy. I'm glad to get him out of that woman's clutches. You've no idea of the amount of money she's cost him."
"It looks to me as though he were getting rather a pash for you, Tuppence."
"I've thought the same myself sometimes. It's nice to know one's still young and attractive, isn't it?"
"Your moral tone, Tuppence, is deplorably low. You look at these things from the wrong point of view."
"I haven't enjoyed myself so much for years," declared Tuppence shamelessly. "And anyway, what about you? Do I ever see you nowadays? Aren't you always living in Marguerite Laidlaw's pocket?"
"Business," said Tommy crisply.
"But she is attractive, isn't she?"
"Not my type," said Tommy. "I don't admire her."
"Liar," laughed Tuppence. "But I always did think I'd rather marry a liar than a fool."
"I suppose," said Tommy, "that there's no absolute necessity for a husband to be either?"
But Tuppence merely threw him a pitying glance and withdrew.