CHAPTER VIII
AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM
"Have a cigarette," said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn, alamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed.
"Thank you."
The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper wrapping,and crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb.
"Ah, those Greeks!" he said sadly. "They simply can't go straight. Thisbrand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope aboveSalonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is nowbeing bartered for filthy lucre by the use of Egyptian 'fillings.'"
"You're a connoisseur, Mr. Hawknose--try these," said Hart, profferinga case, from which the detective drew a cigarette, throwing the otherone aside.
"Why 'Hawknose'?" he inquired.
"A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux--the latterAnglicized, of course."
"And vulgarized."
"You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?"
"Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America,and be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?" While talking, he hadsmelt and destroyed the second cigarette.
"If it's a fair question, what the devil do _you_ smoke?" cried Hart.
"Nothing. I'm a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect, nota brain atrophied by nicotine."
"Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers."
"Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed toBismarck's dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivorywhite. Now it is black--soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowlyemulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart.He will teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience."
"At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug," laughed Hart, "but I'mblest if I can understand why _you_ make such a study of the vile weed."
"Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their brandof tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to thicktwist, while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a woodbine."
Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs towash. From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape. Doris'sdormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he could nottell whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her attitude waspensive, disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl normallyhigh-spirited. He was on the point of signaling to her when he rememberedFurneaux's presence. There was something impish, almost diabolicallyclever, in that little man's characteristics which induced wariness.
The dinner was a marvel, considering the short notice given to the cook.Luckily, Mrs. Bates, a loyal soul, had resolved to tempt her employer'sappetite that evening. Village gossip had it that the police were aboutto arrest him, and she was determined he should enjoy at least one goodmeal before being haled to prison. Hence, the materials were present.The rest was a matter of quantities, and Sussex seldom stints itself inthat respect.
The chatter round the table was light and amusing. The three were wellmatched conversationally. Furneaux evidently held the opinion onceexpressed by a notable Walrus--that the time had come
To talk of many things:Of shots--and ships--and sealing-wax--Of cabbages--and kings.
He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart's slowdrawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes incongenial company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might besaid of him as of the school-master of Auburn:
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,That one small head could carry all he knew.
It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to theunpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table,and brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as thoughhitherto he had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him.
"Now," he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his chinon a clenched fist, "the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. _You_didn't kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?"
"I wish I could tell you," was the emphatic answer.
"Do you suspect anybody? You needn't fear the libel law in confiding yoursecret thought to me, and I assume that Mr. Hart is trustworthy--wherehis friends are concerned?"
"Why that unkind differentiating clause, my pocket Vidocq?" put in Hart.
"Because two Kings and a baker's dozen of Presidents have, at varioustimes, sent most unflattering reports to this country about you."
"I must have annoyed 'em most damnably."
"You had. I congratulate you, but Heaven only knows where I may convoyyou some day on an extradition warrant....Proceed, Mr. Grant."
"I assure you, on my honor, that the only reasonable suggestion I canmake is that put forward by my gardener to-day," said Grant. "He thinksthat the murder must have been committed by a lunatic. I can offer noother hypothesis."
"Your gardener may be right. But what lunatic, barring yourself and thehorse-coper, Elkin, is in love with Doris Martin?"
Like Elkin the previous night, Grant struck the table till thingsrattled.
"Keep her name out of it," he cried fiercely. "You are a man of theworld, not a suspicious idiot of the Robinson type. You heard to-day thefull and true explanation of her presence here on Monday night. It was asheer accident. Why harp on Doris Martin rather than any member of theBates family?"
"Who, may I ask, is Doris Martin?" put in Hart.
"The Steynholme postmaster's daughter," said Furneaux. "A remarkablypretty and intelligent girl. If her father was a peer she would be thebelle of a London season. As it is, her good looks seem to have put amaggot in more than one nut in this village."
Hart waved the negro's head in the air.
"The lunatic theory for mine," he declared. "If one woman's lovely facecould bring a thousand ships to Ilion, why should not another's drive mento madness in Steynholme?"
"Well phrased, sir," cackled Furneaux delightedly. "I'll wangle that inon a respected colleague of mine, who is a whale at deducing aproposition from given premises, but cannot induce a general fact fromparticular instances to save his life ... Now, stifle your romanticfrenzy, Mr. Grant, and listen to me. If you were minded to instruct me inthe art of writing good English, I would sit at your feet an attentivedisciple. When I, Furneaux, of the 'Yard,' lay down a first principle inthe investigation of crime, I expect deference on your part. I tell youunhesitatingly that if Doris Martin didn't exist, Adelaide Melhuish wouldbe alive now. That, as a thesis, is nearly as certain a thing as that thesun will rise to-morrow. I go farther, and hazard the guess, not thefixed belief, though my guesses are usually borne out by events, that ifDoris Martin had not been in this garden at half past ten on Mondaynight, Adelaide Melhuish would not have been killed some twenty minuteslater. It is useless for you to fume and rage in vain effort to disproveeither of these presumptive facts. You are simply beating the air. Thismystery centers in and around the postmaster's daughter. Come, now, youare a reasonable person. Admit the cold, hard truth, and then give playto your fancy."
"Sir," said Hart, brandishing his pipe again, "I suggest that you and I,here and now, form a mutual admiration society."
"It is a cruel and bitter thing that an innocent girl should be draggedinto association with a foul crime," said Grant stubbornly. "I am notdisputing the force of your acumen, Mr. Furneaux. My only desire is toshield the good name of a very charming young lady."
"What's done can't be undone," countered the detective, well knowing thatGrant confessed himself beaten.
"But what is all the bother about? You heard from Miss Martin's own lipsabsolutely the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Put her in thewitness-box, and what more can she tell you?"
"I am not worrying about her appearance in the witness-box," saidFurneaux dryly. "Long before that stage is reached I shall be hunting astar burglar, or, perhaps, looking into the Foreign Office _dossier_ ofour worthy friend here, as to-day's papers hint at trouble in
Venezuela.No, sir. The county police will get all the credit. P.C. Robinson will beswanking about then, telling the yokels what _he_ did. I, with Olympicnod, say, 'There's your man!' and the handcuffs' brigade do the rest. Sofar as I can foresee, Miss Martin's name may be spared any undueprominence in this inquiry. I go even farther, and promise that anythingI can do in that way shall be done."
"That is very kind and considerate of you," said Grant gratefully.
"Don't halloo till you're out of the wood." said Furneaux, sitting backsuddenly and nursing his left knee with clasped hands. "I can't controlother people's actions, you know. What I insist on to-night is that youshall envisage this affair in its proper light. We have a long way totravel before counsel rises with his smug 'May it please you, me lud,and gentlemen of the jury.' But, having persuaded you to agree that,willy nilly, Miss Doris is the hub of our little universe for the hour,I now swear you and this fire-eater in as assistants. There must be nomore speeches, no punching of heads, very little love-making, and thatby order--"
"Has the postmaster's daughter a delectable sister, O Liliputian cop?"demanded Hart.
"No. Two of 'em would have caused a riot long since. Mr. Grant will doall, and more than all, necessary in that direction."
Grant leaned forward. He spoke very earnestly.
"I want you to believe me when I tell you," he said, "that I never gaveserious thought to the notion of marrying Miss Martin until such apossibility was suggested last night by that swab, Ingerman."
"Ah, Ingerman! You kept a record of what he said, I gather?"
"Yes, here it is."
Grant rose, and went to a writing-desk with nests of drawers which stoodagainst the wall on the left of the door. He never used it for itsprimary purpose. When the table was laid for meals, Minnie or her motherhad orders to remove all papers and books to the top of the desk. Thehouse contained no other living-room of size. The hall was spacious; asmoking den next the dining-room had degenerated into a receptacle ofguns, fishing-rods, golf-clubs, Alpenstocks, skis and other such sportingaccessories. The remainder of the ground-floor accommodation was given upto the Bateses.
Unlocking a drawer, Grant produced a notebook, which he handed toFurneaux. The detective laid it on the table. He was sitting withhis back to the large window. Hart faced him. Grant's chair wasbetween the two.
"By the way, as you're on your feet, Mr. Grant," said Furneaux, "youmight just show me exactly where you were standing when you saw the faceat the window."
"For the love of Mike, what's this?" gurgled Hart. "'The face at thewindow'; 'the postmaster's daughter.' How many more catchy cross-headswill you bring into the story?"
"Poor Adelaide Melhuish undoubtedly came here on Monday night and lookedin at me while I was at work," said Grant sadly. "You know the history ofmy calf love three years ago, Wally."
"Shall I ever forget it? You bored me stiff about it. Then, when thecrash came, you walked me off my legs in the Upper Engadine. Ugh! Thatnight on the Forno glacier. It gives me a chill to think of it now.Furneaux, pass the port. Your name is wrongly spelt. It should befourneau, not Furneaux. A little oven. Hot stuff. Got me?"
"My _dear_ Hart, you flatter me," retorted the detective instantly.
"How long am I to pose here?" snapped Grant.
"Sorry," said Furneaux. "These interruptions are banal. Is that whereyou were?"
"Yes. I had my hand outstretched for a book. It's dark in thiscorner. When I want to find a book I light a candle, which is alwaysplaced on the ledge of the window for the purpose. The blind was notdrawn that night. It seldom is. I had the book in my hand, and hadfound the required passage when I chanced to look at the window andsaw _her_ face."
"Do you mind reconstructing the scene. This lamp was on the table,I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Well, pull up the blind, light your candle, and find the book. Act thewhole incident, in fact."
Grant obeyed. He held the candlestick until he had picked out theparticular volume; then he placed it in the recess of the window, andsearched through the pages of the book.
Furneaux bent forward so as to watch the rehearsal and catch the effectof the light externally. The hour was not so late as when AdelaideMelhuish, or her ghost, gazed in through one of those narrow panes, butthe night was dark enough to lend the necessary _vraisemblance_. Hart,deeply interested, looked on with rapt, eager eyes. For a full minutethe tableau remained thus. Then, with a rapidity born of many a close'scape in wild lands, Hart drew a revolver from a hip pocket, and firedat the window.
He alone was in a position to see through all parts of it. Grant wasstill thumbing a small brown volume in the manner of one who knew that acertain passage would be found therein but was ignorant of its exactplace in the text. Furneaux, intent on his every movement, had only aside-long view of the window, which, it will be remembered, formed a tinyrectangle in a thick wall.
The revolver was a heavy-caliber weapon, and the explosion blew out thelamp. The flame of the candle flickered, owing either to the passage ofthe bullet or the disturbance of the air. But it burnt steadily againwithin the fifth part of a second, and they all saw a starred hole in thecenter pane of glass of the second tier from the bottom.
"What fool's game are you playing?" shrilled Furneaux, neverthelessactive as a wildcat in his spring to the French window, there to snatchat the blind and turn the knob which controlled a lever bolt.
"Laying another ghost--one with whiskers," said Hart coolly. "I got him,too, I think."
"You must be mad, mad!" shrieked the detective, tearing open the window,and vanishing.
"For Heaven's sake, Wally, no more shooting!" cried Grant, runningafter Furneaux.
Minnie and her mother appeared at the dining-room door. Finding the placein semi-obscurity, and reeking with gunpowder, they screamed loudly.
"You Steynholme folk are all on the jump," said Hart. "Cheer up, fairdames! Thunder relieves the atmosphere, you know, and one live cartridgeis often more effective than an ocean of talk."
"Bub-bub-but who's shot, sir?" gasped Minnie.
"A ghost, a most scoundrelly apparition, with fearsome eyes, offensivewhiskers, and a hat which is a base copy of mine."
"Owd Ben!" sighed Mrs. Bates, collapsing straightway in a faint.
Luckily, Minnie caught her mother and broke her fall, because thehousekeeper was large and solid, and might have been seriously injuredotherwise. Hart was distressed by this development, but, being eminentlya ready person in an emergency, he rose to the occasion by extracting theempty case from the revolver, and holding it to the poor woman'snostrils, while supporting her with an arm and a knee.
"This is far more effective than burnt brown paper, Minnie," he said."Now, don't get excited, but mix some brandy and water, and we'll haveyour mother telling us who Owd Ben is, or was, before Hawk-eye comes backto disturb us. Judging by the noises I hear, he's busy outside."
"That's father!" shrieked Minnie hysterically.
"Good Lord! Has your father--"
For an instant, Hart was nearly alarmed, but Grant's voice cameauthoritatively:
"It's all right, Bates. Let go, I tell you!"
"Phew!" said Hart. "I was on the point of confusing your respected dadwith Owd Ben ... That's it, ma! Sniff hard! As a cook you're worth yourweight in gold, which is some cook."
Meanwhile, Furneaux, seeing that no dead body was stretched on the stripof grass beneath the window, dashed into the shrubbery to the right, andwas clutched in a mighty embrace by an older but much more powerful manin Bates, who had hurried from the front of the house on hearing thepistol-shot. Most fortunately, the gardener, deeming his vigil a needlessone, had not armed himself with a stick, or the consequences might havebeen grave. As it was, no one except Hart had been vouchsafed sight orsound of the latest specter, which, however, had left a very convincingsouvenir of its visit in the shape of a soft felt hat with two bulletholes through the crown.
Furneaux, quivering with silent wrath, soon abandoned the
search whenthis _piece de conviction_ was found at the root of the Dorothy Perkinsrose-tree. Seeing the lamp relighted, he peremptorily bade Grant andBates come in with him. He closed the window, adjusted the blind again,and poured generous measures of port wine into two glasses. Handing oneto Bates, he took the other himself.
"Friend," he said, "some men have fame thrust upon them, but you haveachieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here's to you!"
"I dunno wot 'ee's saying mister, but 'good health'," said Bates,swigging the wine with gusto.
"Now, for your master's sake, not a word to a soul about this hubbub."
"Right you are, sir! But that there pryin' Robinson wur on t' bridge fiveminutes since. And, by gum, here he is!"
A determined knock and ring came at the front door. Minnie, helped byHart, had just escorted Mrs. Bates to the kitchen.
"Let _me_ go!" said Furneaux, darting out into the hall. He opened thedoor, and thrust his face into the police-constable's, startling thelatter considerably. Before Robinson could utter a syllable, thedetective hissed a question.
"Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?"
"Nun--No, sir," stuttered the other.
"You saw no one running along the road?"
"Saw nothing, sir."
"Very well. Glad to find you're on the job. Don't let on you met me here.Good-night!"
Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back onhis self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither whynor by whom nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been created.But he was quite sure the noise came from the garden front of Mr.Grant's house.
"That little hop-o'-me-thumb thinks he's smart, dam smart," he communedangrily, "but I've taken a line of me own, an' I'll stick to it, thoughthe Yard sends down twenty men!"
He heard footsteps coming down a paved footpath which ran like a whiteriband through the cobble-beaded width of the high-street, and withdrewswiftly to the shelter of a disused tannery adjoining the village end ofthe bridge. A cloaked female figure sped past. Though the night wasrather dark for June, he had no difficulty in recognizing Doris Martin'sgraceful movements. No other girl in Steynholme walked like her. She wasslim enough to dispense with tight corsets, and tall enough to wearlow-heeled shoes, nor did she need to pinch her toes in order to gain thesemblance of small feet.
After her went Robinson, keyed to exultation by this outcome of hiswatchfulness. She was going to The Hollies, of course. The road led toKnoleworth, and no young woman of her age in the village would dream oftaking a lonely walk in the country at ten o'clock at night.
For a man of his height and somewhat ponderous build, the policemanfollowed with real stealth. Thus, when she turned in at the gate, he wasthere by the time she had reached the front door. He heard her pull thebell. Curiously enough, to his thinking, Furneaux again appeared.
"Is Mr. Grant at home?" he heard Doris say.
"Yes. Will you come in?" replied the detective.
"Is he--is all well here?"
"Quite, I assure you. But _do_ come in. I'll escort you home. I'm goingto the inn in five minutes."
Doris, after hesitating a little, entered.
Robinson crept on tiptoe over a stretch of gravel, and took to theshrubbery. It was high time, he thought, that the local constabularylearnt what was going on in that abode of mystery.