CHAPTER XIII
TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT
The journey back to London was one the details of which were registeredwith photographic realism in Tarling's mind for the rest of his life. Thegirl spoke little, and he himself was content to meditate and turn overin his mind the puzzling circumstances which had surrounded OdetteRider's flight.
In the very silences which occurred between the interchanges ofconversation was a comradeship and a sympathetic understanding which boththe man and the girl would have found it difficult to define. Was he inlove with her? He was shocked at the possibility of such a catastropheovertaking him. Love had never come into his life. It was a hypotheticalcondition which he had never even considered. He had known men to fall inlove, just as he had known men to suffer from malaria or yellow fever,without considering that the same experience might overtake him. A shy,reticent man, behind that hard mask was a diffidence unsuspected by hisclosest friends.
So that the possibility of being in love with Odette Rider disturbed hismind, because he lacked sufficient conceit to believe that such a passioncould be anything but hopeless. That any woman could love him he couldnot conceive. And now her very presence, the fragrant nearness of her, atonce soothed and alarmed him. Here was a detective virtually in charge ofa woman suspected of murder--and he was frightened of her! He knew thewarrant in his pocket would never be executed, and that Scotland Yardwould not proceed with the prosecution, because, though Scotland Yardmakes some big errors, it does not like to have its errors made public.
The journey was all too short, and it was not until the train was runningslowly through a thin fog which had descended on London that he returnedto the subject of the murder, and only then with an effort.
"I am going to take you to an hotel for the night," he said, "and in themorning I will ask you to come with me to Scotland Yard to talk to theChief."
"Then I am not arrested?" she smiled.
"No, I don't think you're arrested." He smiled responsively. "But I'mafraid that you are going to be asked a number of questions which may bedistressing to you. You see, Miss Rider, your actions have been verysuspicious. You leave for the Continent under an assumed name, andundoubtedly the murder was committed in your flat."
She shivered.
"Please, please don't talk about that," she said in a low voice.
He felt a brute, but he knew that she must undergo an examination at thehands of men who had less regard for her feelings.
"I do wish you would be frank with me," he pleaded. "I am sure I couldget you out of all your troubles without any difficulty."
"Mr. Lyne hated me," she said. "I think I touched him on his tenderestspot--poor man--his vanity. You yourself know how he sent that criminalto my flat in order to create evidence against me."
He nodded.
"Did you ever meet Stay before?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"I think I have heard of him," she said. "I know that Mr. Lyne wasinterested in a criminal, and that this criminal worshipped him. Once Mr.Lyne brought him to the Stores and wanted to give him a job but the manwould not accept it. Mr. Lyne once told me that Sam Stay would doanything in the world for him."
"Stay thinks you committed the murder," said Tarling bluntly. "Lyne hasevidently told stories about you and your hatred for him, and I reallythink that Stay would have been more dangerous to you than the police,only fortunately the little crook has gone off his head."
She looked at him in astonishment.
"Mad?" she asked. "Poor fellow! Has this awful thing driven him ..."
Tarling nodded.
"He was taken to the County Asylum this morning. He had a fit in myoffice, and when he recovered he seemed to have lost his mind completely.Now, Miss Rider, you're going to be frank with me, aren't you?"
She looked at him again and smiled sadly.
"I'm afraid I shan't be any more frank than I have been, Mr. Tarling,"she said. "If you want me to tell you why I assumed the name ofStevens, or why I ran away from London, I cannot tell you. I had a goodreason----" she paused, "and I may yet have a better reason for runningaway...."
She nearly said "again" but checked the word.
He laid his hand on hers.
"When I told you of this murder," he said earnestly, "I knew by yoursurprise and agitation that you were innocent. Later the doctor wasable to prove an alibi which cannot be shaken. But, Miss Rider, whenI surprised you, you spoke as though you knew who committed the crime.You spoke of a man and it is that man's name I want."
She shook her head.
"That I shall never tell you," she said simply.
"But don't you realise that you may be charged with being an accessorybefore or after the act?" he urged. "Don't you see what it means to youand to your mother?"
Her eyes closed at the mention of her mother's name, as though to shutout the vision of some unpleasant possibility.
"Don't talk about it, don't talk about it!" she murmured, "please, Mr.Tarling! Do as you wish. Let the police arrest me or try me or hangme--but do not ask me to say any more, because I will not, I will not!"
Tarling sank back amongst the cushions, baffled and bewildered, and nomore was said.
Whiteside was waiting for the train, and with him were two men who wereunmistakably branded "Scotland Yard." Tarling drew him aside andexplained the situation in a few words.
"Under the circumstances," he said, "I shall not execute the warrant."
Whiteside agreed.
"It is quite impossible that she could have committed the murder," hesaid. "I suppose the doctor's evidence is unshakable?"
"Absolutely," said Tarling, "and it is confirmed by the station masterat Ashford, who has the time of the accident logged in his diary, andhimself assisted to lift the girl from the train."
"Why did she call herself Miss Stevens?" asked Whiteside. "And whatinduced her to leave London so hurriedly?"
Tarling gave a despairing gesture.
"That is one of the things I should like to know," he said, "and the verymatter upon which Miss Rider refuses to enlighten me. I am taking her toan hotel," he went on. "To-morrow I will bring her down to the Yard. ButI doubt if the Chief can say anything that will induce her to talk."
"Was she surprised when you told her of the murder? Did she mentionanybody's name?" asked Whiteside.
Tarling hesitated, and then, for one of the few times in his life, helied.
"No," he said, "she was just upset ... she mentioned nobody."
He took the girl by taxi to the quiet little hotel he had chosen--ajourney not without its thrills, for the fog was now thick--and saw hercomfortably fixed.
"I can't be sufficiently grateful to you, Mr. Tarling, for yourkindness," she said at parting "and if I could make your task anyeasier ... I would."
He saw a spasm of pain pass across her face.
"I don't understand it yet; it seems like a bad dream," she said half toherself. "I don't want to understand it somehow ... I want to forget, Iwant to forget!"
"What do you want to forget?" asked Tarling.
She shook her head.
"Don't ask me," she said. "Please, please, don't ask me!"
He walked down the big stairway, a greatly worried man. He had left thetaxi at the door. To his surprise he found the cab had gone, and turnedto the porter.
"What happened to my taxi?" he said. "I didn't pay him off."
"Your taxi, sir?" said the head porter. "I didn't see it go. I'll ask oneof the boys."
As assistant porter who had been in the street told a surprising tale. Agentleman had come up out of the murk, had paid off the taxi, which haddisappeared. The witness to this proceeding had not seen the gentleman'sface. All he knew was that this mysterious benefactor had walked away inan opposite direction to that in which the cab had gone, and had vanishedinto the night.
Tarling frowned.
"That's curious," he said. "Get me another taxi."
"I'm afraid you'll find that difficult,
sir." The hotel porter shook hishead. "You see how the fog is--we always get them thick about here--it'srather late in the year for fogs..."
Tarling cut short his lecture on meteorology, buttoned up his coat, andturned out of the hotel in the direction of the nearest undergroundstation.
The hotel to which he had taken the girl was situated in a quietresidential street, and at this hour of the night the street wasdeserted, and the fog added something to its normal loneliness.
Tarling was not particularly well acquainted with London, but he had arough idea of direction. The fog was thick, but he could see the blurrednimbus of a street lamp, and was midway between two of these when heheard a soft step behind him.
It was the faintest shuffle of sound, and he turned quickly.Instinctively he threw up his hands and stepped aside.
Something whizzed past his head and struck the pavement with a thud.
"Sandbag," he noted mentally, and leapt at his assailant.
As quickly his unknown attacker jumped back. There was a deafeningreport. His feet were scorched with burning cordite, and momentarily hereleased his grip of his enemy's throat, which he had seized.
He sensed rather than saw the pistol raised again, and made one of thoselightning falls which he had learnt in far-off days from Japaneseinstructors of ju-jitsu. Head over heels he went as the pistol explodedfor the second time. It was a clever trick, designed to bring the fullforce of his foot against his opponent's knee. But the mysteriousstranger was too quick for him, and when Tailing leapt to his feet he wasalone.
But he had seen the face--big and white and vengeful. It was glimpse andguess-work, but he was satisfied that he knew his man.
He ran in the direction he thought the would-be assassin must have taken,but the fog was patchy and he misjudged. He heard the sound of hurryingfootsteps and ran towards them, only to find that it was a policemanattracted by the sound of shots.
The officer had met nobody.
"He must have gone the other way," said Tarling, and raced off inpursuit, without, however, coming up with his attacker.
Slowly he retraced his footsteps to where he had left the policemansearching the pavement for same clue which would identify the assailantof the night.
The constable was using a small electric lamp which he had taken from hispocket.
"Nothing here, sir," he said. "Only this bit of red paper."
Tarling took the small square of paper from the man's hand and examinedit under the light of the lamp--a red square on which were written fourwords in Chinese: "He brought this trouble upon himself."
It was the same inscription as had been found neatly folded in thewaistcoat pocket of Thornton Lyne that morning he was discovered lyingstarkly dead.