CHAPTER XI
P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE
About the time Furneaux was whisked past The Hollies in SuperintendentFowler's dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning along walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have liked to secure Doris'scompany, but good taste forbade that he should even invite her to sharethe ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with whom he had not exchanged aword during three years had already set up a barrier between Doris andhimself. Though impalpable, it was effective. It could neither be climbednor avoided. Quiet little Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censorof morals and etiquette. Until this evil thing was annihilated by slowprocess of law, Doris and he might meet only by chance and never remainlong together.
When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his SouthAmerican sombrero.
"I am sensitive to ridicule," he professed. "The village urchins willchristen me 'Owd Ben,' and the old gentleman's character was such that Iwould feel hurt. So, for to-day, I'll join the no hat brigade."
"I wonder if we'll meet Furneaux," said Grant, selecting awalking-stick. "It's odd that we should have seen nothing of himthis morning."
"It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions hetook not to be observed coming here last night."
"Well, that's so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I suppose."
"Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He's wastedon Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador."
"Quaint alternatives, those."
"Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best incoining cute phrases. I've met scores of both tribes, and they're like aspeas in a pod."
A bell rang.
"That's the front door," said Grant. "It's Furneaux himself, I hope."
But the visitor was P.C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted.
"Glad I've caught you before you went out, sir," he said. "Mr. Furneauxasked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also tomention that he had got the whiskers."
"What whiskers? Whose whiskers?"
"That's all he said, sir--he'd got the whiskers."
"Why, Owd Ben's whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!" put inHart.
Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connectionwith the crime. He remembered Elkin's make-up as Svengali, of course, andcould have kicked himself for not associating earlier a set of sablewhiskers with the black wig and the bullet-torn hat.
But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the mystery?
"There are certain _lacunae_ in your otherwise vigorous and thrillingstory, constable," went on Hart.
"Very likely, sir," agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of hishearers. He had not the slightest notion what a _lacuna_, or itsplural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux's advice, and tryingto be civil.
"Ah, you see that, do you?" said Hart. "Well, fill 'em in. When, where,and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter's hairy adornments?"
The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that hehad scored a point, though he knew not how.
"He did not tell me, sir," he answered. "It's a rum business, that's whatit is, no matter what way you look at it."
Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable's change of front,accepted the olive branch readily.
"We're just going for a walk," he said. "If you have ten minutes tospare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no doubt."
"Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this,"admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues wouldsurely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by themaster of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates familydreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to favor with"the force." Before Robinson departed, he was full of information andgood food.
What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive tomeet Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old ponyhe had been "lungeing" on a strip of common opposite his house?
Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire.
"Anything fresh?" he cried. "You have a fair course now, Robinson. Thatlittle London 'tec has bunked home."
"Has he?" In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar foran opening.
"Oh, none of your kiddin'," said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt's neck."You know he has. You don't miss much that's going on. Bet you half athick 'un you'd have put someone in clink before this if the murder atThe Hollies had been left in your hands."
"That's as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped youfor fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin' badly?"
"Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night."
"You shouldn't be out so late. Why, on'y a week ago you were in bedregular at 10.15."
"That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed atKnoleworth."
"What time did you reach home?"
"Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what'sthis about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur DramaticSociety? That silly josser of a detective--What's his name?"
"Furneaux," said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear toosecretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the verytopic he wanted to discuss.
"Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night aboutthat box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and I,and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as Furneauxleft to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked, though Ilocked it myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and whiskers Iwore when we played a skit on 'Trilby' were missing. If that isn't aclew, what is?"
"A clew!" repeated the bewildered Robinson.
"Yes. I'm telling you, though I kept dark before the other fellows.Didn't you say Grant's cheek was bleeding on Tuesday morning?"
"I did."
"Well, the whiskers were held on by wires that slip over the ears. Onewire was sharp as a needle. I know, because it stuck into a finger morethan once. Why shouldn't it scratch a man's cheek, and the cut open againnext morning?"
"By jing, you've got your knife into Mr. Grant, an' no mistake,"commented Robinson.
"You yourself gave him a nasty jab at the inquest," sneered Elkin.
"I was just tellin' the facts."
"So am I. I think you ought to know about that hat and the other things.I would recognize them anywhere. Furneaux had something up his sleeve,too, or he wouldn't have pumped Tomlin... Woa, boy! So long, Robinson! Imust put this youngster into his stall."
"I'll wait, Mr. Elkin," said Robinson solemnly. "I want to have a wordwith you."
The policeman was glad of the respite. He needed time to collect histhoughts. The story of the dinner-party and its excitement disposedcompletely of Elkin's malicious theory with regard to Grant, but, sincethe horse-dealer was minded to be communicative, it would be well toencourage him.
"Come in, and have a drink," said Elkin, when the colt had been stabled.
"No, thanks--not when I'm on duty."
Elkin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He could not possibly guess thatRobinson was adopting Furneaux's pose of never accepting hospitalityfrom a man whom he might have to arrest.
"Well, blaze away. I'm ready."
The younger man leaned against a gate. He looked ill and physically worn.
"Your business has kept you out late of a night recently, you say, Mr.Elkin," began the other, speaking as casually as he could contrive. "Now,it might help a lot if you can call to mind anyone you met on the roadsat ten or eleven o'clock. For instance, last night--"
Elkin laughed in a queer, croaking way.
"Last night my mare brought me home. I was decidedly sprung, Robinson.Glad you didn't spot me, or there might have been trouble. What betweenthe inquest, an' no food, an' more than a few drinks at
Knoleworth, I'dhave passed Owd Ben himself without seeing him, though I believe I didsquint in at The Hollies as I went by."
"What time would that be?"
"Oh, soon after eleven."
"Sure."
"I can't be certain to ten minutes or so. The pubs hadn't closed when Ileft Knoleworth. What the devil does it matter, anyhow?"
It mattered a great deal. Robinson could testify that Elkin did not crossSteynholme bridge "soon after eleven."
"Nothing much," was the answer. "You see, I'm anxious to find out whomight be stirring at that hour, an' you know everybody for miles around.I'd like to fix your journey by the clock, if I could."
"Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it straight."
"Were you out on Monday night?"
"The night of the murder?"
"Yes."
"I left the Hare and Hounds at ten, and came straight home."
"Who was there with you?"
"The usual crowd--Hobbs, and Siddle, and Bob Smith, and a commercialtraveler. Siddle went at half past nine, but he generally does."
"You met no one on the road?"
"No."
The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin's usual confidence. It soundedas if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at thelast moment.
Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven o'clockon that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking homeward. He waswell aware that the licensing hours were not strictly observed by theHare and Hounds when "commercial gentlemen" were in residence. Closingtime was ten o'clock, but the "commercials," being cheery souls, becamenominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests were in no hurry todepart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to a conclusion, anacrobatic feat of reasoning which Furneaux had specifically warned himagainst. At any rate, he resolved now to leave well enough alone.
"Well, we don't seem to get any forrarder," he said. "You ought to takemore care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You're a changed man these days."
"I'll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. Youwon't have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!"
Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he haltednear the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the river toBush Walk. He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown. Then, therebeing no one about, he made some notes of the chat with Elkin. The man'scandor and his misstatements were equally puzzling. None knew better thanthe policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully an hour and a half onthe Monday night would be difficult to clear up. Tomlin, of course, wouldhave no recollection of events after ten o'clock, but the commercialtraveler, who could be traced, might be induced to tell the truth ifassured that the police needed the information solely for purposes inconnection with their inquiry into the murder. That man must be found.His testimony should have an immense significance.
That evening, shortly before seven o'clock, a stalwart,prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds "descended" from the Londonexpress at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay onthe opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for itwhen he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner, bespectacled,who hailed him with delight.
"You, too? Good egg!" was the cry.
The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality.
"Where the deuce are you off to?" he demanded.
"To Steynholme--same as you, of course."
"Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the nextfew days, you'll never know me again. I suppose you'll be staying at thelocal inn--there's only one of any repute in the place?"
"That's so. I've got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate whenthe time comes?"
"Have I ever failed you?"
"No. We meet as strangers."
Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest "writerup" in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested bothhim and a shrewd news-editor.
The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of eachother. The big man registered as "Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina." Petersordered a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman.Mr. Franklin took more pains over the prospective meal.
"Have you a nice chicken?" he inquired.
Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder atthat moment.
"And do you think your cook could provide a _tourne-dos_?"
"A what-a, sir?" wheezed Tomlin.
The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken mightbe deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled potatoes andFrench beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he dared not tryTomlin's excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had put him on thewater-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the landlord as a man oftaste and ample means.
Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, butthey met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anenthis carryin's on in Knoleworth the previous night.
Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitues hadthe place to themselves.
Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purposeexactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist.
"I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by thissensational murder?" he said.
Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively athis neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger,and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely:
"The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Threedays gone, and nothing done!"
"What murder are you discussing, may I ask?" put in Franklin.
Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarlymobile face.
"Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven't heard of the Steynholmemurder?" he gasped.
"I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landedin England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though abyssmal, ispardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more interested inpedigree horses than in vulgar criminals."
Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful andpopular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the countrywas already deeply stirred by the story.
Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he brokein.
"Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir," he said, his rancor against Grantbeing momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his ownbusiness. "What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?"
"All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an ever-opendoor to good horseflesh."
"Are you having a look round?"
"Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance ofSteynholme. Isn't that so, landlord?"
"Lots, sir," said Tomlin. "An' the very man you're talkin' to has somestuff not to be sneezed at."
"Is that so?" Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly manner. "MayI ask your name, sir?"
Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated invalue forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear torush matters.
"Call any day you like, sir," he said. "Glad to see you. But give menotice. I generally have an appetizer here of a morning about eleven."
"An' you want it, too, Fred," said Hobbs. "Dash me, you're as thin as aherrin'. Stop whiskey an' drink beer, like me."
"And you might also follow that gentleman's example," interposed Siddlequietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin.
"What's that?" snapped Elkin.
"Don't worry about murders."
"That's a nice thing to say. Why should _I_ worry about the d---dmix-up?"
The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly.
"Keep yer 'air on, Fred," he vociferated. "Siddle means no 'arm. But wotelse are yer a-doing of, mornin', noon, an'
night?"
Elkin laughed, with his queer croak.
"If you stay here a day or two, you'll soon get to know what they'redriving at, sir," he said to Franklin. "The fact is that this chap,Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was committed,has been making eyes at the girl I'm as good as engaged to. That wouldmake anybody wild--now, wouldn't it?"
"Possibly," smiled Franklin. "Of course there is always the lady's pointof view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. 'Woman, thy vows aretraced in sand,' Lord Byron has it."
"Ay, an' some men's, too," guffawed Hobbs. "Wot about Peggy Smith, Fred?"
Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher.
"What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?"he retorted.
Hobbs's face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin.
"Ask these gentlemen what they'll have," he said gently. The landlordmade a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed.
"You've aroused my curiosity," remarked Franklin to Peters, but takingthe company at large into the conversation. "This does certainly strikeone as a remarkable case. Is there no suspicion yet as to the actualmurderer?"
"None whatever," said Peters.
"That's what you may call the police opinion," broke in Elkin. "WeSteynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you."
"The matter is still _sub judice_, and may remain so a long time," saidSiddle. "It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to theman who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have nopatience with that sort of reasoning."
Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him.
"That's all very well," he rumbled. "But the hevidence you an' me 'eard,Siddle, an' the hevidence we know we're goin' to 'ear, is a lot strongerthan that."
"I'm sure you'll pardon me, friends," said Siddle, rising with anapologetic smile, "but I happen to be foreman of the coroner's jury, andI feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, to discuss publicly."
Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin's appeal to drink the ginger-ale hehad just ordered.
"Just like 'im," sighed Hobbs. "Good-'earted fellow! Would find hexcusesfor a black rat."
Elkin talked more freely now that the chemist's disapproving eye was offhim. Ultimately, Mr. Franklin elected to smoke a cigar in the open air,and strolled forth. He sauntered down the hill, stood on the bridge, andadmired the soft blue tones of the landscape in the half light of asummer evening. Shortly before closing time, Robinson appeared, it beingpart of his routine duty to see that no noisy revelers disturbed thepeace of the village. He noticed the stranger at once, and elected towalk past him.
Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressedhim by name.
"Good evening, Robinson," said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. "I'vebeen expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the dooropen. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, ofScotland Yard."
"You don't say so, sir!" stammered Robinson.
"But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I'll be with youin a minute or two. There's someone coming. You and I must not be seentogether."
Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He metBates, going to the post with letters.
Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kepta sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walkedquickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished.
Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrusthis head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weighton his mind.
"Beg pardon," he said, "but I thought you'd like to know. The place isjust swarmin' with 'em."
"Bees?" inquired Hart.
Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two.
"No, sir, 'tecs," he said. "There's a big 'un now--just the opposite tothe little 'un, Hawkshaw. I 'ope I 'aven't to tackle this customer,though. He'd gimme a doin', by the looks of 'im."
Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press photographerhad mentioned the Big 'Un and the Little 'Un of the Yard.
"Now, I wonder," he said.
His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter's had he heard the gardener'swords. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex, though it wasfounded solely on the assumption that all comers now, unless Bates waspersonally acquainted with them, were limbs of the law.