I
To begin with he listed the words in the order that he remembered them. His memory, always excellent, was fully equal to the task. 1, Orpheus; 2, Iphicles; 3, Eagle (two-headed); 4, Edyrn; 5, Ulema; 6, Roup; 7, Reldresal; 8, Mazikeen; 9, Premonstatensian. Nine words, thought Anthony. Nine words for nine guests. One word per guest. Mrs. Warren Clinton had evidently a penchant for the figure 9. He noticed that by a fortuitous trick of memory he had listed first the words which began with vowels. He began to play with the initials, commencing with the O for Orpheus. Nothing appeared to him to fit until he tried ‘Orpheus, Ulema and Roup.’ Much to his satisfaction and delight he found that by using these initials he now had the word ‘our.’
Anthony began to rub his hands. He thought that he might well be on the track of something, so he began to arrange the letters of the words which were left to him. These were Iphicles, Eagle (two-headed), Edyrn, Reldresal, Mazikeen and Premonstratensian. Which meant that he needed a word of six letters to prove that his idea was correct. His next step was to collect the initials, I.E.E.R.M.P., and the moment that he put them down in front of him his eyes caught and held the solution. The word contained here was obviously ‘Empire,’ and the whole arrangement—’Our Empire.’ Anthony sat back satisfied. Pattern and fitness at last! Also—the phrase was entirely in keeping with what he had heard of the character of Mrs. Warren Clinton. She had written her various letters of invitation stressing the point in every instance that the salvation of the British Empire was the treasure of her heart and one of her main objects in life. Anthony felt a glow of gratification. He had proved to his own satisfaction that the nine ‘test’ words had been chosen simply to produce from their initials the words ‘OUR EMPIRE.’
There now remained the other side of the Clinton word-picture. Each word, according to Mrs. Clinton’s fertile brain, had a counterpart meaning which it had been the task of the competing candidates to find. Anthony, a grim smile playing round his lips, buckled to his work. He took it that the lady had meant by ‘counterpart’ an affinity of meaning. The first word to be tackled, obviously, was ‘Orpheus.’ Anthony furrowed his brow. A word of this kind might have a dozen counterpart meanings. His job would be to find the right one—according to the gospel of Mrs. Warren Clinton. Anthony began to see that the job was going to be the reverse of easy. After a few minutes’ intensive thinking he came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do in the circumstances would be to list, say, three words, in each case, which more or less filled the picture, and then, having collected the words in this way, embark on a process of elimination afterwards. Anthony ran his fingers through his hair. He realized that he was going to need no small measure of good luck to construct the edifice of his intention. Unless, of course, some of the words to be considered later had but one counterpart which could be considered reasonable.
He concentrated on ‘Orpheus.’ If necessary, he was prepared to make the lock fit the key. Against ‘Orpheus’ he wrote unhesitatingly ‘Eurydice.’ The other two words which he wanted did not come to his brain anything like easily. He thought of Milton’s lines from both ‘L’Allegro’ and ‘Lycidas,’ and then, discarding ‘Pluto,’ ‘Hebrus’ and ‘Lesbos,’ he decided on ‘Thracian’ and ‘Music.’ So that he now had opposite to ‘Orpheus’—‘Eurydice,’ ‘Thracian’ and ‘Music.’
‘Ulema’ was the next word. Not too sure of its exact meaning, Anthony turned it up. ‘The learned classes in Mohammedan countries and interpreters of the Koran and the law.’ He noted that it was not an ecclesiastical body and that the name really signified ‘a number of wise men’ under the presidency of the Sheikh-ul-Islam. Anthony chose his three words and wrote them down opposite to ‘Ulema.’ ‘Wise,’ ‘Koran,’ ‘Interpreters.’ ‘Take care of the vowels,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and the consonants will take care of themselves.’
He next considered ‘Roup.’ At the back of his mind he had an idea that this was a word of Scandinavian origin which meant something like a ‘shout.’ As in the case of ‘Ulema,’ he looked it up in his dictionary. He was gratified to find that he was correct within limits, that the word’s essential meaning was ‘auction,’ and that it was used in Scotland in this sense. Anthony wrote down carefully, therefore, ‘Scandinavian,’ ‘Shout,’ ‘Auction.’ ‘And yet another vowel,’ he whispered to himself; ‘it’s not going too badly after all—if you ask me.’
The next word to receive his attention was ‘Eagle (two-headed).’ Anthony carefully observed the brackets. The particular variety of bird was evidently relevant. Anthony racked his brain for what he could remember of the history of the ‘two-headed eagle.’ The German eagle had its head turned to the left hand, the Roman eagle to the right. When Charlemagne was made Kaiser of the Holy Roman Empire he joined the two heads together, one looking to the east, the other to the west. As a result of this, the late Austrian Empire, as the direct successor of the Holy Roman Empire, included the “Double-headed” Eagle in its coat of arms.’ So far so good, thought Anthony. Now what else was there for him to remember? Something to do with Russia he felt moderately certain. Who was the man of whom he was thinking? Suddenly the correct answer came his way. Ivan Vasilievitch had assumed the two-headed eagle when he had married Sophia, daughter of Thomas Palaeologus and niece of one of the Constantines, an Emperor of Byzantium. The two heads thus symbolized the Eastern or Byzantine Empire and the Western or Roman Empire. After careful thought and some degree of head-shaking, Anthony selected ‘Empires,’ ‘Charlemagne’ and ‘Vasilievitch.’ But the selection in this instance was diffident and Anthony’s spirits sagged a little.
‘Mazikeen’ came next for consideration. Anthony had an idea that the word had something to do with Jewish mythology, but he was far from certain. Research gave him the following facts. ‘A species of beings in Jewish mythology, said to be the agents of magic and enchantment. According to the Talmud, when Adam fell he was excommunicated for 130 years, during which time he begat spectres and demons. There is also a Jewish tradition that a servant, whose duty it was to rouse the neighbourhood to midnight prayer, one night caught a straying ass and mounted it, thereby neglecting his duty. As he rode along, the ass grew bigger and bigger till at last it towered as high as the tallest edifice, where it left the man and where, next morning, he was found.’ Anthony looked for appropriate words to select. After considerable thought he chose: ‘Jewish,’ ‘Magician’ and ‘Ass.’ The presence of the vowel in the gallery again, pleased him, for by this time Mr. Bathurst was more than toying with an extremely attractive idea.
He looked eagerly at the next word, after having written it down carefully. ‘Premonstratensian.’ Anthony shook his head. The word was unfamiliar to him. More research became necessary. This is what Anthony found. ‘A Norbertine order, of Augustinians founded by St. Norbert in 1120 in the diocese of Laon in France. A spot was pointed out to him in a vision, and he called the spot “Pré Montré,” or “Pratum Monstratum” (the meadow pointed out). The order possessed thirty-five monasteries in England—where they were known as the White Canons of the rule of St. Augustine—at the time of the Dissolution.’ Anthony found the selection in this case considerably more difficult than in some instances previously. Eventually, after a close study, he decided on ‘Order,’ ‘Norbert’ and ‘Augustinian.’ And there again was the recurring ‘vowel condition.’
‘Iphicles’ was the next to be tackled. Here was a province in which Anthony was much more at home. He remembered the famous ‘tag,’ Quid hoc ad Iphicli boves? Neleus had promised to give his daughter to Bias in marriage if he would bring him the oxen of Iphicles which were guarded by a very fierce dog. Melampus was caught in the act of stealing them and was cast into prison. He afterwards told Astyocha, the wife of Iphicles, how to become the mother of children—by steeping iron-rust in wine for ten days and then drinking it. Inasmuch as the treatment was highly effective—she became the mother of eight sons—Iphicles gave him the coveted herd and his brother married the daughter of Neleus. Anthony’s three chosen words were: ‘Neleus,’ ‘Herd’ and ‘Oxen.’ Still the vowel. Anthony passed on—rather heartened than otherwise.
‘Reldresal.’ The word concerning which Dean Langton had been threatened. Of its meaning, Anthony confessed to himself, he was completely ignorant. Again he was compelled to research. When he found the meaning he smiled to himself and castigated himself for his forgetfulness. Of course—and he should have thought of it before. Dean Swift joined issue with Dean Langton! ‘Reldresal,’ so ran the commentary, ‘was the Principal Secretary for private affairs in the court of Lilliput and became a great friend of Gulliver himself. When it was proposed that the Man-Mountain should be put to death for the crime of high treason, it was Reldresal who moved that “the traitor should have both eyes put out and be suffered to live so that he might serve the nation.”’ Again, thought Anthony, by no means an easy choice. Eventually, and after much weighing-up of the relevant words, he nominated for his three ‘association’ words: ‘Gulliver,’ ‘Secretary’ and ‘Lilliput,’ and wrote them down in the opposite corner to ‘Reldresal.’ But one word now remained for analysis. The word was ‘Edyrn.’
All Anthony could recall about it was that its origin was in Tennyson’s ‘Idylls of the King.’ Yet another case for research. Anthony turned up the word for more details and found the following information: ‘Edyrn is found in Tennyson’s “Marriage of Geraint,” which was founded on the story of Geraint in Lady Charlotte Guest’s translation of the Mabinogion. Edyrn was the son of Nudd and was known as the “Sparrowhawk.” He ousted Yn’iol from his earldom and tried to win Enid, the Earl’s daughter, but was overthrown by Geraint and sent to the court of King Arthur, where his whole nature was completely changed and “subdued to that gentleness which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.”’ Anthony closed the book and surrendered himself to yet a further exercise in intensive thought.
At length he decided on his three words of association, and selected ‘Geraint,’ ‘Sparrowhawk’ and ‘Idyll.’ He was, of course, in the last instance, acutely tempted to the inclusion of the vowel. He had by this time considered all the words, and his next task was to assemble his various treble choices. He found that he had them listed thus:
Anthony surveyed the list with some satisfaction. He intended now to seek a word that he termed the ‘link’ word. The word to fit the key. It must obviously be a word of nine letters, he thought, equalling in number those contained in the phrase, ‘Our Empire.’ Anthony attempted to put himself in the place of Mrs. Warren Clinton. What was her chief concern? The welfare of the Empire? No good—seven letters only. Preservation? Safety? Salvation? Ah—Anthony’s nerves tingled—nine letters and a most likely word at that. In fact, considered Anthony, one of the most likely words of all. He determined to put its merits to the crucial test there and then.
Firstly he concentrated on the initial letters which were required, which appeared but once in the list he had prepared. The first was the letter ‘L,’ demonstrated once by ‘Lilliput.’ Anthony put his pen through ‘Reldresal.’ The second was ‘V,’ as given by ‘Vasilievitch.’ Anthony eliminated ‘Eagle—Two-headed.’ Then he rubbed his hands—he was beginning to get ‘warm,’ The third letter was ‘T,’ satisfied by ‘Thracian,’ so out went ‘Orpheus.’ These three letters exhausted his supplies of this kind, so he now considered what he had left. His requirements were S-A-A-I-O-N. He inspected his remnants. ‘Sparrowhawk’ he took from ‘Edyrn,’ ‘Roup’ and ‘Mazikeen’ gave him his two ‘A’s,’ ‘Ulema’ yielded him his ‘I,’ and ‘Premonstratensian’ and ‘Iphicles,’ each containing an ‘O’ and an ‘N,’ gave him the last links for his ‘key’ word.
Anthony smiled to himself in satisfaction. Mrs. Clinton’s test had become clear to him—’Our Empire’ and ‘Salvation.’ But why? That problem still remained. Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets and began to pace the room. He was ‘nearer’ than he had been—and yet no nearer. As he had said so often before, the whole pattern of the affair seemed crazy and incoherent. And yet underlying it all there must be a reason of some kind operating, and it was his job to find it. He sat down again and thought hard. Chiefly on the death of Mrs. Warren Clinton and the failure of Dean Langton to make any answer concerning the meaning of the word ‘Reldresal.’
II
Anthony went into conference again with Chief-Inspector MacMorran. The Inspector listened with admiration and approval to the account of Anthony’s work in the research department. Anthony presented him with the full details of the lines he had worked on and what he had discovered. MacMorran produced several nods and gestures of appreciation.
“Now I call that most interesting,” he said at length, “and it shows the value of a bit of book-learning. I’m not yieldin’ to anybody in my admiration for education. Every man’s the better for it. And every woman as well.”
Anthony made no comment on this effusion. He had heard Andrew MacMorran in this strain before. He turned the conversation, therefore, into another channel.
“Andrew,” he said quickly, “tell me frankly. What real progress have we made in this case?”
“Verra little, I’m afraid,” replied the Inspector, with an ominous shake of the head. “Certainly my people have picked up little or nothing.”
“And I’m much in the same boat,” returned Anthony—“that’s really what I’ve come to talk about. There’s a line, however, Andrew, that we haven’t yet taken. I’m rather worried about it. I feel that we’ve been guilty of a certain amount of neglect. I want you to listen to me. It concerns Mrs. Warren Clinton. The lady herself.”
“In what way do you mean?”
“I mean with direct reference to the last hours of that lady’s life. The last days, if you prefer it.” Anthony lit a cigarette.
“What about them?” MacMorran’s question was both short and sharp.
“That’s what I’m asking you,” replied Anthony imperturbably.
MacMorran seemed to sense that he was under criticism. “Well, I’ve no doubt you’ve something in mind—but I don’t know that I altogether get you.”
Anthony noticed the line of the Inspector’s jaw. He grinned. “Well—let’s start at scratch. Tell me all you know.”
“When the Myrobella berthed, Mrs. Clinton caught a train and went to ‘Davidge’s.’ She stayed there for some time and then booked up at the ‘Royal Sceptre,’ Remington. You are well aware of what happened to her after that,” concluded MacMorran with dry emphasis.
Anthony shook his head. “It hurts me more than it hurts you, Andrew,” he said quietly, “but what does all that really amount to? See where I’m getting?” He pressed out the stub of his burning cigarette and lit another.
MacMorran puffed with contentment at his pipe. “Well—go on,” he conceded, “I’m prepared to listen to you.”
Anthony tossed away the burnt match he had been holding. “Well—what did Mrs. Clinton do while she stayed at ‘Davidge’s’?”
“Do?”
“Yes—do. How did she occupy her time? Where did she go? Whom did she meet? Who called on her? Can you give me any authentic information on any one of the questions?”
MacMorran paused a second before replying. “Inquiries have been made.”
Anthony waited for him to amplify his statement. He made no intervention.
MacMorran continued. “But they didn’t yield much. I have the details in the file here if you would care to hear them.”
Anthony nodded assent to the suggestion. The Inspector took the green-coloured file and removed certain papers. Anthony gave him ample time.
“But few people called on Mrs. Clinton while she stayed at ‘Davidge’s.’ This was understandable. She was an American visiting London for the first time for many years. She had no friends in London to speak of. And fewer, probably, acquaintances. Aren’t they the likely explanations?”
Anthony shook his head again. “No, Andrew—I’m sorry. I’m not satisfied.”
MacMorran showed signs of uneasiness. Anthony went on before he could reply.
“And what about her maid, Andrew? Or companion?”
MacMorran picked up this particular challenge with alacrity. “She didn’t bring one. I considered that in the early stages of the case. I’ve examined the Myrobella’s sailing list and it’s been confirmed at the American end as well. Mrs. Clinton travelled alone.”
“And she travelled farthest,” commented Anthony whimsically.
MacMorran eyed him suspiciously, but made no remark.
“All right,” said Anthony. “I’ll accept your position with regard to Mrs. Clinton travelling solo. But let’s proceed from there. With regard to one or two other points I put forward. How did Mrs. Clinton occupy her time? Where did she go? Whom did she meet? You still haven’t answered those, Andrew.”
MacMorran shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t have ‘tabs’ on her the whole time she stayed in the hotel. But all the inquiries I made were answered. I’ll give you examples of what I mean. You ask how did she occupy her time? In the mornings she used to stay in the hotel and attend to her correspondence. Of an afternoon she would visit a cinema. She was heard in the hotel to say that she preferred the cinema to the theatre. In the evenings she dined alone quietly and invariably retired to bed comparatively early. There’s one of your queries answered if not two of them—and answered, I venture to say, quite satisfactorily.”
MacMorran was perturbed. He was beginning to roll his ‘r’s’—a sure sign in his case of mental disturbance.
“All right, Andrew. I’ll give you that. What about the other question? Whom did she meet? What personal contacts did she make?”
MacMorran shook his head rather disconsolately. “That, I admit, I can’t answer. I wasn’t able to establish, that is to say enough to satisfy me, that she made any. For instance, I couldn’t trace that anybody visited her at the hotel. Beyond Redfern the reporter. But as I said to you before, don’t forget that she had no friends in London. She had none and she didn’t appear particularly desirous of making any.”
Anthony nodded. “Reversing the position, putting the boot on the other foot, can you trace that she visited anybody outside the hotel?”
Again MacMorran shook his head. “No. I wasn’t able to do that. And I admit that there are too many loose ends sticking out at that side of the case to be at all pleasant. But there it is. I was unsuccessful all along the line, in that respect. They’re the facts and we can’t alter them.”
“I agree, Andrew. But we might be able to investigate them again perhaps a trifle more fully. For instance, supposing I ask you a pertinent question?”
MacMorran smiled at the way Anthony had put it. “Well—supposing you do—what is it?”
“Quite a simple question, Andrew. Nothing elaborate. Who were her bankers?”
MacMorran looked disturbed. “Where?”
“Over here—in England. In London, if you like.”
MacMorran named one of the better-known private banks. “Not one of the big five, you see,” he said rather aggressively.
“Good,” returned Anthony. “I’m pleased to hear it. You’ve taken a load off my mind telling me that. How much money did she draw during her stay at ‘Davidge’s’?”
A spot of colour showed in each of the Inspector’s cheeks. “I couldn’t answer that, Mr. Bathurst. To tell the truth I didn’t attempt to find out. I don’t see what bearing it has on the case. Nothing was stolen from her.”
“As far as you know.”
“Agreed with that. As far as I know.”
“I think we’ll inquire as to that, Andrew. Suppose we get on to—who are the people looking after her affairs?”
“Crabtree, Holt and Needham, Mr. Bathurst, Gray’s Inn Road. I’ll get them on the ’phone for you now.”
The Inspector got the Exchange and dialled a number. Anthony waited. MacMorran obtained the desired connection in reasonable time.
“Ask them for information on what I just asked you. What were her drawings from current account while she stayed at ‘Davidge’s’?”
MacMorran nodded to signify that he understood the trend of Anthony’s enquiry. He put the relevant question. “Placed to her credit, you say?”
Anthony heard the sequel question. MacMorran went on. “And exactly how much was drawn by her?” MacMorran waited for the reply. Anthony waited at MacMorran’s side. “What?” came the Inspector’s query. “Are you sure?”
A pause of some seconds’ duration. Anthony saw MacMorran nod several times. Eventually the Inspector replaced the receiver. Anthony noticed that the blood had left his face and that he had become unnaturally pale. He sat heavily in his chair.
“I don’t know what you’ll think of this piece of news, Mr. Bathurst, but from the time Mrs. Clinton set foot on these shores until the day she died she drew no cash from her banking account. Not a penny. Five thousand pounds had been placed to her credit and it was untouched.”
“What, then, did our lady friend use for money, Andrew?”
“According to Messrs. Crabtree, Holt and Needham, she had ample resources in cash when she landed from the Myrobella.”
“Really! Which fact, of course, explains the point of the £5,000 credit at her bankers,” remarked Anthony drily.
MacMorran looked discomfited at the thrust. “Not so good, is it?” he said rather lamely.
“On the contrary, my dear Andrew,” said Anthony, “I rather like it. The idea that you have just projected suits me down to the ground. In fact, I should have been extremely disappointed to have heard anything else.”
“Why? What help does it give us?”
Anthony’s eyes twinkled. “It teaches us, for one thing, that Mrs. Clinton was determined to live frugally.”
“What—at the ‘Royal Sceptre.’ Remington—where she invited no less than nine distinguished guests?” MacMorran was critical.
Anthony’s eyes continued to twinkle. “Perhaps she was frugal and parsimonious at ‘Davidge’s,’ Andrew, and extravagant at Remington.”
“I don’t see how you get that. Because she made no drawings whilst she was at Remington. The position, as far as she was concerned, was exactly the same in both places. No change took place in her.” The Inspector seemed a trifle nettled.
“Perhaps she intended to mend her ways, Andrew, when Death took charge of things and dealt her a bad hand. In other words, if you prefer them, La femme propose mais le Dieu dispose.”
MacMorran shrugged his shoulders. “Well—whatever happened, I don’t see where it’s all getting us to,” he declared impatiently.
“I do,” returned Anthony crisply. “It’s leading us to the discovery of the murderer of these three people. Angela Ramage, Denver and Mrs. Warren Clinton herself. Which at the present moment, my dear Andrew, is our primary job of work. Ours—yours and mine.”
MacMorran relapsed into silence. Anthony’s words and the point he had driven home had shaken him somewhat. The case of Mrs. Clinton had been a nuisance to him from the beginning—now it had become an intolerable nuisance. He came out of his brown study to hear Anthony’s voice. MacMorran understood that Mr. Bathurst was making certain suggestions. He felt it incumbent on him to reply without hesitation.
“As to that, Mr. Bathurst,” he said semi-defensively, “Mrs. Clinton’s belongings at the ‘Royal Sceptre’ have all been carefully gone through and examined. Not an item was brought to light that caused us the slightest suspicion. She appeared to have made no acquaintances since she landed in England, and in all probability the only letters which she sent out were those of the now famous invitations. Nine in all.”
“Which presumably were sent out by her from ‘Davidge’s’ Hotel?”
“Presumably. At least—I have always supposed that they were.”
“She had no secretary with her there—no stenographer. Don’t forget she travelled alone.”
“Quite right. I’m aware of it. She had to write all those letters herself.”
Anthony seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he woke up and spoke again. “I suppose you haven’t one of those invitations handy, have you, Andrew?”
MacMorran grinned with pardonable satisfaction. “I have. I made it my business to get hold of all I could—after we saw most of them at Remington. Which one do you want? Any one in particular?”
Anthony shook his head. “No. Doesn’t matter.” Then almost instantaneously he changed his mind. “Yes. For preference give me Dean Langton’s. If my memory serves me correctly he didn’t have it with him when he came to see me at Remington. Do you happen to have it, Andrew?”
MacMorran’s grin broadened. “I have it all right, Mr. Bathurst. Give me half a second and I’ll turn it out for you.”
The Inspector went to the appropriate file. Eventually he produced the Langton invitation letter. Anthony read it quickly.
“I’d like to retain this for a day or so, Andrew, if I may. Also that copy of the Morning Message that I see you have there.” Anthony had noticed the familiar letterpress in MacMorran’s file. “I promise to let you have them both back unspoiled and unharmed by the end of the week. That a bet, Andrew?”
“That’s all right as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Bathurst. I’m afraid you won’t derive much information from either of those sources.”
“You never know, Andrew. I’m going to put in a spot of visiting and I might run into a stroke of luck. Mind you—I only say ‘might.’”
“Let’s hope you do,” returned MacMorran. “I don’t mind confessing that the case has got me down—well and properly.”
Anthony slapped him on the back. “Never mind, Andrew. Keep your chin up. We’ll solve it—and more quickly than you imagine.”
“I wish you meant it, Mr. Bathurst.”
“Wish I meant it? My dear Andrew, I was never more serious in my life.”
III
Anthony had conference with one Arthur Wellesley Sturt. Mr. Sturt, it may be mentioned, held the position of manager of ‘Davidge’s’ Hotel. Mr. Bathurst’s card had been sent up to him as he sat in his private room, and after a few minutes’ frowning consideration of that card Mr. Sturt had directed that Mr. Bathurst himself should follow it. Mr. Sturt listened attentively to what Mr. Bathurst had to say.
“Mrs. Clinton’s rooms here were booked by cable. Just before she left America in the Myrobella. When she came and all the time she stayed here she impressed me as a singularly charming lady.” Mr. Sturt closed his lips firmly and sat in his chair, rigidly determined, as it were, to keep his end up.
Anthony put another question to him. “Luggage? Oh, yes—pretty well what you might have anticipated. Neither too much nor too little. When Mrs. Clinton left here en route for Remington it all very naturally went with her.”
Anthony was aware of this, more or less. The information coincided with what MacMorran had already indicated to him. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Sturt.”
Sturt nodded his acceptance of Mr. Bathurst’s gratitude. He was still an extremely dignified figure. More questions from Anthony.
“Friends? That called here?” Mr. Sturt shook his sapient head. “I can’t recall a single one, Mr.—er—Bathurst. As far as I can remember, Mrs. Clinton while she remained here was unvisited.” Mr. Sturt coughed portentously.
Anthony again thanked him suitably. At the next question asked him Mr. Sturt furrowed his brows.
“All accounts that were paid by Mrs. Clinton while she was here were settled promptly, and settled, too, by cash. Mrs. Clinton invariably discharged her bills in notes. To the best of my memory, she usually paid in high value notes on the Bank of England. I mean by that that she didn’t use the ordinary currency notes. I trust I have made myself plain.”
“Oh—perfectly. But there’s another question that I feel I must ask you, Mr. Sturt. Didn’t that cash arrangement strike you as peculiar?”
Mr. Sturt shrugged his shoulders. “No-o. Not so peculiar as you might imagine with no experience of running an hotel of this eminence. In many cases we refuse to accept cheques and insist on payment being made in cash.”
“I quite agree. I was aware of that condition with what we may term ordinary guests. But my point was this. With a guest of the international standing of the late Mrs. Clinton, you would not have insisted on that procedure. I take it that I’m right in that idea?”
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Clinton’s account was a formidable one. In amount. As a matter of fact, when she paid her account at the office she tendered something like an explanation. She pointed out to our cashier-receptionist that she had brought a considerable amount of English currency from the States and that she didn’t desire to draw on her banking account until she had divested herself of most of it. I can recall our cashier mentioning the fact to me.” Mr. Sturt coughed into his hand. Anthony mentally noted the terms of Mr. Sturt’s answers. He put a final question to him.
“I’m afraid that this is rather a conventional question, Mr. Sturt, but I feel that I must put it to you. During Mrs. Clinton’s stay here, did she ever seem at all worried or anxious about anything?”
Rather to Anthony’s surprise Sturt answered readily. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that—in particular. And my answer is undoubtedly ‘yes.’ Especially, shall we say, during her first week here. After that first week I noticed a distinct change in her. Her anxiety seemed to be replaced by another condition. This second condition I should describe as one of unnatural excitement.” Sturt paused.
“When did this second condition begin to arise? For instance—how long before she left for Remington?”
Sturt thought it over. “Well—not so very long before. Say three or four days. More than once, when I spoke to her she appeared to me to be all worked up, as you might say. Like somebody before an examination, or even before a serious operation—if you know what I mean. In fact, she reminded me of my mother just before she was carted off to the London Hospital to be carved up for something. Have I made myself clear?”
“Very clear, Mr. Sturt.” Anthony rose to go. “I won’t detain you any longer. Many thanks for your kindness and assistance. I am in your debt. Oh—one more question.” Anthony produced the Langton invitation letter. “Is that Mrs. Clinton’s signature?”
Sturt looked at the name. He smiled.
“Yes—or a marvellously good imitation.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Sturt.”
Sturt shook hands with him. Anthony drove home to his flat pondering over many things. When he arrived there he asked a question of Emily.
“When is a woman most excited, Emily? What’s your answer to that question?”
Emily had her answer promptly on her tongue. “Why—just before she’s going to be married, of course, sir. Ask any girl—and she’ll tell you that.”
Anthony smiled. “But supposing she’s not a girl—but an elderly woman? How about it then?”
“Oh—then,” said Emily, keenly and obviously disappointed, “when she’s going to buy a new hat.”
Anthony watched her as she walked back to her own room. “I shouldn’t be surprised, Emily,” he said to himself, “if you aren’t right.”
IV
Two days after Anthony’s interview with Mr. Sturt, manager of ‘Davidge’s’ Hotel, a stroke of good fortune came his way. As he, himself has said more than once, ‘the first break that the case gave us right from the start.’ He had risen at a comparatively late hour for him—the day had dragged by and he was standing looking out of the window of his flat when he saw a car drive up, stop directly outside and two people get out. As they made a straight path for his front entrance he saw, to his surprise, that one of them was none other than Rosamund Kingsley. With her was a man. A man whom he couldn’t remember having seen before. Shortly afterwards he heard Emily admitting the two visitors. Anthony began to wonder what it was all about, but his mind had but a few seconds to exercise, and before his thoughts could take intelligent shape Emily was announcing “Miss Rosamund Kingsley to see you, Mr. Bathurst.”
The tall, fair goddess advanced towards him with outstretched hand. At her side came an odd-looking man. He was small and spare. His face was lean and twisted-looking.
“Mr. Bathurst,” cried Miss Kingsley as she crossed the floor, “I’ve brought you a previous acquaintance of mine. If you’ll allow me to refresh your memory, he used to travel in alarm-clocks. Half an hour ago I ran into him on the Embankment and was able to persuade him to come along to see you.”
Miss Kingsley looked flushed but triumphant. Anthony glanced sharply at the man she had brought with her. He looked sullen but defiant.
“Perhaps,” continued the famous explorer, “he will be more communicative with you than he has been with me. Maybe your methods for making him talk will be more successful than mine.”
Before Anthony could reply, the man himself took a hand.
“I haven’t done anything wrong and you’ve got nothing on me. I’d like you to know that.”
Rosamund spoke with a dangerous sweetness. “Look here, my man, you came along with me of your own free will. In other words, you fell in with a suggestion I made to you. You entered my house the other night, and after talking a lot of nonsense you dumped an alarm-clock on me and bolted for your life. I think it’s up to you to give me an explanation. And as Mr. Bathurst here is a friend of mine, I’d like him to hear it.”
Anthony listened carefully. The situation was an extraordinary one—to say the least of it. The thin man altered his tactics and assumed a truculent expression.
“It’s no crime to do what I did. I was only acting as a messenger for somebody else—nothing more. You can’t hold me for that. I know the law as well as you do, perhaps better.”
“We aren’t holding you,” said Anthony grimly, “you’re simply our guest for the evening, just as Miss Kingsley explained a moment ago. The best thing you can do is to make yourself thoroughly at home. Like you did at Miss Kingsley’s house the other day.”
The man made no reply. Anthony’s retort appeared to have nonplussed him. Anthony himself realized that Rosamund Kingsley’s quick initiative had presented him with an opportunity far too good and promising to throw away. After a moment or two’s consideration he resolved to ask Inspector MacMorran to come along as soon as possible. He went to his telephone and asked for MacMorran’s number. When the Inspector came, Anthony gave him the full story of Miss Kingsley’s recent action.
“Good work,” said MacMorran into the telephone. “I’ll come right over at once; I shall have to be careful, but I’ll get something out of him. Even if I only make it a nice, friendly little chat.”
Anthony hung up. He was glad he had telephoned to the ’Yard. Handling this man was much more MacMorran’s line of country than his own. The result was that he waited rather impatiently for MacMorran’s arrival. The latter came to the flat within twenty minutes. In the meantime Miss Kingsley’s companion had maintained a sulky silence.
MacMorran was ushered in by Emily, and Anthony took him straight to the point. The Inspector listened with hard lines playing round the corners of his mouth. “I see,” he said at length, “Miss Kingsley brought him along as the life and death of the party—eh?”
He turned to the thin man. “Good evening,” he said curtly. “What’s your name?”
“That’s my business,” replied the man.
“Really,” returned the Inspector. “Now you listen to me and take careful note of what I say—because I shan’t weary you by saying it again. I’m Chief-Inspector MacMorran of New Scotland Yard. Got that? Good. We shall now understand one another better. What’s your name?”
There was still no answer.
“So you won’t talk?” remarked MacMorran. “I see. Well, then—get this. I happen to be investigating a case of murder—not the theft of a box of kippers. I must ask you to come along to the ‘Yard’ to make a statement.”
“What am I charged with? Tell me that,” said the thin man querulously.
“Charged with? Nothing at all. All I want from you is a voluntary statement.”
The man stared sullenly at MacMorran. “Wait a minute,” he said eventually. “If I talk—I’ll talk here.”
“That’s a lot better,” declared MacMorran—“quite the little gentleman—eh?”
The man glared at him venomously.
“What’s your name?” demanded the Inspector.
“Joseph Carter.”
“Where do you live?”
“Oban Street—Poplar.”
MacMorran made suitable notes. “Who sent you to Miss Kingsley’s house at Chislehurst the other day?”
There was a silence. “Come,” said the Inspector, “it will pay you to make a clean breast of things.”
The man made a curious lifting movement of his shoulders, almost as though he had decided to rid himself of an unpleasant burden. “I don’t know who sent me to Chislehurst, so it’s no use my pretending that I do.”
“Give me the full facts,” ordered the Inspector. Anthony watched Carter’s face with keen interest.
“All right,” conceded Carter, surrendering his position, “I’ll give you the dope. I can see there’ll be no satisfying you until you get it. Mind if I smoke?”
He took a partly-smoked cigarette from his pocket and struck a match. He lit the cigarette and looked towards Rosamund Kingsley. “I know the lady smokes because I’ve seen her, so I hope that there’s no offence. I’ll tell you how I got dragged into this business. I use a house, very often, in Aldgate, ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter.’ Not a hundred yards from the big underground station. I used to use it more regular than what I do now. I’ve fallen on bad times, if you want to know, and cash is by no means as plentiful as I should like it to be. Not by a long chalk. Well, I was in the old ‘Walrus’ one evening—about the end of May it must have been—when a young lady came in,, ordered a glass of port and sat down near me. She was a fair ‘stunner’ to look at—I don’t mean her clothes—I mean in herself—her face and everything. I didn’t speak to her and she didn’t speak to me, and I’d have thought no more about it, but the next evening, the very same thing happens. I dropped in for a pint of brown ale and lo and behold, almost on my heels in comes the same Jane, orders the same drink and sits herself down in almost exactly the same spot as she’d sat in the previous evening.
“Well—to cut a long story short, this goes on for six or seven nights running. The same identical performance. At last, on a Monday night it was—I can remember that because the bar was quiet—she changes her seat and comes and planks herself down next to me. Before I could collect myself so as to know what was what, so to speak, she tells me that she’s been looking for a likely man to do a certain job and that I’m the man for her money. Which was a cool tenner, almost for the asking. I ‘boxed clever’ for a time, but we soon got down to brass tacks and she told me what she wanted me to do. Well—you know what that was. I was to go to your place, lady, down at Chislehurst and take a parcel which she would bring me. She gave me the fullest instructions and coached me up as to what I’d got to say if you, lady, asked me any questions. As I felt certain that you would question me, I got her to give me the replies she wanted given in full. I told her I must know where I stood in the matter and that I couldn’t be put off with meagre details.”
He then spoke directly to Rosamund Kingsley. “As far as I could gather from what she said to me, you had been a member of some society or association, and you had sort of thrown a spanner into the works by leaving it all of a sudden. The lady said it was all quite harmless, but that a warning must be sent to you to give you a chance to come back to the society before it was too late. She said that in her own country—”
Anthony broke in sharply: “What do you mean? What country was that?”
Joseph Carter showed signs of surprise. “Oh—I should say she was German without a doubt. She spoke English well, but the accent was there all the time. In every word she spoke. You couldn’t mistake it. But she was a smart Jane, I can tell you. A proper drop of ’omework and no mistake. Oh—and something I’ve just remembered. The last time I clapped eyes on her, when she dropped me the parcel for this lady here, when the time came for her to clear off, she lowered her voice and gave me the old ‘Heil Hitler’ joke.”
MacMorran interrogated him. “What name did she give you?”
“None at all.”
“Any address?”
“No. No address.”
“Did you give her your name?”
“Not ’arf, Guvnor. I had to get my fingers round that tenner I mentioned.”
“How do you mean. Explain yourself.”
“Why—after I’d delivered the parcel to this lady at Chislehurst I had go back to the ‘Walrus’ to draw my dough. The young lady had it left for me, when I got there, in an envelope. Left it in charge of Len, the barman, who was to give it to me when I called in. The envelope was addressed ‘Joseph Carter, Esquire’—blimey, what a thrill.”
The man looked round the room as though daring any one of the others to challenge either him or any of the statements he had made. Anthony felt that it was time he took a hand in the game.
“I have been privileged to read Miss Kingsley’s account of your call upon her at her residence in Chislehurst. And I have been particularly struck by the answers you gave her when she questioned you. I’ll be candid and say that I consider them extremely ‘pat.’”
Carter shifted uneasily in his chair. “I told you about that. The German girl coached me in the answers. For two or three nights in the ‘Walrus’ we talked of nothing else. She wouldn’t give me the parcel till she was satisfied I was ‘word perfect,’ as you might say.”
“I see. What guarantee did you have to give her that you had delivered the parcel to Miss Kingsley?”
Carter shook his head. “None at all. The girl had to take my word for it. What guarantee could I possibly give? You couldn’t very well expect Miss Kingsley to sign a receipt for it, could you?” Carter’s tone was becoming aggressive again. Rosamund Kingsley was quick to notice it and intervened sharply.
“You certainly could not. Or put down the red carpet to mark your arrival at my house.”
Anthony put another question. “As far as you can tell from memory, what was the date of your first meeting with this girl?” Carter rubbed his nose with the edge of his finger. “That’s askin’ me something. I really couldn’t say as to the exact day. But it would have been about the end of May. That’s as near as I can get to it.” Anthony looked significantly at MacMorran. Their thoughts had reverted to the interview with the caretaker of the flats at Remington. Otto Wenzel and Elsa, his companion, had left Remington, according to his story, somewhere about the end of April. There were certainly possibilities here! As Anthony had heard the story in the way that Carter had told it, he was inclined to the opinion that the man was telling the truth. MacMorran addressed himself to Carter again. “What work do you do?”
“When I’m at work I’m a bookmaker’s clerk. I used to work for Hoppy Dick Isaacson round Aldgate. But things didn’t go too well with him. The ‘busies’ kept pinchin’ him and he stood me off.”
MacMorran scrutinized him carefully. “Where were you before that?”
“In the same line. With ‘Bluey’ Oldfield. But ‘Bluey’ got pinched by a couple of interferin’ ‘busies’ down at Lewes during the Sussex fortnight; he’d had a bad time at Goodwood, and stood up for the first race at Lewes with about fourteen bob in his ‘sky.’ Somebody must have put the ‘dicks’ wise, because they came and pinched him a few minutes after he put his boards up.”
MacMorran nodded his assent. “I used to get on the racecourses a good deal a few years ago, and I fancy I must have seen you. Your face is certainly familiar.” He patted his pocket. “Well, Mr. Carter, we have your name and address, and we’re very much obliged for the statement you’ve given us. You shall come back to the ‘Yard’ with me now. I’ll get it typed out and read over to you, and then you can put your signature to it. How does that appeal to you, Carter?”
Carter licked his lips. “Well—I hadn’t bargained for that, Inspector Couldn’t it wait for a day or so?”
“I’m afraid it can’t, Carter. Sorry if I’m inconveniencing you.”
Carter shrugged his shoulders. “All right. I’ll come along with you, Inspector. I’ve nothing to fear, as I told you when this job started. Is the ‘Rolls’ outside?”
He walked out and down the stairs with the Inspector. Anthony and Rosamund Kingsley watched them go.
“What do you think of him?” asked the lady. Anthony smiled at her.
“Of him or of his story?”
Miss Kingsley smiled back. “Either—or both. Just as you choose.”
“Well—I think he’s a wrong ’un, if that’s what you mean—but I’m inclined to think that his story this time is true. That is to say in the main. But as regards that, I should be interested to have your opinion.”
Rosamund Kingsley knitted her brows. “His answers were very ‘pat’—to use your word—when he came to Chislehurst that night. So ‘pat,’ indeed, that I think he must have rehearsed them many times.”
Anthony nodded, “Exactly, Miss Kingsley. Which confirms my own opinion.”
Rosamund Kingsley rose to make her departure. “Goodnight, Mr. Bathurst. And thanks for your help.”
She held out her hand. “Surely,” replied Anthony Bathurst, “the boot should be on the other foot.”
V
Anthony moved to answer the telephone. He found MacMorran at the other end.
“Hallo, Andrew. What is it this time?”
MacMorran chuckled at the question. “I’ve got Playfair here. In accordance with your request. Will you come along now—or after lunch?”
“Now, my dear Andrew As near now as ever was. Expect me within half an hour. In fact I’m on my way already. Cheero.”
Anthony shoved the receiver back, called out to Emily regarding his intentions, and clattered down the stairs. He was with MacMorran in his private room within twenty-two minutes. Capt. Ronald Playfair was sitting at the side of the Inspector’s desk. He nodded cordially as Anthony entered.
“Morning, Bathurst. How are things?”
“Not so bad,” returned Anthony—“but they’re going to be better.”
“Confident?” smiled back Playfair.
“Very,” returned Anthony—“almost, in fact, at the end of the road.”
MacMorran came in. “When we’ve done with you this morning we shall be more confident than ever. Now this is what Bathurst and I want to talk to you about. Sit down here, Mr. Bathurst, will you?”
Anthony took his place on the other side of the Inspector’s desk. “It is only appropriate,” commenced MacMorran, “that we should confer with you with regard to this particular point because we owe the ‘contact’ to you in the first place. If it hadn’t been for your help we should never have been in touch with the matter at all.” MacMorran paused—to go on again almost immediately. “I refer to the flat at Remington where the dachshund was shown in the window.” Playfair moved eagerly towards the Inspector. His face was alight with interest. “Really—and what have you discovered?”
MacMorran held up his hand. “Just a moment, Capt. Playfair. Don’t let us travel too fast, if you please. Mr. Bathurst and I made certain inquiries at the Remington flats. Some time ago. We weren’t able to pick up very much. In fact, when we arrived there, such animals as dachshunds were conspicuous by their absence. But we were fortunate enough to run across one other rather important detail.”
“What was that, Inspector?” Playfair cut in without ceremony. He obviously believed in the theory he had put before Anthony some time previously.
“The flat to which you called Mr. Bathurst’s attention some time ago was empty. Note that, sir. It had become empty, according to the caretaker, somewhere about the end of the month of April. The caretaker was able to fix the date from the date of the Remington hotel murders.”
MacMorran paused again—to see the effect of his words on Playfair. But the latter was still keenly interested and nodded eagerly.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “that’s significant—say what you like—go on!”
“The caretaker told us about the people who had been in the flat. A man and a girl. He wasn’t sure of their actual relationship. But he told us their names. The man’s name was Otto Wenzel.”
Playfair started in his seat. “German,” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Anthony quickly. “We thought you’d be interested.”
“What was the name of the girl?” demanded Playfair. “Unfortunately we’re not sure of that. Our friend of the flats wasn’t able to tell us. Beyond the Christian name. Which was Elsa.”
“Elsa,” muttered Playfair. “Otto Wenzel and Elsa.”
“Well,” inquired Anthony, “can you tell us anything? Do the names rake anything off the memory-heap?”
Playfair sat back, deep in thought. He saw again the crowds running down the Konigsgratzer Strasse while the Reichstag was burning. He saw the red dachshunds when the moron, Van der Lubbe, stood his trial.
“What were these people like to look at? Any idea?”
MacMorran glanced towards Anthony Bathurst. Anthony nodded. “I’ll have a go,” he said, “entirely from memory. These are the words of the caretaker. Otto Wenzel. Tall, nearly a six-footer. Thin. Lean, hungry face. Yon Cassius himself. Blue eyes. Deep set. Nervous. What else was there about him?” Anthony thought hard. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. Suddenly he looked up. “I know. I’ve got it. Hair brown and a scar on the left cheek. Now for the girl. Elsa Query. A blonde. Neat and trim. Blue eyes. Middle height. Five-sixish. But according to our caretaking friend, definitely ‘easy on the eye.’ He was prepared, he told us, to dare all for love.”
“Anything else?” questioned Playfair.
“Don’t think so.”
“The descriptions might well fit thousands. That’s the worst of them.”
There was a silence as Playfair thought things over. After a time he glanced across and asked another question. “Just a minute; something you haven’t told me. Ages. What were the ages of these people?”
Anthony responded readily. “Again, according to the taker of care, Otto in the middle thirties, Elsa about ten years his junior.”
Playfair repeated the ages. “Otto Wenzel, say thirty-five, Elsa, twenty-five.” Then he swung round on the Inspector. “Where did these people go when they left Remington?”
MacMorran shook a disappointed head. “We’ve run up against a blank wall. In fact, we haven’t been able to trace either the man or the woman. The only information we’ve been able to get is that they went ‘somewhere in the Midlands.’ All our inquiries in the likely towns and places have drawn blank.”
Playfair frowned. “Why did they leave Remington like they did? Do you know if any reason was given?”
“The ostensible reason was that the man left to go to a better job.”
“What was Wenzel by trade? I presume you have made inquiries about it?”
“Naturally. I’ve been in touch with the firm that employed him. His trade was rather unusual. He was a scientific instrument maker. He worked for Fry and Davis, the Exeter people, who have a small factory on the outskirts of Remington.”
Playfair frowned a second time. It was evident that he was feeling far from pleased. “Well—surely that fact would help. Help materially. It would have made the man much more easily traced. How many firms are there in the Midlands where Wenzel could have got a job? Find that out—and get into touch with them.”
MacMorran held up his hand. “Exactly,” he commented drily. “Nothing easier. Nothing more simple. That’s what I thought when I first started the Wenzel line. But unfortunately it hasn’t turned out like that. We’ve made inquiries of all the likely firms up there and not one of them has ever heard of Otto Wenzel, and what’s more—not one of them has engaged a man anything like him. So you see, Capt. Playfair, there’s a wide gulf between theory and practice.” Having delivered himself of this homily, MacMorran sat back in his chair and looked at Playfair. The latter looked more annoyed than ever.
“I should have thought—” he began.
“I know,” said the Inspector, “so should I. But it didn’t and it wasn’t. I’ll tell you this. We can’t trace Wenzel. We’ve tried everywhere. Not only in the Midlands. We haven’t confined our efforts to that one district. Not on your life. It’s my belief he went back to the Fatherland. Straight from his job at Remington.”
Playfair seemed lost in thought. “Tell me,” he said after a time, “did this firm you mentioned—Fry and Davis, wasn’t it—know what relation of Otto Wenzel’s the girl was?”
“No. She wasn’t employed by them and they knew nothing about her.” MacMorran half-smiled. “No, Captain Playfair, I’m very much afraid that I can’t help you at all. I apologize for my—” He paused, seemingly at a loss for a word.
Anthony supplied the necessity. “Negligences and ignorances.”
MacMorran grinned. “All right. Have it that way if you like. It’s all the same to me.”
Playfair sat there, his left leg raised and his two hands clasped across the knee-cap. “I’m wondering if I can do anything in the way of identifying them. It’s a pretty difficult job, believe me—on the evidence you’ve put in front of me. The description might suit at least a hundred couples of whom I could think without the slightest difficulty. That’s the trouble.”
His eyes took on a far-away look. After a time he broke his reverie and came down to earth again.
“Look here, you chaps,” he said, “leave this to me. When I get back home I’ll have a look at one or two things I’ve got there, and I may be lucky enough to run across something. I’ve got several records that I can look into, and I may strike a clue as to the identity of your two Remington suspects. It would be useless for me to take a shot in the dark when by waiting a few hours I have access to so much important data in my house. See what I mean?”
MacMorran concurred immediately. “All right,” he declared. “That suits me. Mr. Bathurst and I will wait to hear what you may have to tell us.”
He looked towards Anthony as though requesting his support. Mr. Bathurst rose and stretched his arms to the ceiling.
“Very well, then,” he said quietly, “we’ll wait for Captain Playfair to communicate with us. Let’s hope he won’t be too long over it.”
Playfair laughed gaily, shook hands with the two men and made his way out. When he had gone, Chief-Inspector MacMorran sat back in his chair and delivered himself of a profound judgment.
“The most difficult problem that I’ve ever been called upon to solve. What do you say to that, Mr. Bathurst?”
“On the contrary, Andrew—as I see it, matters are becoming more simple every day. By the end of the week—”
MacMorran interrupted him. “You’ll be as far away from a solution as ever.”
Anthony shook his head in denial of the statement. “By the end of the week, Andrew, I hope to be in a position to say: ‘Andrew—your handcuffs—here’s your guilty person’—and it’s something more than a hope—believe me.”