Collected works of j s f.., p.355
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 355
“No, sir.”
“All the same, some one could have come here during that time without your seeing him?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“Well, at last Mr. Herapath came out. Where did he rejoin you?”
“In the middle of the road, sir — right opposite that statue in the Square gardens.”
“Did he say anything particular then?”
“No, sir. He walked sharply across, opened the door, said ‘Home’ and jumped in.”
“You didn’t notice anything unusual about him?”
“Nothing, sir — unless it was that he hung his head down rather as he came across — same as if he was thinking hard, sir.”
“You drove straight home to Portman Square, then. What time did you get there?”
“Exactly one o’clock, sir.”
“You’re certain about that time?”
“Certain, sir. It was just five minutes past one when I drove into our mews.”
“Now, then, be careful about this, Mountain. I want to know exactly what happened when you drove up to the house. Tell us in your own way.”
The coachman looked round amongst the listeners as if he were a little perplexed. “Why, sir,” he answered, turning back to Barthorpe, “there was nothing happened! At least, I mean to say, there was nothing happened that didn’t always happen on such occasions — Mr. Herapath got out of the brougham, shut the door, said ‘Good night,’ and went up the steps, taking his latch-key out of his pocket as he crossed the pavement, sir. That was all, sir.”
“Did you actually see him enter the house?”
“No, sir,” replied Mountain, with a decisive shake of the head. “I couldn’t say that I did that. I saw him just putting the key in the latch as I drove off.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“That’s all I know, sir — all.”
Barthorpe, after a moment’s hesitation, turned to the police-inspector.
“Is there anything that occurs to you?” he asked.
“One or two things occur to me,” answered the inspector. “But I’m not going to ask any questions now. I suppose all you want at present is to get a rough notion of how things were last night?”
“Just so,” assented Barthorpe. “A rough notion — that’s it. Well, Kitteridge, it’s your turn. Who found out that Mr. Herapath wasn’t in the house this morning?”
“Charlesworth, sir — Mr. Herapath’s valet,” replied the butler. “He always called Mr. Herapath at a quarter past seven every morning. When he went into the bedroom this morning Mr. Herapath wasn’t there, and the bed hadn’t been slept in. Then Charlesworth came and told me, sir, and of course I went to the study at once, and then I saw that, wherever Mr. Herapath might be then, he certainly had been home.”
“You judged that from — what?” asked Barthorpe.
“Well, sir, it’s been the rule to leave a supper-tray out for Mr. Herapath. Not much, sir — whisky and soda, a sandwich or two, a dry biscuit. I saw that he’d had something, sir.”
“Somebody else might have had it — eh?”
“Yes, sir, but then you see, I’d had Mountain fetched by that time, and he told me that he’d seen Mr. Herapath letting himself in at one o’clock. So of course I knew the master had been in.”
Barthorpe hesitated, seemed to ponder matters for a moment, and then rose. “I don’t think we need go into things any further just now,” he said. “You, Kitteridge, and you, Mountain, can go home. Don’t talk — that is, don’t talk any more than is necessary. I suppose,” he went on, turning to the inspector when the two servants and the caretaker had left the room. “I suppose you’ll see to all the arrangements we spoke of?”
“They’re being carried out already,” answered the inspector. “Of course,” he added, drawing closer to Barthorpe and speaking in lower tones, “when the body’s been removed, you’ll join me in making a thorough inspection of the room? We haven’t done that yet, you know, and it should be done. Wouldn’t it be best,” he continued with a glance at Peggie and a further lowering of his voice, “if the young lady went back to Portman Square?”
“Just so, just so — I’ll see to it,” answered Barthorpe. “You go and keep people out of the way for a few minutes, and I’ll get her off.” He turned to his cousin when the two officers had left the room and motioned her to rise. “Now, Peggie,” he said, “you must go home. I shall come along there myself in an hour or two — there are things to be done which you and I must do together. Mr. Selwood — will you take Miss Wynne out to the car? And then, please, come back to me — I want your assistance for a while.”
Peggie walked out of the room and to the car without demur or comment. But as she was about to take her seat she turned to Selwood.
“Why didn’t Mr. Tertius come into the room just now?” she demanded.
Selwood hesitated. Until then he had thought that Peggie had heard the brief exchange of words between Barthorpe and Mr. Tertius at the door.
“Didn’t you hear what was said at the door when we were all coming in?” he asked suddenly, looking attentively at her.
“I heard my cousin and Mr. Tertius talking, but I couldn’t catch what was said,” she replied. “If you did, tell me — I want to know.”
“Mr. Barthorpe Herapath refused to admit Mr. Tertius,” said Selwood.
“Refused?” she exclaimed. “Refused?”
“Refused,” repeated Selwood. “That’s all I know.”
Peggie sat down and gave him an enigmatic look.
“You, of course, will come back to the house when — when you’ve finished here?” she said.
“I don’t know — I suppose — really, I don’t know,” answered Selwood. “You see, I — I, of course, don’t know exactly where I am, now. I suppose I must take my orders from — your cousin.”
Peggie gave him another look, more enigmatic than the other.
“That’s nonsense!” she said sharply. “Of course, you’ll come. Do whatever it is that Barthorpe wants just now, but come on to Portman Square as soon as you’ve done it — I want you. Go straight home, Robson,” she went on, turning to the chauffeur.
Selwood turned slowly and unwillingly back to the office door as the car moved off. And as he set his foot on the first step a young man came running up the entry — not hurrying but running — and caught him up and hailed him.
“Mr. Selwood?” he said, pantingly. “You’ll excuse me — you’re Mr. Herapath’s secretary, aren’t you? — I’ve seen you with him. I’m Mr. Triffitt, of the Argus — I happened to call in at the police-station just now, and they told me of what had happened here, so I rushed along. Will you tell me all about it, Mr. Selwood? — it’ll be a real scoop for me — I’ll hustle down to the office with it at once, and we’ll have a special out in no time. And whether you know it or not, that’ll help the police. Give me the facts, Mr. Selwood!”
Selwood stared at the ardent collector of news; then he motioned him to follow, and led him into the hall to where Barthorpe Herapath was standing with the police-inspector.
“This is a newspaper man,” he said laconically, looking at Barthorpe. “Mr. Triffitt, of the Argus. He wants the facts of this affair.”
Barthorpe turned and looked the new-comer up and down. Triffitt, who had almost recovered his breath, pulled out a card and presented it with a bow. And Barthorpe suddenly seemed to form a conclusion.
“All right!” he said. “Mr. Selwood, you know all the facts. Take Mr. Triffitt into that room we’ve just left, and give him a résumé of them. And — listen! we can make use of the press. Mention two matters, which seem to me to be of importance. Tell of the man who came out of the House of Commons with my uncle last night — ask him if he’ll come forward. And, as my uncle must have returned to this office after he’d been home, and as he certainly wouldn’t walk here, ask for information as to who drove him down to Kensington from Portman Square. Don’t tell this man too much — give him the bare outlines on how matters stand.”
The reporter wrote at lightning speed while Selwood, who had some experience of condensation, gave him the news he wanted. Finding that he was getting a first-class story, Triffitt asked no questions and made no interruptions. But when Selwood was through with the account, he looked across the table with a queer glance of the eye.
“I say!” he said. “This is a strange case!”
“Why so strange?” asked Selwood.
“Why? Great Scott! — I reckon it’s an uncommonly strange case,” exclaimed Triffitt. “It’s about a dead certainty that Herapath was in his own house at Portman Square at one o’clock, isn’t it?”
“Well?” said Selwood.
“And yet according to the doctor who examined him at eight o’clock he’d been dead quite eight hours!” said Triffitt. “That means he died at twelve o’clock — an hour before he’s supposed to have been at his house! Queer! But all the queerer, all the better — for me! Now I’m off — for the present. This’ll be on the streets in an hour, Mr. Selwood. Nothing like the press, sir!”
Therewith he fled, and the secretary suddenly found himself confronting a new idea. If the doctor was right and Jacob Herapath had been shot dead at midnight, how on earth could he possibly have been in Portman Square at one o’clock, an hour later?
CHAPTER V
THE GLASS AND THE SANDWICH
MR. TERTIUS, DISMISSED in such cavalier fashion by Barthorpe Herapath, walked out of the estate office with downcast head — a superficial observer might have said that he was thoroughly crestfallen and brow-beaten. But by the time he had reached the road outside, the two faint spots of colour which had flushed his cheeks when Barthorpe turned him away had vanished, and he was calm and collected enough when, seeing a disengaged taxi-cab passing by, he put up his hand and hailed it. The voice which bade the driver go to Portman Square was calm enough, too — Mr. Tertius had too much serious work immediately in prospect to allow himself to be disturbed by a rudeness.
He thought deeply about that work as the taxi-cab whirled him along; he was still thinking about it when he walked into the big house in Portman Square. In there everything was very quiet. The butler was away at Kensington; the other servants were busily discussing the mystery of their master in their own regions. No one was aware that Mr. Tertius had returned, for he let himself into the house with his own latch-key, and went straight into Herapath’s study. There, if possible, everything was still quieter — the gloom of the dull November morning seemed to be doubly accentuated in the nooks and corners; there was a sense of solitude which was well in keeping with Mr. Tertius’s knowledge of what had happened. He looked at the vacant chair in which he had so often seen Jacob Herapath sitting, hard at work, active, bustling, intent on getting all he could out of every minute of his working day, and he sighed deeply.
But in the moment of sighing Mr. Tertius reflected that there was no time for regret. It was a time — his time — for action; there was a thing to do which he wanted to do while he had the room to himself. Therefore he went to work, carefully and methodically. For a second or two he stood reflectively looking at the supper tray which still stood on the little table near the desk. With a light, delicate touch he picked up the glass which had been used and held it up to the light. He put it down again presently, went quietly out of the study to the dining-room across the hall, and returned at once with another glass precisely similar in make and pattern to the one which he had placed aside. Into that clear glass he poured some whisky, afterwards mixing with it some soda-water from the syphon — this mixture he poured away into the soil of a flower-pot which stood in the window. And that done he placed the second glass on the tray in the place where the first had stood, and picking up the first, in the same light, gingerly fashion, he went upstairs to his own rooms at the top of the house.
Five minutes later Mr. Tertius emerged from his rooms. He then carried in his hand a small, square bag, and he took great care to handle it very carefully as he went downstairs and into the square. At the corner of Orchard Street he got another taxi-cab and bade the driver go to Endsleigh Gardens. And during the drive he took the greatest pains to nurse the little bag on his knee, thereby preserving the equilibrium of the glass inside it.
Ringing the bell of one of the houses in Endsleigh Gardens, Mr. Tertius was presently confronted by a trim parlourmaid, whose smile was ample proof that the caller was well-known to her.
“Is the Professor in, Mary?” asked Mr. Tertius. “And if he is, is he engaged?”
The trim parlourmaid replied that the Professor was in, and that she hadn’t heard that he was particularly engaged, and she immediately preceded the visitor up a flight or two of stairs to a door, which in addition to being thickly covered with green felt, was set in flanges of rubber — these precautions being taken, of course, to ensure silence in the apartment within. An electric bell was set in the door; a moment or two elapsed before any response was made to the parlourmaid’s ring. Then the door automatically opened, the parlourmaid smiled at Mr. Tertius and retired; Mr. Tertius walked in; the door closed softly behind him.
The room in which the visitor found himself was a large and lofty one, lighted from the roof, from which it was also ventilated by a patent arrangement of electric fans. Everything that met the view betokened science, order, and method. The walls, destitute of picture or ornament, were of a smooth neutral tinted plaster; where they met the floor the corners were all carefully rounded off so that no dust could gather in cracks and crevices; the floor, too, was of smooth cement; there was no spot in which a speck of dust could settle in improper peace. A series of benches ran round the room, and gave harbourings to a collection of scientific instruments of strange appearance and shape; two large tables, one at either end of the room, were similarly equipped. And at a desk placed between them, and just then occupied in writing in a note-book, sat a large man, whose big muscular body was enveloped in a brown holland blouse or overall, fashioned something like a smock-frock of the old-fashioned rural labourer. He lifted a colossal, mop-like head and a huge hand as Mr. Tertius stepped across the threshold, and his spectacled eyes twinkled as their glance fell on the bag which the visitor carried so gingerly.
“Hullo, Tertius!” exclaimed the big man, in a deep, rich voice. “What have you got there? Specimens?”
Mr. Tertius looked round for a quite empty space on the adjacent bench, and at last seeing one, set his bag down upon it, and sighed with relief.
“My dear Cox-Raythwaite!” he said, mopping his forehead with a bandanna handkerchief which he drew from the tail of his coat. “I am thankful to have got these things here in — I devoutly trust! — safety. Specimens? Well, not exactly; though, to be sure, they may be specimens of — I don’t quite know what villainy yet. Objects? — certainly! Perhaps, my dear Professor, you will come and look at them.”
The Professor slowly lifted his six feet of muscle and sinew out of his chair, picked up a briar pipe which lay on his desk, puffed a great cloud of smoke out of it, and lounged weightily across the room to his visitor.
“Something alive?” he asked laconically. “Likely to bite?”
“Er — no!” replied Mr. Tertius. “No — they won’t bite. The fact is,” he went on, gingerly opening the bag, “this — er — this, or these are they.”
Professor Cox-Raythwaite bent his massive head and shoulders over the little bag and peered narrowly into its obscurity. Then he started.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “A glass tumbler! And — is it a sandwich? Why, what on earth — —”
He made as if to pull the glass out of the bag, and Mr. Tertius hastily seized the great hand in an agony of apprehension.
“My dear Cox-Raythwaite!” he said. “Pray don’t! Allow me — presently. When either of these objects is touched it must be in the most, quite the most, delicate fashion. Of course, I know you have a fairy-like gentleness of touch — but don’t touch these things yet. Let me explain. Shall we — suppose we sit down. Give me — yes — give me one of your cigars.”
The Professor, plainly mystified, silently pointed to a cigar box which stood on a corner of his desk, and took another look into the bag.
“A sandwich — and a glass!” he murmured reflectively. “Um! Well?” he continued, going back to his chair and dropping heavily into it. “And what’s it all about, Tertius? Some mystery, eh?”
Mr. Tertius drew a whiff or two of fragrant Havana before he replied. Then he too dropped into a chair and pulled it close to his friend’s desk.
“My dear Professor!” he said, in a low, thrilling voice, suggestive of vast importance, “I don’t know whether the secret of one of the most astounding crimes of our day may not lie in that innocent-looking bag — or, rather, in its present contents. Fact! But I’ll tell you — you must listen with your usual meticulous care for small details. The truth is — Jacob Herapath has, I am sure, been murdered!”
“Murdered!” exclaimed the Professor. “Herapath? Murder — eh? Now then, slow and steady, Tertius — leave out nothing!”
“Nothing!” repeated Mr. Tertius solemnly. “Nothing! You shall hear all. And this it is — point by point, from last night until — until the present moment. That is — so far as I know. There may have been developments — somewhere else. But this is what I know.”
When Mr. Tertius had finished a detailed and thorough-going account of the recent startling discovery and subsequent proceedings, to all of which Professor Cox-Raythwaite listened in profound silence, he rose, and tip-toeing towards the bag, motioned his friend to follow him.
“Now, my dear sir,” he said, whispering in his excitement as if he feared lest the very retorts and crucibles and pneumatic troughs should hear him, “Now, my dear sir, I wish you to see for yourself. First of all, the glass. I will take it out myself — I know exactly how I put it in. I take it out — thus! I place it on this vacant space — thus. Look for yourself, my dear fellow. What do you see?”
