Collected works of j s f.., p.433
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 433
“I’ll have something out of him!” muttered Blick. “Something he must know — and he’ll have to speak!”
With that resolve strong in his mind he sought Grimsdale, ordered breakfast for seven-thirty sharp next morning, and bade the landlord have a cab ready to carry him into Selcaster at eight o’clock.
CHAPTER XIV
GONE
THESE MATTERS ARRANGED and dismissed from his thoughts, Blick, having had enough of business for that night, turned into the bar-parlour of the Sceptre, minded for a little relaxation before retiring to bed. He had been in there once or twice since taking up his quarters at the inn; usually there were two or three Markenmore men to be found round the fire, a farmer or two, the miller, the carpenter, the blacksmith, engaged in discussing the latest news of the village; Blick liked to hear them talk. But on this occasion the room was almost empty; there was in fact, nobody in it but a little, meek-and-mild looking man in a tweed knickerbocker suit, who sat thoughtful and solitary near the hearth, and turned an unusually large pair of spectacles on the detective with a sort of apologetic look. He moved his chair back a little, as if to invite Blick to the cheery blaze.
“Thank you,” said Blick. He dropped into a chair facing the stranger and drew out his pipe and tobacco. “A bit of fire’s quite welcome, though we’re nearly in May,” he opened.
“Very welcome indeed, sir,” responded the other. “Especially when you’ve been out in the open all day!”
“Been walking?” asked Blick, with a glance at the stranger’s knickerbockers.
“I have, sir! Done thirty miles today before I came to this place,” replied the stranger. “Right across the downs. I always take a holiday twice a year — early spring and late autumn — and spend it pedestrianizing. Run all over this particular part of the South in my time. But I never came to this particular village until today. And I confess that what led me here — for in the ordinary way I should have put up at Selcaster — was curiosity! I read in the newspapers about this Markenmore mystery — so being near, I thought I’d like to see the place.”
“Queer business, isn’t it?” said Blick.
“Queer indeed, sir!” agreed the stranger. “You’re interested in it, sir?”
“Got to be,” answered Blick laconically. “Professionally.”
The stranger brought his big spectacles to bear on Blick and regarded him with rapt attention. Then he bent forward and spoke in a hushed voice.
“Is it possible, sir, that I have the pleasure of meeting the famous Detective-Sergeant Blick, whose name I have heard in connection with this case?” he asked almost reverentially. “Do I see Mr. Blick in the flesh?”
“You do!” replied Blick. “All there is of him!”
“Bless me!” exclaimed the stranger. “Very proud, I’m sure, to meet you, sir. My name’s Crawley — I come from Tooting. Rate-collector, Mr. Blick — an arduous and humdrum occupation, sir, but it keeps me in form for walking, of which exercise I’m passionately fond. Dear me! Now, it may seem an extraordinary thing, but do you know, sir, in the course of my five-and-forty years of existence I have never met a gentleman of your profession before! A very exciting and engrossing profession, I believe, sir — quite adventurous?”
“Depends,” said Blick. “Dull and monotonous enough, sometimes. You can, of course, get excitement and adventure out of a problem in mathematics — but there isn’t much of either in doing a long sum of compound addition, is there?”
Mr. Crawley looked his admiration — and his failure to comprehend.
“I mean,” added Blick, “that our job is very often one of adding this to that, and that to this — until you’ve got a total.”
“Very good, sir, very good — I see your meaning!” said Mr. Crawley, rubbing his hands. “Oh, very good indeed, sir — an excellent illumination! It wouldn’t be fair of me, I suppose, to ask if you’ve arrived at a total in this Markenmore problem, Mr. Blick?”
“I can soon answer that for you,” said Blick. “I haven’t!”
“A very stiff nut to crack, I should think, sir,” remarked Mr. Crawley. “I read all the evidence in the paper — the Daily Sentinel, Mr. Blick — as I sat on a hill-side eating my modest lunch: very interesting indeed — more interesting, sir, than any of those sensational novels that people borrow from the libraries — oh, much more! Real life, sir!”
“Make anything out of it?” suggested Blick. “Got any opinion?”
Mr. Crawley glanced at the door and lowered his voice.
“I have opinions, Mr. Blick,” he answered. “Yes, sir, I have opinions. I am not a betting man, sir, but I would lay money that I know what is at the bottom of this affair!”
“Aye? What, now?” asked Blick. “Always glad of an idea.”
“Money!” said Mr. Crawley solemnly. “Money, sir — money!”
“Just — how?” enquired Blick.
Mr. Crawley took off his spectacles, revealed a pair of weak, dreamy eyes, and shook his head.
“I think the unfortunate young man, Mr. Guy Markenmore — queer name, sir! — was followed. Tracked!” he answered. “Tracked, sir! With money at the bottom of it — yes!”
“Do you mean that he was robbed as well as murdered?” asked Blick.
“No, sir — I don’t mean that at all,” said Mr. Crawley with emphatic decision. “I observed that Mr. Guy Markenmore’s property and money were left untouched. No — I mean that money is at the bottom of the mystery of his murder — that he was murdered by some evil person who will benefit by his death — in a pecuniary sense, Mr. Blick, a pecuniary sense. I may be wrong,” concluded Mr. Crawley; “I may be wholly and entirely wrong — but, on the evidence, sir, such is my opinion. And I have served on a jury — more than once.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if there’s a good deal in what you say,” admitted Blick. “There’s generally some question of money at the bottom of all these things. However,” he added, as he pulled out his watch and yawned in the act, “up to now I’ve got precious little light on the subject — perhaps I’ll get a bit more tomorrow.”
Then, with a laughing remark that even detectives must sleep occasionally, he bade Mr. Crawley good night and went off to bed.
Mr. Crawley flung him a last remark as he left the room, accompanied by a wag of his forefinger.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Blick — though a gentleman of your ability and experience needs no reminding of it, I’m sure — don’t forget that it’s always the unexpected that happens! The unexpected, sir! — Ah, there’s a great deal in the unexpected! No one knows, sir, what the morrow may not bring forth!”
“Guess you’re about right there, Mr. Crawley,” asserted Blick. “You’ve hit it in one this time!”
He had no idea of what the morrow would bring forth, neither then, nor when he presently fell fast asleep, nor when he woke in the morning, nor when, at eight o’clock, he climbed up into the trap in which Grimsdale was to drive him into Selcaster. Mr. Crawley, who had also breakfasted early, stood at the Inn door when Blick emerged; he was equipped for walking, and was fastening a small satchel on his shoulders.
“Off?” enquired Blick.
“Only for the day, sir,” replied Mr. Crawley. “I am going to have a full and glorious day on the downs — behold the receptacle of my lunch! And I am so well satisfied with the Sceptre, Mr. Blick, that I propose to make it my headquarters for the rest of my holiday, so I shall perhaps have the pleasure of seeing you tonight, sir — when,” he added in a whisper, “I trust the day may have brought forth! — profitably, eh?”
“You never know your luck!” responded Blick.
He said little to the landlord as they drove into Selcaster, but when they came to the ancient Market Cross in the middle of the old city, he laid a hand on his arm.
“Grimsdale,” he said, “pull up, and set me down here. I’m going to see the Chief Constable — I’ll walk along the street. And listen — I want you to stop in Selcaster a bit. Be down at the station at ten o’clock sharp. I’ll see you there.”
He got out of the trap and went off in the direction of the Chief Constable’s office, and Grimsdale turned into the big courtyard of the Mitre, to wait until the appointed time. At five minutes to ten he went down to the station, and handing over his horse and trap to the care of the boy, walked upon the up platform. The London express was nearly due, and, as usual, there were many passengers awaiting its arrival: the platform was thronged. But Grimsdale was quick to observe that Blick was there, and that near him, mingling with the crowd, were two or three plainclothes policemen of the local force; clearly Blick was expecting somebody. And Grimsdale, a bit of straw protruding from his lips, watched, keen-eyed and observant.
Ten o’clock chimed from the many towers in the city, and nothing had happened. In five minutes more the big express would come thundering in; in eight it would have glided away again on its sixty-mile run to London. At one minute past ten Mr. Blick, who was keeping a sharp watch on the booking-office, left the platform and went outside the station. As he emerged on the open space in front, William Pegge, driving Mrs. Tretheroe’s smart dog-cart, came racing up — alone.
Pegge singled Blick out from the folk who hung about the station doors and pulled up right before him. The detective was at the side of the dog-cart in an instant. His eyes went to the vacant seat at the groom’s side.
“Where is he?” he asked in a sharp whisper.
Pegge bent down.
“Gone!” he answered. “Hooked it during the night! Nobody in his room this morning; clean disappeared! Mrs. Tretheroe sent me in to tell the police — she says something’s happened to him.”
“Happened to him? What does she mean?” growled Blick.
Pegge bent still lower. As he spoke they heard the express coming — it entered the station behind them with a roar and a rattle that died away into the hiss of escaping steam as the engine pulled up and came to its brief rest.
“I heard Mrs. Tretheroe say to the housekeeper that the Baron often went out walking very late at night,” he answered. “She said he’s a bad sleeper, and goes out walking to make himself sleep. I made out that she thought he’d gone out that way during the night, and she believes he’s had an accident, or something of that sort. She’s sending folk round for him, and I’m to tell the police here.”
“Wait a minute,” said Blick. The people who had got out of the express were coming from the exits; he moved out of their way. “You’ve no idea what time he went out?” he asked, glancing at Pegge.
“I’ve no idea,” replied Pegge. “I did hear that he went to bed at his usual time, but — —” He paused. Grimsdale had come bustling up and was tapping Blick’s elbow. Blick turned quickly. Grimsdale pointed to a tall man who had just emerged from the station and stood at its principal entrance looking about him.
“There!” said Grimsdale. “That man! That’s him — the man who came to the Sceptre on Monday night — the American!”
At that moment the tall man caught sight of Grimsdale, started, smiled, nodded, and came hastily across.
“Hello, landlord!” he said. “The very man I was waiting to see! Say! — how’s this affair about Guy Markenmore going on? I’ve travelled all night to reach this city so that I could tell about things — never heard of it myself till yesterday evening, right down at Falmouth! Have they laid hands on anybody?”
Grimsdale was looking from the stranger to Blick, and Blick hastened to speak.
“Are you the man with whom Guy Markenmore had supper at the Sceptre last Monday midnight?” he asked abruptly. “The man who booked a room there and never occupied it?”
“I am that man,” replied the stranger, with a ready nod and smile. “No other!”
“Do you mind telling me who you are?” asked Blick. “And what you are?”
“I do not! My name is Edward Lansbury, and I’m a financier, with businesses in New York and in London. Who are you and what’s your business?”
“Detective-Sergeant Blick, of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard! I have this case in hand, Mr. Lansbury, and I’ll be glad if you’ll tell me what you know about it.”
“Sure! Everything! That’s what I’ve run up from Falmouth for. Where’ll we talk?”
“Come this way,” said Blick. The plain-clothes men had come up behind him; he turned and whispered to them, and they went away in the direction of the police-station. “Don’t wait for me, Grimsdale,” he continued. “I shall be detained here for some time, so you can go back at once.”
But Grimsdale brought a hand out of his pocket, offering something to Lansbury.
“Your change, sir,” he said. “Three pound fourteen. Bill was twenty-six shillings, sir.”
Lansbury started, laughed, took the money, and handed some of the silver back.
“Guess I’d forgotten all about that!” he said. “Here! — get yourself a drink.”
“Thought you had, sir,” remarked Grimsdale, phlegmatic as ever. “Thank you, sir.”
He went over to his trap and drove off, and Blick signed to his companion to follow him towards the Chief Constable’s office.
“I’m truly thankful you came, Mr. Lansbury,” he said, as they walked up the street. “Everything’s in more or less of a fog about this affair!”
“Well, beyond what I know myself — which is not a great deal — all I know of it has been got from a London paper that I picked up in my hotel at Falmouth yesterday evening,” said Lansbury. “I set off here almost at once — been on the train practically all night. What’s the latest development?”
“The latest development,” replied Blick, “is one of which I’ve only heard within the last few minutes. Do you know the Baron von Eckhardstein?”
“Sure! I know him well. He was with me and Markenmore at the little inn that night — I left Markenmore and him together at three o’clock or so, Tuesday morning. Von Eckhardstein, of course, was the tall man that the landlord saw us walk up the road with — as, I saw, the landlord mentioned in his evidence.”
“Well — von Eckhardstein has disappeared! During this last night. Clean gone! I suppose you don’t know anything about that?”
“Less than nothing! But what’s all this about? Seems to me — —”
“Wait a bit,” interrupted Blick. “We’ll be alone with the Chief Constable in a minute. Then — tell me all you know. We want it!”
The Chief Constable, to whom Blick had sent a message by the plain-clothes men, was awaiting him and the new-comer in his private office. He looked at Lansbury with considerable interest, and suddenly asked a direct question.
“Are you the Mr. Edward Lansbury who had a good deal to do with the Vilona Real Estate Development Company some few years ago?” he enquired. “You are, eh? Um! — I’ve got a pretty fair holding in that — very profitable it’s been, too. And what can you tell of this Markenmore affair, Mr. Lansbury? We shall be very glad to know.”
Lansbury dropped into an easy chair at the side of the Chief Constable’s desk, and put the tips of his fingers together.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you all that I can tell — that is, all that I actually know. As regards the actual murder of Guy Markenmore, seems like it amounts to nothing; as regards what happened just before it, well, you must make out of that what you can! All I can tell you is as to what took place at the Sceptre Inn.”
“And why you, Markenmore, and von Eckhardstein met there,” said Blick quietly.
“Sure! Well, as to why we met there,” continued Lansbury. “As I told you at the railway station just now, I am a financier. I have business interests in this country as well as in my own. I have an office in London, just as I have an office in New York. Naturally I know a great many financial operators in both countries. I knew Guy Markenmore well enough — a smart man who had done well. I know von Eckhardstein, not so well, but sufficiently. He, of course, is better known than I am, or than Markenmore was — known in London, Paris, and Vienna.”
“A German, I suppose?” asked the Chief Constable.
“No — von Eckhardstein is an Austrian,” said Lansbury. “Well — I have had dealings with these two — separately, you understand, never together — on various occasions, and always found them very good, straight men of business. Now, very recently, Markenmore wrote to me that he had a business deal on in which I should find it profitable to join, with the idea of developing its results in the States. He told me in a letter what it was — but I do not wish, at present, to tell you, for the thing is a most important secret. I will, of course, tell if it becomes necessary to do so in the interests of justice: that is, if my telling the precise details will help in the arrest of Markenmore’s murderer. But just now I would rather not say, and it’s not relative to the pertinent matter. It’s sufficient to tell you that Markenmore had the chance — an option, in fact — of buying a certain something from a certain somebody, and he invited me to go in with him; his proposition was that I should acquire one-third, he would take up another, and we would find a third man to buy the remaining third. We had a little correspondence about the thing to be purchased — I may tell you that that thing was a trade secret. While we had this correspondence, Markenmore was in London, and I was at either Southampton or at Falmouth — I have business at both places just now. Now, about the middle of last week, Markenmore wrote to me and said that as I was at Southampton, would I meet him at the Sceptre Inn, Markenmore, Selcaster, on the next Monday night? — he was going to Markenmore Court that evening, he said, on family business, and would join me at the Sceptre when it was over — at ten-thirty or so. We fixed this up. I came on from Southampton by an evening train, walked out to Markenmore, booked a room at the Sceptre, and ordered supper for two. While it was being got ready, I took a walk outside — I had been kept indoors a great deal for some days in a close-atmosphered place, and I was enjoying the fresh air. I strolled outside this village of Markenmore, and I met von Eckhardstein.”
