THE MAN WITH THE DARK BEARD (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
Tuesday night, as ever was, sir, it were."
"And what time?" Sir Felix pursued, adopting his cross-examining manner.
"About half-past nine, sir, putting it as near as I can. Leastways it couldn't have been more than a few minutes past, for I hear it strike the half-hour from St. Michael's Church after I come into the Square. Looking out for a job, I were, for I had had a lean time last week, and I see—"
"Rather late to be looking for a job, wasn't it?" Sir Felix again interposed.
"Well, no, sir. There's often new folks coming in with boxes then and I picks up a copper or two."
"Well, now go on. What did you see?"
"I see a tall gent come into the Square from St. Michael's way; right across out into Benbow Street he went, and across to Lower Park Road. I kep' on the same way thinking he might want a taxi or some'at. But in Lower Park Road he opens the green door in the wall as I know were Dr. Bastow's." He stopped, drawing in his breath.
"Well, well, go on!" said Sir Felix impatiently.
"I were surprised, sir, for I knowed that door was not opened, 'cept for something very special an' I stood an' waited, thinking it looked like a job. Then a woman came along and went in, an' I—"
"A woman—what sort of a woman?" Sir Felix interposed.
The man stared round vaguely.
"A—just a woman, sir."
"Old or young?"
"Well, I couldn't rightly say, sir. She didn't look old, not as I could see. Her petticoats was short and her stockings was light like."
"Everybody's are," the inspector remarked. "Was she tall or short—this woman?"
"Well, short-like, sir. I call to mind I thought she looked a little 'un, going in after the man. He were tall."
"Now, can you tell us what he was like?" Sir Felix was resuming his cross-examination.
Turner scratched his head.
"Well, he was tall, sir. As tall or maybe taller than yourself. An' he had a darkish beard, which I noticed, not so many folks wearing 'em nowadays."
Sir Felix nodded.
"Sure enough! You seem to be a man of observation after all, my friend. Now can you tell us anything more you noticed? His clothes, for example?"
Turner hesitated a moment, taking out a grimy pocket-handkerchief and blowing his nose noisily.
"He 'ad a bowler 'at on, sir—my lord, and dark clothes—one of them short jackets what everybody wears."
"And you heard nothing while you were waiting there? No opening or closing of doors, or talking, as if this man and woman had met?" the inspector interrogated sharply. He was not disposed to leave quite everything even to Sir Felix Skrine.
"Not as long as I was there, sir," the man answered. "But I were in luck's way that night. I had a call from the other side of the road. And I hear no more from Dr. Bastow's. Nor give the man another thought, not even when I heard the doctor was dead. Not till this morning when the policeman come asking me questions like."
"Well, I think that is all, for now, my man," the inspector finished. "You will be wanted later."
Turner touched his forehead awkwardly and shambled out of the room.
The inspector looked at Sir Felix.
"Well, Sir Felix?"
"Well!" Sir Felix looked back.
"What do you make of that?" the inspector went on.
"I don't know," Sir Felix said slowly. "It is a curious statement. But it bears out the paper on the desk, if it is true."
"Why, you don't doubt it?" The inspector's tone was staccato, quite evidently this decrying of his witness did not please him.
Sir Felix raised his eyebrows.
"He will not be much of a witness to produce, will he? And it seems strange that he should say that he saw a man and a woman go into the garden. I cannot believe the murderer would take anyone 'with him. I know that sort of street lounger pretty well, inspector, and I must confess that my experience has taught me that no sort of reliance whatever can be placed on the word of one of them; moreover, if any inquiry is going on, they thoroughly enjoy telling some sort of a yarn—I fancy they imagine it will make the police regard them more favourably."
"Do they?" The inspector's smile was grim. "But there is one little item that you have not heard yet, Sir Felix."
"What is that?" Sir Felix asked quickly. The inspector was evidently enjoying the impression he had created.
"Turner spoke of seeing the man with the dark beard who entered Dr. Bastow's garden coming across the north side of Rufford Square." Sir Felix nodded.
"Well?"
The inspector waited a moment.
"Well," he said slowly at last, "Rufford Square, like most of the streets in this neighbourhood, is built on clay. The roads, of course, have been macadamized far past any recognition of this fact. But some repairs to the water main have been going on the north side of Rufford Square. The ground is strewn with red clay. In Dr. Bastow's consulting-room, by the door and behind his chair, I found tiny fragments of red clay—particles, perhaps I should say, but perfectly visible under the magnifying-glass. Dr. Bastow's murderer came across the north side of Rufford Square, for it is the only place in this neighbourhood where any red clay is to be found. So Turner's story is corroborated, you see, Sir Felix."
Skrine nodded.
"I see what you mean. Yes, it is strong corroboration. Now we have to find this man—which seems about as hopeful as looking for the proverbial needle in a bundle of hay."
"The man with the dark beard—and the woman," the inspector corrected. "I am by no means hopeless, Sir Felix."
Skrine shrugged his shoulders.
"On the face of it you seem to have only a slender clue to work upon. But you have done some wonderful work, inspector, and I think—more, I believe, that this case will be one of your successes."
"I think it will be," the inspector said confidently. "'It was the Man with the Dark Beard'; that didn't seem much of a clue when we found those words written, did it, Sir Felix? But see how it is developing. It mightn't have anything to do with the murder, we both thought at first. But now here comes a witness who actually saw a man with a dark beard go into the doctor's garden on the very night of his death."
The great lawyer's brow was furrowed, he passed his hand over it wearily. Since his friend's death he had begun to look his real age.
"With Turner's evidence we ought to be able to find him. Not, as I have said before, that he will be a satisfactory witness. Still, it is not as if every second man you meet wore a beard nowadays. Bar the King, and a few members of the admiring aristocracy who follow his lead, nearly everybody is clean-shaven nowadays. The beard is certainly a clue. But it may be shaved off now."
"Yes," assented the detective. "The shaving may help ultimately to identify our man too. But what makes me more hopeful than anything else is that some one knows who he is, Sir Felix."
"What?" Skrine stared at him. "I don't seem able to follow you this morning, Stoddart. Perhaps it's because it is my greatest friend who has been foully done to death. You mean that there is more than one in it—that this woman—"
"I don't know." The detective hesitated. "No, I think not. But I am certain that some one knows who the man with the dark beard is. And I am pretty sure also that that some one is living or at any rate is some one; who comes in and out of this house."
"Why? What ground have you for making; such an assertion?" Sir Felix had resumed his best cross-examination manner now. His blue eyes were focused upon the detective as though they would wring the truth out of him.
"Well,