Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy
the crown.
Furneaux, quivering with silent wrath, soon abandoned the search when this pièce de conviction was found at the root of the Dorothy Perkins rose-tree. Seeing the lamp relighted, he peremptorily bade Grant and Bates come in with him. He closed the window, adjusted the blind again, and poured generous measures of port wine into two glasses. Handing one to Bates, he took the other himself.
"Friend," he said, "some men have fame thrust upon them, but you have achieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here's to you!"
"I dunno wot 'ee's saying mister, but 'good health'," said Bates, swigging the wine with gusto.
"Now, for your master's sake, not a word to a soul about this hubbub."
"Right you are, sir! But that there pryin' Robinson wur on t' bridge five minutes since. And, by gum, here he is!"
A determined knock and ring came at the front door. Minnie, helped by Hart, had just escorted Mrs. Bates to the kitchen.
"Let me go!" said Furneaux, darting out into the hall. He opened the door, and thrust his face into the police-constable's, startling the latter considerably. Before Robinson could utter a syllable, the detective hissed a question.
"Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?"
"Nun—No, sir," stuttered the other.
"You saw no one running along the road?"
"Saw nothing, sir."
"Very well. Glad to find you're on the job. Don't let on you met me here. Good-night!"
Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back on his self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither why nor by whom nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been created. But he was quite sure the noise came from the garden front of Mr. Grant's house.
"That little hop-o'-me-thumb thinks he's smart, dam smart," he communed angrily, "but I've taken a line of me own, an' I'll stick to it, though the Yard sends down twenty men!"
He heard footsteps coming down a paved footpath which ran like a white riband through the cobble-beaded width of the high-street, and withdrew swiftly to the shelter of a disused tannery adjoining the village end of the bridge. A cloaked female figure sped past. Though the night was rather dark for June, he had no difficulty in recognizing Doris Martin's graceful movements. No other girl in Steynholme walked like her. She was slim enough to dispense with tight corsets, and tall enough to wear low-heeled shoes, nor did she need to pinch her toes in order to gain the semblance of small feet.
After her went Robinson, keyed to exultation by this outcome of his watchfulness. She was going to The Hollies, of course. The road led to Knoleworth, and no young woman of her age in the village would dream of taking a lonely walk in the country at ten o'clock at night.
For a man of his height and somewhat ponderous build, the policeman followed with real stealth. Thus, when she turned in at the gate, he was there by the time she had reached the front door. He heard her pull the bell. Curiously enough, to his thinking, Furneaux again appeared.
"Is Mr. Grant at home?" he heard Doris say.
"Yes. Will you come in?" replied the detective.
"Is he—is all well here?"
"Quite, I assure you. But do come in. I'll escort you home. I'm going to the inn in five minutes."
Doris, after hesitating a little, entered.
Robinson crept on tiptoe over a stretch of gravel, and took to the shrubbery. It was high time, he thought, that the local constabulary learnt what was going on in that abode of mystery.
CHAPTER IX
How Whom the Cap Fits—
Several minutes had elapsed between the two unexpected visits. During those minutes a somewhat acrimonious discussion broke out in the dining-room. Bates went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered back from the kitchen. He was received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrow than in anger, a pose on their part which he blandly disregarded. He helped himself to the remains of the decanter of port.
"The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by such evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was," he said. "I presume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has passed over, as the spiritists say."
"Sit down!" cried Furneaux savagely.
Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe.
"You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it," he said, apparently by way of a chatty remark. "The crack of the pistol-shot and the supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off her balance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such a ghost, who would hesitate?"
When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French.
"Nom d'un bon petit homme gris!" he almost squealed, "why did you whip out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything! Have you no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big enough to hold brains, not soap-bubbles."
"Did your French father marry a Jap?" inquired Hart, with sudden interest.
"And now you're insulting my mother," yelped the detective.
"Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in the world, or you would not even imagine such rubbish."
"But why, why, didn't you tell me that you saw someone outside?"
"You wouldn't have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had to shoot quick."
"Why shoot at all?"
"Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?"
"This was no ghost. You shot the man's hat off."
"Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdling whisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, you would have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after his first glance at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have sat there and argued about hypnosis, with our worthy author's skilled support. And there would have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of trick shooting, yet I am only reviled for my dexterity. Really, Charles François!"
"Ah! You remember, at last," and the detective smiled sourly.
"Parfaitement! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, though 'twas in a crowd. But I didn't steal the blessed pearl. I believe it was that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez."
"You've got some brains, then. Why not use them? Don't you see what a fix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the man?"
"But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have no doubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his representative. He'd be bound to confess it."
Furneaux was cooling down.
"You've shaken my confidence," he said. "Unless I have your promise that you will never do such a thing again while in my company, I shall ban you from this inquiry with bell, book, and candle."
"Very well. It's a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A."
He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat.
"Put it on!" commanded the detective.
Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and squinted.
"Notice the line of those bullet-holes," he said to Grant.
"Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp