Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy
deeply stirred by the story.
Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke in.
"Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir," he said, his rancor against Grant being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own business. "What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?"
"All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an ever-open door to good horseflesh."
"Are you having a look round?"
"Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance of Steynholme. Isn't that so, landlord?"
"Lots, sir," said Tomlin. "An' the very man you're talkin' to has some stuff not to be sneezed at."
"Is that so?" Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly manner. "May I ask your name, sir?"
Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated in value forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear to rush matters.
"Call any day you like, sir," he said. "Glad to see you. But give me notice. I generally have an appetizer here of a morning about eleven."
"An' you want it, too, Fred," said Hobbs. "Dash me, you're as thin as a herrin'. Stop whiskey an' drink beer, like me."
"And you might also follow that gentleman's example," interposed Siddle quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin.
"What's that?" snapped Elkin.
"Don't worry about murders."
"That's a nice thing to say. Why should I worry about the d—-d mix-up?"
The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly.
"Keep yer 'air on, Fred," he vociferated. "Siddle means no 'arm. But wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin', noon, an' night?"
Elkin laughed, with his queer croak.
"If you stay here a day or two, you'll soon get to know what they're driving at, sir," he said to Franklin. "The fact is that this chap, Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was committed, has been making eyes at the girl I'm as good as engaged to. That would make anybody wild—now, wouldn't it?"
"Possibly," smiled Franklin. "Of course there is always the lady's point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. 'Woman, thy vows are traced in sand,' Lord Byron has it."
"Ay, an' some men's, too," guffawed Hobbs. "Wot about Peggy Smith, Fred?"
Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher.
"What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?" he retorted.
Hobbs's face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin.
"Ask these gentlemen what they'll have," he said gently. The landlord made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed.
"You've aroused my curiosity," remarked Franklin to Peters, but taking the company at large into the conversation. "This does certainly strike one as a remarkable case. Is there no suspicion yet as to the actual murderer?"
"None whatever," said Peters.
"That's what you may call the police opinion," broke in Elkin. "We Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you."
"The matter is still sub judice, and may remain so a long time," said Siddle. "It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to the man who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have no patience with that sort of reasoning."
Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him.
"That's all very well," he rumbled. "But the hevidence you an' me 'eard, Siddle, an' the hevidence we know we're goin' to 'ear, is a lot stronger than that."
"I'm sure you'll pardon me, friends," said Siddle, rising with an apologetic smile, "but I happen to be foreman of the coroner's jury, and I feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, to discuss publicly."
Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin's appeal to drink the ginger-ale he had just ordered.
"Just like 'im," sighed Hobbs. "Good-'earted fellow! Would find hexcuses for a black rat."
Elkin talked more freely now that the chemist's disapproving eye was off him. Ultimately, Mr. Franklin elected to smoke a cigar in the open air, and strolled forth. He sauntered down the hill, stood on the bridge, and admired the soft blue tones of the landscape in the half light of a summer evening. Shortly before closing time, Robinson appeared, it being part of his routine duty to see that no noisy revelers disturbed the peace of the village. He noticed the stranger at once, and elected to walk past him.
Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressed him by name.
"Good evening, Robinson," said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. "I've been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the door open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of Scotland Yard."
"You don't say so, sir!" stammered Robinson.
"But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I'll be with you in a minute or two. There's someone coming. You and I must not be seen together."
Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met Bates, going to the post with letters.
Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kept a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walked quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished.
Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrust his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weight on his mind.
"Beg pardon," he said, "but I thought you'd like to know. The place is just swarmin' with 'em."
"Bees?" inquired Hart.
Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two.
"No, sir, 'tecs," he said. "There's a big 'un now—just the opposite to the little 'un, Hawkshaw. I 'ope I 'aven't to tackle this customer, though. He'd gimme a doin', by the looks of 'im."
Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press photographer had mentioned the Big 'Un and the Little 'Un of the Yard.
"Now, I wonder," he said.
His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter's had he heard the gardener's words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex, though it was founded solely on the assumption that all comers now, unless Bates was personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the law.
CHAPTER XII
Wherein Winter Gets to Work
Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the man's hand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing the hill, the detective slipped into Robinson's cottage.
He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said:
"Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the 'Yard' asked me to take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract attention, he thought."
"Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him," said Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, "the other gentleman."
Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson had again beaten a hasty retreat.
"Now, Robinson," said the Chief Inspector affably, "before we come to business I'll prove my bona fides. Here is my official card, and I'll run quickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. Furneaux at Victoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour."
So