Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy
the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as it was known to the authorities.
"I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram could hardly be explicit enough," concluded Winter. "At the inn I am Mr. Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meet as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would not sink readily. Perhaps he didn't care. At any rate, Mr. Hart's bullet seems to have laid Owd Ben's ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? He worries me."
"Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?"
"With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr. Furneaux in both size and habits."
Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhat incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that afternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough. Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end.
"You arranged that very well," he said. "I gather, though, that Elkin spoke rather openly."
"Just as I've put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday night. But it's only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin's license in mind."
"That issue will be settled to-morrow. I'll find out the commercial traveler's name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon.... Who is Peggy Smith?"
Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise.
"Bob Smith's daughter, sir," he answered.
"No doubt. But, proceed."
"Well, sir, she's just a village girl. Her father is a blacksmith. His forge is along to the right, not far. She'll be twenty, or thereabouts."
"Frivolous?"
"Not more than the rest of 'em, sir."
"Have you seen her flirting with Elkin?"
Robinson took thought.
"Now that I come to think of it, she might be given a bit that way. Her father shoes Elkin's nags, so there's a lot of comin' an' goin' between the two places. But folks would always look on it as natural enough. Yes, I've seen 'em together more than once."
"In that case, he can hardly grumble if the postmaster's daughter has an eye for another young man."
"Miss Martin!" snorted Robinson. "She wouldn't look the side of the road he was on. Fred Elkin isn't her sort."
"But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin were practically engaged."
"Stuff an' nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like to see a girl like her liftin' herself out of the common gang. She's the smartest young lady in the village, an' not an atom of a snob. No, no. She isn't for Fred Elkin. Before this murder cropped up everybody would have it that Mr. Grant would marry her."
"How does the murder intervene?"
Robinson shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew only too well that he himself had driven a wedge between the two.
"Steynholme's a funny spot, sir," he contrived to explain. "Since it came out that Doris an' Mr. Grant were in the garden at The Hollies at half past ten on Monday night, without Mr. Martin knowin' where his daughter was, there's been talk. Both the postmaster an' the girl herself are up to it. You can see it in their faces. They don't like it, an' who can blame 'em!"
"Who, indeed? But this Elkin—surely he had some ground for a definite boast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the parties?"
"There's more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger, sir."
"Can you name them?"
"Well, Tomlin wants a wife."
Winter laughed joyously.
"Next?" he cried.
"They say that Mr. Siddle is a widower."
"The chemist? Foreman of the jury?"
"Yes, sir."
"From appearances, he is a likelier candidate than either Elkin or Tomlin. Anybody else?"
"I shouldn't be far wrong if I gave you the name of most among the young unmarried men in the parish."
"Dear me! I must have a peep at this charmer. But I want those names, Robinson."
Winter produced a note-book, so he was evidently taking the matter seriously. The policeman, however, was flustered. His thoughts ran on Elkin, whereas this masterful person from London insisted on discussing Doris Martin.
"My difficulty is, sir, that she has never kep' company with any of 'em," he said.
"Never mind. Give me the name of every man who, no matter what his position or prospects, might be irritated, if no more, if he knew that Miss Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at a rather late hour."
It was a totally new line of inquiry for Robinson, but he bent his wits to it, and evolved a list which, if published, would certainly be regarded with incredulous envy by every other girl in the village than the postmaster's daughter; as for Doris herself, she would be mightily surprised when she saw it, but whether annoyed or secretly gratified none but a pretty girl of nineteen can tell.
Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look at the forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoining cottage, favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in the dwelling. When he returned, after walking a little way down the road, the door was closed.
Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr. Franklin as a "millionaire" from South America. Moreover, he scrutinized both in the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financial potentate with indifference.
Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed!
"I was mistook, sir," he reported to Grant later. "There's another 'tec about, but 'e ain't the chap I met last night. They say this other bloke is rollin' in money, an' buyin' hosses right an' left."
"Then he'll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money," put in Hart.
"Who is he?" inquired Grant carelessly.
"A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir."
Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained silent till Bates had gone.
"I must look this joker up, Jack," he said then. "To me the mere mention of South America is like Mother Gary's chickens to a sailor, a harbinger of storm."
But Hart consumed Tomlin's best brew to no purpose—in so far as seeing Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in troubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort.
He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there, the telegraphist being out.
"Good day, everybody," he cried cheerfully. "Grant wants to know, Mr. Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, this evening at 7.30?"
The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris laughed, and blushed a little.
"This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant's, dad," she explained. "I'm afraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so busy."
"The worst of excuses," said Hart.
"But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram at that hour."
"What's his name?"
"Mr.