Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy
It must be rather distressing to be mixed up in such an affair, even indirectly."
Forbes struck precisely the right note of friendly inquiry. He wished to hear more, and was at the same time relieved to find that Professor Scarth had not introduced a notorious malefactor in the guise of a young writer seeking material for an article on airships!
Theydon could have laughed aloud at this comedy of errors, but the fact that at any moment it might develop into a tragedy exercises a wholesome restraint.
"I happen to live at No. 18 Innesmore Mansions," he said. "Opposite—on the same floor, I mean—lives, or did live, a Mrs. Lester. I do not—"
"Are you telling me that a Mrs. Lester of No. 17 Innesmore Mansions is dead—has been murdered?"
Forbes's voice rang out vibrant, incisive. His ordinarily pale face had blanched, and his deep-set eyes blazed with the fire of some fierce emotion, but, beyond the slight elevation of tone and the change of expression, he revealed to Theydon's quietly watchful scrutiny no sign of the terror or distress which an evildoer might be expected to show on learning that the law's vengeance was already shadowing him, even in so remote a way as was indicated by the presence under his roof of a witness regarded by the police as an important one.
"Yes!" stammered Theydon, quite taken aback by his companion's vehemence. "Do you—know the lady? If so—I am sorry—I spoke so unguardedly—"
"Good heavens, man, don't apologize for that! I am not a child or weakling, that I should flinch in horror from one of life's dramatic surprises! But, are you sure of what you are saying? Mrs. Lester murdered! When?"
"About midnight last night, the doctor believes. That is what Bates told me. I was so shaken on hearing his news, which was confirmed by the two detectives, that I really gave little heed to details.... She was strangled—a peculiarly atrocious thing where an attractive and ladylike woman is concerned. I have never spoken to her, but have met her at odd times on the stairs. I was immeasurably shocked, I assure you. In fact, I was on the point of telegraphing an excuse to you for this evening, but the Chief Inspector—Winter, I think his name is—said it would suffice for his purpose if I met him at my flat about eleven o'clock, as he was engaged on other inquiries which would occupy the intervening hours."
"But if the news of this dastardly crime only reached you tonight at Waterloo Station, and you have no personal acquaintance with Mrs. Lester, what evidence can you give that will assist the police?"
"Mrs. Lester received a visitor last night, an incident so unusual that I, who heard him arrive, and Bates, who was in my sitting room when we both heard him depart, commented on the strangeness of it. That, I suppose, is the reason why I am in request by Scotland Yard."
"You say 'him.' How did you know it was a man? Did you see him?"
"Er—that was impossible. We were in my flat, behind its closed door. Bates and I deduced his sex from the sound of his footsteps."
Again Theydon nearly stammered. Events had certainly turned in the most amazing way. Instead of carrying himself almost in the manner of a judge, he was figuring rather as an unwilling witness in the hands of a skilled and merciless cross-examining counsel.
"Did the police officers supply any theory of motive for the crime? Was this poor woman killed for the sake of her few trinkets?"
By this time Theydon was stung into a species of revolt. It was he, not Forbes, who should be snapping out searching questions.
"I regret to say that my nerves were not sufficiently under control at Waterloo that I should listen carefully to each word," he said, almost stiffly. "Bates had picked up such information as was available; but he, though an ex-sergeant in the Army, was so upset as to be hardly coherent. When I meet the detectives in the course of another hour I shall probably gather something definite and reliable in the way of details."
Forbes laid the pipe which he had filled but not lighted on the table. He poured out a glass of port and drank it.
"Try that," he said, pushing the decanter toward Theydon. "They cannot trouble you greatly. You have so little to tell."
"No, thanks. Nothing more for me tonight until the Scotland Yard men have cleared out."
Forbes rose as he spoke and strode the length of the room and back with the air of a man debating some weighty and difficult point.
"Mr. Theydon," he said, at last, halting in front of the younger man and gazing down at him with a direct intensity that was highly embarrassing to one who had good cause to connect him with the actual crime. "I want you to do me a favor—a great favor. It was in my mind at first to ask you to permit me to go with you to Innesmore Mansions, and to be present during the interview with the detectives. But a man in my position must be circumspect. It would, perhaps, be unwise to appear too openly interested. I don't mind telling you in confidence that I have known Mrs. Lester many years. The shock of her death, severe as it must have been to you, is slight as compared with my own sorrow and dismay. More than that I dare not say until better informed. I remember now hearing the newsboys shouting their ghoulish news, and I saw contents bills making large type display of 'Murder of a lady,' but little did I imagine that the victim was one whom—one whose loss I shall deplore.... Are you on the telephone?"
"Yes," said Theydon, thoroughly mystified anew by the announcement that Forbes had even contemplated, or so much as hinted at, the astounding imprudence of visiting Innesmore Mansions that night.
"Ring me up when the detectives have gone. I shall esteem your assistance during this crisis as a real service."
For the life of him, Theydon could not frame the protest which ought to have been made without delay and without hesitation.
"Yes," he said. "I'll do that. You can trust me absolutely."
Thus was he committed to secrecy. That promise sealed his lips.
CHAPTER III
IN THE TOILS
Theydon, though blessed, or cursed, with an active imagination—which must surely be the prime equipment of a novelist—was shrewd and level-headed in dealing with everyday affairs.
It was no small achievement that the son of a country rector, aided only by a stout heart, a university education and an excellent physique—good recommendations, each and all, but forming the stock-in-trade of many a man on whose subsequent career "failure" is writ large—should have forced himself to the front rank of the most overcrowded among the professions before attaining his twenty-sixth year.
It may be taken for granted, therefore, that he was not lacking in the qualities of close observation and critical analysis. He would, for instance, be readier than the majority of his fellows to note the small beginnings of events destined to become important.
Often, of course, his deductions would prove erroneous, but the mere fact that he habitually exercised his wits in such a way rendered it equally certain that his judgment would be accurate sometimes. One such occasion presented itself a few seconds after he had left the Forbes mansion.
A taxi, summoned by a footman, was in waiting, and Theydon was crossing the pavement when he noticed a gray landaulet car at rest beneath the trees at some distance. Mr. Forbes's house stood in a square, and the gray car had been drawn up on the quiet side of the roadway, being stationed there, apparently, to await its owner's behest. Gray cars are common enough in London, but they are usually of the touring class.
Not often does one see a gray-painted landaulet; hence, the odd though hardly remarkable fact occurred to Theydon that a precisely similar gray automobile had occupied the center of the station yard at Waterloo when he took a taxi from the rank.
Admittedly he was in a nervous and excited state. It could hardly be otherwise after the strain of that astounding conversation with Forbes, and there was no prospect of the tension being relaxed until the close