THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson
when they were seated at the table.
The steady search of Mrs. Lyne's house was still progressing when they returned to Ludford Road. A number of fresh detectives had arrived to help Congreve, and they found Heldon Foyle stretched lazily out in one of the horsehair chairs in the sitting-room. He rose and shook hands with Jimmie.
"How are you, Mr. Hallett?... I got your report, Menzies. Nothing much doing, so I thought I'd drop down and have a look at things." He drew the chief inspector a little aside. "I didn't think you would have let Gwennie get one in on you. She complicates things. The Commissioner isn't pleased."
"It's against me, sir, and that's a fact," agreed the other ruefully. He made no attempt at excuse.
"It can't be helped, old man," said Foyle more sympathetically now that he had delivered his official reproof. "I'd have fallen into it just the same way. Come upstairs. Excuse us a moment, Mr. Hallett."
He led the way upstairs to a locked room and tapped softly at the door. It was opened very slowly, just wide enough to admit him. "Burnt paper," he explained laconically. "Come in slowly. Don't make a draught."
The chief inspector obeyed. There were a couple of men within the bedroom, which reeked of oil from a cheap stove on the washstand. The window was tight closed and the chimney was blocked up. In the grate were the blackened fragments of a mass of burnt papers. The big bed, too, was a chaos of burnt papers which had broken under the efforts of the two men to move them intact.
The superintendent and the chief inspector halted by the door. With infinite delicacy one of the constables lifted a sheet of burnt paper from the grate and placed it in a kitchen sieve. This he held over a steaming kettle on the oil stove while his companion with a transparent sheet of paper on which gum had been thinly spread in his hand, waited anxiously. The burnt paper softened rapidly and the gummed sheet was dropped upon it.
"That's the last, sir," commented one of the operators. "The rest is too broken up to be handled." He indicated the grate with a gesture.
The chief inspector moved to the bed and took a seat upon it. Heldon Foyle lit a cigar.
"There are two or three cheque-book counterfoils not quite destroyed," went on the man, and picking them off the coverlet handed them to Menzies.
"Very well," said Foyle. "Mr. Menzies and I will go through these things now. You can come to photograph them later on."
As the experts vanished, Menzies gingerly turned over the charred leaves of the cheque counterfoils. "Gwennie made the most of her time," he observed, "but she seems to have been too much rushed to make a complete job of it. These are on the same bank as Greye- Stratton's."
"Same cheques?" asked Foyle.
"Hallett may be able to tell us that. What are these other documents?"
It is a peculiarity of burnt paper that it often shows up quite clearly any writing that was upon it before it was consumed. Menzies wrinkled his brows as he studied the pasted-down portions that had been rescued. Some pieces were almost complete; some had broken and twisted under the process of restoration so that it was a matter of difficulty to follow the eccentricities of the writing which, in some cases, stood out dirty grey, in others brilliant black, and still again pale black.
"Listen to this," said Menzies. He read slowly : "' We are all right for the time being and if ' there's a piece missing there ' can be handled we shall be all hunky. Couldn't you square one of the bulls. You know some of them and it might be worth a shot, as it would simplify things. It's no good tackling M. But a couple of hundred with some of the others ought to go a long way. You can dig the money out and ' something else gone. ' Hallett is most dangerous just now. He absolutely must be settled if we are to pull off the game. That's up to you, as I'll have to keep below the water line."
"'Better not write to me, but if you can get wind to Cincinnati pass me a word. Don't trust C. too much.' The rest of the letter's gone," finished Menzies.
The superintendent sucked his cigar thoughtfully. "That's Cincinnati Red," he commented. "You'll want to rope him in. He's been in London for three months or more."
"I'll have that seen to at once," said Menzies. "The rest of the letters can wait a little."
Foyle stretched out his hand for the blackened epistle. "Pity the rest of it's gone. The chap who wrote this thinks a lot of you, Menzies. He thinks you're above graft. I wonder if Gwennie has been trying to buy up any of our men."
"The letter's probably been written this last day or two. There's been no time yet. I'll pass the word that whoever is tackled is to bite."
"There might be a chance," said Foyle. "And I'll tell you what, Menzies. I'll bet you a thousand pounds to a penny that the gentleman who's so anxious to keep his head under the water line is Stewart Reader Ling."
"No takers, sir," said Menzies smilingly.
Chapter XIV
In serene unconsciousness that he occupied any place in the thoughts of Scotland Yard men Cincinnati Red sat cross-legged, sipping a liqueur. Of late his lines had fallen in pleasant places. He had tasted sufficiently of the hardships of this world to appreciate comfort. The furnished flat which he held in Palace Avenue by grace of a trustful landlord was a luxury which more than pleased him.
Few there were who knew Cincinnati Red's real origin or real name. He was certainly a man of education and address. In the police archives he was registered as a "con "man which in plain English means that he was a swindler. Moreover, he was a swindler of uncommon resource and daring who had a knowledge of every trick in the game. He had been bunco-steerer, gold-brick man, sawdust man long before these swindles became threadbare. He always managed to keep a little ahead of the ruck, and though he had had one or two bad falls in his time, he was probably, as he would have put it, "ahead of the game."
He might have been anything from forty to sixty. His luxuriant, once auburn, hair and moustache had greyed and his ingenuous frank hazel eyes were in themselves a guarantee of integrity. He wore evening dress as though he were accustomed to it and his manner was that of an easy-going tolerant man of the world who had no enemies and thousands of friends.
Now, an American millionaire with a Bohemian taste for night clubs and a cosy flat where selected friends of wealth may be invited for no-limit games of chance, has small fear of the police. It is unlikely that a man that has dropped a hundred or two over baccarat or poker will squeal to the authorities, even though he suspects that something more than luck has favoured his charming host. Publicity does not appeal to him. And for any other than legal contingencies Cincinnati Red was prepared. It caused a bulge in the breast pocket of his otherwise well-fitting dress coat, but that could scarcely be avoided. There are few smaller reliable pistols than the pattern of derringer he carried.
So it was with thoughts far removed from the sordid commonplaces of crime that he pressed the bell and summoned his man to help him on with his overcoat. He made his way with dignity down into the street and stopped for a moment on the curb to light his cigarette.
A couple of men sauntered towards him. The taller of the two halted as they came opposite. "Isn't your name Tomkins?" he asked.
Cincinnati finished lighting his cigarette, dropped the match and ground the light out under his heel before replying. "No, my man," he drawled, "you've made a mistake. My name is Whiffen."
He calmly ignored his questioner and held up a slim cane in his left hand for a taxi-cab. Someone gripped his right wrist and he wheeled in wrathful surprise. As he did so his other hand was caught. He made no resistance. His attitude was one of dignified and lofty indignation.
"What is the meaning of this? Leave me alone instantly or I will call the police."
"That's all right," observed one of his captors quietly. "We are police officers ourselves. Jump in,
Alf.