14 Murder Mysteries in One Volume. Louis Tracy
elicit the facts.
"Anything fresh?" inquired the superintendent, when a smart car drew up, and Winter entered.
Mr. Fowler was in plain clothes, and the blinds were half drawn. No one could possibly recognize either of the occupants unless the car was halted, and the inquisitor literally thrust his head inside. The motor was a private one, borrowed for the occasion.
"Yes, a little," said Winter, as the chauffeur put the engine in gear. "Your man, Robinson, has been drawing Elkin, or Elkin drew him—I am not quite sure which, but think it matterless either way."
He sketched Robinson's activities briefly, but in sufficient outline.
"A new figure has come on the screen—Siddle, the chemist," he added thoughtfully.
"Siddle!" Mr. Fowler was surprised. "Why, he is supposed to be a model of the law-abiding citizen."
"I don't say he has lost his character in that respect," said Winter. "Still, he puzzles me. Elkin is a loud-mouthed fool. The verbal bricks he hurls at Grant are generally half baked, and crumble into dust. Hitherto, Siddle has tried to repress him, with a transparent honesty that rather worried me. On Friday night, however, Siddle attacked Grant with poisoned arrows. He did more damage in two minutes than Elkin could achieve in as many months."
"How?"
"He showed very clearly that Grant was guilty of gross bad taste in inviting Mr. Martin and his daughter to dinner that evening. I'm inclined to agree with him, if the story has been told fairly. But that is beside the main issue. Siddle aroused the sleeping dogs of the village, and the pack is in full cry again. Grant seems to have been popular here; he had almost recovered from the blow of Miss Melhuish's death by the straightforward speech he made before the inquest. But Siddle threw him back into the mud by a few skillful words. What is Siddle's record? Is he a local man?"
"I think not. Robinson can tell us."
"Robinson says he 'believes' Siddle is a widower. That doesn't argue long and close knowledge."
"We must look into it. Robinson has been stationed here four years. Siddle is not old, but he has been in business in Steynholme more years than that. But—you'll pardon me, I'm sure, Mr. Winter—may I take it that you are really interested in the chemist's history?"
The superintendent was perplexed, or he would not have adopted his professional method of semi-apologetic questions with a man from the C.I.D.
"I hardly know what I'm interested in," laughed Winter. "Grant didn't kill the lady. I shall be slow to credit Elkin with being the scoundrel he looks. Siddle, and Tomlin, if you please, are regarded as starters in the Doris Martin Matrimonial Stakes, and I don't think Tomlin could ever murder anything but the King's English. It is Siddle's volte face that bothers me."
"Um!" murmured Mr. Fowler. He was not an uneducated man, but volte face, correctly pronounced, was unfamiliar in his ears.
"The change was so marked," went on the detective. "I gather that Siddle is a stickler for charity and fair dealing. He didn't abandon the role, of course. It was the sheer ingenuity of his method that caught my attention. So I simply catalogue him for research."
"Has Miss Martin promised to meet us?" inquired the other, feeling that he was on the track of volte face.
"No. But there she is!" cried Winter. "She has just heard the car. Tell your chauffeur to slow up. The road is empty otherwise. By the way, you help her in. She might be a bit shy of me, and I don't want a second's delay."
Winter's judgment was not at fault. Doris was feeling a trifle uncertain, seeing that she was about to encounter a complete stranger. Moreover, she had come a good half mile from the shop whence the cakes for tea were to be procured at the back door, and as a favor. Her eyes were fixed on the slowing car with a timid anxiety that betrayed no small degree of doubt as to the outcome of this Sunday afternoon escapade. She was pale and nervous. At that moment Doris wished herself safe at home again.
"One word," broke in the superintendent hurriedly. "Why are you so sure that Grant is innocent, Mr. Winter?"
"I'm sure of nothing with regard to this case. But I have great faith in Furneaux's flair for the true scent. It has never failed yet."
Mr. Fowler wished his companion would not use such uncommon words. However, he got out, and took off his hat with a courteous sweep. Doris had to look twice at him. Hitherto, she had always seen him in uniform. Winter smiled at the unmistakable expression of relief in her face. She was almost self-possessed as she took the seat by his side.
"Good day, Mr. Winter," she said.
"Mr. Franklin, please. Better become used to my pseudonym.... Plenty of room for your feet, Mr. Fowler? That's it. Now we're comfy. The chauffeur will bring us back here in half an hour, Miss Martin. Will that suit your convenience?"
"Oh, yes. I am free till nearly four o'clock. We have a guest to tea then."
"I have a well-developed bump of curiosity these days. Who is it, may I ask?"
"Mr. Siddle, the local chemist."
"Indeed. An old friend, I suppose?"
"We have known him seven years, ever since he came to Steynholme."
"Ah. He is not a native of the place?"
"No. He bought Mr. Benson's business. He's a Londoner, I believe."
"Is there—a Mrs. Siddle?"
"No. I—er—that is to say, gossip has it that he was married, but his wife died."
"He doesn't speak of her? Is that it? One would have thought that in a house where he is well known—"
"We don't really know him well. No one does, I think."
"You've invited him to tea, at any rate," laughed Winter.
"No," said Doris. "He invited himself. At least, so I gathered from dad."
"Ah, well. He feels lonely, no doubt, and wishes to chat about recent strange events in Steynholme. And that brings me to the reason why I sought this chat under such peculiar conditions. You realize my handicap, Miss Martin? If I were seen talking to you, or even entering your house as apart from the post office, people would begin to wonder. You follow that, don't you?"
Yes, Doris did follow it. What she did not follow was the veiled admiration in Superintendent Fowler's glance at the detective. Those few inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle's past and present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their real purport. And the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a chemist's business would almost certainly be negotiated through a local lawyer. Let him be found, and Siddle's pre-Steynholme days could be "looked into," as the police phrase has it. The superintendent had the rare merit of being candid with himself. He had no previous experience of Scotland Yard men or methods, and was inclined to be skeptical about Furneaux. But Winter's prompt use of a chance opening, and the restraint which cut off the investigation before the girl could suspect any ulterior motive, displayed a technique which the Sussex Constabulary had few opportunities of acquiring.
"Now, Miss Martin," began Winter, "if ever you have the misfortune to fall ill—touch wood, please—and call in a doctor, you'll tell him the facts, eh?"
"Why consult him at all, if I don't?" she smiled.
"Exactly. To-day I'm somewhat in the position of a Harley-street specialist, summoned to assist an eminent local practitioner in Dr. Fowler. That's a sort of gentle preliminary, leading up to the disagreeable duty of putting some questions of a personal nature. What you may answer will not go beyond ourselves. I promise you that. You will not be quoted, or requested to prove your statements. Such a thing would be absurd. If I were really a doctor, and you needed my advice, you might easily describe your symptoms all wrong. It would be my business to listen, and deduce the truth, and I would never dream of rating you for having misled me. You see my point?"
"Yes, but Mr. Win—Mr. Franklin, I know nothing whatever about the murder."
"I'm