14 Murder Mysteries in One Volume. Louis Tracy
bothered me," he went on. "I thought you had more sense. Don't you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?"
"The man's visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just blurted out the facts."
"Well, you've rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely indispensable now."
Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed the scent of Winter's red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; but Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the right line.
"May I—" they both broke in simultaneously.
"Place to the fourth estate," bowed Hart solemnly.
"Thanks," said the journalist. "May I put a question, Winter?"
"A score, if you like."
"Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and you have been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?"
"Sometimes we never get him."
"Oh, come a bit closer than that."
"Generally, given a clear run, with an established motive, we know who he is within eight days."
"Wednesday, in effect?"
"Can't say, this time?"
"Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man's guilt, but can obtain little or no evidence?"
"He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any other country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit."
"How does one get evidence?" purred Hart. "It isn't scattered broadcast by a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my method, which has been the only effectual one so far in this affair."
"If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the deuce to pay."
"But you would now be sure of the murderer?"
"Why do you assume that?"
"Like Eugene Aram, he can't keep away from the scene of his crime."
Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape.
"Detective work is nearly all guessing," he said sententiously, "yet one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and effect were so closely allied in certain classes of crime my department would cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be left safely to the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been rather inactive during two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What's he up to? Can you throw a light on him, Peters?"
The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying. He kicked Hart under the table.
"Hi!" yelled Wally. "What's the matter? Strike your matches on your own shin, not mine."
"Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed," said Winter firmly.
"Very well. He needn't emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. When my injured feelings have recovered I'll discourse to you of strange folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your stock as an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next time you're badgered by a man who knows the country."
"Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail," laughed Peters. "His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the picture-buying."
"Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known," said Winter. "He gave every publicity to it."
"Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?" said Grant.
"Oh, I expect so. He doesn't waste his hard-earned money, even for official purposes."
But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art deal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky packages with string!
He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever in attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at full length on Winter's bed.
"Been up all night," he explained. "Chemical analysis is fascinating but slow work—like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful job, too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business. The blighter talked of office hours. Cré nom! Ten till four, and an hour and a half for lunch! Why can't we run our show on those lines, James!"
Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face.
"You came down by the mail, I suppose?" he said casually.
"What a genius you are!" sighed Furneaux. "If I were trembling with expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallow the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich."
Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip.
"Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?" he inquired.
"Ah, well, I'm tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve, so I'll give you a condensed version," snapped Furneaux. "Elkin 's illness, begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed into steady poisoning by Siddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too—pure nicotine—easy, in a sense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable explanations when revealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn't to be killed outright, I gather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till he was half crazy. As you can read print when it's before your eyes, I needn't go into the matter of motive; Elkin's behavior supplies all details."
"How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my skin."
"One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package."
"Good! Charles, we're going to pull off a real twister."
"We! Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off with the fluffy transformation pinned to it."
Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed.
Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a suitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely, Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman—the little man with the French name—might be invited. This important point settled, Mr. Franklin caught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact, closeted with Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor.
Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o'clock, and swore at Tomlin in French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin went downstairs scratching his head.
"Least said soonest mended," he communed, "but we may all be murdered in our beds if them's the sort of 'tecs we 'ave to look arter us."
However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin's party. The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than the prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards' Cup. Peters had the tip straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in hand.
After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and tapped him professionally on the shoulder.
"A word with you outside," he said.
Ingerman was irritated—perhaps slightly alarmed.
"Can't we talk here?" he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his.
"Better not, but I shan't detain you more than five minutes."
"Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?"
"Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like."
In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with