Peter Ruff and the Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim
“I’m afraid not,” he answered. “They may be able to bring evidence of a quarrel and reduce it to manslaughter, but what you’ve just told me about this supper party makes it all the worse. It will come out in the evidence, of course.”
“Captain Sotherst is such a dear,” Miss Brown declared, “and so good-looking! And as for that brute Austen Abbott, he ought to have been shot long ago!”
Peter Ruff seated himself before his desk and hitched up his trousers at the knees.
“No doubt you are right, Violet,” he said, “but people go about these things so foolishly. To me it is simply exasperating to reflect how little use is made of persons such as myself, whose profession in life it is to arrange these little matters. Take the present case, for example. Captain Sotherst had only to lay these facts before me, and Austen Abbott was a ruined man. I could have arranged the affair for him in half-a-dozen different ways. Whereas now it must be a life for a life—the life of an honest young English gentleman for that of a creature who should have been kicked out of the world as vermin! … I have some letters give you, Violet, if you please.”
She swung round in her chair reluctantly.
“I can’t help thinking of that poor young fellow,” she said, with a sigh.
“Sentiment after office hours, if you please!” said Peter.
Then there came a knock at the door.
His visitor lifted her veil, and Peter Ruff recognized her immediately.
“What can I do for you, Lady Mary?” he asked.
She saw the recognition in his eyes even before he spoke, and wondered at it.
“You know me?” she exclaimed.
“I know most people,” he answered, drily; “it is part of my profession.”
“Tell me—you are Mr. Peter Ruff,” she said, “the famous specialist in the detection of crime? You know that Brian Sotherst is my brother?”
“Yes,” he said, “I know it! I am sorry—very sorry, indeed.”
He handed her a chair. She seated herself with a little tightening of the lips.
“I want more than sympathy from you, Mr. Ruff,” she warned him. “I want your help.”
“It is my profession,” he admitted, “but your brother’s case makes intervention difficult, does it not?”
“You mean—” she began.
“Your brother himself does not deny his guilt, I understand.”
“He has not denied it,” she answered—“very likely he will not do so before the magistrate—but neither has he admitted it. Mr. Ruff, you are such a clever man. Can’t you see the truth?”
Peter Ruff looked at her steadily for several moments.
“Lady Mary,” he said, “I can see what you are going to suggest. You are going on the assumption that Austen Abbott was shot by Letty Shaw and that your brother is taking the thing on his shoulders.”
“I am sure of it!” she declared. “The girl did it herself, beyond a doubt. Brian would never have shot any one. He might have horsewhipped him, perhaps—even beaten him to death—but shot him in cold blood—never!”
“The provocation—” Ruff began.
“There was no provocation,” she interrupted. “He was engaged to the girl, and of course we hated it, but she was an honest little thing, and devoted to him.”
“Doubtless,” Ruff admitted. “But all the same, as you will hear before the magistrates, or at the inquest, she was having supper alone with Austen Abbott that night at the Milan.”
Lady Mary’s eyes flashed.
“I don’t believe it!” she declared.
“It is nevertheless true,” Peter Ruff assured her. “There is no shadow of doubt about it.”
Lady Mary was staggered. For a few moment she seemed struggling to rearrange her thoughts.
“You see,” Ruff continued, “the fact that Miss Shaw was willing to sup with Austen Abbott tete-a-tete renders it more improbable that she should shoot him in her sitting room, an hour or so later, and then go calmly up to her mother’s room as though nothing had happened.”
Lady Mary had lost some of her confidence, but she was not daunted.
“Even if we have been deceived in the girl,” she said, thoughtfully—“even if she were disposed to flirt with other men—even then there might be a stronger motive than ever for her wishing to get rid of Abbott. He may have become jealous, and threatened her.”
“It is, of course, possible,” Ruff assented, politely. “Your theory would, at any rate, account for your brother’s present attitude.”
She looked at him steadfastly.
“You believe, then,” she said, “that my brother shot Austen Abbott?”
“I do,” he admitted frankly. “So does every man or woman of common sense in London. On the facts as they are stated in the newspapers, with the addition of which I have told you, no other conclusion is possible.”
Lady Mary rose.
“Then I may as well go,” she said tearfully.
“Not at all,” Peter Ruff declared. “Listen. This is a matter of business with me. I say that on the facts as they are known, your brother’s guilt appears indubitable. I do not say that there may not be other facts in the background which alter the state of affairs. If you wish me to search for them, engage me, and I will do my best.”
“Isn’t that what I am here for?” the girl exclaimed.
“Very well,” Peter Ruff said. “My services are at your disposal.”
“You will do your best—more than your best, won’t you?” she begged. “Remember that he is my brother—my favourite brother!”
“I will do what can be done,” Peter Ruff promised. “Please sit down at that desk and write me two letters of introduction.”
She drew off her gloves and prepared to obey him.
“To whom?” she asked.
“To the solicitors who are defending your brother,” he said, “and to Miss Letty Shaw.”
“You mean to go and see her?” Lady Mary asked, doubtfully.
“Naturally,” Peter Ruff answered. “If your supposition is correct, she might easily give herself away under a little subtle cross-examination. It is my business to know how to ask people questions in such a way that if they do not speak the truth their words give some indication of it. If she is innocent I shall know that I have to make my effort in another direction.”
“What other direction can there be?” Lady Mary asked dismally.
Peter Ruff said nothing. He was too kind-hearted to kindle false hopes.
“It’s a hopeless case, of course,” Miss Brown remarked, after Lady Mary had departed.
“I’m afraid so,” Peter Ruff answered. “Still I must earn my money. Please get some one to take you to supper to-night at the Milan, and see if you can pick up any scandal.”
“About Letty?” she asked.
“About either of them,” he answered. “Particularly I should like to know if any explanation has cropped up of her supping alone with Austen Abbott.”
“I don’t see why you can’t take me yourself,” she remarked. “You are on the