Anthony Trent, Master Criminal. Martyn Wyndham
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Anthony Trent, Master Criminal
CHAPTER I
THE FIRST STEP
AUSTIN the butler gave his evidence in a straightforward fashion. He was a man slightly below middle height, inclined to portliness, but bore himself with the dignity of one who had been likened to an archbishop.
Although he had been examined by a number of minor officials, hectored by them, threatened or cajoled as they interpreted their duty, his testimony remained the same. And when he hoped this tedious business was all over, he was brought before Inspector McWalsh and compelled to begin all over again. It was McWalsh’s theory that a man may be startled into telling the truth that will convict him. He had a habit of leaning forward, chin thrust out, great fists clenched, and hurling accusations at suspects.
He disliked Austin at sight. The feeling was not wholly of national origin. McWalsh liked witnesses, no less than criminals, to exhibit some indications of the terrors his name had inspired to the guilty. Austin gazed about him as though the surroundings were not to his taste. His attitude was one of deferential boredom. He recognized the inspector as one representing justly constituted authority to be accepted with respect in everything but a social sense.
Inspector McWalsh permitted himself to make jocose remarks as to Austin’s personal appearance. McWalsh passed for a wit among his inferiors.
“At half past twelve on Tuesday I came into the library,” the butler repeated patiently, “and asked Mr. Warren if he wanted anything before I went to bed.”
“What did he say?” demanded the inspector.
“That he did not want anything and that I could go to bed.”
“And you did?”
“Naturally,” the butler returned.
“What duties have you the last thing before retiring?”
“I see that the doors and windows are fastened.”
The inspector sneered. The small black eyes set in his heavy red face regarded the smaller man malevolently.
“And you did it so damn well that within an hour or so, ten thousand dollars’ worth of valuables was walked off with by a crook! How do you account for that?”
“I don’t try to,” the butler answered suavely, “that’s for you gentlemen of the police. I have my duties and I attend to them as my testimonials show. I don’t presume to give you advice but I should say it was because the crook was cleverer than your men.”
“Don’t get funny,” snapped McWalsh. He had on the table before him Austin’s modest life history which consisted mainly in terms of service to wealthy families in England and the United States. These proved him to be efficient and trustworthy. “I want answers to my questions and not comments from you.”
Austin’s manner nettled him. It was that slightly superior air, the servants’ mark of contempt. And never before had the inspector been referred to as “a gentleman of the police;” he suspected a slight.
“Let’s get this thing straight,” he went on. “You went to bed when your services were no longer required. Your employer said to you, ‘You can go to bed, Austin, I don’t want anything,’ so you locked up and retired. You didn’t know anything about the burglary until half past six o’clock on Wednesday morning – this morning – You aroused your employer who sent for the police. That’s correct?”
“Absolutely,” Austin returned. He was, plainly, not much interested.
“And you still stick to it that Mr. Warren made that remark?”
Austin looked at the inspector quickly. His bored manner was gone.
“Yes,” he said deliberately. “To the best of my knowledge those were his words. I may have made a mistake in the phrasing but that is what he meant.”
“What’s the good of your coming here and lying to me?” The inspector spoke in an aggrieved tone.
“I was brought here against my will,” Austin reminded him, “and I have not lied, although your manner has been most offensive. You see, sir, I’m accustomed to gentlefolk.”
McWalsh motioned him to be silent.
“That’ll do,” he commanded, “I’m not interested in what you think. Now answer this carefully. What clothes was Mr. Warren wearing?”
“Evening dress,” said the butler, “but a claret-colored velvet smoking jacket instead of a black coat.”
“How was he looking?”
“Do you mean in what direction?”
“You know I don’t. I mean was he looking as usual? Was there anything unusual in his look?”
“Nothing that I noticed,” Austin told him, “but then his back was to me so I am not competent to judge.”
“When you speak to any one don’t you go up and look ’em in the face like a man same as I’m talking and looking at you?”
Austin permitted himself to smile.
“Do you suggest I should look at Mr. Warren as you are looking at me? Pardon me, sir, but I should lose my place if I did.”
McWalsh flushed a darker red.
“Why didn’t you look at him in your own way then?”
“It’s very clear,” Austin answered with dignity, “that you know very little of the ways of an establishment like ours. I stood at the door as I usually do, asked a question I have done hundreds of times and received the same answer I do as a rule. If I’d known I was to have to answer all these questions I might have recollected more about it.”
“What was Mr. Warren doing?”
“Reading a paper and smoking.”
“He was alone?”
“Yes.”
“And all the other servants had gone to bed?”
“Yes.”
“You heard no unusual sounds that night?”
“If I had I should have investigated them.”
“No doubt,” sneered the other, “you look like a man who would enjoy running into a crook with a gun.”
“I should not enjoy it,” Austin returned seriously.
Inspector McWalsh beckoned to one of his inferiors.
“Keep this man outside till I send for him and see he don’t speak to his boss who’s waiting. Send Mr. Warren right in.”
Conington Warren, one of the most popular men in society, member of the desirable clubs, millionaire owner of thoroughbreds, came briskly in. He was now about fifty, handsome still, but his florid face was marked by the convivial years. Inspector McWalsh had long followed the Warren colors famous on the big race courses. His manner showed his respect for the owner of his favorite stable.
“I asked you to come here,” he began, “because you told my secretary over the phone that you had some new light on this burglary. So far it seems just an ordinary case without any unusual angles.”
“It’s not as ordinary as you think,” said Conington Warren. He offered McWalsh one of his famous cigars. “Incidentally it does not show me up very favorably as I’m bound to admit.”
McWalsh regarded his cigar reverently. Warren smoked nothing but these superb things. What a man! What a man!
“I can’t believe that, Mr. Warren,” he returned.
“Are you interested in the thoroughbreds, McWalsh?”
“Am I?” cried the other enthusiastically. “Why when I couldn’t spend a few hours at old Sheepshead Bay I nearly resigned. Why, Mr. Warren, I made enough on Conington when he won the Brooklyn Handicap to pay the mortgage off on my home!”
“Then you’ll understand,” the sportsman said graciously. “It’s like this. Last year I bought a number of yearlings at the Newmarket sales in England. There’s one of them – a chestnut colt named Saint Beau – who did a most remarkable trial a day or two since. In confidence,