by Zenith Brown
Paul’s had struck one when two men came along. It was very dark. She thought one was blind, because the other was leading him. They did not know the locality well, or they would have known she was there. She was always there. And she had been sleeping by St Andrew’s long enough to know that men didn’t come to Upper Thames-street, especially turning down Trig-lane, at one o’clock, for any good purposes. She was afraid to follow down towards the river, but she kept her eyes open. They turned down the lane. She thought of calling the constable (that Bull doubted). She changed her mind. In three or four minutes, one man came back up the lane. He was of medium height, slightly stooped, and in a hurry. Lizzie stayed in her corner until he was out of sight; she couldn’t keep up with him, but she figured that he might either go across the Bridge, or over Blackfriars westward, or up to Ludgate-circus. In the latter case she could get there ahead of him, if he went, as he looked to be doing, the longest way. Her shrewdness was repaid. She went as fast as she could to Fleet-street. The man came rapidly up from Ludgate-circus, turned up Chancery-lane and went into Gray’s Inn. She saw him twice under a light; he wore a grey soft hat and a funny brown coat—funny because the sleeves were too short.
Bull nodded. He had seen the same coat.
After that Lizzie came back to St. Andrew’s and went down Trig-lane to investigate. She saw nothing except a hat crushed against the wall. In the morning, before her trip to the mortuary, she went back to Holborn in hopes of seeing her man. She did not see him. She went back again afterwards late in the afternoon, and coming up towards the Inn at the bottom of Bedford-row had had the great fortune to meet him. She followed him discreetly; he went to market in Lamb’s Conduit-street; and she watched him enter No. 8-A in Jockey’s-fields when he had finished.
That was that. Bull and his companion went in silence to Ludgate-circus.
“I want to think a moment,” Bull said.
Laboriously he brought the whole box of pieces of his jigsaw puzzle out and looked them over.
Michael and Agatha Colton quarrelling and packing for France because each was too proud to say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean it.”
Michael and his mother quarrelling, and Michael burning the letter Gates had written.
Mrs. Royce and the £ 500 cheque for Mrs. Colton.
Mrs. Colton being short of ready cash.
Mr. Colton being short of ready cash, and trying to get the money from Steiner.
Steiner’s departure for Brussels.
His talk with Mrs. Colton the night before he had gone. The visit of Dr. Bellamy at ten o’clock that evening.
Field’s chance remark about Colton’s jealousy of the doctor.
Doaks—and the money he was getting from somewhere.
Peskett—and the money he had got from somewhere.
Gates. Gates’s death. Gates walking like a blind man; Doaks leading him confidently. Bull reflected here that not many people knew Trig-lane and the death steps leading down into the Thames—only people who had been brought up on London streets.
Doaks lived in Slough. Sough was near both Windsor and Colnbrook.
And that brought him back to the £ 500 cheque, and to Mrs. Colton, and to the death of Oliver Peskett.
Bull stopped short. He remembered that there had been a fine film of powder on the bolt he had found in Agatha Colton’s powder table.
The idea of the eternal triangle had never been very far from Bull’s mind since he had first seen Louise Colton. She was beautiful; there was no doubt that she was unhappy. Her husband was not admirable where his women were concerned. And in Bull’s mind he had arranged and re-arranged the points of the triangle. None of them fitted. He had thought of the solicitor; he had abandoned that idea after the visit to his chambers, ike had thought of young Royce until he saw him with Agatha at the Corner House. He was ashamed to admit that he had even thought of Peskett, until Peskett had been killed. But he had never once thought of Albert Steiner—not even when Mrs. Colton had told him she had learned the details of her husband’s business from the jeweller in Hatton-garden. Inspector Bull was Nordic to the core.
And then, in a flash, it came to Bull, and he knew at least a part of what had happened—and who had done it. Gates, he said to himself, Gates. There was the key. Gates was the mystery man of the piece. No one knew him, where he came from, what he had done, why he had been killed. The only facts about him were that in life he had worked for Colton, in death he lay now covered with a sheet in the mortuary.
Bull hailed a taxi.
“St. Giles-street, Bond-street,” he said. “Come along, Walters. I think you’re going to get your story.”
Then he lapsed into silence. Walters had a good reportorial indifference; also he knew how to wait.
Bull continued to think it over. The empty satchel at Trig-lane bottom, the humble report of the constable on duty at St. Giles-street. Gates had gone to Colton’s locked shop and had tried to get in. When the constable appeared he had got the wind up. He had gone to keep his engagement at Upper Thames-street, but he had gone empty-handed; Bull knew now that he had never had the jewels—and that the black satchel had long been empty. That was another blind, and a shrewd one. That was intended to mislead him, and had very nearly done so. The blow that killed Gates was not struck to get the diamonds. It was struck to remove Gates.
At the top of St. Giles-street Bull stopped the taxi. They got out. Bull waited until the taxi had disappeared in the darkness.
“This way,” Bull said quietly. He set off down the dark old street. He glanced up at the shop across from Colton’s. There was no sign of life in it. Bull nodded approvingly.
“No noise!” he said in a whisper to Walters, who nodded.
Bull took the keys from his pocket and unlocked the heavily shuttered shop. They stepped inside; Bull quietly closed the door and locked it again.
The shop was as dark as pitch.
“Look out for the cat,” Bull whispered, before he remembered that Mrs. Colton had taken the cat to Cadogan-square.
He took out his pocket flash and rapidly surveyed the room in the circle of yellow light. Nothing had been disturbed since the morning he and Mr. Field had inspected the place. There had been no liquidation of the stock. Centuries of silence brooded over the low-ceilinged room.
“This way,” Bull whispered, and led the way into the back room. Again the yellow circle of light played quickly around the room. They came back into the main room of the shop. The flash rested for an instant on the open cupboard door.
“Get in there,” Bull whispered. “Stay there. If you make a noise I’ll shoot you myself.”
“Right you are, old fellow,” Walters said quietly. He entered the cupboard philosophically.
“Cigarettes allowed?” he whispered.
Bull snarled under his breath.
“Not a sound,” he repeated.
Again the darting circle. Bull moved towards the steps and went stealthily up them. The room was black again.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Walters waited silently. Above he could hear the faint tread of Inspector Bull, very faint through the solid oak floor. Then the creaking of the stairs. There was no light.
“All right,” Bull whispered. “Stay there no matter what happens. Keep still!”
The shop was as silent as the grave. They waited. Somewhere in the distance a clock struck two. Walters shifted his weight uneasily. There was a warning hiss from the darkness. Where Bull was he did not know. Gradually Walters lost all feeling except for the throb, throb, throb of his own heart. His eyes became used to the darkness; he could make out the outlines of a coat hanging in the cupboard.
Then outside, in the street, he heard a faint sound. Was it a stealthy footfall? A second later there was a faint noise inside the room. Then the faintest rasp of metal. Then a sound that Walters was certain of; the click of a turning lock.
Walters moved closer to the wall behind the cupboard door. He heard the shop door open, saw a faint sh
aft of light; it came over the cupboard door and passed rapidly along. He heard the door close almost noiselessly. Then silence again.
Walters strained his ears. There was no sound. The thought came to him that Bull had gone out; a cold sweat broke out on him; he could feel the quicker beat of his heart. He was about to move when he felt something near him. He was not touched, he simply knew that someone was in the room, moving towards him. He downed the mad impulse to spring out shouting. He stood almost breathless, trying to quiet the beat of his heart, unconscious of his clenched fists.
Then he saw a faint light. Someone besides Bull was using a torch. Then the faintest creaking of the stairs. The light was on steadily. It was growing dimmer; it disappeared. Still no sound. A moment lengthening into a century passed. No light, no sound. Then the creaking of the stairs again; the light, dim, increasing. Then utter darkness. Again he felt the movement towards him. Again he strained every nerve to keep silent.
There was a sudden rush of feet, a startled cry, an oath.
“Lights!” Bull shouted. “By the door!”
Walters leaped out of the cupboard into the dark, stumbled drunk with excitement across blindly towards the door, fumbled for the switch. Fumbled interminably, while the gasping, the oaths and the struggling went on. Found the switch. The room was flooded with almost blinding light.
Inspector Bull was sitting on a man in the middle of the floor, his great hands holding the man’s hands down on the carpet.
“Take the gun out of his hip pocket,” he said breathlessly. “See the brown coat with short sleeves?”
Walters took out the revolver and Bull got up.
“All right, Mr. Field,” he said.
Murder blazed in Field’s blue eyes, burning dangerously in his ashen face. He got up. His gaze followed Bull’s to the green baize bag on the floor. His breath came quickly. His eyes shifted back to the gleaming blue steel in Bull’s hand, darted towards the door.
“Pick up that bag,” Bull said. “Put it on the table. Telephone Scotland Yard. Then go across the street and shout to my man in the haberdasher’s.”
He looked steadily at John Field. A shudder ran through Field.
“May I ask what I’m charged with?” he said, in a voice quivering and twisted with passion. “I suppose you know I haven’t broken in here. I have Mrs. Colton’s keys.”
“You are not charged with burglary, Mr. Field,” Bull said slowly. “I want you for the murder of George Colton and of James B. Gates. And I warn you that anything you say may be used against you. And—speaking unofficially—allow me to compliment you. It was clever work.”
Field smiled unpleasantly.
“Thank you, Inspector. What about Peskett? Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“I’m not forgetting anything,” Bull said as coolly. “You killed Colton and Gates. You did not kill Peskett.”
Field bowed.
“Thanks so much. May I sit down?”
Bull nodded. His eyes were steadily on Field, the revolver in his hand never wavered.
Field had recovered his self-possession.
“May I smoke, Inspector?”
“Certainly.”
In the door came Walters, and with him a short stocky man with a stolid face and keen eyes. He saluted, and looked at Field with a pleased smile.
Bull handed him the revolver.
“Be careful with that man,” he said placidly. “He’s dangerous.”
Field smiled again. Bull stood looking at him. He felt that something was stiil wrong; and he knew that when he had such a feeling something was wrong. He watched Field intently. The solicitor was perfectly willing to sit there. More; he wanted to sit there.
Bull glanced at the green bag on the table. He did not move from in front of the door.
“Hand me that bag, Walters,” he said.
He opened it and looked inside. He glanced over at Field.
Field nodded.
“That’s the diamonds, all right. Gates returned them to me last night. I’m taking them to Mrs. Royce. Perhaps you already guessed as much.”
Bull smiled and handed the bag to Walters. As he did so he caught a quick movement from Field. There was no sign from Bull; but he had seen the solicitor quickly push back his cuff and look at his watch.
Bull thought. That was it; playing for time. Why? It was nearly three. Suddenly Bull understood. He went quickly into the back room and took up the telephone. After a time that seemed endless he got the Colton house. A sleepy voice answered.
“Mrs. Colton, please.”
“I’m sorry, she’s gone abroad.”
“Who’s speaking? This is Inspector Bull.”
“It’s Mrs. Coggins, sir,”
“Where’s the new maid?”
“Sacked, sir, this very night.”
Bull rang off. He blew his nose violently in deep thought and went back to the front room.
“By the way, Mr. Field,” he said, “what did you do with your servant?”
“Doaks?” said Field calmly. He hesitated a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, well, Inspector, I suppose it’s all up. You have the better of me. You’ll find him in the second floor closet.”
“Dead?”
“Oh, no. Tied up”.
Bull nodded.
“It doesn’t make much difference to you which it was, does it?”
“Not very much, Inspector,” Mr. Field said with a smile.
There was a knocking at the door. Two men came in.
“Take this man to the Yard,” Bull said. “Hold him. You go out to 8-A Jockey’s-fields, Gray’s Inn, and get the valet, Doaks. Tied up in a closet on the second floor.”
The telephone rang.
“Hello, Bull speaking. What? Where? Well, I’m damned.”
Scotland Yard reported an urgent call from Mr. Pinkerton to Bull. He was on Wimbledon Common. It was urgent.
For a moment Bull was speechless with wrath. Pinkerton could go to the devil; the further from London the little Welshman was the better pleased Bull would be. Then he thought about it. If Pinkerton sent such a message it meant something. There was no telling what had happened to him. Once Bull had got him out of jail, once he had got him out of a house just before a box of dynamite had exploded in the cellar. Each time Mr. Pinkerton had been doing something.
Bull stepped out into the street. A long low car was waiting.
“The Commissioner said you’d need this, sir,” the driver said.
“Thanks,” Bull said. He got in. Walters calmly got in too. “We’re going to Wimbledon Common. I don’t know whereabouts on it.”
“I do, sir. The Chief gave me the directions himself.”
Bull grunted. The car tore through Knightsbridge, Sloane-street, King’s-road, across Putney-bridge, out Merton-road, out to the edge of the Common, and turned in Coombe-lane. The car came to a stop.
“That’ll be them!” the driver said. He pointed to a car a hundred yards off across the Common. Bull jumped out and ran across the grass. A little figure dashed frantically to meet him.
“Pinkerton!” Bull cried. “What in Heaven’s name . . .”
“This way! this way!” the little man gasped. He turned and fled back the way he had come. Bull followed.
Pinkerton stopped at the motor-car. Bull recognised it; it was the Coltons’ Daimler. In it Mrs. Colton lay unconscious. Fifty feet away, engine running quietly, stood a monoplane. It was ready for flight.
Bull took it all in dumbly. His gaze went back to the beautiful face, so pale against the dark cushions. Pinkerton jerked urgently at his sleeve. Bull turned to see still another car drive rapidly up. It came to a stop. A man jumped out, carrying a small satchel, and ran towards them. Bull recognised him; it was Dr. Bellamy. Without a word the doctor pushed him aside and opened the door of the car. He raised Mrs. Colton in his arms and rolled her eye-lids back from her eyes.
Bull shuddered. She was dead. Perhaps it was the best way. Pinkerton
jerked again at his sleeve. Bull shook him off.
“Let’s see if she’s still alive first,” he said.
Mr. Pinkerton almost screamed. “She’s not dead,” he shouted. “She’s drugged, you ass.”
Bull stared at him.
“For mercy’s sake,” cried Mr. Pinkerton, as near profanity as he ever came, “will you come on and quit staring like a great ox?”
Bull turned to him in astonishment.
“This way! This way!”
He ran towards the monoplane.
“She’s over here, I’ve got her. There, in the cockpit!”
Bull came heavily up, and looked in the cockpit. Agatha Colton was bound hand and foot with long strips of her own silk lingerie. An open suitcase on the grass showed where Mr. Pinkerton had taken his improvised bonds. Bull looked at her. The dark eyes stared at him with blazing hatred, terrible, implacable.
“She murdered Peskett,” Mr. Pinkerton said breathlessly. “She drugged Mrs. Colton. She would have murdered her if it hadn’t been for Bellamy. Her lover killed her father and Gates.”
“Michael Royce?” said Bull.
“No. Field, John Field.”
Bull took off his hat. There was still no word from Agatha Colton. Bull looked sharply at her. She had slumped down in the corner. A small phial slipped out of the lifeless hand she had managed to free before it was too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Two days later Inspector Bull knocked on the Commissioner’s door.
“Hello, Bull. Good work. Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bull said. “It wasn’t really me. Field was easy. It was the girl that was hard. I’d never have guessed it in the world.”
Debenham grinned and pushed over his box of cigars.
“You see, sir, when I found the bolt in her powder table, I was sure Mrs. Colton had planted it there. I never thought of the girl’s planting it on herself. Pinkerton thinks she didn’t plant it—she didn’t know I’d seen it on Peskett’s door, and never thought I’d look for it. He’s probably right. When I did find it she was intelligent enough to let it go. Not many women are that intelligent.”
