The Daffodil Mystery

by Edgar Wallace

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE FINGER PRINTS

  Tarling, his hands thrust into his pockets, his chin dropped, hisshoulders bent, slowly walked the broad pavement of the Edgware Road onhis way from the girl's hotel to his flat. He dismissed with good reasonthe not unimportant fact that he himself was suspect. He, a comparativelyunknown detective from Shanghai was by reason of his relationship toThornton Lyne, and even more so because his own revolver had been foundon the scene of the tragedy, the object of some suspicion on the part ofthe higher authorities who certainly would not pooh-pooh the suggestionthat he was innocent of any association with the crime because hehappened to be engaged in the case.

  He knew that the whole complex machinery of Scotland Yard was working,and working at top speed, to implicate him in the tragedy. Silent andinvisible though that work may be, it would nevertheless be sure. Hesmiled a little, and shrugged himself from the category of the suspected.

  First and most important of the suspects was Odette Rider. That ThorntonLyne had loved her, he did not for one moment imagine. Thornton Lyne wasnot the kind of man who loved. Rather had he desired, and very few womenhad thwarted him. Odette Rider was an exception. Tarling only knew of thescene which had occurred between Lyne and the girl on the day he had beencalled in, but there must have been many other painful interviews,painful for the girl, humiliating for the dead millionaire.

  Anyway, he thought thankfully, it would not be Odette. He had got intothe habit of thinking of her as "Odette," a discovery which had amusedhim. He could rule her out, because obviously she could not be in twoplaces at once. When Thornton Lyne was discovered in Hyde Park, withOdette Rider's night-dress round about his wound, the girl herself waslying in a cottage hospital at Ashford fifty miles away.

  But what of Milburgh, that suave and oily man? Tarling recalled the factthat he had been sent for by his dead relative to inquire into Milburgh'smode of living and that Milburgh was under suspicion of having robbed thefirm. Suppose Milburgh had committed the crime? Suppose, to hide hisdefalcations, he had shot his employer dead? There was a flaw in thisreasoning because the death of Thornton Lyne would be more likely toprecipitate the discovery of the manager's embezzlements--there wouldbe an examination of accounts and everything would come out. Milburghhimself was not unmindful of this argument in his favour, as was to berevealed.

  As against this, Tarling thought, it was notorious that criminals didfoolish things. They took little or no account of the immediateconsequences of their act, and a man like Milburgh, in his desperation,might in his very frenzy overlook the possibility of his crime coming tolight through the very deed he had committed to cover himself up.

  He had reached the bottom of Edgware Road and was turning the corner ofthe street, looking across to the Marble Arch, when he heard a voice hailhim and turning, saw a cab breaking violently to the edge of thepavement.

  It was Inspector Whiteside who jumped out.

  "I was just coming to see you," he said. "I thought your interview withthe young lady would be longer. Just wait a moment, till I've paid thecabman--by-the-way, I saw your Chink servant and gather you sent him tothe Yard on a spoof errand."

  When he returned, he met Tarling's eye and grinned sympathetically.

  "I know what's in your mind," he said frankly, "but really the Chiefthinks it no more than an extraordinary coincidence. I suppose you madeinquiries about your revolver?"

  Tarling nodded.

  "And can you discover how it came to be in the possession of----" hepaused, "the murderer of Thornton Lyne?"

  "I have a theory, half-formed, it is true, but still a theory," saidTarling. "In fact, it's hardly so much a theory as an hypothesis."

  Whiteside grinned again.

  "This hair-splitting in the matter of logical terms never did mean muchin my young life," he said, "but I take it you have a hunch."

  Without any more to-do, Tarling told the other of the discovery he hadmade in Ling Chu's box, the press cuttings, descriptive of the late Mr.Lyne's conduct in Shanghai and its tragic sequel.

  Whiteside listened in silence.

  "There may be something on that side," he said at last when Tarling hadfinished. "I've heard about your Ling Chu. He's a pretty good policeman,isn't he?"

  "The best in China," said Tarling promptly, "but I'm not going to pretendthat I understand his mind. These are the facts. The revolver, or ratherthe pistol, was in my cupboard and the only person who could get at itwas Ling Chu. There is the second and more important fact imputingmotive, that Ling Chu had every reason to hate Thornton Lyne, the man whohad indirectly been responsible for his sister's death. I have beenthinking the matter over and I now recall that Ling Chu was unusuallysilent after he had seen Lyne. He has admitted to me that he has been toLyne's Store and in fact has been pursuing inquiries there. We happenedto be discussing the possibility of Miss Rider committing the murder andLing Chu told me that Miss Rider could not drive a motor-car and when Iquestioned him as to how he knew this, he told me that he had madeseveral inquiries at the Store. This I knew nothing about.

  "Here is another curious fact," Tarling went on. "I have always beenunder the impression that Ling Chu did not speak English, except a fewwords of 'pigeon' that Chinamen pick up through mixing with foreigndevils. Yet he pushed his inquiries at Lyne's Store amongst theemployees, and it is a million to one against his finding any shop-girlwho spoke Cantonese!"

  "I'll put a couple of men on to watch him," said Whiteside, but Tarlingshook his head.

  "It would be a waste of good men," he said, "because Ling Chu could leadthem just where he wanted to. I tell you he is a better sleuth than anyyou have got at Scotland Yard, and he has an absolute gift for fading outof the picture under your very nose. Leave Ling Chu to me, I know the wayto deal with him," he added grimly.

  "The Little Daffodil!" said Whiteside thoughtfully, repeating the phrasewhich Tarling had quoted. "That was the Chinese girl's name, eh? By Jove!It's something more than a coincidence, don't you think, Tarling?"

  "It may be or may not be," said Tarling; "there is no such word asdaffodil in Chinese. In fact, I am not so certain that the daffodil isa native of China at all, though China's a mighty big place. Strictlyspeaking the girl was called 'The Little Narcissus,' but as you say, itmay be something more than a coincidence that the man who insultedher, is murdered whilst her brother is in London."

  They had crossed the broad roadway as they were speaking and had passedinto Hyde Park. Tarling thought whimsically that this open spaceexercised the same attraction on him as it did upon Mr. Milburgh.

  "What were you going to see me about?" he asked suddenly, rememberingthat Whiteside had been on his way to the hotel when they had met.

  "I wanted to give you the last report about Milburgh."

  Milburgh again! All conversation, all thought, all clues led to thatmystery man. But what Whiteside had to tell was not especially thrilling.Milburgh had been shadowed day and night, and the record of his doingswas a very prosaic one.

  But it is out of prosaic happenings that big clues are born.

  "I don't know how Milburgh expects the inquiry into Lyne's accounts willgo," said Whiteside, "but he is evidently connected, or expects to beconnected, with some other business."

  "What makes you say that?" asked Tarling.

  "Well," replied Whiteside, "he has been buying ledgers," and Tarlinglaughed.

  "That doesn't seem to be a very offensive proceeding," he saidgood-humouredly. "What sort of ledgers?"

  "Those heavy things which are used in big offices. You know, the sort ofthing that it takes one man all his time to lift. He bought three atRoebuck's, in City Road, and took them to his house by taxi. Now mytheory," said Whiteside earnestly, "is that this fellow is no ordinarycriminal, if he is a criminal at all. It may be that he has been keepinga duplicate set of books."

  "That is unlikely," interrupted Tarling, "and I say this with due respectfor your judgment, Whiteside. It would want to be something more than anor
dinary criminal to carry all the details of Lyne's mammoth business inhis head, and it is more than possible that your first theory was right,namely, that he contemplates either going with another firm, or startinga new business of his own. The second supposition is more likely. Anyway,it is no crime to own a ledger, or even three. By-the-way, when did hebuy these books?"

  "Yesterday," said Whiteside, "early in the morning, before Lyne's opened.How did your interview with Miss Rider go off?"

  Tarling shrugged his shoulders. He felt a strange reluctance to discussthe girl with the police officer, and realised just how big a fool he wasin allowing her sweetness to drug him.

  "I am convinced that, whoever she may suspect, she knows nothing of themurder," he said shortly.

  "Then she _does_ suspect somebody?"

  Tarling nodded.

  "Who?"

  Again Tarling hesitated.

  "I think she suspects Milburgh," he said.

  He put his hand in the inside of his jacket and took out a pocket case,opened it, and drew forth the two cards bearing the finger impressions hehad taken of Odette Rider. It required more than an ordinary effort ofwill to do this, though he would have found it difficult to explain justwhat tricks his emotions were playing.

  "Here are the impressions you wanted," he said. "Will you take them?"

  Whiteside took the cards with a nod and examined the inky smudges, andall the time Tarling's heart stood still, for Inspector Whiteside was therecognised authority of the Police Intelligence Department on fingerprints and their characteristics.

  The survey was a long one.

  Tarling remembered the scene for years afterwards; the sunlit path, thestraggling idlers, the carriages pursuing their leisurely way along thewalks, and the stiff military figure of Whiteside standing almost toattention, his keen eyes peering down at the little cards which he heldin the finger-tips of both hands. Then:

  "Interesting," he said. "You notice that the two figures are almost thesame--which is rather extraordinary. Very interesting."

  "Well?" asked Tarling impatiently, almost savagely.

  "Interesting," said Whiteside again, "but none of these correspond to thethumb prints on the bureau."

  "Thank God for that!" said Tarling fervently "Thank God for that!"