CHAPTER XXI
"I bet it's our man," said Gimblet, as Jennins dismissed the constable.
"Well, he must have altered his appearance if he is Mr. West, thegentleman from South America, unless Matterson's account is very wrongindeed," was Jennins' only comment. "Aren't you going a bit out of yourway, Mr. Gimblet," he asked, "to see any connection between this violentattempt on Miss Turner's life and the actual murder which has takenplace at 13 Scholefield Avenue? For my part I don't see any reason tothink the two affairs have anything to do with each other. I admit itlooked as if Miss Turner and Mrs. Vanderstein had been in the house, butsurely that theory is disposed of now and it is clear that your friendthe actress was mistaken in thinking it was them she saw. Remember, shedidn't even know them by sight, but merely guessed at their identityfrom the description in the advertisement: two ladies in white, onewearing a red cloak and the other a mauve one. Why, there may have beendozens of couples dressed in these colours going about London on Monday,or any other night!"
"But the jewels," said Gimblet, "she saw them too, you know."
"Mrs. Vanderstein hasn't a monopoly of diamonds. And besides, at thatdistance, and at the pace Miss Finner was going, she could only havereceived the vaguest impression, in any case."
"I suppose I have got my head full of Scholefield Avenue," said Gimblet."I admit that I find it very hard to remember that Mrs. Vanderstein, atall events, is a very long way from that spot. And I daresay you areright, and Miss Turner never was much nearer to it. Still...." Gimbletfell into an introspective silence from which he soon roused himselfwith a start. "Tell me what you think, Jennins," he said. "Have you anytheory?"
"I haven't any theory about the Scholefield Avenue business," repliedJennins reluctantly, "but there doesn't seem much mystery about theother affair, to my way of thinking. Surely it is clear that when Mrs.Vanderstein went off so secretly to Boulogne, for some reason she wishedit to appear that Miss Turner went with her, while as a matter of factthe young lady remained in London. Ten to one we shall find that Mrs.Vanderstein had a more compromising companion with her in France thanshe left in England. Miss Turner, no doubt, retired to some secludedspot till her presence should be again required, probably to lodgingsnear Regent's Park. Very likely she stayed indoors all day for fear ofmeeting acquaintances who might call for troublesome explanations as toher presence there, and being in want of exercise and fresh air wentfor a walk at night in order to procure them. Is it surprising thatthis ruffian of whom Matterson caught a glimpse, meeting her at such anhour and in so lonely a place, should not have spared her his unwelcomeadvances? Matterson saw him trying to put an arm round her neck, and itwas very natural for her to scream in such circumstances. On our manrunning up, the black-bearded loafer, thinking himself caught, struckout at the girl in a fit of temper, and then took to his heels just intime to save himself."
"All very fine, Jennins," said Gimblet, "but I can pick holes in thattheory till you'll take it for a sieve. To put aside the questionwhether such a young lady as Miss Turner is said to be would lendherself to the deception you suggest, is it conceivable that, if shedid go out to seek fresh air after dark, she should defer doing so tilltwo in the morning and then choose a particularly violent thunderstormto walk about in? Would her desire for exercise have led her to standhalf way up the embankment of the canal when the rain was falling intorrents, and had been doing so since midnight? There is another thingas inexplicable, and that is the attire in which she took this midnightramble. The clothes we saw at the hospital were mere rags. It seemsincredible that this young lady, whom we know to have been clad onMonday night in purple and fine linen, should have been going abouton Wednesday morning in garments which were not only threadbare andindescribably ancient but actually dirty. The battered state of the hatmay be due to the blow from the spade, and all the garments were ofcourse drenched by the rain, but there is something beyond that in theirrepulsiveness. I can't imagine how she can have brought herself to wearsuch things.
"Apart from this behaviour of hers, which is in itself a mystery, whatwas the black-bearded one doing in the same place and hour and in thesame unpropitious conditions? They could hardly both have been wanderingthere for the innocuous purpose you attribute to Miss Turner. And, markyou, the man was no destitute waif devoid of the means of procuringhimself shelter from the rain. He carried a good serviceable spade whichwould have got him the price of a night's lodging whenever he liked topawn it. Now the kind of rough you are thinking of does not carry aspade or anything so suggestive of hard and honest labour. On the otherhand, who does use that implement in a town like this? A gardener mighthave one, or a scavenger; or one or two other people. I think one of themost likely, especially at night, would be a gravedigger."
"There you go!" exclaimed Jennins; "your mind is running on bodiesburied in the flower pots! I suppose you think this fellow was going tobury the girl in one of the beds in the park!"
"It's all very strange," mused Gimblet, unheeding the inspector'sjeering tones. "The rope now. That is a puzzle. What could he be goingto do with a rope? And why was it tied to a spade? Had he got the thingin his hands when he was trying to put his arms round Miss Turner'sneck? It must have hampered him a good deal and perhaps helped her toavoid his clutches." Gimblet, with unseeing eyes, stared fixedly at hiscompanion, his mind busy with the problem. Suddenly a light seemed tofall upon it. "By Jove!" he cried, "I believe I see the whole thing. Ifonly Matterson were certain about the gloves."
"What is it?" asked Jennins eagerly.
"No, no," said Gimblet. "It is too wild an idea at present, thoughindeed I do not think I can be mistaken. But you have all the factsbefore you, Jennins, and are as able to come to the right conclusion asmyself. I will leave you to think over the puzzle, while I go back to myflat and see if the answer to the wire I sent to Mrs. Vanderstein hasyet arrived. It ought to be there by now."
But he found no telegram awaiting him. He was annoyed and surprisedat this, but the time taken by foreign telegrams is always uncertain,and Mrs. Vanderstein might have been out when his reached Boulogne.Lunch was being kept warm for him, and he made a hearty meal of Scotchwoodcock and asparagus; with which he drank iced coffee and ate spongecake instead of bread. There were strawberries to finish up with, and heleft the dining-room with a peaceful smile on his face.
It was three o'clock, and the telegram was still undelivered.
Gimblet decided to wait in for it, and, having now leisure to think ofothers, rang up Sidney on the telephone and told him of the discovery ofBarbara Turner's whereabouts.
Incoherent questions came to him over the wire, but after a minute ortwo Sidney said "good-bye" and rang off hastily. The detective smiledas he hung up the receiver. In his mind's eye he saw the young man dashout and drive swiftly in the direction of the hospital, and indeed thepicture his imagination drew for him could not have been more accurate.
The afternoon passed and the evening wore away, and yet no wire camefrom Mrs. Vanderstein. It was tiresome, and Gimblet felt irritated withthe lady for her lack of courtesy. Surely she might have replied by now.He felt that she held the clue to many things which perplexed him, andhe could not understand her failure to give it to him. His own telegramhad been very urgent. Well, the police were sending a man to see her; hewas to go over by the 2.20 from Charing Cross, and by now he would bearriving at Boulogne. There could not be much more delay, telegram or notelegram.
Gimblet gave up waiting and went out again. He felt he must go toScholefield Avenue once more. The tragedy that had taken place therefilled his thoughts; and, being convinced in spite of Jennins'contemptuous incredulity that the two mysteries were in some remoteway connected, he was inclined to go and see if there were not sometrifling point about things at No. 13 which he had overlooked, insteadof waiting longer for the minute glimmer of light which Mrs. Vandersteinmight be able to throw upon the darkness with which the whole affair wasenveloped.
Scholefield Avenue looked very quiet and peaceful i
n the evening light;the few boys who still hovered about the gate, survivals of the crowdwhich the report of the murder had gathered there earlier in the day,wore the tranquil air of those to whom time is no object, and Gimblet,looking up and down the road, where the shadows lay long and the airwas cool in the green twilight of the overhanging trees, thought againwhat a good place the murderer had chosen for his deed. Who would eversuspect evil in so calm and bright an oasis among the mazes of dusty,traffic-worn streets which surrounded it on every hand?
The house was in charge of a couple of policemen, who let Gimblet inwithout demur when he showed them his card, and followed him with theireyes with looks in which curiosity and admiration were blended. Hewent over the garden again, examining half-obliterated footmarks, andpoking about between flowering plants lest something should be thrustaway there and had escaped his notice. Then into the house, where herenewed his search, but without result. He looked into the drawing-roomagain, where all was as he had left it except that the body had beenremoved to a bedroom, then went into the library and gazed again at thedirty finger marks on the white paint of the door. Whose fingers werethey, he wondered, which had left so many imprints? Was it the murderedwoman who had been shut up in that room? Had Mrs. Vanderstein and hercompanion been there too, or was Jennins right, and their presence inthat vicinity on Monday night been a figment of Miss Finner's excitedimagination?
His thoughts reverted to the powder puff and the forged note, and hetook the folded paper from his pocket book and sniffed at it again. Theodour of scent, now faint indeed, but still clinging sweetly to theimpassioned words, was unmistakably that which hovered about the housein Grosvenor Street. Arome de la Corse, it was called, he remembered,and Amelie had said that Mrs. Vanderstein had it sent to her directfrom Paris. Such extraordinary things happen every day that anythingshort of a miracle hardly attracts attention, but surely it would be astrain on the long arm of coincidence to suppose that, having strayedon to the scene of a murder owing to the mistaken idea that he was onthe track of Mrs. Vanderstein, he should then find that not only did thedead woman resemble that lady and wear similar clothes but that she evenused the same uncommon perfume! Gimblet's whole soul revolted at such animpossibility. In the name of common sense, he said to himself, it mustbe Mrs. Vanderstein who had been seen on the doorstep on Monday night,and none other, in spite of all probability to the contrary; though whatshe was doing in that _galere_ certainly seemed incomprehensible fromnearly every point of view.
No contingency was ever dismissed by Gimblet as too wild forconsideration, and the only reasonable explanation of her presence,he felt, was that she was in some way mixed up with the murder, anaccomplice at least, if not the actual author of the deed; but thisview involved so complete a shifting of ideas, that he put it aside forfurther consideration in the light of the information which the mansent by Scotland Yard to Boulogne might be able to furnish. If only thewalls could speak! he thought, as he finally realised that nothing morewas to be gathered, and, before leaving the room, strolled over to themantelpiece in order to have a nearer look at the picture which hungthere, and which he had noticed the day before.
It was a small oil painting, dark with dirt and age, and much of thedetail lost in a general blackness. Still the figures, those of a manin blue and another in greenish brown in the act of lighting a longpipe, could be clearly enough distinguished, together with enough of thebackground to make it plain that this represented an interior. Gimbletstudied it with the keenest appreciation; it was just the class ofpicture he most delighted in. A longing took him to remove it from itsnail and carry it to the light, and with rather a guilty glance back atthe door, which he had, however, shut as he entered, he put up his handand lifted it off.
As he delicately lowered his prize he caught sight of something whichmade him very nearly drop it.
On the square of wall paper which had been hidden by the picture wassome pencilled writing, scrawled irregularly in a large round hand:
"I am locked in this room. I write this hoping it may be the means of delivering these people to justice, for I am sure they intend no good. I can see that by the fact that the man with the black beard has promised to help me to escape. Why should there be need to escape? But I do not believe he will keep his word. I have been here so long, I do not know how long, but many hours, perhaps days, and God knows what dreadful thing they are doing in the drawing-room to Mr"
The writing broke off abruptly about half way down the square of darkercolour, where the paper had been prevented from fading by the protectingpicture. Gimblet gazed at it with all the emotions of the scientistwhose theory has stood the decisive test. His hands fumbled in hisexcitement, as he hastily snatched out his notebook, and sought in itfor the telegraph form Higgs had obtained from the Piccadilly office.He flattened it against the wall below the pencilled words, more inorder to gloat over this proof of the soundness of his deductions thanfor the sake of comparing the two handwritings, for it had only neededthe first glance to make it plain to him that they were one and thesame. The writing on the wall was larger; the letters followed eachother unevenly, and while some of the lines drooped lower and lower asthey advanced, others rose crookedly to meet them, so that one or twoactually overlapped and were rather hard to decipher, but the essentialcharacter of the hand was clearly identical with that of the telegram.There was no mistaking the slant of the short line of the h's or theoval converging lines of the w's and the low crossing of the t's,besides a hundred other small points which left the trained eye in nodoubt as to the authorship of the message.
"I wonder what Jennins will say to this," thought Gimblet, as he copieddown the words on a page of his notebook. "That Scholefield Avenue hasgot on my brain, I suppose."
Excited as he was, he did not forget his original purpose in taking downthe painting, but carried it to the window and examined it closely bythe now diminishing light. On nearer inspection it proved to be of lessinterest than he had expected, and he hung it up again with the lessregret.
"But even Jennins will have to admit that a leaning towards Art comesin very useful sometimes," he thought, as he once more hid the scrawledmessage from view.
It was long past eight when the detective returned to his flat, only tofind that there was still no answer to his telegram to Boulogne.
"Nothing has come and no one has been to see us since you went out,sir," Higgs told him.
Higgs always spoke of himself as "us" when he was engaged on Gimblet'saffairs, just as he alluded, with a fine impartiality, to matters inwhich his master alone was concerned as "ours."
"They've been ringing us up from the Yard," he went on, "been ringingevery few minutes for the last half-hour, and said I was to ask you tospeak to them on the telephone the minute you come in. There they goagain," he concluded, as the bell tinkled violently in the library atthe same moment as there came a ring at the front door.
Gimblet hurried to the instrument and Higgs went to answer the door.
"Are you there?"
"Yes, is that Mr. Gimblet? Hold the line, please, sir."
In a moment Jennins' voice sounded in his ear.
"Mr. Gimblet, that you? Oh, Mr. Gimblet, our man has wired from Boulogneand it appears that things have taken a very unexpected turn. I daresayyou've seen an evening paper?"
Gimblet had heard so much when the library door burst open, and SirGregory rushed into the room.
"Look at this," he almost screamed, evidently beside himself with somepainful emotion. "Look at this!"
He waved an evening paper.
"Oh, do go away, Sir Gregory," said Gimblet; "can't you see I'm busy?Hullo, Jennins! Jennins, are you there?"
But Sir Gregory would not be denied. Seizing Gimblet's arm he tore himaway from the telephone, and holding the newspaper under his eyespointed to it with a shaking hand. He would have spoken, but sobs chokedhis utterance, and, glancing at him for the first time and in no veryfriendly humour, Gimblet was surprised to see that tears were rollin
gdown the kindly pink face.
"Why, what's the matter?" he said, but Sir Gregory only pointed to theunfolded sheet. The detective's eyes at last followed the outstretchedfinger, and he read:
"Murder of Mrs. Vanderstein. "Missing Lady Found Dead in Her Hotel at Boulogne."
Mrs. Vanderstein's jewels Page 21
