Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “Three or four compartments from the first one under the library,” said Cazalet.

  “Did you find them?”

  “Well, I kicked against the truncheon, but Drinkwater dug it up. The watch and keys were with it.”

  “Say, were they buried?”

  “Only in the loose rubble and brick-dusty stuff that you get in foundations.”

  “Say, that’s bad! That murderer must have known something, or else it’s a bully fluke in his favor.”

  “I don’t follow you, Toye.”

  “I’m thinking of finger-prints. If he’d just’ve laid those things right down, he’d have left the print of his hand as large as life for Scotland Yard.”

  “The devil he would!” exclaimed Cazalet. “I wish you’d explain,” he added; “remember I’m a wild man from the woods, and only know of these things by the vaguest kind of hearsay and stray paragraphs in the papers. I never knew you could leave your mark so easily as all that.”

  Toye took the breakfast menu and placed it face downward on the tablecloth. “Lay your hand on that, palm down,” he said, “and don’t move it for a minute.”

  Cazalet looked at him a moment before complying; then his fine, shapely, sunburnt hand lay still as plaster under their eyes until Toye told him he might take it up. Of course there was no mark whatever, and Cazalet laughed.

  “You should have caught me when I came up from those foundations, not fresh from my tub!” said he.

  “You wait,” replied Hilton Toye, taking the menu gingerly by the edge, and putting it out of harm’s way in the empty toast-rack. “You can’t see anything now, but if you come round to the Savoy I’ll show you something.”

  “What?”

  “Your prints, sir! I don’t say I’m Scotland Yard at the game, but I can do it well enough to show you how it’s done. You haven’t left your mark upon the paper, but I guess you’ve left the sweat of your hand; if I snow a little French chalk over it, the chalk’ll stick where your hand did, and blow off easily everywhere else. The rest’s as simple as all big things. It’s hanged a few folks already, but I judge it doesn’t have much chance with things that have lain buried in brick-dust. Say, come round to lunch and I’ll have your prints ready for you. I’d like awfully to show you how it’s done. It would really be a great pleasure.”

  Cazalet excused himself with decision. He had a full morning in front of him. He was going to see Miss Macnair’s brother, son of the late head of his father’s old firm of solicitors, and now one of the partners, to get them either to take up Scruton’s case themselves, or else to recommend a firm perhaps more accustomed to criminal practise. Cazalet was always apt to be elaborate in the first person singular, either in the past or in the future tense; but he was more so than usual in explaining his considered intentions in this matter that lay so very near his heart.

  “Going to see Scruton, too?” said Toye.

  “Not necessarily,” was the short reply. But it also was elaborated by Cazalet on a moment’s consideration. The fact was that he wanted first to know if it were not possible, by the intervention of a really influential lawyer, to obtain the prisoner’s immediate release, at any rate on bail. If impossible, he might hesitate to force himself on Scruton in the prison, but he would see.

  “It’s a perfect scandal that he should be there at all,” said Cazalet, as he rose first and ushered Toye out into the lounge. “Only think: our old gardener saw him run out of the drive at half past seven, when the gong went, when the real murderer must have been shivering in the Michelangelo cupboard, wondering how the devil he was ever going to get out again.”

  “Then you think old man Craven — begging his poor pardon — was getting out some cigars when the man, whoever he was, came in and knocked him on the head?”

  Cazalet nodded vigorously. “That’s the likeliest thing of all!” he cried. “Then the gong went — there may even have come a knock at the door — and there was that cupboard standing open at his elbow.”

  “With a hole in the floor that might have been made for him?”

  “As it happens, yes; he’d search every inch like a rat in a trap, you see; and there it was as I’d left it twenty years before.”

  “Well, it’s a wonderful yarn!” exclaimed Hilton Toye, and he lighted the cigar that Cazalet had given him.

  “I think it may be thought one if the police ever own how they made their find,” agreed Cazalet, laughing and looking at his watch. Toye had never heard him laugh so often. “By the way, Drinkwater doesn’t want any of all this to come out until he’s dragged his man before the beak again.”

  “Which you mean to prevent?”

  “If only I can! I more or less promised not to talk, however, and I’m sure you won’t. You knew so much already, you may just as well know the rest this week as well as next, if you don’t mind keeping it to yourself.”

  Nobody could have minded this particular embargo less than Hilton Toye; and in nothing was he less like Cazalet, who even now had the half-regretful and self-excusing air of the impulsive person who has talked too freely and discovered it too late. But he had been perfectly delightful to Hilton Toye, almost too appreciative, if anything, and now very anxious to give him a lift in his taxi. Toye, however, had shopping to do in the very street that they were in, and he saw Cazalet off with a smile that was as yet merely puzzled, and not unfriendly until he had time to recall Miss Blanche’s part in the strange affair of the previous afternoon.

  Say, weren’t they rather intimate, those two, even if they had known each other all their lives? He had it from Blanche (with her second refusal) that she was not, and never had been, engaged. And a fellow who only wrote to her once in a year — still, they must have been darned intimate, and this funny affair would bring them together again quicker than anything.

  Say, what a funny affair it was when you came to think of it! Funny all through, it now struck Toye; beginning on board ship with that dream of Cazalet’s about the murdered man, leading to all that talk of the old grievance against him, and culminating in his actually finding the implements of the crime in his inspired efforts to save the man of whose innocence he was so positive. Say, if that Cazalet had not been on his way home from Australia at the time!

  Like many deliberate speakers, Toye thought like lightning, and had reached this point before he was a hundred yards from the hotel; then he thought of something else, and retraced his steps. He retraced them even to the table at which he had sat with Cazalet not very many minutes ago; the waiter was only now beginning to clear away.

  “Say, waiter, what have you done with the menu that was in that toast-rack? There was something on it that we rather wanted to keep.”

  “I thought there was, sir,” said the English waiter at that admirable hotel. Toye, however, prepared to talk to him like an American uncle of Dutch extraction.

  “You thought that, and you took it away?”

  “Not at all, sir. I ‘appened to observe the other gentleman put the menu in his pocket, behind your back as you were getting up, because I passed a remark about it to the head waiter at the time!”

  IX. FAIR WARNING

  It was much more than a map of the metropolis that Toye carried in his able head. He knew the right places for the right things, from his tailor’s at one end of Jermyn Street to his hatter’s at the other, and from the man for collars and dress shirts, in another of St. James’, to the only man for soft shirts, on Piccadilly. Hilton Toye visited them all in turn this fine September morning, and found the select team agreeably disengaged, readier than ever to suit him. Then he gazed critically at his boots. He was not so dead sure that he had struck the only man for boots. There had been a young fellow aboard the Kaiser Fritz, quite a little bit of a military blood, who had come ashore in a pair of cloth tops that had rather unsettled Mr. Toye’s mind just on that one point.

  He thought of this young fellow when he was through with the soft-shirt man on Piccadilly. They had diced for a drink or two in t
he smoking-room, and Captain Aylmer had said he would like to have Toye see his club any time he was passing and cared to look in for lunch. He had said so as though he would like it a great deal, and suddenly Toye had a mind to take him at his word right now. The idea began with those boots with cloth tops, but that was not all there was to it; there was something else that had been at the back of Toye’s mind all morning, and now took charge in front.

  Aylmer had talked some about a job in the war office that enabled him to lunch daily at the Rag; but what his job had been aboard a German steamer Toye did not know and was not the man to inquire. It was no business of his, anyway. Reference to a card, traded for his own in Southampton Water, and duly filed in his cigarette-case, reminded him of the Rag’s proper style and title. And there he was eventually entertained to a sound, workmanlike, rather expeditious meal.

  “Say, did you see the cemetery at Genoa?” suddenly inquired the visitor on their way back through the hall. A martial bust had been admired extravagantly before the question.

  “Never want to see it again, or Genoa either,” said Captain Aylmer. “The smoking-room’s this way.”

  “I judge you didn’t care a lot about the city?” pursued Toye as they found a corner.

  “Genoa? Oh, I liked it all right, but you get fed up in a couple of days neither ashore nor afloat. It’s a bit amphibious. Of course you can go to a hotel, if you like; but not if you’re only a poor British soldier.”

  “Did you say you were there two days?” Toye was cutting his cigar as though it were a corn.

  “Two whole days, and we’d had a night in the Bay of Naples just before.”

  “Is that so? I only came aboard at Genoa. I guess I was wise,” added Toye, as though he was thinking of something else. There was no sort of feeling in his voice, but he was sucking his left thumb.

  “I say, you’ve cut yourself!”

  “I guess it’s nothing. Knife too sharp; please don’t worry, Captain Aylmer. I was going to say I only got on at Genoa, and they couldn’t give me a room to myself. I had to go in with Cazalet; that’s how I saw so much of him.”

  It was Toye’s third separate and independent attempt to introduce the name and fame of Cazalet as a natural topic of conversation. Twice his host had listened with adamantine politeness; this time he was enjoying quite the second-best liqueur brandy to be had at the Rag; and he leaned back in his chair.

  “You were rather impressed with him, weren’t you?” said Captain Aylmer. “Well, frankly, I wasn’t, but it may have been my fault. It does rather warp one’s judgment to be shot out to Aden on a potty job at this time o’ year.”

  So that was where he had been? Yes, and by Jove he had to see a man about it all at three o’clock.

  “One of the nuts,” explained Captain Aylmer, keeping his chair with fine restraint. Toye rose with finer alacrity. “I hope you won’t think me rude,” said the captain, “but I’m afraid I really mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  Toye said the proper things all the way to the hat-stand, and there took frontal measures as a last resort. “I was only going to ask you one thing about Mr. Cazalet,” he said, “and I guess I’ve a reason for asking, though there’s no time to state it now. What did you think of him, Captain Aylmer, on the whole?”

  “Ah, there you have me. ‘On the whole’ is just the difficulty,” said Aylmer, answering the straight question readily enough. “I thought he was a very good chap as far as Naples, but after Genoa he was another being. I’ve sometimes wondered what happened in his three or four days ashore.”

  “Three or four, did you say?”

  And at the last moment Toye would have played Wedding Guest to Aylmer’s Ancient Mariner.

  “Yes; you see, he knew these German boats waste a couple of days at Genoa, so he landed at Naples and did his Italy overland. Rather a good idea, I thought, especially as he said he had friends in Rome; but we never heard of ‘em beforehand, and I should have let the whole thing strike me a bit sooner if I’d been Cazalet. Soon enough to take a hand-bag and a tooth-brush, eh? And I don’t think I should have run it quite so fine at Genoa, either. But there are rum birds in this world, and always will be!”

  Toye felt one himself as he picked his way through St. James’ Square. If it had not been just after lunch, he would have gone straight and had a cocktail, for of course he knew the only place for them. What he did was to slue round out of the square, and to obtain for the asking, at another old haunt, on Cockspur Street, the latest little time-table of continental trains. This he carried, not on foot but in a taxi, to the Savoy Hotel, where it kept him busy in his own room for the best part of another hour. But by that time Hilton Toye looked more than an hour older than on sitting down at his writing-table with pencil, paper and the little book of trains; he looked horrified, he looked distressed, and yet he looked crafty, determined and immensely alive. He proceeded, however, to take some of the life out of himself, and to add still more to his apparent age, by repairing for more inward light and leading to a Turkish bath.

  Now the only Turkish bath, according to Hilton Toye’s somewhat exclusive code, was not even a hundred yards from Cazalet’s hotel; and there the visitor of the morning again presented himself before the afternoon; now merely a little worn, as a man will look after losing a stone an hour on a warm afternoon, and a bit blue again about the chin, which of course looked a little deeper and stronger on that account.

  Cazalet was not in; his friend would wait, and in fact waited over an hour in the little lounge. An evening paper was offered to him; he took it listlessly, scarcely looked at it at first, then tore it in his anxiety to find something he had quite forgotten — from the newspaper end. But he was waiting as stoically as before when Cazalet arrived in tremendous spirits.

  “Stop and dine!” he cried out at once.

  “Sorry I can’t; got to go and see somebody,” said Hilton Toye.

  “Then you must have a drink.”

  “No, I thank you,” said Toye, with the decisive courtesy of a total abstainer.

  “You look as if you wanted one; you don’t look a bit fit,” said Cazalet most kindly.

  “Nor am I, sir!” exclaimed Toye. “I guess London’s no place for me in the fall. Just as well, too, I judge, since I’ve got to light out again straight away.”

  “You haven’t!”

  “Yes, sir, this very night. That’s the worst of a business that takes you to all the capitals of Europe in turn. It takes you so long to flit around that you never know when you’ve got to start in again.”

  “Which capital is it this time?” said Cazalet. His exuberant geniality had been dashed very visibly for the moment. But already his high spirits were reasserting themselves; indeed, a cynic with an ear might have caught the note of sudden consolation in the question that Cazalet asked so briskly.

  “Got to go down to Rome,” said Toye, watching the effect of his words.

  “But you’ve just come back from there!” Cazalet looked no worse than puzzled.

  “No, sir, I missed Rome out; that was my mistake, and here’s this situation been developing behind my back.”

  “What situation?”

  “Oh, why, it wouldn’t interest you! But I’ve got to go down to Rome, whether I like it or not, and I don’t like it any, because I don’t have any friends there. And that’s what I’m doing right here. I was wondering if you’d do something for me, Cazalet?”

  “If I can,” said Cazalet, “with pleasure.” But his smiles were gone.

  “I was wondering if you’d give me an introduction to those friends of yours in Rome!”

  There was a little pause, and Cazalet’s tongue just showed between his lips, moistening them. It was at that moment the only touch of color in his face.

  “Did I tell you I’d any friends there?”

  The sound of his voice was perhaps less hoarse than puzzled. Toye made himself chuckle as he sat looking up out of somber eyes.

  “Well, if you didn’t,” said
he, “I guess I must have dreamed it!”

  X. THE WEEK OF THEIR LIVES

  “Toye’s gone back to Italy,” said Cazalet. “He says he may be away only a week. Let’s make it the week of our lives!”

  The scene was the little room it pleased Blanche to call her parlor, and the time a preposterously early hour of the following forenoon. Cazalet might have ‘planed down from the skies into her sunny snuggery, though his brand-new Burberry rather suggested another extravagant taxicab. But Blanche saw only his worn excited face; and her own was not at its best in her sheer amazement.

  If she had heard the last two sentences, to understand them at the time she would have felt bound to take them up first, and to ask how on earth Mr. Toye could affect her plans or pleasures. But such was the effect of the preceding statement that all the rest was several moments on the way to her comprehension, where it arrived, indeed, more incomprehensible than ever, but not worth making a fuss about then.

  “Italy!” she had ejaculated meanwhile. “When did he go?”

  “Nine o’clock last night.”

  “But” — she checked herself— “I simply can’t understand it, that’s all!”

  “Why? Have you seen him since the other afternoon?”

  His manner might have explained those other two remarks, now bothering her when it was too late to notice them; on the other hand, she was by no means sure that it did. He might simply dislike Toye, and that again might explain his extraordinary heat over the argument at Littleford. Blanche began to feel the air somewhat heavily charged with explanations, either demanded or desired; they were things she hated, and she determined not to add to them if she could help it.

  “I haven’t set eyes on him again,” she said. “But he’s been seen here — in a taxi.”