"Ah! Good evening, Rogers," he remarked casually.
"Good evening, Mr Eastwood," replied the porter respectfully.
He was attached to Anthony, who set an example of liberality not always followed by his neighbors.
Anthony paused with his foot on the bottom step of the stairs.
"By the way, Rogers," he said casually, "how long have I been living here? I was just having a little discussion about it with these friends of mine."
"Let me see, sir, it must be getting on for close on four years now."
"Just what I thought."
Anthony flung a glance of triumph at the two detectives. Carter grunted, but Verrall was smiling broadly.
"Good, but not good enough, sir," he remarked. "Shall we go up?"
Anthony opened the door of the flat with his latchkey. He was thankful to remember that Seamark, his man, was out. The fewer witnesses of this catastrophe the better.
The typewriter was as he had left it. Carter strode across to the table and read the headline on the paper. "THE MYSTERY OF THE
SECOND CUCUMBER?" he announced in a gloomy voice.
"A story of mine," exclaimed Anthony nonchalantly.
"That's another good point, sir," said Verrall nodding his head, his eyes twinkling. "By the way, sir, what was it about? What was the mystery of the second cucumber?"
"Ah, there you have me," said Anthony. "It's that second cucumber that's at the bottom of this trouble."
Carter was looking at him intently. Suddenly he shook his head and tapped his forehead significantly.
"Balmy, poor young fellow," he murmured in an audible aside.
"Now, gentlemen," said Mr Eastwood briskly, "to business. Here are letters addressed to me, my bank-book, communications from editors. What more do you want?"
Verrall examined the papers that Anthony thrust upon him.
"Speaking for myself, sir," he said respectfully, "I want nothing more. I'm quite convinced. But I can't take the responsibility of releasing you upon myself. You see, although it seems positive that you have been residing here as Mr Eastwood for some years, yet it is possible that Conrad Fleckman and Anthony Eastwood are one and the same person. I must make a thorough search of the flat, take your fingerprints, and telephone to headquarters."
"That seems a comprehensive program," remarked Anthony. "I can assure you that you're welcome to any guilty secrets of mine you may lay your hands on."
The inspector grinned. For a detective he was a singularly human person.
"Will you go into the little end room, sir, with Carter, while I'm getting busy?"
"All right," said Anthony unwillingly. "I suppose it couldn't be the other way about, could it?"
"Meaning?"
"That you and I and a couple of whiskies and sodas should occupy the end room while our friend, the sergeant, does the heavy searching."
"If you prefer it, sir?"
"I do prefer it."
They left Carter investigating the contents of the desk with business-like dexterity. As they passed out of the room, they heard him take down the telephone and call up Scotland Yard.
"This isn't so bad," said Anthony, settling himself with a whisky and soda by his side, having hospitably attended to the wants of Inspector Verrall. "Shall I drink first, just to show you that the whisky isn't poisoned?"
The inspector smiled.
"Very irregular, all this," he remarked. "But we know a thing or two in our profession. I realized right from the start that we'd made a mistake. But of course one had to observe all the usual forms. You can't get away from red tape, can you, sir?"
"I suppose not," said Anthony regretfully. "The sergeant doesn't seem very matey yet, though, does he?"
"Ah, he's a fine man, Detective-Sergeant Carter. You wouldn't find it easy to put anything over on him."
"I've noticed that." said Anthony. "By the way, Inspector," he added, "is there any objection to my hearing something about myself?"
"In what way, sir?"
"Come, now, don't you realize that I'm devoured by curiosity? Who was Anna Rosenberg, and why did I murder her?"
"You'll read all about it in the newspapers tomorrow, sir."
"'Tomorrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's ten thousand years,'" quoted Anthony. "I really think you might satisfy my perfectly legitimate curiosity, Inspector. Cast aside your official reticence, and tell me all."
"It's quite irregular, sir."
"My dear Inspector, when we are becoming such fast friends?"
"Well, sir, Anna Rosenberg was a German who lived at Hampstead. With no visible means of livelihood, she grew yearly richer and richer."
"I'm just the opposite," commented Anthony. "I have a visible means of livelihood and I get yearly poorer and poorer. Perhaps I should do better if I lived in Hampstead. I've always heard Hampstead is very bracing."
"At one time," continued Verrall, "she was a second-hand clothes dealer -"
"That explains it," interrupted Anthony. "I remember selling my uniform after the war - not khaki, the other stuff. The whole flat was full of red trousers and gold lace, spread out to best advantage. A fat man in a check suit arrived in a Rolls Royce with a factotum complete with bag. He bid one pound ten for the lot. In the end I threw in a hunting coat and some Zeiss glasses and at a given signal the factotum opened the bag and shoveled the goods inside, and the fat man tendered me a ten-pound note and asked me for change."
"About ten years ago," continued the inspector, "there were several Spanish political refugees in London - among them a certain Don Fernando Ferrarez with his young wife and child. They were very poor, and the wife was ill. Anna Rosenberg visited the place where they were lodging and asked if they had anything to sell. Don Fernando was out, and his wife decided to part with a very wonderful Spanish shawl, embroidered in a marvelous manner, which had been one of her husband's last presents to her before flying from Spain. When Don Fernando returned, he flew into a terrible rage on hearing the shawl had been sold, and tried vainly to recover it. When he at last succeeded in finding the second-hand clothes woman in question, she declared that she had resold the shawl to a woman whose name she did not know.
Don Fernando was in despair. Two months later he was stabbed in the street and died as a result of his wounds. From that time onward, Anna Rosenberg seemed suspiciously flush of money. In the ten years that followed, her house at Hampstead was burgled no less than eight times. Four of the attempts were frustrated and nothing was taken; on the other four occasions, an embroidered shawl of some kind was among the booty."
The inspector paused, and then went on in obedience to an urgent gesture from Anthony.
"A week ago, Carmen Ferrarez, the young daughter of Don Fernando, arrived in this country from a convent in France. Her first action was to seek out Anna Rosenberg at Hampstead. There she is reported to have had a violent scene with the old woman, and her words at leaving were overheard by one of the servants.
"'You have it still,' she cried. 'All these years you have grown rich on it - but I say to you solemnly that in the end it will bring you bad luck. You have no moral right to it, and the day will come when you will wish you had never seen the Shawl of the Thousand Flowers.'
"Three days after that, Carmen Ferrarez, disappeared mysteriously from the hotel where she was staying. In her room was found a name and address - the name of Conrad Fleckman, and also a note from a man purporting to be an antique dealer asking if she were disposed to part with a certain embroidered shawl which he believed she had in her possession. The address given on the note was a false one.
"It is clear that the shawl is the center of the whole mystery.
Yesterday morning Conrad Fleckman called upon Anna Rosenberg. She was shut up with him for an hour or more, and when he left she was obliged to go to bed, so white and shaken was she by the interview. But she gave orders that if he came to see her again he was always to be admitted. Last night she got up and went out about nine o'clock, and did not return
. She was found this morning in the house occupied by Conrad Fleckman, stabbed through the heart. On the floor beside her was - what do you think?"
"The shawl?" breathed Anthony. "The Shawl of a Thousand Flowers."
"Something far more gruesome than that. Something which explained the whole mysterious business of the shawl and made its hidden value clear... Excuse me, I fancy that's the chief -"
There had indeed been a ring at the bell. Anthony contained his impatience as best he could, and waited for the inspector to return. He was pretty well at ease about his own position now. As soon as they took his fingerprints they would realize their mistake.
And then, perhaps, Carmen would ring up...
The Shawl of a Thousand Flowers! What a strange story - just the kind of story to make an appropriate setting for the girl's exquisite dark beauty.
Carmen Ferrarez...
He jerked himself back from day dreaming. What a time that inspector fellow was. He rose and pulled the door open. The flat was strangely silent. Could they have gone? Surely not without a word to him.
He strode out into the next room. It was empty - so was the sittingroom. Strangely empty! It had a bare, dishevelled appearance.
Good heavens! His enamels - the silver!
He rushed wildly through the flat. It was the same tale everywhere.
The place had been denuded. Every single thing of value, and Anthony had a very pretty collector's taste in small things, had been taken.
With a groan Anthony staggered to a chair, his head in his hands.
He was aroused by the ringing of the front door bell. He opened it to confront Rogers.
"You'll excuse me, sir," said Rogers. "But the gentlemen fancied you might be wanting something."
"The gentlemen?"
"Those two friends of yours, sir. I helped them with the packing as best I could. Very fortunately I happened to have them two good cases in the basement." His eyes dropped to the floor. "I've swept up the straw as best I could, sir."
"You packed the things in here?" groaned Anthony.
"Yes, sir. Was that not your wishes, sir? It was the tall gentlemen told me to do so, sir, and seeing as you were busy talking to the other gentleman in the little end room, I didn't like to disturb you."
"I wasn't talking to him," said Anthony. "He was talking to me curse him."
Rogers coughed.
"I'm sure I'm very sorry for the necessity, sir," he murmured.
"Necessity?"
"Of parting with your little treasures, sir."
"Eh? Oh, yes. Ha, ha!" He gave a mirthless laugh. "They've driven off by now, I suppose. Those - those friends of mine, I mean?"
"Oh, yes, sir, some time ago. I put the cases on the taxi and the tall gentleman went upstairs again, and then they both came running down and drove off at once... Excuse me, sir, but is anything wrong, sir?"
Rogers might well ask. The hollow groan which Anthony emitted would have aroused surmise anywhere.
"Everything is wrong, thank you, Rogers. But I see clearly that you were not to blame. Leave me, I would commune a while with my telephone."
Five minutes later saw Anthony pouring his tale into the ears of Inspector Driver, who sat opposite to him, notebook in hand. An unsympathetic man, Inspector Driver, and not (Anthony reflected) nearly so like a real inspector! Distinctly stagey, in fact. Another striking example of the superiority of Art over Nature.
Anthony reached the end of his tale. The inspector shut up his notebook.
"Well?" said Anthony anxiously.
"Clear as paint," said the inspector. "It's the Patterson gang.
They've done a lot of smart work lately. Big fair man, small dark man, and the girl."
"The girl?"
"Yes, dark and mighty good-looking. Acts as decoy usually."
"A - a Spanish girl?"
"She might call herself that. She was born in Hampstead."
"I said it was a bracing place," murmured Anthony.
"Yes, it's clear enough," said the inspector, rising to depart. "She got you on the phone and pitched you a tale - she guessed you'd come along all right. Then she goes along to old Mother Gibson's, who isn't above accepting a tip for the use of her room for them as finds it awkward to meet in public - lovers, you understand, nothing criminal. You fall for it all right, they get you back here, and while one of them pitches you a tale, the other gets away with the swag. It's the Pattersons all right - just their touch."
"And my things?" asked Anthony anxiously.
"We'll do what we can, sir. But the Pattersons are uncommon sharp."
"They seem to be," said Anthony bitterly.
The inspector departed, and scarcely had he gone before there came a ring at the door. Anthony opened it. A small boy stood there, holding a package.
"Parcel for you, sir."
Anthony took it with some surprise. He was not expecting a parcel of any kind. Returning to the sitting-room with it, he cut the string.
It was a liqueur set!
"Damn!" said Anthony.
Then he noticed that at the bottom of one of the glasses there was a tiny artificial rose. His mind flew back to the upper room in Kirk Street.
"I do like you - yes, I do like you. You will remember that whatever happens, won't you?"
That was what she had said. Whatever happens... Did she mean -
Anthony took hold of himself sternly.
"This won't do," he admonished himself.
His eye fell on the typewriter, and he sat down with a resolute face.
THE MYSTERY OF THE SECOND CUCUMBER
His face grew dreamy again. The Shawl of a Thousand Flowers.
What was it that was found on the floor beside the dead body? The gruesome thing that explained the whole mystery?
Nothing, of course, since it was only a trumped-up tale to hold his attention, and the teller had used the old Arabian Nights' trick of breaking off at the most interesting point. But couldn't there be a gruesome thing that explained the whole mystery? Couldn't there?
If one gave one's mind to it? Anthony tore the sheet of paper from his typewriter and substituted another. He typed a headline: THE MYSTERY OF THE SPANISH SHAWL He surveyed it for a moment or two in silence. Then he began to type rapidly...
THE GOLDEN BALL
George Dundas stood in the City of London meditating. All about him toilers and moneymakers surged and flowed like an enveloping tide. But George, beautifully dressed, his trousers exquisitely creased; took no heed of them. He was busy thinking what to do next. Something had occurred! Between George and his rich uncle (Ephraim Leadbetter of the firm of Leadbetter and Gilling) there had been what is called in a lower walk of life "words." To be strictly accurate, the words had been almost entirely on Mr Leadbetter's side. They had flowed from his lips in a steady stream of bitter indignation, and the fact that they consisted almost entirely of repetition did not seem to have worried him. To say a thing once beautifully and then let it alone was not one of Mr Leadbetter's mottoes.
The theme was a simple one - the criminal folly and wickedness of a young man, who has his way to make, taking a day off in the middle of the week without even asking leave. Mr Leadbetter, when he had said everything he could think of and several things twice, paused for breath and asked George what he meant by it.
George replied simply that he had felt he wanted a day off. A holiday, in fact.
And what, Mr Leadbetter wanted to know, were Saturday afternoon and Sunday? To say nothing of Whitsuntide, not long past, and August Bank Holiday to come?
George said he didn't care for Saturday afternoons, Sundays or Bank Holidays. He meant a real day, when it might be possible to find some spot where half London was not assembled already.
Mr Leadbetter then said that he had done his best by his dead sister's son - nobody could say he hadn't given him a chance. But it was plain that it was no use. And in future George could have five real days with Saturday and Sunday added to do with as he liked.
George said it seemed to him that that was just what he had done, and Mr Leadbetter dropped poetry for wrath and told him to get out.
Hence George - meditating. Would his uncle relent or would he not? Had he any secret affection for George, or merely a cold distaste?
It was just at that moment that a voice - a most unlikely voice - said, "Hallo!"
A scarlet touring car with an immense long hood had drawn up to the curb beside him. At the wheel was that beautiful and popular society girl, Mary Montresor. (The description is that of the illustrated papers who produced a portrait of her at least four times a month.) She was smiling at George in an accomplished manner.
"I never knew a man could look so like an island," said Mary Montresor. "Would you like to get in?"
"I should love it above all things," said George with no hesitation, and stepped in beside her.
They proceeded slowly because the traffic forbade anything else.
"I'm tired of the city," said Mary Montresor. "I came to see what it was like. I shall go back to London."
Without presuming to correct her geography, George said it was a splendid idea. They proceeded sometimes slowly, sometimes with wild bursts of speed when Mary Montresor saw a chance of cutting in. It seemed to George that she was somewhat optimistic in the latter view, but he reflected that one could only die once. He thought it best, however, to essay no conversation. He preferred his fair driver to keep strictly to the job in hand.
It was she who reopened the conversation, choosing the moment when they were doing a wild sweep round Hyde Park Corner.
"How would you like to marry me?" she inquired casually.
George gave a gasp, but that may have been due to a large bus that seemed to spell certain destruction. He prided himself on his quickness in response.
"I should love it," he replied easily.
"Well," said Mary Montresor vaguely. "Perhaps you may someday."
They turned into the straight without accident, and at that moment George perceived large new bills at Hyde Park Corner tube station. Sandwiched between GRAVE POLITICAL SITUATION and COLONEL IN DOCK, one said SOCIETY GIRL TO MARRY DUKE, and the other DUKE OF EDGEHILL AND MISS MONTRESOR.
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