by Molly Thynne
“What made you bring it here?” asked Stuart.
“Well, this chap left after a time and, well, I’m a nervous sort of person, and I didn’t like to think of the place left unprotected. There was another burglary, in the house next door this time, and I suppose that decided me. Anyway, I got myself a revolver, and used to sleep with it under my pillow. I suppose I got accustomed to the feeling that it was there; anyway, I always have taken it away with me when I’ve had a job in the provinces. That’s how it came to be under my pillow that night, and I was thankful for it, I can tell you.”
“How did you manage to keep it out of Bates’s hands?”
“I had it tucked inside my shirt, under one arm, when he searched my things. If he’d touched me he’d have found it.”
“Let’s get back to the door,” said Stuart. “Did you open it?”
“Yes. And I wish now that I hadn’t, though I suppose the Gearies would be in the soup if I’d done what I first thought of and gone to fetch the others. The truth was, you’d all made me feel a bit small, and I wanted to be able to say that I had looked into the room. Anyway, I turned the key as softly as I could. As you can imagine, I didn’t want to tackle Carew single-handed. I must have got the door open without making a sound, because the man inside never heard me.”
“Could you see him?”
“Plainly. He was standing by the open window, leaning out. Of course I thought he was Carew. I wasn’t expecting to see any one else. Then he straightened himself and I saw his profile.”
He paused. Stuart could see the perspiration shining on his forehead, and began dimly to realize the sheer torture such a temperament as Melnotte’s could be to a man.
“Was it Walker?” he asked, when he could contain himself no longer.
Melnotte nodded.
“I know now that it was Walker. I didn’t then, of course. I don’t think I even knew of the existence of the sick chauffeur, certainly I’d never seen him. All I did know was that he ought not to be there. How I got that door shut without making a noise I don’t know. But I must have, or I don’t suppose I should be here now, because I didn’t dare lock my bedroom door for ages, for fear he should hear it.”
“What did you do after that?”
Melnotte looked acutely uncomfortable.
“I got out the revolver from under my pillow and waited. You see, when he stood up I saw the rope. He was holding the end in his hand. I knew then for certain that he was up to no good, though I’d no idea what had really happened. You must remember I couldn’t see the bed from where I stood, and, for all I knew, the man might have been an accomplice of Carew’s. I know I ought to have given the alarm, but I wasn’t absolutely sure then whether he had seen me, and I simply couldn’t bring myself to move. After what seemed hours, I heard Dr. Constantine’s voice saying good-night to Mr. Soames. That seemed to be my chance. I made for the door of my room and tore it open. I didn’t care then how much noise I made, and I wonder Mr. Soames didn’t hear me. He must have stopped to say something to Dr. Constantine, because he wasn’t in the passage when I put my head out. Some one else was, though! The man I had seen in Carew’s room was standing at the foot of the flight of steps at the end of the passage, and he was looking straight at me.”
“What did you do?” asked Stuart, conscious that his own breath was coming a bit faster.
“I did the only thing I could do,” answered Melnotte naively. “I bolted back into my room and locked the door. He was carrying something that looked like a spanner in his hand, and if you’d seen his face, you’d have done what I did.”
“When you looked through the communicating door into Carew’s room did you see the spanner?” cut in Stuart.
“Distinctly. It was lying beside him across the window-ledge. I noticed that first, and wondered what it was and what on earth Carew was doing with such a thing.”
“What happened after that?”
“I simply waited. I’d have given anything to get along the passage to Dr. Constantine’s room, but I didn’t dare open my door again. I know I looked at the time every now and then; it seemed so endless. It was about half-past, two when I heard some one unlock Carew’s door softly and go in. What I suppose happened was that Walker was on his way to Carew’s room when he saw me. He must have bolted then, and made his way back later. Judging from what happened afterwards, it must have been Walker I heard going in the second time. Anyway, I made sure it was him at the time, partly because he was so quiet over it. If I hadn’t been listening I shouldn’t have heard him. Almost directly afterwards I heard Dr. Constantine’s window open. Then I heard him come along the passage and knock at Carew’s door.”
“Then Walker was actually inside the room when Constantine first tried to rouse Carew?” exclaimed Stuart.
“He must have been. Anyhow, I took it for granted he was. If I hadn’t I should have come out then. I wish now that I had. I heard Dr. Constantine go along the passage, and, a few minutes later, I heard Mr. Soames’s voice. I was a fool not to have gone out then, but I simply couldn’t as long as I knew that that man was in the next room. Then, about three o’clock, I heard the snap of the light-switch in Carew’s room and stood listening by my door, thinking I should hear the man come out. But he didn’t. I heard a window open somewhere down below, but there wasn’t a sound from the room next door.”
“Any idea what time it was when you heard the window?”
“About three, I should think. Five minutes or so after I heard the light-switch go in Carew’s room.”
“That must have been when I went out on to the balcony the first time. Then all that time Walker must have been inside that room, with the door locked.”
“From what I could hear, I feel certain of it. It must have been at least twenty minutes after that that I heard the key turn gently in the lock, and knew he had come out at last. It must be a stiff lock, or I shouldn’t have heard it.”
“Why didn’t you come out then?” demanded Stuart.
Melnotte cast him a look of horrified protest.
“How was I to tell he wasn’t lurking in the passage? I’d run into him once already, and I wasn’t going to risk doing it again, now that he knew I’d seen him. I just sat tight and waited for one of you to come back.”
“I suppose it didn’t occur to you that Walker might do one of us in, if we came on him unawares in the passage?” Stuart could not resist asking.
Melnotte coloured painfully.
“I know it all sounds pretty beastly,” he moaned. “But you don’t realize the position I was in. I didn’t know then that the man had killed Carew. I simply thought he was a thief. But there was murder in his face when he saw me in the passage, and I’m certain, now, that he would have done me in if he’d been able to get at me.”
It seemed more merciful to change the subject.
“Did anything else happen? Before we arrived on the scene, I mean?”
“Some one came along the passage and knocked again at Carew’s door. I’d looked at my watch a minute before. That was just on three-fifteen. I nearly opened my door then, but I thought it might be a trap of Walker’s to get me out. After that, no one came near me, and I sat there waiting, expecting every minute that that brute would somehow manage to get into my room, for two solid hours. It was past five when I heard your voices in the corridor and came out.”
“But why on earth didn’t you say anything when you did come out? You were safe enough then,” exclaimed Stuart.
“Was I? Try to put yourself in my place. All the time I’d been sitting there waiting, I’d been putting two and two together. Before that it had begun to strike me as odd that nobody seemed able to rouse Carew. Either his room was empty or something was the matter with him. The thing I couldn’t determine was whether he was hand in glove with this other man and was lying low on purpose, or whether he’d been drugged, or hurt, or possibly killed. Whichever it was, it was a beastly position for me. If I gave the show away, and Carew was listening in t
hat room, I should be for it, sooner or later. You must remember that the other man was still at large, and I didn’t know who he was. He’d seen me, and whether he was a confederate of Carew’s or not, he was free to get his own back whenever he chose. As it was, I knew he’d got his knife into me, and what I didn’t know was whether he was lurking round the corner of the passage, waiting to see what I’d do. Of course I meant to tell Bates or some one later, when I could be sure of not being overheard; but I simply didn’t dare do it then.”
“Then that’s why you’ve been so anxious to get away all this time!” exclaimed Stuart.
Melnotte nodded.
“I haven’t had a decent night’s rest since Carew was murdered,” he said simply. And it was obvious he spoke the truth. “It was bad enough in the daytime. I tried to tack myself on to one or other of you, because I was terrified that he’d catch me unawares. But you weren’t any too friendly, you know, and I couldn’t make out to what extent I was suspected of being mixed up in the murder. You see, that key was on my conscience, and I was terrified Bates would try it on the communicating door. And the nights were awful. I didn’t dare let myself sleep.”
“I should have thought you’d have felt much safer if you’d made a clean breast of it and put yourself in Bates’s hands,” said Stuart bluntly.
“What earthly protection would Bates have been? He never even succeeded in hampering Walker’s movements. Besides, once I knew that Carew had been murdered, I’d got my own safety to consider. I’d no idea whether Bates suspected me or not, but Mrs. van Dolen’s attitude was pretty clear, and, in any case, I couldn’t produce any kind of proof that the man I had seen existed. Even if Bates had believed my story, he wouldn’t have let me go, and as long as that man was in the same house with me I didn’t dare give him away. I suppose I behaved like a cowardly fool, but you must see that my hands were tied.”
Stuart did not argue the point. One thing he could not resist saying.
“And yet, as it turned out, you were safe enough. Nothing did happen to you.”
Melnotte positively glared at him.
“Didn’t it? What about the night Walker got into my room?”
Stuart sat up.
“That clears up one point,” he cried. “That masked man story was true, then?”
“It was true that he came. He wasn’t masked. Miss Adderley’s story put that into my head.”
“What did he want? Was he just searching for the emeralds?”
“He came to kill me,” stated Melnotte, simply and with the utmost conviction.
CHAPTER XX
Melnotte, in spite of his little affectations, struck Stuart as an essentially truthful person. That he could lie convincingly, to save himself from physical hurt, he had proved conclusively enough, but he showed none of the gusto and fluency of a born liar. When he set out to tell the truth he told it, and Stuart felt convinced that his account of what had happened was substantially correct. This being the case, he could not be said to be exaggerating when he declared that Walker visited him with the intention of killing him.
Not only did he hold Walker’s life literally in his hands, should he choose to speak, but, in Walker’s eyes, was of all the people in the house the one most likely to have robbed him of the emeralds. There could be no doubt that Walker had all along been quite unaware of the identity of the Misses Adderley. But he knew that Melnotte had seen him, and, very shortly afterwards, had heard of the theft of Mrs. van Dolen’s jewels. What could seem more likely than that he had watched Walker, and, later, gone himself to the barn and taken the girdle. Melnotte had been right in his assumption that only extreme vigilance on his part had saved him from Walker’s vengeance.
All through the following day and night he had been baffled in his attempts to get in touch with the dancer, and it was not until the second night that he conceived that idea of trying the key of Carew’s room in the lock of Melnotte’s door.
As Melnotte, unfortunately for him, did not discover till afterwards, the three locks were identical, though, as Walker confessed before his death, he had tried the same dodge both on Mrs. van Dolen’s room and the box-room in which he had hidden the spanner, and found that it did not work. It was sheer bad luck, from Melnotte’s point of view, that the key should have opened all three doors, and he was only saved by the fact that, when Walker stealthily opened the door and slipped into the room, he was sitting up in bed trying to read, with his revolver on his knees.
The instinct for self-preservation must have given him sufficient courage to defy Walker. The fact remains that he held him covered all through their interview, and, apparently, succeeded in more or less convincing him that he knew nothing about the emeralds. Walker had been forced to confine himself to threats, and had evidently succeeded in terrifying Melnotte. The dancer was a little vague as to what had passed at their interview, but by dint of patient and tactful questioning Stuart elicited the fact that he had definitely given his promise to Walker not to breathe a word of what he had seen. Walker’s last words, before he removed himself, were to the effect that, if Melnotte gave him away, he would never rest until he had tracked him down and taken his revenge. This was enough for Melnotte, who was already almost in a state of collapse, and whose vivid imagination pictured a life of menace and uncertainty before him should Walker escape the death penalty. There was no doubt in Stuart’s mind that he had been only too eager to promise silence, and would undoubtedly have held his tongue to the end if the predicament of the Gearies had not weighed upon his conscience. As it was, when Constantine, awakened by the sound of the door closing, came to see if he was all right, he was hard put to it to invent a plausible story without giving Walker away. It was obvious that, even now, he was in terror of the man.
“Do you suppose they’ll hang him?” he asked Stuart fearfully.
“I should think your evidence would be enough to convince any jury,” answered Stuart. “Did he molest you again?”
Melnotte shook his head.
“He never had the chance,” he answered. “After that I jammed a chair up against the door every night and sat on it.”
Stuart stared at him in amazement.
“You don’t mean to say that you sat up every night?”
“What else was I to do?” asked Melnotte drearily. “There was no bolt to the door, and I’d no guarantee that he wouldn’t come back again. I wonder none of you noticed the amount of sleep I put in in the daytime. I had to be jolly careful, too, that there was some one else in the room, before I allowed myself to drift off. I’ve never gone through such agonies of sleepiness in my life as I have here.”
“Why didn’t you sit up with one of us?” demanded Stuart. “You knew we were watching, didn’t you? You’d have been safe enough then.”
Melnotte cast him a swift, sidelong glance.
“You’d have been pretty sick if I’d suggested it, wouldn’t you?” he said. “You see, I had a sort of obsession that none of you liked me, and, towards the end, I was sure that I was under suspicion. Also, I didn’t want Walker to get into his head that I was hobnobbing with any of you. I didn’t know what construction he might place on it.”
It was only too evident that the whole of Melnotte’s energies had been concentrated on saving his skin, and it seemed useless to argue with him. In view of his state of mind it was to his credit that he had forced himself to come forward at the eleventh hour. Stuart was not surprised that he had not cared to face Arkwright with his story.
He read the notes he had made to Melnotte, who declared them to be correct.
“I suppose I’d better wait here,” said Melnotte, looking the picture of misery.
Stuart reassured him as best he could, and went in search of Arkwright.
His training as a writer stood him in good stead. He was able to give the inspector a fairly vivid impression of the dancer’s frame of mind, and get him to promise to let him down gently. As it happened, Arkwright was so elated at getting the evidence he neede
d that he was inclined to regard Melnotte with a certain contemptuous sympathy.
“Poor devil,” was his comment. “He seems to have given himself such a thin time that there’s no need for me to add to it.”
In spite of which, Melnotte emerged from his interview with Arkwright badly shaken. He did not accept Stuart’s offer of a lift to Redsands, but took himself off to London, and they saw no more of him until the Gearies and Walker came up for trial at the assizes.
Stuart’s sympathy with Miss Amy Adderley persisted until he saw her and her mother in the dock. It was not till then that he realized to the full how clever their impersonation had been, and how thoroughly he had been deceived by it. The Miss Amy he had known had vanished utterly. Belle Gearie’s face was still ridiculously small and round, but she had exchanged her look of cloistered innocence for one of youthful sophistication. Her closely shingled brown hair gave her a misleading air of girlishness, and Stuart would have put her down as being in the early twenties had he not known that she would never see thirty again. In her mother it was easier to trace the Miss Connie of the “Noah’s Ark.” Her hair, too, had undergone a transformation, this time to a metallic and obviously artificial yellow, but the plumpness remained, though there was hardness now about her eyes and lips that repelled him.
They took their sentence stoically, and never at any period during the trial attempted to incriminate Walker, though they obviously knew that he had killed Carew and would have had little mercy on them if he had suspected they were in possession of the emeralds.
Walker was the least interesting of the three prisoners, in spite of the florid epithets bestowed on him by the Press. After his conviction he confessed, declaring that he had never intended to kill Carew, but had hit him with the spanner in a moment of panic. No doubt he hoped by this to escape the extreme penalty, but the appeal made on the strength of his statement failed, and he was hanged, just three months, to a day, after he had driven, in his role of Grimes the chauffeur, into the yard of the “Noah’s Ark.”
