“Another theory is that the Collins gang tried to blackmail Philip Le Cheminant – or William Collins, whichever we like to call him – and that it was one of them who murdered him out of spite, when he refused to submit to the blackmailing process.
“Against that theory, however, there are two unanswerable arguments – firstly, the weapon used, which certainly was not one that would commend itself to the average British middle-class man on murder intent – a razor or knife would be more in his line; secondly, there is no doubt whatever that the murderer wore evening dress and an opera hat, a costume not likely to have been worn by any member of the Collins family, or their friends. We may, therefore, dismiss that theory also with equal certainty.”
And he surveyed placidly the row of fine knots in his bit of string.
“But then, according to you, who was the man in evening dress, and who but Harold Le Cheminant had any interest in getting rid of the claimant?” I asked at last.
“Who, indeed?” he replied with a chuckle, “who but the man who was as wax in the hands of that impostor?”
“Whom do you mean?” I gasped.
“Let us take things from the beginning,” he said with ever-growing excitement, “and take the one thing which is absolutely beyond dispute, and that is the authenticity of the papers – the marriage certificate of Lucie Legrand, etc. – as against the authenticity of the man. Let us admit that the real Philip Le Cheminant was a refugee at St Vincent, that he found out about his parentage, and determined to go to England. He writes to his uncle, then sails for Europe, lands at Havre, and arrives in Paris.”
“Why Paris?” I asked.
“Because you, like the police and like the public, have persistently shut your eyes to an event which, to my mind, has bearing upon the whole of this mysterious case, and that is the original murder committed in Paris a year ago, also in a cab, also with a stiletto – which that time was not found – in fact, in the self-same manner as this murder a week ago.
“Well, that crime was never brought home to its perpetrator any more than this one will be. But my contention is, that the man who committed that murder a year ago, repeated this crime last week – that the man who was murdered in Paris was the real Philip Le Cheminant, whilst the man who was murdered in London was some friend to whom he had confided his story, and probably his papers, and who then hit upon the bold plan of assuming the personality of the Martinique creole, heir to an English peerage.”
“But what in the world makes you imagine such a preposterous thing?” I gasped.
“One tiny unanswerable fact,” he replied quietly. “William Collins, the impostor, when he came to London, called upon a solicitor, and deposited with him the valuable papers; after that he obtained his interview with Lord Tremarn. Then mark what happens. Without any question, immediately after that interview, and, therefore, without even having seen the papers of identification, Lord Tremarn accepts the claimant as his newly found nephew.
“And why?
“Only because that claimant has a tremendous hold over the Earl, which makes the old man as wax in his hands, and it is only logical to conclude that that hold was none other than that Lord Tremarn had met his real nephew in Paris, and had killed him, sooner than to see him supplant his beloved heir, Harold.
“I followed up the subsequent history of that Paris crime, and found that the Paris police had never established the identity of the murdered man. Being a stranger, and moneyless, he had apparently lodged in one of those innumerable ill-famed little hotels that abound in Paris, the proprietors of which have very good cause to shun the police, and there-fore would not even venture so far as to go and identify the body when it lay in the Morgue.
“But William Collins knew who the murdered man was; no doubt he lodged at the same hotel, and could lay his hands on the all-important papers. I imagine that the two young men originally met in St Vincent, or perhaps on board ship. He assumed the personality of the deceased, crossed over to England, and confronted Lord Tremarn with the threat to bring the murder home to him if he ventured to dispute his claim.
“Think of it all, and you will see that I am right. When Lord Tremarn first heard from his brother Arthur’s son, he went to Paris in order to assure himself of the validity of his claim. Seeing that there was no doubt of that, he assumed a friendly attitude towards the young man, and one evening took him out for a drive in a cab and murdered him on the way.
“Then came Nemesis in the shape of William Collins, whom he dared not denounce, lest his crime be brought home to him. How could he come forward and say: ‘I know that this man is an impostor, as I happened to have murdered my nephew myself ’?
“No; he preferred to temporize, and bide his time until, perhaps, chance would give him his opportunity. It took a year in coming. The yoke had become too heavy. ‘It must be he or I!’ he said to himself that very night. Apparently he was on the best of terms with his tormentor, but in his heart of hearts he had always meant to be even with him at the last.
“Everything favoured him; the foggy night, even the dispute between Harold and the impostor at the club. Can you not picture him meeting William Collins outside the theatre, hearing from him the story of the quarrel, and then saying, ‘Come with me to Harold’s; I’ll soon make the young jackanapes apologize to you’?
“Mind you, a year had passed by since the original crime. William Collins, no doubt, never thought he had anything to fear from the old man. He got into the cab with him, and thus this remarkable story has closed, and Harold Le Cheminant is once more heir to the Earldom of Tremarn.
“Think it all over, and bear in mind that Lord Tremarn never made the slightest attempt to prove the rights or wrongs of the impostor’s claim. On this base your own conclusions, and then see if they do not inevitably lead you to admit mine as the only possible solution of this double mystery.”
He was gone, leaving me bewildered and amazed staring at my Daily Telegraph, where, side by side with a long recapitulation of the mysterious claimant to the Earldom, there was the following brief announcement:
We regret to say that the condition of Lord Tremarn is decidedly worse today, and that but little hope is entertained of his recovery. Mr Harold Le Cheminant has been his uncle’s constant and devoted companion during the noble Earl’s illness.
VIII
The Fate of the Artemis
1
“Well, I’m ——!” was my inelegant mental comment upon the news in that morning’s paper.
“So are most people,” rejoined the man in the corner, with that eerie way he had of reading my thoughts. “The Artemis has come home, having safely delivered her dangerous cargo, and Captain Jutland’s explanations only serve to deepen the mystery.”
“Then you admit there is one in this case?” I said.
“Only to the public. Not to me. But I do admit that the puzzle is a hard one. Do you remember the earlier details of the case? It was towards the end of 1903. Negotiations between Russia and Japan were just reaching a point of uncomfortable tension, and the man in the street guessed that war in the Far East was imminent.
“Messrs Mills and Co. had just completed an order for a number of their celebrated quick-firing guns for the Russian Government, and these – according to the terms of the contract – were to be delivered at Port Arthur on or about 1st February 1904. Effectively, then, on 1st December last, the Artemis, under the command of Captain Jutland, sailed from Goole, with her valuable cargo on board, and with orders to proceed along as fast as possible, in view of the probable outbreak of hostilities.
“Less than two hours after she had started, Messrs Mills received intimation from the highest official quarters, that in all probability before the Artemis could reach Port Arthur, and in view of coming eventualities, the submarine mines would have been laid at the entrance to the harbour. A secret plan of the port was therefore sent to the firm for Captain Jutland’s use, showing the only way through which he could possibly hope to navigate the A
rtemis safely into the harbour, and without which she would inevitably come in contact with one of those terrible engines of wholesale destruction, which have since worked such awful havoc in this war.
“But there was the trouble. This official intimation, together with the plan, reached Messrs Mills just two hours too late; it is a way peculiar to many official intimations. Fortunately, however, the Artemis was to touch at Portsmouth on private business of the firm’s, and, therefore, it only meant finding a trustworthy messenger to meet Captain Jutland there, and to hand him over that all-important plan.
“Of course, there was no time to be lost, but, above all, someone of extreme trustworthiness must be found for so important a mission. You must remember that the great European Power in question is beset by many foes in the shape of her own disaffected children, who desire her downfall even more keenly than does her Asiatic opponent. Also, in times like these, when every method is fair which gives one adversary an advantage over the other, we must remember that our plucky little allies of the Far East are past masters in that art which is politely known as secret intelligence.
“All this, you see, made it an absolute necessity to keep the mission to Captain Jutland a profound secret. I need not impress upon you the fact, I think, that it is not expedient for the plans of an important harbour to fall under prying eyes.
“Finally, the choice fell on Captain Markham, RNR, lately of the mercantile marine, and at the time in the employ of our own Secret Intelligence Department, to which he has rendered frequent and valuable services. This choice was determined also mainly through the fact that Captain Markham’s wife had relatives living in Portsmouth, and that, therefore, his journey thither could easily be supposed to have an unofficial and quite ordinary character – especially if he took his wife with him, which he did.
“Captain and Mrs Markham left Waterloo for Portsmouth at ten minutes past twelve on Wednesday, 2nd December, the secret plan lying safely concealed at the bottom of Mrs Markham’s jewel case.
“As the Artemis would not touch at Portsmouth until the following morning, Captain Markham thought it best not to spend the night at an hotel, but to go into rooms; his choice fell on a place, highly recommended by his wife’s relations, and which was situated in a quiet street on the Southsea side of the town. There he and his wife stayed the night, pending the arrival of the Artemis.
“But at twelve o’clock on the following morning the police were hastily called in by Mrs Bowden, the landlady of 49 Gastle Street, where the Markhams had been staying. Captain Markham had been found lying half-insensible, gagged and bound, on the floor of the sitting-room, his hands and feet tightly pinioned, and a woollen comforter wound closely round his mouth and neck; whilst Mrs Markham’s jewel case, containing valuable jewellery and the secret plans of Port Arthur, had disappeared.”
2
“Mind you,” continued the man in the corner, after he had assured himself of my undivided attention, “all these details were unknown to the public at first. I have merely co-ordinated them, and told them to you in the actual sequence in which they occurred, so that you may be able to understand the subsequent events.
“At the time – that is to say, on 3rd December 1903 – the evening papers only contained an account of what was then called ‘the mysterious outrage at Gastle Street, Portsmouth’. A private gentleman was presumably assaulted and robbed in broad daylight, and inside a highly respectable house in a busy part of the city.
“Mrs Bowden, the landlady, was, as you may imagine, most excited and indignant. Her house and herself had been grossly insulted by this abominable outrage, and she did her level best to throw what light she could on this mysterious occurrence.
“The story she told the police was indeed extraordinary, and as she repeated it to all her friends, and subsequently to one or two journalists, it roused public excitement to its highest pitch.
“What she related at great length to the detective in charge of the case, was briefly this:
“Captain and Mrs Markham, it appears, arrived at 49 Gastle Street, on Wednesday afternoon, 2nd December, and Mrs Bowden accommodated them with a sitting-room and bedroom, both on the ground floor. In the evening Mrs Markham went out to dine with her brother, a Mr Paulton, who is a well-known Portsmouth resident, but Captain Markham stayed in and had dinner alone in his sitting-room.
“According to Mrs Bowden’s version of the story, at about nine o’clock a stranger called to see Captain Markham. This stranger was obviously a foreigner, for he spoke broken English. Unfortunately, the hall at 49 Gastle Street was very dark, and, moreover, the foreigner was attired in a magnificent fur coat, the collar of which hid the lower part of his face. All Mrs Bowden could see of him was that he was very tall, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles.
“‘He was so very peremptory in his manner,’ continued Mrs Bowden, ‘that I had to show him in at once. The Captain seemed surprised to see him – in fact he looked decidedly annoyed, I might say; but just as I was closing the door I heard the stranger laugh, and say quite pleasantly: “You gave me the slip, my friend, but you see I have found you out all right.”’
“Mrs Bowden, after the manner of her class, seems to have made vigorous efforts to hear what went on in the sitting-room after that,” continued the man in the corner, “but she was not successful. Later on, however, the Captain rang and ordered whiskies and sodas. Both gentlemen were then sitting by the fire, looking quite friendly.
“‘I took a look round the room,’ explained the worthy landlady, ‘and took particular notice that the jewel case was on the table, with the lid open. Captain Markham, as soon as he saw me, closed it very quickly.’
“The stranger seems to have gone away again at about half past ten, and subsequently Mrs Markham came home, accompanied by her brother, Mr Paulton. The next morning she went out at a quarter past eleven o’clock, and about half an hour later the mysterious stranger called again.
“This time he pushed his way straight into the sittingroom; but the very next moment he uttered a cry of intense horror and astonishment, and rushed back into the hall, gesticulating wildly, and shrieking: ‘A robbery! – a murder! – I go for the police!’ And before Mrs Bowden could stop him or even could realize what had occurred, he had dashed out of the house.
“‘I called to Meggie,’ continued Mrs Bowden, ‘I was so frightened, I didn’t dare go into the parlour alone. But she was more frightened than I was, and we stood trembling in the hall waiting for the police. At last I began to have my suspicions, and I got Meggie to run out into the street and see if she could bring in a policeman.’
“When the police at last arrived upon the scene, they pushed open the sitting-room door, and there found Captain Markham in a most helpless condition, his hands tied behind his back and himself half-choked by the scarf over his mouth. As soon as he recovered his breath, he explained that he had no idea who his assailant was; he was standing with his back to the door, when he was suddenly dealt a blow on the head from behind, and he remembered nothing more.
“In the meantime Mrs Markham had come home, and of course was horrified beyond measure at the outrage which had been committed. She declared that her jewel case was in the sitting-room when she went out in the morning – a fact confirmed by Captain Markham himself.
“But here, at once, the police were seriously puzzled. Mrs Bowden, of course, told her story of the foreigner – a story which was corroborated by her daughter, Meggie. Captain Markham, pressed by the police, and by his wife, admitted that a friend had visited him the evening before.
“‘He is an old friend I met years ago abroad, who happened to be in Portsmouth yesterday, and quite accidentally caught sight of me as I drove up to this door, and naturally came in to see me,’ was the Captain’s somewhat lame explanation.
“Nothing more was to be got out of him that day; he was still feeling very bewildered, he said, and certainly he looked very ill. Mrs Markham then put the whole matter in the hands of the police.
“Captain Markham had given a description of ‘the old friend he had met years ago abroad’. This description vaguely coincided with that given by Mrs Bowden of the mysterious foreigner. But the Captain’s replies to the cross-questionings of the detectives in charge of the case were always singularly reticent and lame. ‘I had lost sight of him for nearly twenty years,’ he explained, ‘and do not know what his present abode and occupation might be. When I knew him years ago, he was a man of independent means, without a fixed abode, and a great traveller. I believe that he is a German by nationality, but I don’t think that I ever knew this as a fact. His name was Johann Schmidt.’
“I may as well tell you here, at once, that the mysterious foreigner managed to make good his escape. He was traced as far as the South-western Railway Station, where he was seen to rush through the barrier, just in time to catch the express up to town. At Waterloo he was lost sight of in the crowd.
“The police were keenly on the alert; no trace of the missing jewels had as yet been found. Then it was that, gradually, the story of the secret plan of Port Arthur reached the ears of the general public. Who first told it and to whom, it is difficult to conjecture, but you know what a way things of that sort have of leaking out.
“The secret of Captain Markham’s mission had of necessity been known to several people, and a secret shared by many soon ceases to be one at all; anyway, within a week of the so-called ‘Portsmouth outrage’, it began to be loudly whispered that the robbery of Mrs Markham’s jewels was only a mask that covered the deliberate theft of the plans of Port Arthur.
“And then the inevitable happened. Already Captain Markham’s strange attitude had been severely commented upon, and now the public, backed by the crowd of amateur detectives who read penny novelettes and form conclusions of their own, had made up its mind that Captain Markham was a party to the theft – that he was either the tool or the accomplice of the mysterious foreigner, and that, in fact, he had been either bribed or terrorized into giving up the plan of Port Arthur to an enemy of the Russian Government. The crime was all the more heinous as by this act of treachery a British ship, manned by a British crew, had been sent to certain destruction.
The Case of Miss Elliott Page 13
