by Fergus Hume
“Would two thousand pounds suit you?”
“Rather. Only I’m not going to borrow from you, old man, thank you.”
“I haven’t that amount to lend,” said Freddy, drily; “but you must have seen, if you read our very interesting paper, that our proprietor has offered a prize of two thousand pounds for a successful flight from London to York.”
“A kind of up-to-date Dick Turpin, I suppose,” laughed Dan, rising and stretching his long limbs. “Good, I’ll have a shot; I may win.”
“You will, if you use a Vincent machine.”
“Vincent, Vincent? Where have I heard that name?”
“Everywhere, if you knew anything of the aviation world,” snapped Laurance rather crossly, for at times Dan’s indolence in acquiring necessary information annoyed him. “Solomon Vincent, who has been inventing airships and new-fangled aeroplanes for ever so long.”
“Yes, yes! I remember now. He’s a genius. Everyone knows him.”
“Everyone knows of him, except yourself; but no one knows him personally. He lives a secluded life up in Hillshire, on the borders of the moors, where he can find wide space for his experiments in aerial craft. I interviewed him a year ago, and—and—” Laurance blushed red.
“Hullo, what’s this?” asked Dan shrewdly. “Can it be that the inventor has a daughter fair?”
“A niece,” retorted Laurance, recovering; “why shouldn’t I be in love as well as you, Halliday? However, that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters a great deal to you.”
“Never mind. What you have to do is to secure one of Vincent’s machines and try for this race. If you win the prize you will have heaps of money to search for the gang. But why doesn’t Miss Moon—”
“I don’t take Lillian’s money,” said Dan curtly, and blushed in his turn. “It is a good idea, Freddy. How can I get hold of the machine?”
“I shall take you up to Hillshire next week, and you can see Vincent for yourself. He can talk to you, and—”
“And you can talk to the niece. What’s her name?”
“Oh, shut up and get out!” said Laurance, turning away, “you’re interrupting my work.”
“Going to write a letter to the beloved,” said Dan, leisurely making for the door. “All right, old son, I’ll go! You know my address, so write me when you want me. I’d like to see Vincent’s machines, as I hear he has made several good improvements, and everything tells in a race. Salaam!”
“Keep your eyes open,” Laurance called after him; “remember Monsieur Chance may prove to be our best friend.”
Dan departed, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t believe in heaven-sent miracles,” were his last words. But they were wasted on Freddy, for that alert young man was already buried in his work. It was painful to witness such industry, in Halliday’s opinion.
In an inquiring frame of mind, the amateur detective strolled along Fleet Street, thinking of Lillian instead of keeping his wits about him, as Freddy had requested. It seemed impossible that he should strike on a clue without deliberately searching for it, which he did not feel inclined to do at the moment. Monsieur Chance, indeed! He was a mythical personage in whom this sceptical young man did not believe. Besides, love dominated his thoughts to the exclusion of minor matters, and he dreamed about his darling all along the Strand. Thus he did not look where he was going, and stumbled into the midst of a Charing Cross crowd, where a motor had broken down after colliding with a ‘bus. A policeman was conversing with the chauffeur and the ‘bus driver, who were conversing abusively with one another. The crowd blocked the street and stopped the traffic in order to enjoy the conversation, which left nothing to be desired in the way of free language. Dan halted idly as a spectator, not because he wished to be one, but for the very simple reason that he could not get through the crowd into Trafalgar Square.
Thrust up against one man, and wedged in by two others, and surrounded by hundreds, he grumbled at the delay, and peered over shoulders to see when the incident would end. As he did so, he suddenly in his mind’s eye saw a vision of Sir Charles lying dead in the well-lighted library. While wondering why he thought of the crime at this particular moment, he became aware that a familiar scent assailed his nostrils, the scent about which he had talked to Durwin and Tenson and Laurance. Nosing like a hound, he tried to find the person from whom it emanated, and almost immediately fixed on a spectator at his elbow. A moment later the man turned, and Dan found himself face to face with Marcus Penn.
Chapter V. MUDDY WATER
The secretary of the late Sir Charles Moon smiled irresolutely when he recognised Dan. That young gentleman, who thought Penn a weak-kneed idiot, had never taken much notice of him, and but for the fact that he was perfumed with the unusual scent would not have spoken to him now. But as he looked at the lank creature with his yellow face, and scanty moustache, he guessed that he was exactly the effeminate sort of person who would use perfume. What he wished to know was why he affected this particular kind of fragrance, and whence he obtained it. To gain the information he pretended a friendliness for the man he was far from feeling. Dan, strong, virile, and self-confident, was not altogether just to Penn, who was not responsible for his pallid looks and weak character. But Halliday was not a perfect individual by any means, and had yet to learn that the weak are meant to be protected and helped instead of being despised.
“You here, Mr. Penn?” said Dan, thus formal to mark the difference between them.
“Yes,” replied the man in his faint, hesitating voice, and, as they moved out of the crowd, Halliday smelt the weird perfume more strongly than ever shaken from Penn’s clothes by his movements. “I stopped to look at the accident.”
“A very ordinary one,” rejoined Halliday, with a shrug. “By the way, I have not seen you since the funeral of Sir Charles. What are you doing now, if I may ask?”
“I am secretary to Lord Curberry.”
“Oh!” The reply gave Dan something of a shock, for he did not expect at the moment to hear his rival’s name. But then the whole incident of meeting Penn and smelling the incriminating perfume was strange. Monsieur Chance had proved himself to be an actuality instead of the mythical personage Dan had believed him to be. It was certainly odd that the meeting had taken place, and odder still that Penn should prove to be the servant of Curberry.
As Halliday said nothing more than “Oh!” the other man stroked his moustache and explained. “Sir John got me the post, Mr. Halliday,” he said with his shifty eyes anywhere but on Dan’s inquiring face. “I was quite stranded after Sir Charles’s unexpected death, and did not know where to turn for employment. As I support a widowed mother, the situation was rather serious, so I took my courage in my hands and went to Sir John. He was good enough to recommend me to Lord Curberry, and I have been with his lordship for a month, more or less.”
“I congratulate you, Mr. Penn, and Lord Curberry also. Sir Charles always said you were an excellent secretary.” Dan stopped as Penn bowed his acknowledgements to the compliment, and cast a keen side glance at the man. They were walking through Trafalgar Square by this time; passing under the shadow of Nelson’s Column. “Do you know what I was thinking of when behind you in the crowd yonder, Mr. Penn?” he asked abruptly, and it must be confessed rather undiplomatically, if he wished to get at the truth.
“No,” said the secretary, with simplicity and manifest surprise. “No, Mr. Halliday, how can I guess your thoughts?”
“I was thinking of the murder of your late employer,” said Dan straightly.
Penn blinked and shivered. “It’s a horrible subject to think about,” he remarked in a low voice. “I can scarcely get it out of my own thoughts. I suppose the sight of me reminded you of the crime, Mr. Halliday?”
“Scarcely, since I was behind you and did not recognise you until you turned,” replied Dan, calmly, and the other appeared to be surprised.
“Then how—” he began, only to be cut short.
“It’s that
scent.”
“Scent!” echoed Penn nervously but manifestly still surprised. “I don’t understand what you mean, Mr. Halliday. I like scent, and use much of it.”
Dan’s lip curled. “So I perceive. But where did you get the particular scent you are using now, may I ask?”
Something in his tone annoyed the secretary, for he drew himself up and halted. “I don’t know why you should criticise my tastes, Mr. Halliday.”
“I’m not criticising them, and don’t jump down my throat. But you reek of some strange perfume, which I last smelt—” He paused.
“You cannot have smelt it anywhere,” said Penn indifferently.
“What do you mean by that exactly?” asked Dan with considerable sharpness.
Penn resumed his walk and drew his light eyebrows together. “I am willing to explain as soon as you tell me why you speak of the scent.”
“Hang it, man!” rejoined Halliday, dropping into step, “any one would notice the scent and speak of it since it is so strong.”
“Oh”—Penn’s brow cleared—“I understand now. You have taken a fancy to the scent and wish me to get you some.”
Halliday was about to make an indignant denial, when he suddenly changed his mind, seeing a chance of learning something. “Well, can you get me some?”
“No,” said Penn coolly; “I cannot. This is a particular perfume which comes from the Island of Sumatra. I have a cousin there who knows that I like perfumes, and he sent me a single bottle.”
“Can’t I buy it anywhere?”
“No, it is not to be obtained in England,” said Penn curtly.
“In that case,” said Halliday slowly, “it is strange that I should have smelt the same perfume on the clothes of Sir Charles after his death.”
“Did you?” Penn looked surprised. “That is impossible. Why, Sir Charles detested scents, and I never dared to use this one until I left him for the night.”
“You used it on the night of the murder?”
“Of course. I used it every night when I left Sir Charles. On that evening he sent me away with my usual batch of letters, and was going down to the House later. I would not have seen him until the next morning, so I took the opportunity to indulge in this taste.”
“Then how did Sir Charles’s clothes become impregnated with it?”
“I am unable to say. Why do you ask? Surely”—Penn turned an alarmed face towards the speaker, and looked yellower than ever—“surely you do not suspect me of keeping back anything from the police likely to lead to the detection of the assassin.”
“Ask yourself, Mr. Penn,” said Dan coldly. “I and Inspector Tenson and Mr. Durwin smelt this particular perfume on the clothes of the dead man, and I do not mind telling you that the police consider it to be something of a clue.”
“A clue to what? To me? It must be, since I alone possess this scent. I certainly came into the library when summoned by Mr. Durwin, and I helped to look after Sir Charles. As I was strongly perfumed with the scent it is not impossible that my employer’s clothes took what, doubtless, you will call the taint. I think,” ended Penn in a dignified manner, “that such is the proper explanation. You have found a mare’s nest, Mr. Halliday.”
“Upon my word, I believe I have,” said Dan, quite good-humouredly, “but you must forgive me, Mr. Penn. Inspector Tenson agreed with me that the fly and the scent were clues.”
“About the fly I know nothing,” said the secretary positively, “but this scent is not to be had in England, and Sir Charles’s clothes could only have gathered the fragrance from mine. If Inspector Tenson suspects me—”
“No, no, no!” interrrupted Halliday quickly. “I assure you that he does not.”
“He would if you told him of our meeting,” retorted Penn as they passed into Piccadilly Circus, “and as I don’t like even a suspicion to rest on me, Mr. Halliday—for my good name is my fortune—I shall go and see him and explain the whole circumstance. Indeed, if he wishes it, I shall give him the bottle which my cousin posted to me from Sumatra, and never shall I use the scent again. I do not like these injurious suspicions.”
“Don’t make a mountain out of a mole-hill,” said Dan, drily; “if I have hurt your feelings, I apologise.”
“I accept your apology only on condition that you accept my explanation.”
Dan inwardly chuckled at Penn’s dignity, but replied readily enough. “Oh, yes, for if I did not accept your explanation I should not make any apology. You are probably right since the scent must have got on to Sir Charles’s clothes from your own. The clue—as we took it to be—has ended in smoke.”
“But don’t you think that I should see Inspector Tenson and explain?”
“There is no need,” Dan assured him, soothingly. “If the Inspector says anything about the scent, I shall explain; and, after all, it was I who suggested the perfume as a clue.”
“Would you like what is left of the bottle?” asked Penn, pacified by the very frank apology of the other.
“No, thanks, I never use perfumes. I hate them.”
“So did Sir Charles,” mused Penn, and eyeing Dan with a lack-lustre gaze. “I wonder he did not suspect me of liking them. If he had come upon me scented in this manner, he would have kicked me out.”
“It is to be hoped Lord Curberry has not the same dislike,” said Dan, who having learned all he wished, desired to escape from such boring society.
“No, he has not,” said Penn with great simplicity; “he is very kind to me. I suppose he will marry Miss Moon.”
“Then you suppose wrong. He will not,” snapped Halliday roughly.
“He loves her devotedly,” insisted the secretary, and with a glint of malice in his pale-coloured eyes.
“Good day,” rejoined Dan shortly, as he did not wish to argue the matter. He turned into Regent Street—for by this time they had crossed the Circus—when Penn ran after him and seized his arm.
“Is there any chance of the woman who killed Sir Charles being found?”
“No,” replied Dan, halting for a moment. “Why?”
“Because Sir Charles was good to me, and I should like his death to be avenged. That is only natural. Surely the police will search.”
“They are searching, Mr. Penn, and can discover nothing.”
“Perhaps Lord Curberry may hunt for this woman. I shall ask him to, and as he loves Miss Moon so devotedly, he will try and learn the truth.”
Irritated by this speech—for Penn knew all about the rivalry—Dan became scarlet. “I shall discover the truth. Lord Curberry need not trouble himself.”
“If you discover the truth—” began Penn, and hesitated.
“Well?” asked Halliday sharply.
“I think Lord Curberry will certainly marry Miss Moon.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Dan, but Penn gave no answer. Shaking his head significantly, he stepped back, and in one moment was lost in the midst of the crowd which thronged the corner. Halliday would have followed, for the man’s last observation seemed to hint that he knew more about the truth than he was disposed to admit; but many people came between him and the secretary, so it was impossible to get hold of him again. Dan was forced to walk on alone and he walked on pondering deeply.
Did Penn know the truth? It seemed impossible that he should know it. The evidence of the typewriting girl went to show that he had not left his private room all the evening until summoned by Durwin when the death was discovered. What Penn said about the perfume appeared to be reasonable enough, as he certainly had handled the body, and if reeking of the scent —as he was reeking on this very day—it was not surprising that the odour should communicate itself to the dress clothes of the dead man. Some odours cling very powerfully, and endure for a considerable time. This Sumatra scent assuredly had done so, for it was quite three hours after the death that Dan himself had seen the corpse, and even then he had smelt the perfume. However, on the face of it, Halliday saw no reason to doubt Penn’s statement, and quit
e understood how he became, through Sir John’s mediation, the secretary of Lord Curberry. Only the last speech of the secretary was strange. Why should he say that, if the truth were discovered by Dan, Curberry would marry the girl, when, on the discovery of the truth—so far as Dan could see—the marriage of himself to Lillian depended? Dan could find no answer to this question, and had half a mind to follow Penn to his new employer’s house, so as to force an explanation. But as he knew Curberry did not like him, he decided to let matters stand as they were, and only reveal what he had heard to Laurance.
For the next four or five days, young Halliday went about his business in a quiet, determined manner, and thought as little as possible of Lillian. He did not even write or call to see her, since he wished to give up his whole attention to discovering the truth about Moon’s death. If he thought of love and Lillian, he certainly could not concentrate his mind on the necessary search. And such attention was very necessary, if he intended to marry the girl. He became certain that in some way Sir John intended to trick him, but if he found out the false Mrs. Brown, and solved the mystery, Sir John would be forced out of sheer justice to sanction the marriage. It was heroical of Halliday to turn his thoughts from his beloved and it was no easy task to one so deeply in love as he was. But he saw the need of it, and manfully set himself to endure present pain for future joy. Whether Lillian saw things in the same light, or resented his neglect, he did not know, as he had no word from her; neither came there any letter from Mrs. Bolstreath. Dan had certainly been pushed out of the girl’s life by her astute uncle; but it was his own common sense that kept him out of it; for the time being—be it understood. Love demands its martyrs and Halliday had become one for Love’s sake. By doing so, although he knew it not, he was displaying more real love towards her than he had ever done in his life before.
Meanwhile, Laurance lost no time in publishing his letter, which dealt with the mystery of Moon’s death. As “The Moment”, including its extra letter-writing sheet, had a large circulation, and as it was a season devoid of news, the letter caused great discussions. It was sufficiently alarming to those who loved law and order, since it boldly announced that a gang of criminals existed which coldly and cautiously and deliberately employed its members to put people to death. The letter called attention to the fly—and that an artificial one—on Sir Charles’s neck near the poisoned wound, and declared that such was the sign-manual of the accursed society. No mention was made of the scent, since Dan had explained what Penn had said to Laurance, and Laurance had accepted the explanation as valid. But there was quite enough in the letter to startle the most dull, especially when the writer called attention to the happening of various mysterious murders, and suggested that such were the work of this misguided set of people who constituted the unknown gang. Finally, Freddy ended his letter by saying that Moon had knowledge of the gang, and had sent for a Scotland Yard official—name not given—to explain the whole matter, when he met with his death. It was a fact, therefore, that the false Mrs. Brown was an emissary of the gang who had been detailed to murder Sir Charles and had performed her vile errand only too well. A postscript to the epistle invited discussion, and particularly called upon any person who knew of an artificial fly being found on a corpse to give evidence.
