“Did you tell Bitton you were the owner, then?”
Arbor’s nostrils tightened with anger. “Obviously not. Or would he have been so mad as to do what he did—seek the aid of the police when it was stolen?
“But before that. Consider the difficulty of my position. I began to see that, if I asked him outright, this—ah—this lunatic might make all sorts of trouble. He would probably refuse, and question my rights. My rights could be proved; but it would mean delay and all sorts of unpleasantness. He might maintain he had lost the manuscript, and that would be worse. I imagine he would have been quite capable of summoning a policeman and having me thrown out of his house.”
Mr. Arbor’s aura conveyed an acute spasm of anguish at this thought. General Mason coughed, and Dr. Fell contrived to twist his mustache with a hand that hid his mouth.
“And at this juncture,” continued the other, tapping the end of his umbrella on the floor, “everything blew up. The manuscript was stolen. And I, you notice, I was the loser.
“Now, gentlemen.” He sat back and gazed about, fixing the eye of each in turn. “Now you will understand why I have gone into such thorough explanations, and why I wish to establish the ownership of that manuscript. Bitton undoubtedly thinks I stole it. I am not particularly concerned with what he thinks; I have not even bothered to undeceive him. But I cannot have the police thinking so.
“I was away over the week-end during which the manuscript was stolen, and I arrived back only this morning. I was visiting Mr. and Mrs. Spengler, some friends of mine who live close to that cottage of my own I mentioned, at Golder’s Green. ‘Ah,’ says the cunning Bitton; ‘an alibi.’ And he has the colossal impudence to telephone them in order to confirm it. ‘Ah,’ he says then; ‘it was done by somebody in his employ.’
“Now, all this might be at least remotely possible in Bitton’s wild imagination. But you know better. Why, in the name of Heaven, should I go to all the trouble of stealing a manuscript which was already mine?”
Arbor folded his hands with the air of an orator sitting down again.
There was a silence. Hadley, who had perched himself on the edge of the desk, nodded.
“I suppose, Mr. Arbor,” he said, “you are prepared to prove this claim of yours?”
“Naturally. An agreement between Mr. McCartney and myself was drawn up by my lawyer in New York and duly attested. A copy of this agreement is now filed with my solicitors in London. Should you care to verify what I say, I shall be happy to give you a card to them.”
Hadley lifted his shoulders. “In that case, Mr. Arbor, there is nothing more to be said. Sir William simply took a chance that his discovery would go unnoted.” Hadley spoke coldly and levelly. “Even if you had—hum—abstracted the manuscript, to avoid trouble at Sir William’s hands, the law could do nothing. I should not call it very ethical. I tell you frankly, sir, I should call it pretty damned sneaking. But it is perfectly legal.”
Mr. Arbor’s aura radiated a sort of sputter, like a muffled wireless-key. He tried to draw himself up, but the eye of the chief inspector was a trifle too cold. Then Mr. Arbor became placid again.
“We’ll let that pass,” he observed, with an effort. “The absurdity of your suggestion is as evident as—ah—your somewhat noticeable manners. That a man of my well-known standing—” The aura sputtered again. Then Mr. Arbor recovered himself. “It would amuse some of my associates in New York,” he said. “Ha, ha. Ha. Very amusing. But, as I think we agreed to begin with, perfectly legal.”
“Not if it concerned a murder,” said Dr. Fell.
There was an abrupt and rather terrible silence.
The doctor had spoken in a casual tone, and he was leaning over to stroke the head of the dog curled up beside his chair. In the stillness they could all hear the last rattle of coals falling in the grate, and, very faintly, the thin sudden note of a bugle from the parade-ground. General Mason automatically reached for his watch as he heard the bugle; but he stopped and stared.
Arbor had been gathering his coat about him to rise, and his hand jerked on the lapel. “I—I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I said, ‘Not if it concerned a murder,’” Dr. Fell repeated in a louder voice. “Don’t get up, Mr. Arbor. We’re going to talk about the murder now. That doesn’t surprise you, does it? You offered to talk about it a while ago, you know.”
His half-closed eyes opened wide.
“Don’t you know who was murdered, Mr. Arbor?” he pursued.
“I—I heard them talking over there,” the other answered, regarding his interrogator fixedly. “I think I heard somebody say his name was Drakell or Driscoll or something of the sort. But I didn’t mix with them. What has a man being killed at the Tower of London to do with me?”
“The name was Driscoll. Philip Driscoll. He was Sir William Bitton’s nephew.”
Whatever sort of effect Dr. Fell had hoped to produce, there was no question about an effect. Arbor’s swarthy face turned white; literally white, for mottled blotches stood out against his pallor. The thin eyeglasses jerked on his nose, and he covered them with a shaking hand. Undoubtedly Arbor had a weak heart. The effect was as much physical as nervous. Hadley started forward in concern; but Arbor waved him back.
“You must—you must excuse me, gentlemen,” he muttered. His voice grew stronger. “I— It was the shock of hearing the name of—somebody—I did know. This—this Driscoll, was he a small young man, with—let me see—with reddish hair?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Fell stolidly. “You did know him, then?”
“I— Yes. That is, I met him—ah—Sunday before last, at dinner in Bitton’s house. It was the day I arrived. I hadn’t caught his last name. They all called him Phil; that’s how I remembered. And a nephew of Bitton, by that name—”
General Mason pulled a flask out of his hip pocket and held it out. “Try this,” he said, gruffly. “Brandy. Buck you up.”
“Thank you, no,” the other answered, with some dignity. “I’m quite all right. But I assure you I don’t know anything about this ghastly business. How did he die?”
“He was stabbed with this crossbow bolt,” said Dr. Fell, picking it up. “It comes from Bitton’s house.”
The other said, “Most—interesting—” in a way that sounded like a horrible burlesque. But he was better now. “I don’t want you to think, gentlemen,” he went on, with a sort of heavy facetiousness, “that I know anything of the poor boy’s murder because I seemed—ah—upset when you mentioned it. After all, murderers don’t do that, do they? It would be too easy if they did. A person with courage enough to use one of those vicious-looking things isn’t apt to faint when it’s produced afterward. It was—ah—bringing the thing home, so to speak. The doctor warned me against shocks, gentlemen; I’m not as healthy as I look. Bitton—poor devil. Does he know?”
“He knows, Mr. Arbor. But about young Driscoll: you can’t think of any reason for his murder?”
“My dear sir, no! No, of course not. I only met him once, at that dinner. I haven’t seen him since.”
“He was killed at the Traitors’ Gate out there,” pursued Dr. Fell, nodding, “and his body thrown on the steps. I don’t suppose you noticed anything suspicious while you were here? People near the gate; anything of the sort?”
“No. What I—er—wanted to tell you when I first came in was that it was only by chance I was detained here at all. You see, I wanted to examine that copy of Sir Walter Raleigh’s History of the World which is on display at the Bloody Tower, in the room where he wrote it. I arrived here shortly after one o’clock, and went directly to the Bloody Tower. I—er—I confess I was shocked at the way they allow such a valuable book to lie exposed and open all day in such a damp place. I presented my card to the warder on duty, and asked whether I might make a detailed examination. He said he was sorry, but that it was a part of the Tower exhibits and that I couldn’t handle it without a written order from the resident governor or deputy governor.” Arbor seemed a tri
fle surprised at the interest depicted in the faces of the others. Nobody spoke; he went on talking volubly.
“Even then, he said, it was doubtful whether I could get the order. But I asked to be directed to where I might find either one. He sent me across the way—”
“Inside the inner ballium wall?” Hadley interrupted.
“Why—er—yes. Yes. To a row of buildings facing up towards the Green and the parade-ground. But it was foggy, and there were several doors, and I was uncertain. While I hesitated, a man came out one of the doors—”
He paused, puzzled and growing nervous under their eyes.
“A man in knickerbockers and cap?” Dr. Fell inquired.
“I don’t know. Er—yes, I believe he did wear knickerbockers; I recall it because they seemed a bit absurd on such a day. But it was foggy, and I could not swear to it. I spoke to him to find out which door I should use, but he brushed past me without listening. Then another warder hailed me and told me that visitors were not permitted on the side of the grounds where I was walking. I explained. He then said he was positive neither of the persons I wanted to see were in their quarters at the time.”
“Quite correct,” said General Mason, dryly.
“But surely, gentlemen—!” Arbor protested, wetting his lips, “Surely you can’t be interested—You are? Well, let me see. I returned to the Bloody Tower and tried the judicious use of a bank note. It was not accepted. So I determined to leave. On my way out to Water Lane I collided with a young lady who had just come under the arch of the gate from Water Lane and was walking very rapidly up the incline that goes towards the parade-ground. You said something?”
“No,” said Dr. Fell. “Could you describe this young lady?”
Arbor was again entirely at his ease. By his expression, he seemed to regret his late weakness, and to make up for it by clear, judicial telling of his own story. It was obvious that the import of the story puzzled him. But, at Dr. Fell’s question, he reflected carefully.
“No. No, I’m afraid not. I scarcely glanced at her. All I remember is that she was in a great hurry, and that she wore some sort of fur collar, and that she seemed—ah—uncommonly solid. It gave me a jar when we bumped. My wristwatch was a bit loose, and I thought it had slipped off. Well, I walked through the arch of the Bloody Tower, into Water Lane—”
“Now, Mr. Arbor, for the Lord’s sake, think! Think! Was there anybody near the railing around Traitors’ Gate then? Did you see anybody standing there, or did it seem to be deserted?”
Arbor sat back. “I begin to see the drift,” he answered, nervously. “I didn’t go close to the rail, or look over. But there was nobody standing near it, Inspector. Nobody!”
“And could you remember the time then?”
“I can tell you the time precisely,” said the other. “It was just twenty-five minutes to two.”
IX
The Three Hints
IT WAS the placid Hadley who was momentarily jarred out of his calm then. “But look here!” he protested, “the police surgeon said he died at a quarter to—”
“Hold on!” bellowed Dr. Fell. He struck the top of the desk such a sharp blow with his cane that the sheet of mauve notepaper fluttered off. “By God and Bacchus! That’s what I wanted! That’s what I was hoping and waiting for. And to think I never took this man’s testimony of the murder before! I nearly passed it up. My friend, I am grateful. I am profoundly grateful. Now, you’re absolutely positive of that time, are you?”
Arbor was growing mollified at being a person of such importance.
“Positive. As I told you, my encounter with the young lady had jarred my watch. I stepped back into the door of the Wakefield Tower to see whether it was in danger of slipping off, and I noted the time just before I walked down to Water Lane.”
“Get out your watches, gentlemen,” rumbled Dr. Fell, “and let’s compare notes. Eheu! So! It’s a quarter past six. That’s what I have, anyhow. What about the rest of you?”
“Quarter past six,” said General Mason, “and I’m right. I know.”
“Thirteen and a half minutes past,” said Rampole.
“And I?” concluded Arbor. “Fifteen and one half minutes past, to the second. I never am wrong. This watch was made by—”
“Never mind,” interposed Dr. Fell. “We shan’t row about half a minute. That settles it. There is, however, one thing I should like to ask. You said you were on your way out at this time, Mr. Arbor. But the murder wasn’t discovered until half-past two. How is it you were caught here when the detention order was issued?”
“That was what I wished to explain a moment ago,” Arbor answered, “when I said it was chance. I left one of my gloves behind, on the railing round the Raleigh first edition in the Bloody Tower. They’re—ah—rather special gloves,” he explained, carelessly. “Carter of Fifth Avenue does them for me, and I have no other pair of exactly this sort.”
General Mason looked pained, and Arbor lifted the shiny gray hat from his lap and indicated the gloves.
“I was all the way to the Strand in my cab before I remembered, and I returned. It was about twenty minutes to three when I arrived, and then I couldn’t get out.”
“I hope that cabby isn’t still waiting,” the general mused. “It would be unfortunate, Mr. Arbor, if such an unfortunate witness got his head bashed in. Ah,” he said, somewhat dreamily, “most unfortunate— Hold on! Wait! I remember now. There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“With pleasure.” Arbor frowned. “You are—”
“I’m the man you wanted to see,” the general replied, with some asperity. “I’m the deputy governor of the Tower. And what’s more, sir, I’m damned if I let you paw over that Raleigh book. General Sir Ian Hamilton presented that to us. What was I saying? Oh yes. About the Raleigh. You said you’d never seen it. Is this your first visit to the Tower?”
“It is.”
“The reason I asked is that you have all the names down pat. You speak familiarly of ‘Water Lane,’ and the Green, and all the rest of it, when you didn’t go any farther than the Bloody Tower.”
“Perfectly simple,” said Arbor, with the air of a detective speaking to his dull-witted assistant. “I dislike asking directions, my dear sir. It savors of gaucherie.” From his pocket he produced one of the green pamphlets. “This little guide, with a map, which I studied before entering the Tower at all, gave me a thorough working knowledge.”
Dr. Fell pulled at his mustache.
“I’ve got just one more question, my friend, and then you are free to go. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Lester Bitton, your host’s sister-in-law?”
“Unfortunately, no. You see, as I told you, I have never before stopped at Bitton’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Bitton were away when I first arrived. They returned last night, I am told, but I only came back from my weekend this morning, and both were out of the house. I know Lester Bitton slightly. And I have heard Bitton himself speak of her, and seen her portrait. But I’ve never met her.”
“You wouldn’t recognize her, then, if you saw her?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Before you go, though,” Hadley suggested, “isn’t there something you want to tell us?”
Arbor had risen with almost a shake of relief. He was buttoning his coat slowly, so as not to seem in a hurry; but he stopped. “Tell you? I don’t understand.”
“Any—hints, or instructions, Mr. Arbor? A valuable manuscript virtually belonging to you has been stolen, you know. Aren’t you interested in recovering it? It would seem that you are very easily diverted from the loss of a ten-thousand-pound possession, considering the trouble you took to acquire it. Today you were down here, deeply interested in something else. Aren’t you making any inquiries at all?”
Arbor, Rampole sensed, had been dreading that question. But he did not immediately speak. He adjusted his hat to a nicety, drew on his gloves, and hooked his umbrella over his arm. This sartorial adjustment seemed to lend him his old cool confidence
and bearing.
“Just so,” he agreed. “But you are forgetting something. I want no unpleasantness in this matter, gentlemen; I have already outlined my reasons. I prefer not to use the assistance of the police. But I assure you I have not been idle. I have contacts and leads which are—excuse me—not open to you. As you say, it is not likely that I shall neglect to investigate.” A thin smile on the swarthy face, a cool raising of the black brows, a slight bow. “If you wish to speak to me further, you will reach me at the Savoy. I thank you for—ah—a most instructive afternoon. Good day, gentlemen.”
After he had gone there was a long silence. It had grown cold in the room, for the fire was almost out. An expression of malignancy was on General Mason’s face. He moved his hands in the air after the fashion of a burlesque hypnotist.
“Hocus-pocus,” he muttered. “Allagazam. I hope you haven’t got any more witnesses, Hadley. That’s enough. First hats, and then love affairs, and now manuscripts. It hasn’t helped any. It’s only mixed us up worse. What did you make of our aesthete?”
“As a witness,” said Hadley, “he was either too difficult or too easy, at various times. He started off smoothly enough. Then he went into a complete funk at the mention of the murder. Finally, I’d swear he was telling the truth when he described what he knew of the happenings here.”
“Meaning?” prompted the general.
Again Hadley began to stride about the room. He spoke irritably. “Oh, I can see one obvious explanation. But that only complicates matters. See here. He obviously didn’t know it was Driscoll who had been murdered here. At least, he didn’t know it was the young chap he’d met at Sir William’s. And it nearly knocked him over when he heard. Why?
“Put it this way. Arbor’s clever, and he’s tricky. He genuinely dislikes unpleasantness, because it upsets his own self-conscious dignity; but he has no more courage than a rabbit. You could see that in everything he said. Worst of all, he has an unholy horror of publicity. Agreed?”
The Mad Hatter Mystery Page 12
