The Master Detective Part 17

"But some of the people about the sea-baths and the tent attendants would know it was not Henley," said Zena.

"We have evidence that he was a very quiet, reticent man," said Quarles.

"They probably hardly saw him in the daytime, and at night he would have a painted face, and the fact that he was wearing the dress would go a long way to convince any one who chanced to see him in the dim light at the back of the stage that night."

"And who do you suppose he was?" I asked.

"We will go back to Watson and Miss Day," said Quarles. "Miss Day was silent on the question of love, fearful, I take it, that her natural repugnance to the man might serve to betray the conspiracy. I believe the conspiracy was formed on the spur of the moment, just before Watson came from behind the curtains that evening and asked whether you were a doctor. I should say the dead man had pestered her, and that she was relieved by his death. I find some confirmation of this in Watson's att.i.tude. He talks of some of the best men having been in prison, in such a way, in fact, that his wife hastens to laugh at his hobby, afraid that he will betray himself. Now he could hardly have been referring to the dead man; he declared himself that he was not thinking of Henley; I suggest that he was thinking of himself."

"And you accused me of jumping to a conclusion!" I exclaimed.

"I haven't finished yet," answered the professor. "Here is my complete theory. The dead man knew something of Watson's past, and was holding that knowledge over him, blackmailing him, in fact, and I think the company knew it. At the same time he pesters Miss Day with his attentions, which Henley, more than half in love with Miss Day himself, resents and determines to rid the troupe of a blackguard. He begins by pretending some friends.h.i.+p for his victim, and after giving out that he is going to town, suggests to the dead man that his absence may be an opportunity for the other to get into Miss Day's good graces. Why should he not dress up and take his place on the following evening? I have little doubt that Henley expected him to come to try on the dress that night after the performance, which would account for his being such a long time changing. The victim did not come; by the look of him in death I should say he had not been sober, which would account for his not coming. Next morning Henley goes to find him, takes him to the tent, not through the door, which would be fastened probably in some way, but surrept.i.tiously, through some weak spot in the pegging down very likely."

"But why should he wait until the man had got into the pierrot's dress before murdering him?" said Zena.

"Because, my dear, he hoped the body would not be discovered until another troupe took possession of the tent. A dead pierrot would be discovered, and the troupe at Brighton would be communicated with. In the meanwhile Henley would have warned them, and the same tale would have been told, and the body been identified as Henley's. There would be no hue and cry after the murderer. Had it not been for Miss Day's pompon being torn off, I have no doubt this would have been the course of events. You will have to travel to Brighton, Wigan, and put one or two questions to our friend Watson."

"And who was the man?" I asked.

"Since no one seems to have missed him I should say he was a man not too anxious to have inquiries made about him, one careful to cover up his tracks, perhaps one not altogether unknown in criminal circles, a man of the type of your Beverley, for instance. By the way, have you ever seen Beverley?"

"No."

"How were you to know him, then?"

"By the man in whose company he would be."

"And you have good reasons for expecting to run him to earth at Fairtown?"

"Excellent reasons," I answered.

"Wigan, get some one who knows Beverley to go and look at the dead pierrot. The result might be interesting."

It was. Quarles admitted that the idea was a leap in the dark, but he pointed out that the dead man was the type he imagined Beverley to be.

The fact remains he was right. The dead man was Beverley. And, moreover, the professor's deduction was right throughout as far as we were able to verify it. Watson had been in prison, quite deservedly he admitted, but having paid the debt for his fall, he was facing the world bravely. Then came Beverley, who knew of the past, and Watson admitted that his death was a thing that he could not help rejoicing over. He had heard nothing from Henley, who had no doubt read of the discovery in the paper, and thought it wiser to obliterate himself altogether.

CHAPTER VI

THE TRAGEDY IN DUKE'S MANSIONS

I believe Beverley's exit from this life was a relief to his family.

Whether any very strenuous efforts were made to find Henley, I do not know. Possibly the "Cla.s.sical P's" are interrogated concerning him from time to time, for they are still appearing at well-known watering places, though whether Miss Day is still of the company, I cannot say.

I quickly forgot all about Henley, being absorbed in a new case, which created considerable attention. At the outset it brought me in contact with rather a fascinating character, a man whose personality sticks in your memory.

He was an Italian by birth, cosmopolitan by circ.u.mstances, and by nature something of an artist. Fate had ordained that he should be man-servant to an English M.P.; he would have looked more at home in a Florentine studio or in a Tuscany vineyard, but then Fate is responsible for many incongruities.

In well-chosen words, and in dramatic fas.h.i.+on, he drew the picture for me.

"The little dinner was over," he said, using his hands to ill.u.s.trate his speech. "I had removed everything but the wine. It had not been a merry party, no; it was all business, I think, and serious. When I enter the room to bring this or take that, they pause, say something of no consequence--evidently I am not to hear anything of what they are talking. They talk English, though only my master was English. One of his guests was German, the other a countryman of my own, but not of Tuscany, no, I think of the South. So there was only the wine on the table, and cigars, and the silver box of cigarettes. My master had in his hand a sheet of paper, and the German had taken a map from his pocket, and my countryman was laughing at something which amused him. I can see it all just as it was."

He paused, closed his eyes, as if he would impress for ever on his memory what he had seen.

"And now--this," he said, throwing out his arms. "This, and not two hours afterwards."

This was certainly tragic enough. A shaded electric light hanging over the table left the corners of the room in shadow. The wine, the cigars, the silver cigarette box were still on the table, the smoke was heavy in the atmosphere. A tray contained cigar and cigarette ends. On either side of the table was a chair pushed back as it would be by a man rising from it. At the end was a chair, with arms, also pushed back a little, but it was not empty. In it was a man in evening dress, leaning back, his head fallen a little to one side, his arms hanging loosely. But for the arms of the chair he would have fallen to the floor. He was dead. How he had died was uncertain. A casual examination told nothing, and I had not moved him. I had arrived first and was expecting the doctor every moment.

I happened to be in my office when the telephone message came through that Arthur Bridwell, M.P., had been found dead under suspicious circ.u.mstances in his flat at Duke's Mansions, Knightsbridge. I went there at once and found a constable in possession. It was barely half-past nine now, and the Italian manservant said he had last seen his master alive at seven o'clock.

"He dined early to-night?" I said.

"Yes, at six. He was going to the House afterwards. It was important, I heard him say so to his guests."

"And you went out at seven?"

"About seven. It is my custom to go for a walk after serving my master,"

was the answer. "I came back just before nine. I looked into this room, not expecting to find any one here, but to put the wine away and take the gla.s.ses, and I find this. I have moved nothing, I have touched nothing. I called to the porter, and he fetched the police, and the policeman used the telephone to call you."

The Italian, whose name was Masini, was the only servant. Duke's Mansions, as you probably know, is a set of flats, varying in accommodation, with a central service. There is a general dining-room, and there are smoking rooms and lounges which all the tenants may use; or meals are served in the various flats from the central kitchen.

To-night Mr. Bridwell had had dinner served for three at an early hour in his flat.

The telephone was in the corner of the room, and I was going to it to call up Christopher Quarles, convinced this was a case in which I should need all the a.s.sistance I could get, when the telephone bell rang.

"Hallo!" I said. "Who's that?"

"I left my bag on the Chesterfield," came the answer. "Better not send it. Keep it until I come again."

"When?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"Is that you, Arthur?" came the question.

"About the bag," I said, then paused. "Are you there?"

No answer. My voice had evidently betrayed me. The woman at the other end had discovered that she was speaking to the wrong man. I looked at the Chesterfield. There was no bag of any kind upon it now. Then I telephoned to Quarles, telling him there was a mysterious case for him to investigate.

"Had your master any other visitors to-day?" I asked casually, turning to Masini.

"Not to my knowledge. All the afternoon I was out."

"Where were you?"

"Out for my master. I took a parcel to a gentleman at Harrow."

"To whom?"