The Millionaire Mystery Page 19

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Barkham nervously; ‘but I warned Mr Beauchamp that Lestrange was coming.’

  ‘Quite so; but you did not tell him that Lestrange was masquerading as a dumb man in Heathton.’

  ‘What!’ cried Alan and Sophy in one breath. ‘Was Lestrange the Quiet Gentleman?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Blair, with triumph. ‘He confessed as much to Barkham here. That was why he wore the grey wig and beard and assumed dumbness—oh, a most effective disguise; quite a different person he made of himself! He came down to keep a watch on you, Mr Beauchamp, in order to plunder you when he thought fit. Your unexpected death took him by surprise and upset his plans. Then Barkham, as Jean Lestrange, arrived at Southampton, and our Quiet Gentleman disappeared from his rooms here, to reappear from London in his own proper person, as Captain Jean Lestrange. No wonder that, with so carefully-prepared an alibi, we did not guess it was he who had been masquerading here.’

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Alan, ‘and he stole the key of the vault?’

  ‘Mr Barkham can explain that, and other things,’ said Blair significantly.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Sophy, rising excitedly, ‘I know—I know! It was Lestrange who murdered Dr Warrender!’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Barkham, ‘he did.’

  There was a deep silence, which was broken at length by Beauchamp.

  ‘The scoundrel!’ he said hoarsely, ‘and I let him escape!’

  ‘What!’ cried Blair, jumping up. ‘You let him escape, Mr Beauchamp—and when you knew that he killed Achille Lestrange?’

  ‘It was my wish,’ struck in Sophy; ‘I thought he might repent.’

  ‘Such scoundrels never repent, Miss Marlow,’ said Blair; ‘he has committed two murders, he may commit two more. But I’ll hunt him down. He can’t have gone far yet.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he has,’ said Alan. ‘He was here last night. By the way, how did he kill Dr Warrender, and why?’

  ‘Barkham!’

  The little man obeyed the voice of the inspector, and meekly repeated his story.

  ‘Lestrange,’ he said, ‘did not believe that Mr Beauchamp was dead. He heard Mr Thorold say something to the Rector about the key of the vault—’

  ‘God bless me!’ cried Phelps, ‘so you did, Alan.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the little man, nodding, ‘then he stole the key. He sent for the doctor to ask him about the burial. The doctor came, but Lestrange was out.’

  ‘Did Warrender recognize him?’ asked Beauchamp abruptly.

  ‘No, sir, he did not—at least, not then. Well, Lestrange waited and waited to enter the vault. When he went at last he found Warrender and another man taking the body out. He followed them to the hut on the heath; he tried to look in, and he made a slight noise. Warrender came out, and in the moonlight he recognized Lestrange, who turned to run away, but the doctor caught him and they struggled. Then Lestrange, knowing that he would be arrested for the murder of Achille in Jamaica, stabbed the doctor to the heart. Terrified at what he had done, he lost his head, and hurried up to me in London. At first he refused to tell me anything, but I made him drink,’ said Barkham, with a leer, ‘and so I got the whole truth out of him.’

  ‘You scoundrel!’ cried Thorold.

  ‘Call me what you like,’ was the sullen rejoinder. ‘I wanted to get money out of Beauchamp myself, and wrote to warn him that I might have a claim on his gratitude. I was afraid to come here. I sent a letter to Lestrange asking him for money, and it got into this policeman’s hands. He traced me, and brought me down here. That is all I know; but as Mr Beauchamp is alive, I ought to have something. After all, it was I who warned him.’

  ‘You shall have fifty pounds,’ said Beauchamp sternly. ‘But you must leave England.’

  ‘I don’t know that I will let him,’ said Blair. ‘He should have communicated with the police.’

  ‘I’ll turn Queen’s evidence if you like,’ said Barkham. ‘I don’t care if I am arrested or not. I have had nothing but this fifty pounds—and you call that gratitude, Mr Beauchamp!’

  ‘Let him go, Blair, if you can consistently with your duty,’ said Beauchamp.

  ‘I’ll see,’ was the reply. ‘Hullo! what’s that! Gramp, what do you mean by rushing into the room?’

  It was indeed Cicero who stood, hot and puffing, at the door. He took no notice of Blair, but addressed himself to Alan.

  ‘Mr Thorold,’ he said, ‘I have information if you will pay me well.’

  ‘You shall be paid if what you have to say is worth it.’

  ‘Then I must tell you that Lestrange was the Quiet Gentleman. You see this lancet? He stole it out of your desk, and gave it to me to say that I found it in the hut. This proves that he was the Quiet Gentleman, and I believe he murdered Dr Warrender.’

  ‘You do, you scoundrel!’ cried Mr Beauchamp. ‘But you are too late—we know all!’

  ‘Too late!’ cried Gramp. ‘Good heavens! to think of my getting nothing, and Clara Maria two thousand pounds!’

  *

  Little remains to be told. Lestrange was traced to Southampton, but there the trail was lost, much to the disappointment of Inspector Blair, who, although he duly received the two thousand pounds, never ceased to regret the man’s escape. Alan paid him the reward gladly, for without him the mystery would never have been solved, and Mr Beauchamp’s innocence would never have been established.

  Sophy and Alan were married in the presence of the ex-millionaire and of Miss Vicky. After the ceremony, the former left England with Joe. He bought a small yacht, in which he and his faithful servant sail the waters of the Mediterranean. No one has ever guessed the truth.

  Mrs Marry continues to lament the loss of the Quiet Gentleman, but she has always believed him to have been one and the same person. That Mr Beauchamp was the second representative of the part, she never dreamed. Mr Marlow is dead to the Heathton villagers, and to this day they talk of the mystery which surrounded the disappearance of his corpse—indeed, the vault has the reputation of being haunted.

  Barkham left England with his fifty pounds, and Mrs Warrender returned to America with her two thousand and her many jewels. There she married a Canadian doctor, and vanished altogether. Cicero received a small sum, and now spends his time frantically hunting for Clara Maria, in the hope of extorting a share of her money; but Clara Maria is a clever woman, and he is not likely to come across her.

  Sophy and Alan are supremely happy in their life at the Abbey Farm. They make frequent trips to the Continent, where they meet Mr Beauchamp.

  Miss Vicky, too, is happy. She has Sophy’s son and heir to care for, and what more can she want?

  ‘The heir to millions,’ says the old lady, ‘and what a mystery there was about it all! To this day, I don’t understand everything.’

  ‘Few people do,’ is Alan’s reply. ‘The millionaire’s mystery will always remain a mystery in Heathton.’

  THE END

  THE GREENSTONE GOD AND THE STOCKBROKER

  AS a rule, the average detective gets twice the credit he deserves. I am not talking of the novelist’s miracle-monger, but of the flesh and blood reality who is liable to err, and who frequently proves such liability. You can take it as certain that a detective who sets down a clean run and no hitch as entirely due to his astucity, is young in years, and still younger in experience. Older men, who have been bamboozled a hundred times by the craft of criminality, recognize the influence of Chance to make or mar. There you have it! Nine times out of ten, Chance does more in clinching a case than all the dexterity and mother-wit of the man in charge. The exception must be engineered by an infallible apostle. Such a one is unknown to me—out of print.

  This opinion, based rather on collective experience than on any one episode, can be substantiated by several incontrovertible facts. In this instance, one will suffice. Therefore, I take the Brixton case to illustrate Chance as a factor in human affairs. Had it not been for that Maori fetish—but such rather ends than begins the sto
ry. Therefore it were wise to dismiss it for the moment. Yet that piece of greenstone hanged—a person mentioned hereafter.

  When Mr and Mrs Paul Vincent set up housekeeping at Ulster Lodge they were regarded as decided acquisitions to Brixton society. She, pretty and musical; he, smart in looks, moderately well off, and an excellent tennis-player. Their progenitors, his father and her mother (both since deceased), had lived a life of undoubted middle-class respectability. The halo thereof still environed their children, who were, in consequence of such inherited grace and their own individualisms, much sought after by genteel Brixtonians. Moreover, this popular couple were devoted to each other, and even after three years of marriage they posed still as lovers. This was as it should be, and by admiring friends and relations the Vincents were regarded as paragons of matrimonial perfection. Vincent was a stockbroker; therefore he passed most of his time in the City.

  Judge, then, of the commotion, when pretty Mrs Vincent was discovered in the study, stabbed to the heart. So aimless a crime were scarce imaginable. She had many friends, no known enemies, yet she came to this tragic end. Closer examination revealed that the escritoire had been broken into, and Mr Vincent declared himself the poorer by two hundred pounds. Primarily, therefore, robbery was the sole object, but, by reason of Mrs Vincent’s interference, the thief had been converted into a murderer.

  So excellently had the assassin chosen his time, that such choice argued a close acquaintance with the domestic economy of Ulster Lodge. The husband was detained in town till midnight; the servants (cook and housemaid), on leave to attend wedding festivities, were absent till eleven o’clock. Mrs Vincent, therefore, was absolutely alone in the house for six hours, during which period the crime had been committed. The servants discovered the body of their unfortunate mistress and raised the alarm at once. Later on Vincent arrived to find his wife dead, his house in possession of the police, and the two servants in hysterics. For that night nothing could be done, but at dawn a move was made towards elucidating the mystery. At this point I come into the story.

  Instructed at nine o’clock to take charge of the case, by ten I was on the spot noting details and collecting evidence. Beyond removal of the body nothing had been disturbed, and the study was in precisely the same condition as when the crime was discovered. I examined carefully the apartment, and afterwards interrogated the cook, the housemaid, and, lastly, the master of the house. The result gave me slight hope of securing the assassin.

  The room (a fair-sized one, looking out on to a lawn between house and road) was furnished in cheap bachelor fashion; an old-fashioned desk placed at right angles to the window, a round table reaching nigh the sill, two armchairs, three of the ordinary cane-seated kind, and on the mantelpiece an arrangement of pipes, pistols, boxing-gloves, and foils. One of these latter was missing.

  A single glimpse showed how terrible a struggle had taken place before the murderer had overpowered his victim. The tablecloth lay disorderly on the floor, two of the lighter chairs were overturned, and the desk, with several drawers open, was hacked about considerably. No key was in the door-lock which faced the escritoire, and the window-snick was fastened securely.

  Further search resulted in the following discoveries:

  1.A hatchet used for chopping wood (found near the desk).

  2.A foil with the button broken off (lying under the table).

  3.A greenstone idol (edged under the fender).

  The cook (defiantly courageous by reason of brandy) declared that she had left the house at four o’clock on the previous day and had returned close on eleven. The back door (to her surprise) was open. With the housemaid she went to inform her mistress of this fact, and found the body lying midway between door and fireplace. At once she called in the police. Her master and mistress were a most attached couple, and (so far as she knew) they had no enemies.

  Similar evidence was obtained from the housemaid with the additional information that the hatchet belonged to the woodshed. The other rooms were undisturbed.

  Poor young Vincent was so broken down by the tragedy that he could hardly answer my questions with calmness. Sympathizing with his natural grief, I interrogated him as delicately as was possible, and I am bound to admit that he replied with remarkable promptitude and clearness.

  ‘What do you know of this unhappy affair?’ I asked when we were alone in the drawing-room. He refused to stay in the study, as was surely natural under the circumstances.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ he replied. ‘I went to the City yesterday at ten in the morning, and, as I had business to do, I wired my wife I would not return till midnight. She was full of health and spirits when I last saw her, but now—’ Incapable of further speech he made a gesture of despair. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘Have you any theory on the subject?’

  ‘Judging from the wrecked condition of the desk I should say robbery—’

  ‘Robbery?’ he interrupted, changing colour. ‘Yes, that was the motive. I had two hundred pounds locked up in the desk.’

  ‘In gold or notes?’

  ‘The latter. Four fifties. Bank of England.’

  ‘You are sure they are missing?’

  ‘Yes. The drawer in which they were placed is smashed to pieces.’

  ‘Did anyone know you had placed two hundred pounds therein?’

  ‘No! Save my wife, and yet—ah!’ he said, breaking off abruptly, ‘that is impossible.’

  ‘What is impossible?’

  ‘I will tell you when I hear your theory.’

  ‘You got that notion out of novels of the shilling sort,’ I answered drily. ‘Every detective doesn’t theorize on the instant. I haven’t any particular theory that I know of. Whosoever committed this crime must have known your wife was alone in the house and that there was two hundred pounds locked up in that desk. Did you mention these two facts to anyone?’

  Vincent pulled his moustache in some embarrassment. I guessed by the action that he had been indiscreet.

  ‘I don’t wish to get an innocent person into trouble,’ he said at length, ‘but I did mention it—to a man called Roy.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘It is a bit of a story. I lost two hundred to a friend at cards and drew four fifties to pay him. He went out of town, so I locked up the money in my desk for safety. Last night Roy came to me at the club, much agitated, and asked me to loan him a hundred. Said it meant ruin else. I offered him a cheque, but he wanted cash. I then told him I had left two hundred at home, so at the moment could not lay my hand on it. He asked if he could not go to Brixton for it, but I said the house was empty, and—’

  ‘But it wasn’t empty,’ I interrupted.

  ‘I believed it would be! I knew the servants were going to that wedding, and I thought my wife, instead of spending a lonely evening, would call on some friend.’

  ‘Well, and after you told Roy that the house was empty?’

  ‘He went away, looking awfully cut up, and swore he must have the money at any price. But it is quite impossible he could have anything to do with this.’

  ‘I don’t know. You told him where the money was and that the house was unprotected, as you thought. What was more probable than that he should have come down with the intention of stealing the money? If so, what follows? Entering by the back door, he takes the hatchet from the wood-shed to open the desk. Your wife, hearing a noise, discovers him in the study. In a state of frenzy, he snatches a foil from the mantelpiece and kills her, then decamps with the money. There is your theory, and a mighty bad one—for Roy.’

  ‘You don’t intend to arrest him?’ asked Vincent quickly.

  ‘Not on insufficient evidence! If he committed the crime and stole the money it is certain that, sooner or later, he will change the notes. Now, if I had the numbers—’

  ‘Here are the numbers,’ said Vincent, producing his pocket-book. ‘I always take the numbers of such large notes. But surely,’ he added as I copied them down—‘surely you don’t think Roy
guilty?’

  ‘I don’t know. I should like to know his movements on that night.’

  ‘I cannot tell you. He saw me at the Chestnut Club about seven o’clock and left immediately afterwards. I kept my business appointment, went to Alhambra, and then returned home.’

  ‘Give me Roy’s address and describe his personal appearance.’

  ‘He is a medical student, and lodges at Gower Street. Tall, fair-haired—a good-looking young fellow.’

  ‘And his dress last night?’

  ‘He wore evening dress concealed by a fawn-coloured overcoat.’

  I duly noted these particulars, and I was about to take my leave, when I recollected the greenstone idol. It was so strange an object to find in prosaic Brixton that I could not help thinking it must have come there by accident.

  ‘By the way, Mr Vincent,’ said I, producing the monstrosity, ‘is this greenstone god your property?’

  ‘I never saw it before,’ replied he, taking it in his hand. ‘Is it—ah!’ he added, dropping the idol, ‘there is blood on it!’

  ‘’Tis the blood of your wife, sir! If it does not belong to you, it does to the murderer. From the position in which this was found I fancy it slipped out of his breast-pocket as he stood over his victim. As you see, it is stained with blood. He must have lost his presence of mind, else he would not have left behind so damning a piece of evidence. This idol, sir, will hang the assassin of Mrs Vincent!’

  ‘I hope so, but unless you are sure of Roy, do not mar his life by accusing him of this crime.’

  ‘I certainly should not arrest him without sufficient proof,’ I answered promptly, and so took my departure.