"Why not?" said Derrick, looking at him suspiciously.
"Because the whole family are at the seaside-all except Miss Mason."
"Where is she, and who is she?"
"Miss Mason is the sister of Mrs. Fane, and she's stopping with the friends I was seeing when my car was stolen."
This was a strange discovery, and Derrick looked puzzled. Tracey spoke in all good faith, and seemed quite willing to enter the house. All the same it was queer he should know so much about the matter. As the constable opened the door Derrick asked a question. "You heard Mulligan describe the man who came out of this house," he said; "can you tell me who he is?"
"No," confessed Tracey. "I know very little of Mr. Fane and his family. I've never been in this house. But Miss Mason is the bosom friend of the girl I'm going to engineer into the position of Mrs. Tracey. She's Gerty Baldwin at present, and lives at No. 20 Meadow Lane along with her mother and the kids. Now, is there anything else you want, to know, Mr. Inspector?"
"Not at present. But later on." Derrick nodded and walked into the house, followed by the two men.
"Oh, anything you like," called out Tracey, not at all damped by the fact of death being in the house, "anything for an advertisement. I guess I'll sell that ear at a big figure. Tussaud's will buy it if the murderer's skipped in it."
"He hasn't," said Mulligan, still confused.
"He has," insisted the American. "Why should an honest man yank off my car? Some one wanted to get out of the way in a hurry, and he took my flier. I guess he's out of London by this time. She can skim a bit. Oh, I reckon she's no slouch."
"Hush," said Derrick sharply, and removed his cap. Tracey did the same, for the presence of death-the immediate presence-began to sober him. Mulligan stood rigidly at the door while Derrick examined the body. "Is it Mrs. Fane?" he asked.
"No," said Tracey, staring at a girlish face, still and white and waxen. "Mrs. Fane would make two of this poor thing. She's a Junoesque sort of woman, about the size of the Venus of Milo, and the same shape, too. This is a slip of a girl."
"A married woman," said Derrick, pointing to a ring on the hand. He walked slowly round the room. "Mulligan," said he, "go and see if any one else is in the house-"
"I tell you Fane and family are at the seaside," said Tracey.
"Never mind. There may be a caretaker. Look round, Mulligan, and see if any windows or doors are unlocked or open. Mr. Tracey, please sit still and silent. I wish to make an examination."
Mulligan departed promptly, and the American sat comfortably in a deep armchair watching the inspector. That gentleman prowled round like a sleuth-hound. He examined the window, then scrambled along the floor, shook various curtains, shifted several cushions, and finally knelt beside the body after a glance at the piano. He interrupted his examination to point out the music. "According to Mulligan, she was singing 'Kathleen Mavourneen,'" said he. "There's the song. Poor soul. She was evidently struck down when singing."
"Then the man met by Mulligan is innocent, since he was outside while the song was still being sung."
"He might be an accessory before the fact, Mr. Tracey."
"In other words, an accomplice. But he didn't nick my car. No, sir. The real murderer did that, and I guess that car's worth money at the boss waxwork show of this metropolis. They can fire it into the chamber of horrors along with Napoleon's cart and the baby's pram. What figure would you ask now, inspector?"
"You go too fast, Mr. Tracey. We don't know yet that the criminal has stolen your car. Is the house you were visiting far from here?"
"Oh, I guess not. Mrs. Baldwin hangs out No. 20-"
"Yes," interrupted Derrick, "you told me. That's no distance. Meadow Lane-to be sure-part of Old Troy."
"No," contradicted Tracey. "The village is called Cloverhead."
"And round the village Troy has been built, so the lesser name is merged in the larger."
"Sounds legal, and not quite right, Mr. Inspector. Say, your name's-"
"Derrick. Inspector Derrick. I am in charge of the Troy police, and this is the first crime of any sort I have stumbled across here."
"Slow lot," commented the American. "In our country we'd have filled the boneyard in six months."
"We don't murder on that gigantic scale here, Mr. Tracey," Derrick answered, somewhat dryly. Then he looked steadily and keenly at the man. "I'm going to trust you," he declared.
Tracey whistled, and stared doubtfully at the body. "Shouldn't if I were you, sir. Here's a crime, and I know a lot-"
"Oh, you do! What do you know?"
"What I've told you. I might be an accomplice too, you see, along with the other man."
"The murderer?"
"No. The rooster who skipped with my car. He didn't stick that poor girl there. Not he. Guess he kept your copper employed in jaw while the real murderer polished off the female. That's how I size up things. Well, sir, and what do you want me to do?"
"Fetch a doctor."
"Don't know any hereabouts My knowledge of this township is limited to Meadow Lane, and Miss Baldwin's favourite walk across the fields. 'Sides" – he cast a quizzical look at the officer-"I might not come back."
"Oh yes, you will. I shouldn't let you go if I wasn't sure you'd return, if only for the sake of your car and the advertisement."
Tracey laughed. "Well, where's the medicine man?"
Derrick scribbled a few lines on his card, and passed it along. "Go there, and ask Dr. Geason to come here-the sooner the better."
"Right, sir!" Tracey rose and looked wistfully down at the dead. "I guess the man who did that would be lynched in our country."
"He'll be hanged in this when found," retorted Derrick. "Go, please."
When the American was out of the room the inspector resumed his examination. Mulligan returned when he was in the middle of a brown study. "There's nothing to be seen, sir," he reported. "No one in the house. Doors and windows all bolted and barred. Not a sign."
"Strange," mused Derrick. "You are sure that the man who came out of the house was speaking with you while the singing was going on?"
"I'll take my oath on it, sir. He can't be guilty."
"Did he strike you as being confused?"
"Not very, sir. He didn't want his face to be seen, though, and kept his hat down on his eyes. He said the lady who was singing was his sister, and that he often came to see her."
"H'm! Why should he come to a house which is shut up?"
"He had the latch-key."
"Hand it over to me," said Derrick, and when in possession of it, took a long look at the size and shape. "New," said he, rapping it on his knuckles. "Hasn't been used much."
"Might be polished from too much use, sir," ventured Mulligan.
"The edges wouldn't be so rough if it wasn't new." Derrick pointed this fact out. "You don't know the man's name?"
"No, sir."
"Nor where he lives?"
"No, sir; I had no reason to ask him anything."
"Well, I suppose you couldn't foresee that we should want him. I don't expect he'll turn up in this neighbourhood again."
"What's your theory, sir?"
"It's early to form one, Mulligan. I fancy two men killed this woman. The one you saw kept you in conversation, while the other murdered the woman, and then cleared, while his accomplice led you away. Did you hear a scream?"
"No, sir. The song ended as we left the gate, and in a few minutes we were too far away to hear any cry."
"As I thought. The man was an accomplice