Derrick smiled under his heavy moustache, and took a long look at Mr. Tracey. The American was fair and handsome, active in his movements and compact in his frame. He wore fashionable evening-dress, and looked a shrewd, pleasant man of the world, who had travelled much and had his wits about him. The mention he made of arrest showed Derrick that the man was innocent. Not even a Yankee's passion for advertising his goods would hurry a man into the grip of the law if he were in any way guilty. The inspector, however, did not think it wise to lose sight of Tracey, and being diplomatic he behaved towards him in quite an affable way. "You might come with me and see into this matter," he said, moving on.
"Rather," rejoined Tracey with alacrity. "I'm dead gone on adventures, and this is a ripper. Wonder if I can get an advertisement out of it? What do you think, sir?"
"Well, if your car is missing------"
"'Course. The man's raced off with it."
"No," denied Mulligan again; "he was with me at the time your car was lost."
"Do you think the man you talked to, killed this woman?" asked the inspector, turning sharply on Mulligan.
"I do and I don't, sir."
"What do you mean by that?"
Mulligan scratched his head. "He had the key, and he came out of the house sure enough. But she was singing when he talked to me at the gate. She wasn't dead then."
"Then he must be innocent," said Derrick sharply. "Do you know to whom the villa belongs?"
"No, sir. Here it is, and you can see that the light's still burning as I left it. I haven't touched the body, sir."
"You did right," approved Derrick, swinging open the gate. "Wait, we must look at the name. Your lantern, Mulligan."
The light illuminated the black letters on the gate, but before the inspector could pronounce the name, Tracey did it for him. "Ajax Villa--Ajax Villa," said he, stopping; "sakes, it's Fane's house. Don't tell me it's Mrs. Fane--such a fine woman. But it can't be."
"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 car 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