Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy

I noticed the man I have described staring at the name tablet of the street as my cab turned the corner. I did not know him. I had never seen him before last night, but he was of such distinguished appearance and his face was of so rare a type that I was interested and wished to ascertain, if possible, on whom he meant calling if, as it seemed, he was searching for an address in these flats. Therefore, I did look out, and saw him enter the doorway beneath. In due course I heard him arrive at Mrs. Lester's door—that is, I assume it was he. Five minutes later Bates and I heard him depart. To make sure, I looked out a second time. If you ask me why I behaved in that way I cannot tell you. I have occupied this flat during the past five months, and I have never previously, within my recollection, lifted a window and gazed out to watch anybody's comings and goings. The thing is inexplicable. All I can say is that it just happened."

      "Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

      "Yes."

      Theydon gave the assurance readily. It was beyond credence that either detective should put the one question to which he was now firmly resolved to give a misleading answer, and in this belief he was justified, since not even Furneaux's uncanny intelligence could suggest the fantastic notion that the man who walked through the rain the previous night and the man with whom Theydon had dined that evening were one and the same person.

      "I don't blame you for adopting a policy of partial concealment," said the Chief Inspector, spryly. "You are not the first, and you certainly will not be the last witness from whom the police have to drag the facts. Now that we have reached more intimate terms, can you help by describing this stranger?"

      Theydon complied at once. He drew just such a general sketch of Forbes as a skilled observer of men might be expected to formulate after one direct glance close at hand, supplemented by a view into a lamp-lit street from a second-storey window on a rainy night.

      "So far, so good," said Winter. "You have contrived to fill in several details lacking in the description supplied by a policeman who chanced to be standing at the corner when Mrs. Lester's visitor posted a letter. Did you notice that?"

      "Yes. Indeed, I believed that, whether intentionally or not, he held an open umbrella at an angle which prevented the constable from seeing his face."

      "In fact, it's marvellous what you really do know when your memory is jogged," snapped Furneaux.

      Theydon did not resent the sarcasm. He smiled candidly into the little detective's eyes.

      "I suppose I deserve that," he said meekly.

      "Why did you hide your knowledge of Mrs. Lester's visitor from your man Bates?"

      "I was rather ashamed of the subterfuge adopted in order to get him out of the room while I opened the window the first time."

      "That was understandable last night, but I fail to follow your reasoning for a policy of silence when we told you at Waterloo that Mrs. Lester had been killed."

      "I was utterly taken aback by your news. I wanted time to think. I never meant to hide any material fact at this interview."

      "You have contrived to delay and hamper our inquiry for twelve hours—twenty-four in reality. I can't make you out, Mr. Theydon. You would never have said a word about your very accurate acquaintance with this mysterious stranger's appearance had not last night's rainstorm left its legible record on your clothes. Do you now vouch for it that the man was completely unknown to you?"

      "You are pleased to be severe, Mr. Furneaux, but, having placed myself in a false position, I must accept your strictures. I assure you, on my honor, that the man I saw was an absolute stranger."

      Happily, Theydon was under no compulsion to choose his words. He met the detective's searching gaze unflinchingly. Fate, after terrifying him, had been kind. If Furneaux had expressed himself differently—if, for instance, he had said: "Had you ever before seen the man?" or "Have you now any reason for believing that you know his name?"—he would have forced Theydon's hand in a way he was far from suspecting.

      "It may surprise you to hear," piped the shrill, cracked voice, "that there are dozens of policemen walking about London who would arrest you on suspicion had you treated them as you have treated us."

      "Then I can only say that I am fortunate in my inquisitors," smiled Theydon.

      Winter held up a massive fist in deprecation of these acerbities.

      "You have nothing more to tell us?" he queried.

      "Nothing!"

      "Then we need not trouble you further tonight. Of course, if luck favors us and we find the gentleman with the classical features—the most unlikely person to commit a murder I have ever heard of—we shall want you to identify him."

      "I am at your service at any time. But before you go won't you enlighten me somewhat? What did really happen? I have not even seen a newspaper account of the crime."

      "Would you care to examine No. 17?"

      It was Furneaux who put the question, and Theydon was genuinely astonished.

      "Do you mean—" he began, but Furneaux laughed, almost savagely.

      "I mean Mrs. Lester's flat," he said. "The poor woman's body is at the mortuary. If you come with us we can reconstruct the crime. It occurred about this very hour if the doctor's calculations are well founded."

      Theydon rose.

      "I shall be most—interested," he said. "By the way, Mr. Furneaux, yours is a French name. Are you a Frenchman, may I ask?"

      "A Jersey man. You think I am adopting some of the methods of the French juge d'instruction, eh?"

      "No. I cannot bring myself to believe that you regard me as a murderer."

      The three passed out into the hall. Mr. and Mrs. Bates immediately showed scared faces at the kitchen door.

      "It's all right, Bates," said Theydon airily. "I'm not a prisoner. I'll be with you again in a few minutes."

      But Bates was profoundly disturbed.

      "Wot beats me," he said to his wife when they were alone, "is why that little ferret wanted to see the guv'nor's clothes. I looked 'em over carefully afterwards, an' there wasn't a speck on 'em except some spots of rain on the coat collar. It's a queer business, no matter how you look at it. Mr. Theydon's manner was strange when he kem in last night. He seemed to be list'nin' for something. I don't know wot to make of it, Eliza. I reely don't."

      In effect, since no man is a hero to his valet, what would Tomlinson, butler at No. 11 Fortescue Square, have thought of his master if told that Mrs. Lester's last known visitor was James Creighton Forbes?