“To Miss Rider?” he said quickly. (He pronounced the word “Lider.”)
Brokenly, gaspingly, breathlessly, Milburgh told the story of his meeting with Sam Stay. In his distress and mental anguish he reproduced faithfully not only every word, but every intonation, and the Chinaman listened with half-closed eyes. Then, when Milburgh had finished, he put down his bottle and thrust in the cork.
“My master would wish that the little woman should escape danger,” he said. “Tonight he does not return, so I must go myself to the hospital — you can wait.”
“Let me go,” said Milburgh. “I will help you.”
Ling Chu shook his head.
“You can wait,” he said with a sinister smile. “I will go first to the hospital and afterwards, if all is well, I will return for you.”
He took a clean white towel from the dressing-table and laid it over his victim’s face. Upon the towel he sprinkled the contents of a third bottle which he took from the cupboard, and Milburgh remembered no more until he looked up into the puzzled face of Tarling an hour later.
XXXIV. The Arrest
Tarling stooped down and released the cords which bound Milburgh to the couch. The stout man was white and shaking, and had to be lifted into a sitting position. He sat there on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands, for five minutes, and the two men watched him curiously. Tarling had made a careful examination of the cuts on his chest, and was relieved to discover that Ling Chu — he did not doubt that the Chinaman was responsible for Milburgh’s plight — had not yet employed that terrible torture which had so often brought Chinese criminals to the verge of madness.
Whiteside picked up the clothes which Ling Chu had so systematically stripped from the man’s body, and placed them on the bed by Milburgh’s side. Then Tarling beckoned the other into the outer room.
“What does it all mean?” asked Whiteside.
“It means,” said Tarling grimly, “that my friend, Ling Chu, has been trying to discover the murderer of Thornton Lyne by methods peculiarly Chinese. Happily he was interrupted, probably as a result of Milburgh telling him that Miss Odette Rider had been spirited away.”
He looked back to the drooping figure by the side of the bed.
“He’s a little bigger than I,” he said, “but I think some of my clothes will fit him.”
He made a hasty search of his wardrobe and came back with an armful of clothes.
“Come, Milburgh,” he said, “rouse yourself and dress.”
The man looked up, his lower lip trembling pathetically.
“I rather think these clothes, though they may be a bad fit, will suit you a little better than your clerical garb,” said Tarling sardonically.
Without a word, Milburgh took the clothes in his arms, and they left him to dress. They heard his heavy footfall, and presently the door opened and he came weakly into the sittingroom and dropped into a chair.
“Do you feel well enough to go out now?” asked Whiteside.
“Go out?” said Milburgh, looking up in alarm. “Where am I to go?”
“To Cannon Row Police Station,” said the practical Whiteside. “I have a warrant for your arrest, Milburgh, on a charge of wilful murder, arson, forgery, and embezzlement.”
“Wilful murder!” Milburgh’s voice was high and squeaky and his shaking hands went to his mouth. “You cannot charge me with wilful murder. No, no, no! I swear to you I am innocent!”
“Where did you see Thornton Lyne last?” asked Tarling, and the man made a great effort to compose himself.
“I saw him last alive in his office,” he began.
“When did you see Thornton Lyne last?” asked Tarling again. “Alive or dead.”
Milburgh did not reply. Presently Whiteside dropped his hand on the man’s shoulder and looked across at Tarling.
“Come along,” he said briskly. “It is my duty as a police officer to warn you that anything you now say will be taken down and used as evidence against you at your trial.”
“Wait, wait!” said Milburgh. His voice was husky and thick. He looked round. “Can I have a glass of water?” he begged, licking his dry lips.
Tarling brought the refreshment, which the man drank eagerly. The water seemed to revive something of his old arrogant spirit, for he got up from his chair, jerked at the collar of his ill-fitting coat — it was an old shooting-coat of Tarling’s — and smiled for the first time.
“I think, gentlemen,” he said with something of his old airiness, “you will have a difficulty in proving that I am concerned in the murder of Thornton Lyne. You will have as great a difficulty in proving that I had anything to do with the burning down of Solomon’s office — I presume that constitutes the arson charge? And most difficult of all will be your attempt to prove that I was concerned in robbing the firm of Thornton Lyne. The lady who robbed that firm has already made a confession, as you, Mr. Tarling, are well aware.” He smiled at the other, but Tarling met his eye.
“I know of no confession,” he said steadily.
Mr. Milburgh inclined his head with a smirk. Though he still bore the physical evidence of the bad time through which he had been, he had recovered something of his old confidence.
“The confession was burnt,” he said, “and burnt by you, Mr. Tarling. And now I think your bluff has gone on long enough.”
“My bluff!” said Tarling, in his turn astonished. “What do you mean by bluff?”
“I am referring to the warrant which you suggest has been issued for my arrest,” said Milburgh.
“That’s no bluff.” It was Whiteside who spoke, and he produced from his pocket a folded sheet of paper, which he opened and displayed under the eyes of the man. “And in case of accidents,” said Whiteside, and deftly slipped a pair of handcuffs upon the man’s wrists.
It may have been Milburgh’s overweening faith in his own genius. It may have been, and probably was, a consciousness that he had covered his trail too well to be detected. One or other of these causes had kept him up, but now he collapsed. To Tarling it was amazing that the man had maintained this show of bravado to the last, though in his heart he knew that the Crown had a very poor case against Milburgh if the charge of embezzlement and arson were proceeded with. It was on the murder alone that a conviction could be secured; and this Milburgh evidently realised, for he made no attempt in the remarkable statement which followed to do more than hint that he had been guilty of robbing the firm. He sat huddled up in his chair, his manacled hands clasped on the table before him, and then with a jerk sat upright.
“If you’ll take off these things, gentlemen,” he said, jangling the connecting chain of the handcuffs, “I will tell you something which may set your mind at rest on the question of Thornton Lyne’s death.”
Whiteside looked at his superior questioningly, and Tarling nodded. A few seconds later the handcuffs had been removed, and Mr. Milburgh was soothing his chafed wrists.
The psychologist who attempted to analyse the condition of mind in which Tarling found himself would be faced with a difficult task. He had come to the flat beside himself with anxiety at the disappearance of Odette Rider. He had intended dashing into his rooms and out again, though what he intended doing thereafter he had no idea. The knowledge that Ling Chu was on the track of the kidnapper had served as an opiate to his jagged nerves; otherwise he