There was nothing in the hall to suggest anything unusual. There was just that close and musty smell which is peculiar to all buildings which have been shut up, even for a few days.
But there was something else.
Tarling sniffed and Whiteside sniffed. A dull, “burnt” smell, some pungent, “scorched” odour, which he recognised as the stale stench of exploded cordite. He went into the tiny diningroom; everything was neat, nothing displaced.
“That’s curious,” said Whiteside, pointing to the sideboard, and Tarling saw a deep glass vase half filled with daffodils. Two or three blossoms had either fallen or had been pulled out, and were lying, shrivelled and dead, on the polished surface of the sideboard.
“Humph!” said Tarling. “I don’t like this very much.”
He turned and walked back into the hall and opened another door, which stood ajar. Again he turned on the light. He was in the girl’s bedroom. He stopped dead, and slowly examined the room. But for the disordered appearance of the chest of drawers, there was nothing unusual in the appearance of the room. At the open doors of the bureau a little heap of female attire had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor. All these were eloquent of hasty action. Still more was a small suitcase, half packed, an the bed, also left in a great hurry.
Tarling stepped into the room, and if he had been half blind he could not have missed the last and most damning evidence of all. The carpet was of a biscuit colour and covered the room flush to the wainscot. Opposite the fireplace was a big, dark red, irregular stain.
Tarling’s face grew tense.
“This is where Lyne was shot,” he said.
“And look there!” said Whiteside excitedly, pointing to the chest of drawers.
Tarling stepped quickly across the room and pulled out a garment which hung over the edge of the drawer. It was a nightdress — a silk nightdress with two little sprays of forget-me-nots embroidered on the sleeves. It was the companion to that which had been found about Lyne’s body. And there was something more. The removal of the garment from the drawer disclosed a mark on the white enamel of the bureau. It was a bloody thumb print!
The detective looked round at his assistant, and the expression of his face was set in its hardest mask.
“Whiteside,” he said quietly, “swear out a warrant for the arrest of Odette Rider on a charge of wilful murder. Telegraph all stations to detain this girl, and let me know the result.”
Without another word he turned from the room and walked back to his lodgings.
VIII. The Silencing of Sam Stay
There was a criminal in London who was watched day and night. It was no new experience to Sam Stay to find an unconcerned-looking detective strolling along behind him; but for the first time in his life the burglar was neither disconcerted nor embarrassed by these attentions.
The death of Thornton Lyne had been the most tragic blow which had ever overtaken him. And if they had arrested him he would have been indifferent. For this hangdog criminal, with the long, melancholy face, lined and seamed and puckered so that he appeared to be an old man, had loved Thornton Lyne as he had loved nothing in his wild and barren life. Lyne to him had been some divine creature, possessed gifts and qualities which no other would have recognised in him. In Sam’s eyes Lyne could have done no wrong. By Sam Stay’s standard he stood for all that was beautiful in human nature.
Thornton Lyne was dead! Dead, dead, dead.
Every footfall echoed the horrible, unbelievable word. The man was incapable of feeling — every other pain was deadened in this great suffering which was his.
And who had been the cause of it all? Whose treachery had cut short this wonderful life? He ground his teeth at the thought. Odette Rider! He remembered the name. He remembered all the injuries she had done to this man, his benefactor. He remembered that long conversation which Lyne and he had had on the morning of Sam’s release from prison and the plannings which had followed.
He could not know that his hero was lying, and that in his piqué and hurt vanity he was inventing grievances which had no foundation, and offences which had never been committed. He only knew that, because of the hate which lay in Thornton Lyne’s heart, justifiable hate from Sam’s view, the death of this great man had been encompassed.
He walked aimlessly westward, unconscious of and uncaring for his shadower, and had reached the end of Piccadilly when somebody took him gently by the arm. He turned, and as he recognised an acquaintance, his thick lips went back in an ugly snarl.
“It’s all right, Sam,” said the plainclothes policeman with a grin. “There’s no trouble coming to you. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“You fellows have been asking questions day and night since — since that happened,” growled Sam.
Nevertheless, he permitted himself to be mollified and led to a seat in the Park.
“Now, I’m putting it to you straight, Sam,” said the policeman. “We’ve got nothing against you at the Yard, but we think you might be able to help us. You knew Mr. Lyne; he was very decent to you.”
“Here, shut up,” said Sam savagely. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it! D’ye hear? He was the grandest fellow that ever was, was Mr. Lyne, God bless him! Oh, my God! My God!” he wailed, and to the detective’s surprise this hardened criminal buried his face in his hands.
“That’s all right, Sam. I know he was a nice fellow. Had he any enemies — he might have talked to a chap like you where he wouldn’t have talked to his friends.”
Sam, red-eyed, looked up suspiciously.
“Am I going to get into any trouble for talking?” he said.
“None at all, Sam,” said the policeman quickly. “Now, you be a good lad and do all you can to help us, and maybe, if you ever get into trouble, we’ll put one in for you. Do you see? Did anybody hate him?”
Sam nodded.
“Was it a woman?” asked the detective with studied indifference.
“It was,” replied the other with an oath. “Damn her, it was! He treated her well, did Mr. Lyne. She was broke, half-starving; he took her out of the gutter and put her into a good place, and she went about making accusations against him!”
He poured forth a stream of the foulest abuse which the policeman had ever heard.
“That’s the kind of girl she was, Slade,” he went on, addressing the detective, as criminals will, familiarly by their surnames. “She ain’t fit to walk the earth—”
His voice broke.
“Might I ask her name?” demanded Slade.
Again Sam looked suspiciously around.
“Look here,” he said, “leave me to deal with her. I’ll settle with her, and don’t you worry!”
“That would only get you into trouble, Sam,” mused Slade. “Just give us her name. Did it begin with an ‘R’?”
“How do I know?” growled the criminal. “I can’t spell. Her name was Odette.”
“Rider?” said the other eagerly.
“That’s her. She used to be cashier in Lyne’s Store.”
“Now,