Chapter VII: Part 7

“About—let me see—four months before the tragedy Mrs. Berlyn came out here one afternoon. She said that she had been in London to a lecture on entomology and that she had been so much interested that she had read one or two books on the subject. She said that she knew I was doing some research in it and she wondered whether I would let her come and help me and so learn more. I naturally told her I should be delighted, and she began to come out here quite often. On different occasions she has accompanied me on the moor while I was searching for specimens, and she has spent several afternoons with me in my library mounting butterflies and learning to use the microscope. This went on until the day of the tragedy.”

Colonel Domlio paused, squared his shoulders, and continued:

“On that morning I had received by post a letter addressed in a strange hand and marked ‘Personal.’ It was signed ‘X.Y.Z.’ and said that the writer happened to be walking about four P.M. on the previous Tuesday in the Upper Merton glen at a certain point which he described; that he had seen me with Mrs. Berlyn in my arms; that, having a camera, he had at once taken two photographs, one of which had come out; and that if I cared to have the negative he would sell it for fifty pounds. If I wished to negotiate I was to meet him on the Chagford–Gidleigh road at the gate of Dobson’s Spinney at one o’clock that night. Should I not turn up, the writer would understand that I was not interested and would take his picture to Mrs. Berlyn, who, he thought, would prefer to deal rather than have it handed to Mr. Berlyn.

“At first I could not think what was meant; then I remembered what had taken place. We had been, Mrs. Berlyn and I, searching for a certain butterfly at the place and time mentioned. Suddenly she had cried out that she had seen a specimen and she had rushed after it past where I was standing. Just as she reached me she gave a cry and lurched against me. ‘Oh, my ankle!’ she shouted and clung to me. She had twisted her foot in a rabbit hole and she could not put her weight on it. I supported her in my arms for a few seconds, and it must have been at this moment that my blackmailer came on the scene. I laid Mrs. Berlyn down on the grass. She sat quiet for some minutes, then with my arm was able to limp to the car. She said her ankle was not sprained, but only twisted, and that she would be all right in a few hours. Next day when I rang up to enquire she said it was still painful but a good deal better.

“At first I was doubtful whether I should act on the letter; then I thought that if there was a genuine photograph it would be better for me to deal with the owner. I therefore went out to the rendezvous at the time mentioned. But I might have saved myself the trouble, for no one was there. And from that day to this I never heard another word about the affair, nor did I mention it to a soul. Indeed, the Berlyn-Pyke tragedy put it out of my head, and the same thing, I suppose, robbed the photograph of its value.”

“You told me,” said French, “something about Mrs. Berlyn’s relations with Mr. Pyke and yourself, saying that I would not understand your story otherwise. Just what was in your mind in that?”

“Because these relations complicated the whole situation. Do you not see that? Had everything been normal I could have treated the thing as a joke and shown the photograph to Berlyn. As things were, he would have taken it seriously.”

French felt a little puzzled by this statement. If the man were lying, it was just the sort of story he would expect to hear, except for one thing. It was capable of immediate confirmation. If it were not true he would soon get it out of Mrs. Berlyn.

“I don’t want to be offensive, Colonel,” he said, “but by your own admission you have twice lied about what took place that night. Can you give me any proof that your present statement is true?”

Domlio squared his shoulders.

“I can’t,” he admitted. “I can show you the letter and you can ask Mrs. Berlyn, but I don’t know that either of those would constitute proof.”

“They wouldn’t in themselves, but from either I might get some point which would. Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll see first whether Sergeant Daw has made any further discoveries; then you can show me the letter and we’ll drive out to the place where Mrs. Berlyn fell.”

“That’s easily done.”

They returned to the well, and there, to French’s satisfaction, found the missing duplicator parts laid out on the coping of the wall.

“Excellent, Sergeant. That’s all we want. I take it you will get the pump away? You needn’t wait for me. I’m going out with Colonel Domlio.”

While Coombe was bringing round the car the two men went to the study for the letter. It was just as the colonel had described, and French could see no clue to the sender.

They ran out then to the Upper Merton glen and Domlio pointed out the spot at which the alleged incident had taken place. French insisted on his describing the occurrence in the most minute manner. He wished to form an opinion as to whether the man was relating what he had seen or inventing the details as he went along.

After half an hour of close questioning on the lines of the American third degree, French had to admit that the affair had either happened as Domlio had said or that it had been rehearsed with great care. On no point was he able to trip the colonel up, and knowing the difficulty of inventing a story in which every detail is foreseen and accounted for, he began to think the tale true. At all events, with the mass of detail he now possessed, a similar examination of Mrs. Berlyn should set the matter at rest.

French was in a thoughtful mood as they drove back to Torview. He was up against the same old question which had troubled him so many times in the past. Was his suspect guilty or was he the victim of a plot?

The evidence against the man was certainly strong. Seven separate facts pointed to his guilt. French ran over them in his mind:

1. Domlio had the necessary qualifications for partnership in the crime. He knew the _dramatis personæ_ and he was acquainted with the works. He could have ordered the duplicator, and arranged for Berlyn and Pyke to visit Tavistock on the night in question.

2. He was out in his car on that night at the time and for the distance required.

3. He had denied this.

4. When cornered he had told a false story of a search for a lost locket.

5. The clothes of the dead man had been found in the very place where French imagined Domlio would have hidden them.

6. There was a quite adequate motive if, as might well be, Domlio was really attached to Mrs. Berlyn.

7. There was no other person whom French knew of who could have been Berlyn’s confederate.

Many and many a man had been hanged on far less evidence than there was here. With this mass of incriminating facts an arrest was amply justifiable. Indeed, a conviction was almost assured.

On the other hand, every bit of this evidence was circumstantial and could be explained on the assumption of Domlio’s innocence, by supposing him to be the victim of a conspiracy on the part of the real murderer.

French wondered if he could make the man reveal his own outlook on the affair.

“Tell me, Colonel,” he said, “did it not strike you as a strange thing that Mrs. Berlyn should stumble at just the point which ensured her falling into your arms?”

Domlio slackened speed and looked around aggressively.

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“As a matter of fact,” French answered, sweetly, “what I mean is, was the accident genuine or faked?”

The colonel squared his shoulders indignantly.

“I consider that a most unwarrantable remark,” he said, hotly, “and I shall not answer it. I can only suppose your abominable calling has warped your mind and made suspicion a disease with you.”

French glanced at him keenly. The man was genuinely angry. And if so, it tended in his favour. Real indignation is difficult to simulate and would not be called forth by an imaginary insult.

“If you think my remark unwarrantable, I shall withdraw it,” French said, with his pleasant smile. “I simply wanted to know whether you yourself believed in it. I think you do. Well, Colonel, I think that’s all we can do to-night. I’m sorry to have given you all this annoyance, but you can see I had no option.”

They had reached the gate of Torview. Domlio stopped the car.

“Then you are not going to arrest me?” he asked, with barely concealed anxiety.

“No. Why should I? You have accounted in a reasonable way for the suspicious circumstances. So far as I can see, your explanation is satisfactory. I can’t expect any more.”

The colonel gave a sigh of relief.

“To be quite candid,” he admitted, “I scarcely hoped that you would accept it. After what has occurred, I can’t expect you to believe me, but for what it’s worth I give you my word of honour that what I have told you this time is the truth. I may tell you that I have been afraid of this very development ever since the tragedy. How are you getting to Ashburton? Shall I run you in?”

“It would be very good of you.”

It was with considerable uneasiness that French saw Colonel Domlio drive off from the hotel in Ashburton. He had backed his judgment that the man was innocent, but he recognised that he might easily have made a mistake. At the same time Domlio could scarcely escape otherwise than by suicide, and he felt sure that his mind had been so much eased that he would not attempt anything so drastic. As soon, however, as the car was out of sight he walked to the police station and asked Daw to have a watch kept on the man’s movements.

Chapter Sixteen

Certainty at Last

That night as French was writing up his diary the question he had asked Domlio recurred to him. “Tell me, Colonel,” he had said, “did it not strike you as strange that Mrs. Berlyn should stumble at just the point which ensured her falling into your arms?” He had asked it to test the colonel’s belief in the incident. Now it occurred to him that on its merits it required an answer.

Had the incident stood alone it might well have passed unquestioned. But it was not alone. Two other matters must be considered in conjunction with it.

First there was the coincidence that at the precise moment a watcher armed with a camera should be present. What accident should take a photographer to this secluded glen just when so compromising a tableau should be staged? Was there here an element of design?

Secondly, there was the consideration that if suspicion were to be thrown on Domlio he must be made to take out his car secretly on the fatal night. And how better could this be done than by the story of the photograph? Once again, did this not suggest design?

If so, something both interesting and startling followed. Mrs. Berlyn was privy to it. And if she were privy to it, was she not necessarily implicated in the murder? Could she even be the accomplice for whom he, French, had been searching?

There was, of course, her alibi. If she had been at the party at her house at ten o’clock she could not have drugged Gurney’s tea. But was she at her house?

Experience had made French sceptical about alibis. This one certainly seemed watertight, and yet was it not just possible that Mrs. Berlyn had managed to slip away from her guests for the fifteen or twenty minutes required?

It was evident that the matter must be tested forthwith, and French decided that, having already questioned Mr. Fogden, he would interview the Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster whom Lizzie Johnston had mentioned as also being members of the party. They lived on the Buckland road half a mile beyond the Berlyns’, and next morning French called on them.

Dr. Lancaster, he had learned from Daw, was a newcomer to the town, a young LL.D. who had been forced by a breakdown in health to give up his career at the bar. He received French at once.

“I want to find out whether any member of the party could have left the house about ten o’clock for fifteen or twenty minutes,” French explained. “Do you think that you or Mrs. Lancaster could help me out?”

“I can only speak for myself,” Dr. Lancaster smiled. “I was there all the time, and I’m sure so was Mrs. Lancaster. But I’ll call her and you can ask her.”

“A moment, please. Surely you can speak for more than yourself? Were you not with the others?”

“With some of them. You see, what happened was this. When we went in, Mrs. Berlyn said that she had been disappointed in that three London friends, who were staying at Torquay and whom she expected, had just telegraphed to say they couldn’t come. That made our numbers wrong. She had intended to have three tables of bridge, but now, as some of us played billiards, she suggested one bridge table and snooker for the other five. She and I and—let me see—Fogden and a Miss Pym, I think, and one other—I’m blessed if I can remember who the other was—played snooker. So I wasn’t with the other four between the time that we settled down to play and supper.”

“What hour was supper?”

“About half past ten, I think. We broke up when it was over—rather early, as a matter of fact. We reached home shortly after eleven.”

“And you played snooker all the evening until supper?”

“No. After an hour or more we dropped it and played four-handed billiards.”

“Then some player must have stood out?”

“Yes. Mrs. Berlyn said she must go and see how the others were getting along. She watched us play for some time, then went to the drawing room. She came back after a few minutes to say that supper was ready.”

“Now, Dr. Lancaster, just one other question. Can you tell me at what time Mrs. Berlyn went into the drawing room?”

“I really don’t think I can. I wasn’t paying special attention to her movements. I should say perhaps half an hour before supper, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“That’s all right,” said French. “Now if I could see Mrs. Lancaster for a moment I should be done.”

Mrs. Lancaster was a dark, vivacious little woman who seemed to remember the evening in question much more clearly than did her husband.

“Yes,” she said, “I was playing bridge with Miss Lucy Pym, Mr. Cowls, and Mr. Leacock. I remember Mrs. Berlyn coming in about ten. She laughed and said: ‘Oh, my children, don’t be frightened. I couldn’t think of disturbing such a serious game. I’ll go back to our snooker.’ She went away, and presently came back and called us to the library to supper.”

“How long was she away, Mrs. Lancaster?”

“About twenty minutes, I should think.”

This seemed to French to be all that he wanted. However, he thought it wise to get the key of the Berlyns’ house and have a look at the layout. The drawing room was in front, with the library behind it, but between the two there was a passage with a side door leading into the garden. He felt satisfied as to the use to which that passage had been put on the night in question. He could picture Mrs. Berlyn fixing up the uneven number of guests, among whom would be some who played billiards and some who did not. The proposals for snooker and bridge would almost automatically follow, involving the division of the party in two rooms. Mrs. Berlyn as hostess would reasonably be the odd man out when the change was made from snooker to billiards. The result of these arrangements would be that when she slipped out to the works through the side door, each party would naturally assume she was with the other, while if any question as to this arose, her reëntry at supper-time would suggest to both that she had gone out to overlook its preparation.

These discoveries justified French’s theory, but they did not prove it, and he racked his brains for some test which would definitely establish the point.

At last an idea occurred to him which he thought might at least help.

In considering Mrs. Berlyn as her husband’s accomplice he had been doubtful whether there would have been sufficient time for the various actions. If after Berlyn’s arrival at the works with the body Mrs. Berlyn had driven the car back to where it was found, changed the magneto, and made the footprints, he did not believe she could have walked home in time to wake the servants at the hour stated. Nor did he believe that Berlyn, after disposing of the body in the works, could have been able on foot to make Domlio’s in time to hide the clothes in the well before the sergeant’s call.

He now wondered whether Mrs. Berlyn’s bicycle could have been pressed into the service. Could the lady have brought the machine to the works, lifted it into the tonneau of the car, carried it out on the moor, and ridden back on it to the works? And could her husband have used it to reach first Domlio’s and then Plymouth or some other large town from which he had escaped?

To test the matter, French returned to Lizzie Johnston and asked her if she knew what had become of the bicycle.

But the girl could not tell him. Nor could she recall when or where she had seen it last. She supposed it had been sold at the auction, but in the excitement of that time she had not noticed it.

“Where did Mrs. Berlyn get it, do you know?”

“From Makepeace’s. He has bicycles same as motors. He’ll tell you about it.”

Half an hour later French was talking to Mr. Makepeace. He remembered having some five years earlier sold the machine to Mrs. Berlyn. He looked up his records, and after considerable trouble found a note of the transaction. The bicycle was a Swift, and number 35,721. It had certain dimensions and peculiarities of which he gave French details.

French’s next call was on the auctioneer who had conducted the sale of the Berlyn effects. Mr. Nankivell appeared _au fait_ with the whole case and was obviously thrilled to meet French. He made no difficulty about giving the required information. A bicycle had not been among the articles auctioned, nor had he seen one during his visits to the house.

This was all very well as far as it went, but it was negative. French wanted to find some one who could say definitely what had happened to the machine. He consulted with Sergeant Daw and at last came to the conclusion that if Peter Swann, the gardener-chauffeur, could be found, he might be able to give the information. Daw believed he had gone to Chagford, and he telephoned to the sergeant there, asking him to make enquiries.

In the afternoon there was a reply to the effect that the man was employed by a market gardener near Chagford, and French at once took a car over to see him. Swann remembered the bicycle well, as he had had to keep it clean. He had seen it in the woodshed on the day before the tragedy, but next morning it was gone. He had looked for it particularly, as he wished to use it to take a message to the town and he had wondered where it could have got to. He had never seen it again. He had not asked about it, as he had not considered that his business.

Once again French experienced the keen delight of finding his deductions justified by the event. In this whole case he had really excelled himself. On several different points he had imagined what might have occurred, and on a test being made, his idea had been proved correct. Some work that! As he did not fail to remind himself, it showed the highest type of ability.

The next thing was to find the bicycle. He returned for the night to Ashburton, and next morning went down to see the superintendent of police at Plymouth. That officer listened with interest to his story and promised to have a search made without delay. When he had rung up and asked for similar enquiries to be made in the other large towns within a cycle ride of the moor, French found himself at a loose end.

“You should have a look round the place,” the superintendent advised. “There’s a lot to see in Plymouth.”

French took the advice and went for a stroll round the city. He was not impressed by the streets, though he admired St. Andrew’s Church, the Guildhall, and some of the other buildings in the same locality. But when, after wandering through some more or less uninteresting residential streets, he unexpectedly came out on the Hoe, he held his breath. The promenade along the top of the cliff was imposing enough, though no better than he had seen many times before. But the view of the Sound was unique. The sea, light blue in the morning sun, stretched from the base of the cliff beneath his feet out past Drake’s Island and the long line of the Breakwater to a clear horizon. On the right was Mount Edgcumbe, tree clad to the water’s edge, while far away out to the southwest was the faint white pillar of the Eddystone lighthouse. French gazed and admired, then going down to the Sutton Pool, he explored the older part of the town for the best part of an hour.

When he presently reached the police station he was delighted to find that news had just then come in. The bicycle had been found. It had been pawned by a man, apparently a labourer, shortly after the shop opened on the morning of Tuesday, the 16th August; the morning, French reminded himself delightedly, after the crime. The man had stated that the machine was his daughter’s and had been given two pounds on it. He had not returned since, nor had the machine been redeemed.

“We’re trying to trace the man, but after this lapse of time I don’t suppose we shall be able,” the superintendent declared. “I expect this Berlyn abandoned the machine when he reached Plymouth, and our friend found it and thought he had better make hay while the sun shone.”

“So likely that I don’t think it matters whether you find him or not,” French returned.

“I agree, but we shall have a shot at it, all the same. By the way, Mr. French, it’s a curious thing that you should call to-day. Only yesterday I was talking to a friend of yours—an ass, if you don’t mind my saying so, but married to one of the most delightful young women I’ve ever come across. Lives at Dartmouth.”

“Dartmouth?” French laughed. “That gives me a clue. You mean that cheery young optimist, Maxwell Cheyne? He is an ass right enough, but he’s not a bad soul at bottom. And the girl’s a stunner. How are they getting along?”

“Tip-top. He’s taken to writing tales. Doing quite well with them, too, I believe. They’re very popular down there, both of them.”

“Glad to hear it. Well, Superintendent, I must be getting along. Thanks for your help.”

French was full of an eager optimism as the result of these discoveries. The disappearance of the bicycle, added to the breakdown of the alibi, seemed definitely to prove his theory of Mrs. Berlyn’s complicity.

But when he considered the identity of the person whom Mrs. Berlyn had thus assisted, he had to admit himself staggered. That Berlyn had murdered Pyke had seemed an obvious theory. Now French was not so certain of it. The lady had undoubtedly been in love with Pyke. Surely it was too much to suppose she would help her husband to murder her lover?

Had it been the other way round, had Phyllis and Pyke conspired to kill Berlyn, the thing would have been easier to understand. Wife and lover against husband was a common enough combination. But the evidence against this idea was strong. Not only was there the identification of the clothes and birthmark, but there was the strong presumption that the man who disposed of the crate in Wales was Berlyn. At the same time this evidence of identification was not quite conclusive, and French determined to keep the possibility in view and test it rigorously as occasion offered.

And then another factor occurred to him, an extremely disturbing factor, which bade fair to change his whole view of the case. He saw that even if Pyke had murdered Berlyn it would not clear up the situation. In fact, this new idea suggested that it was impossible either that Pyke could have murdered Berlyn or that Berlyn could have murdered Pyke.

What, he asked himself, must have been the motive for such a crime? Certainly not merely to gratify a feeling of hate. The motive undoubtedly was to enable the survivor to claim Phyllis as his wife and to live with her in good social standing and without fear of his rival. But the crime, French reminded himself, had a peculiar feature. The staged accident on the moor involved the disappearance of _both_ actors, the murderer as well as the victim. If, then, the murderer disappeared, he could not live with Phyllis. If either Berlyn or Pyke were guilty, therefore, he had carried out the crime in a way which robbed him of the very results for which he had committed it.

French saw that he was up against a puzzling dilemma. If Berlyn had murdered Pyke, it was unlikely that Mrs. Berlyn would have assisted. If, on the other hand, Pyke had murdered Berlyn, Mrs. Berlyn’s action was clear, but not Pyke’s, for Pyke could get nothing out of it.

French swore bitterly as he realised that in all probability his former view of the case was incorrect and that he was once again without any really satisfactory theory on which to work. Nor did some hours’ thought point the way to a solution of his problem.

At least, however, he saw his next step. Mrs. Berlyn was the accomplice of _some one_. That some one was doubtless alive and biding his time until he thought it safe to join the lady. If so, she was pretty sure to know his whereabouts. Could she be made to reveal it?

French thought that if in some way he could give her a thorough fright, she might try to get a warning through. It would then be up to him to intercept her message, which would give him the information he required.

This meant London. He slept the night in Plymouth, and next day, which was Saturday, travelled up to Paddington.

Chapter Seventeen

“Danger!”

Before leaving Plymouth French had wired to Mrs. Berlyn, asking for an interview for the following Monday morning. On reaching the Yard he found a reply. If he called round about half past ten the lady would see him. He rang his bell for Sergeant Carter.

“I shall want you with me to-day, Carter,” he explained. “Have a taxi ready at ten-fifteen.”

As they were driving toward Chelsea he explained the business.

“It’s to help me to shadow a woman, a Mrs. Phyllis Berlyn. Lives at 70b Park Walk. There’s her photograph. When I go in, you keep this taxi and be ready to pick me up when I want you.”

If he were to tap a possible S O S, he must begin by finding out if his victim had a telephone. He therefore got out at the end of Park Walk, and passing the house, turned into an entry leading to the lane which ran along behind the row. The absence of wires front and rear showed that the house was not connected up. Then he went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Berlyn received him at once.

“I am very sorry, madame,” he began, gravely, “to have to come on serious and unpleasant business. In my enquiries into the death of Mr. Pyke certain facts have come out. These facts require an explanation, and they point to you as being perhaps the only person who can give it. I have, therefore, called to ask you some questions, but I have to warn you that you are not bound to answer them, as in certain eventualities anything you say might be used against you.”

Mrs. Berlyn looked startled.

“Whatever do you mean, Inspector?” she demanded. “You don’t mean against me personally, I suppose, but against my husband? I do not forget the terrible suggestion you made.”

“I mean against you personally, madam. As I say, I want an explanation of certain facts. If you care to give it I shall hear it with attention, but if you would prefer to consult a solicitor first, you can do so.”

“Good gracious! Inspector, you are terrifying me! You are surely not suggesting that you suspect me of complicity in this awful crime?”

“I make no accusations. All I want is answers to my questions.”

Mrs. Berlyn grew slowly dead white. She moistened her dry lips.

“This is terrible,” she said in low tones. French had some twinges of conscience, for, after all, he was only bluffing. He recognised, however, that the greater the effect he produced, the more likely he was to get what he wanted. He therefore continued his third degree.

“If you are innocent, madam, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear,” he encouraged her, thereby naturally increasing her perturbation. “Now would you like to answer my questions or not?”

She did not hesitate. “I have no option,” she exclaimed in somewhat shaky tones. “If I do not do so your suspicions will be confirmed. Ask what you like. I have nothing to hide and therefore cannot give myself away.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” French declared, grimly. “First I want you to give me a more detailed account of your relations with Colonel Domlio.”

“Why,” the lady explained, “I told you all about that on your last visit. Colonel Domlio was very friendly, exceedingly friendly, I might say. But we had no relations”—she stressed the word—“in the sense which your question seems to indicate.”

“How did your friendship begin?”

“Through my husband. He and Colonel Domlio were old friends and it was natural that we should see something of him. He visited at our house and we at his.”

“That was when you first went to Ashburton, was it not?”

“Not only then. It was so all the time I lived there.”

“But I don’t mean that. I understand that about four months before the tragedy your friendship became much more intense, if I may use the word?”

“Intense is certainly not the word, but it is true that we met more frequently after the time you mention. I thought I had explained that. It was then that my husband became dissatisfied about my perfectly harmless friendship with Mr. Pyke. As I told you, Mr. Pyke and I decided to see less of each other. I was therefore thrown more on my own resources and frankly I was bored. I filled a little more of the time with Colonel Domlio than formerly. That is all.”

“Who began this increased intimacy?”

“Our intimacy was not increased. We saw more of each other—a very different thing. I began it; in this way. In London I heard some lectures on insect life. I was interested in the subject and I asked Colonel Domlio to let me see his collection. We began to talk about it, and it ended in my going out with him occasionally to look for specimens on the moor and also in my helping him to arrange them afterwards. That was the beginning and end of what you are pleased to call our ‘intimacy.’”

The look of fright had left Mrs. Berlyn’s eyes and she was speaking now with more of her usual assurance.

“You sprained your ankle one day?”

“I twisted it slightly. It was painful for a few hours, but not really much the worse.”

“You fell?”

“I did not fall. I should have done so, but Colonel Domlio sprang forward and caught me and helped me down on to the grass. In a few minutes I was better.”

“Now, Mrs. Berlyn,” and French’s voice was very grave, “what you have to do is to convince me that that fall into Colonel Domlio’s arms really was an accident.”

For a moment the lady looked at him uncomprehendingly; then she flushed angrily.

“Oh,” she cried with a gesture of disgust, “how dare you? This is insufferable! I shall not answer you. If you are coming here to insult me I shall apply for protection to your superiors at Scotland Yard.”

“If I were you I should keep away from Scotland Yard as long as you can,” French advised, drily. “In a case like this heroics will not help you any. Tell me, did you know there was a photographer watching the incident?”

“No,” she answered sullenly, while again her face showed fear.

“You knew there wasn’t?”

“I didn’t know anything about it.”

“But you are not surprised to hear of the photographer?”

“I am. At least I should be if you assured me one was there.”

“Did you know that the handwriting of Colonel Domlio’s letter has been identified?”

Once again the colour ebbed away from her face.

“What letter?” she cried, faintly. “I don’t know what letter you mean or what you are talking about. You have made me quite confused with your questions. I scarcely know what I am saying.”

French felt that he had got the effect he wanted. He therefore reassured her by a few innocuous questions, then with a change of manner he apologised for having given unnecessary annoyance and took his leave.

The taxi was standing far down the street with the bonnet open and the driver bending over the engine. French got in and he and Carter sat watching the house.

For half an hour they waited; then Mrs. Berlyn appeared, and walking to King’s Road, turned in the direction of Sloan Square. Presently she hailed a taxi, causing French to congratulate himself on his prevision.

Mrs. Berlyn drove to Victoria, and hurriedly paying off their own man, the detectives followed her into the station. With a rapid look round she made her way to the telephone boxes and disappeared into one of them.

“I’ll drop out here, Carter,” French said. “You stick to the woman and as far as possible keep in touch with the Yard.”

Approaching the boxes, French slipped into a convenient doorway and watched until Mrs. Berlyn reappeared. As soon as she was out of sight he entered the box she had left.

“Inspector from Scotland Yard speaking,” he told the operator. “Keep the number of that last call. It’s wanted in connection with a murder case. I’ll get you the authority to divulge. Now give me Scotland Yard, please.”

He put through the request for the number, then returned to the Yard to wait for the reply. After a short delay he received both number and name: Thomas Ganope, news agent and tobacconist, 27 Oakley Street, off Russell Street.

In half an hour he reached the place. Ganope’s was a small, untidy shop, and Ganope a ruffianly-looking man with purple cheeks and a cast in his left eye. He was the only occupant of the shop.

“Can I use your telephone?” French asked, laying a shilling on the counter.

“Sure.”

French rang up his wife to say that he had mislaid Mr. Walker’s address and could she let him have it again, a code message designed for such occasions and to which no attention was paid, but which enabled him to use a telephone without arousing suspicion, as well as a writing pad, should such be available. For in this case his quick eye had seen such a pad on the instrument and from many a pad he had read the last message to be written from the impression left on the paper. On chance, therefore, he made a pretense of noting the mythical Mr. Walker’s address, and removing the top sheet, put it in his pocketbook. Then he turned to Mr. Ganope.

“Say,” he said, confidentially, “what would you charge for taking in telephone messages and sending them to an address? Private, you know.”

Mr. Ganope looked him over keenly with one of his shrewd little eyes.

“A bob a message, if it’s near by.”

“That’s a lot. Do you never do it for less?”

Mr. Ganope seemed disgusted.

“If you can get anyone to do it for less you’d better go to them,” he advised, sourly.

“I might manage the money if I was sure the thing would be done right,” French went on. “How do you send out the messages? I mean is your arrangement reliable? Do you do it yourself or have you a messenger?”

“Wot do you tyke me for, mister? Do you think the shop would run itself while I was away? You don’t need to worry. You pay your bob and you’ll get your message all right.”

“Not good enough for me. I want to know what kind of messenger you’d send before I trust my business to you.”

“See ’ere,” the man declared, “I’ve been doing this business for long enough to know all about ’ow it’s done. I’ve a good boy, if you must know. You give ’im a penny or two a time if you’re nervous, and you needn’t be afryde but you’ll get all there’s for you.”

French laid five shillings on the counter.

“Right,” he said. “There’s for the first five messages. Send to Mr. James Hurley, care of Mr. William Wright, tobacconist, corner of Bedford Place and Ivy Street.”

“I know it,” declared Ganope, pocketing the money.

Mr. William Wright was a distant connection of Mrs. French’s and French knew that he would help him in the matter. He nodded to Ganope and walked across to Ivy Street.

“Hullo, Joe! Some time since we’ve seen you here,” was Mr. Wright’s greeting. “Come in behind and let’s hear the news.”

“I want you to do me a good turn, William,” French answered. “There’s a boy I want to get hold of and I’ve fixed it that he’ll come here asking for Mr. Hurley. Will you put him on to me when he turns up? That’s all.”

“Surely, Joe,” and Mr. Wright turned the conversation to more intimate matters.

“Just let me use your phone,” French asked, presently. “Something I forgot.”

“Surely, Joe.”

Going into the little office at the back of the shop, French rang up Ganope.

“Message for Hurley,” he explained in falsetto tones. “Mr. James Hurley.”

“Right,” came from the other end.

“‘Cargo will be in at ten-fifteen to-morrow.’ That’s all. Repeat, please.”

Mr. Ganope repeated slowly, evidently as he wrote, and French settled down with his pipe to await the advent of the messenger.

In less than half an hour a sharp, foxy-looking boy turned up and Mr. Wright sent him into the sitting-room to French.

“Hullo, sonny! You from Ganope’s?”

“Huh-huh,” said the boy. “Name of Hurley?”

“That’s right. You have a message for me?”

“Huh-huh.” He slowly produced an envelope, watching French expectantly.

French produced sixpence.

“There you are, sonny. Wait half a sec till I read this. There may be an answer.”

He tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents.

“No, there’s nothing,” he went on. “You’re kept busy, I’m sure?”

“Huh-huh.”

“And maybe you don’t get too much money for it, either?”

The boy indicated that this was a true summary of his case.

“Well, how would half a crown for a little job for me suit you?”

The gleam in the boy’s eyes was sufficient answer.

“It’s just a little bit of information between you and me. No one else would know anything about it. It wouldn’t take you two minutes to give it to me. Are you on?”

“Ain’t I, gov’nor? You just try me.”

French took some money out of his pocket and slowly counted out two single shillings and a sixpence. These he laid on the table in a little pile.

“Tell me, sonny,” he said. “You had to take a message out this morning shortly after eleven?”

“Huh-huh.”

“Where did you take it to?”

“You won’t tell the old man?”

“I’ll not, sonny. I give you my word.”

“Name o’ Pyke, seventeen Kepple Street.”

In spite of his training as an officer of the Yard, French started. Pyke! He remained for a moment lost in thought. Pyke! Could this be the solution at last? Could Mrs. Berlyn have transferred her somewhat facile affections to Jefferson Pyke? Could these two be guilty of the murder of both Stanley and Berlyn?

Here was a promising idea! In the first place, it was the solution to the dilemma which had so greatly puzzled him. The crime had been committed to enable the murderer to live with Phyllis in good social standing. Therefore, the murderer could not have disappeared. Therefore, it could not have been either Berlyn or Pyke. There had been French’s problem.

But if Jefferson Pyke and Phyllis had been accomplices, all these difficulties vanished. Berlyn and Pyke had disappeared because they were dead. The murderer had survived to enjoy the fruits of his crime. All the facts seemed to be met.

In itself, also, this new theory was likely enough. Jefferson and Phyllis had been playmates and an old attachment might easily have flamed up anew on their meeting at Ashburton. If so, there was the motive for Berlyn’s murder. Stanley Pyke might also have been in the way. Possibly Phyllis was so far entangled with him that to break loose would have turned him into a dangerous enemy. Possibly the accomplices feared that he might guess their crime. Under the circumstances it was easy to see that their only safe scheme might well have been to remove both men.

The details also worked in. Phyllis could have obtained the information about the works necessary for the disposal of the body. Jefferson was of the size and build of the man who had called for the lorry and crate at Swansea, and though his colouring was different, this could have been altered artificially. He could be biding his time until he was sure the affair had blown over to take Phyllis out to his _estancia_ in the Argentine.

Another point occurred to French. Alfred Beer had stated, no doubt in all good faith, that the conversation he had overheard in the Berlyn’s shrubbery was between Mrs. Berlyn and Stanley Pyke, and French had naturally assumed that the “’e” referred to was Berlyn. But were he and Beer correct? Might the scene not equally well have been between the lady and Jefferson and might “’e” not have been Stanley? French decided to look up his notes of the matter at the earliest opportunity.

He had little doubt that at long last he was on to the truth. Jubilantly he handed over the half-crown to Ganope’s boy and dismissed him with the assurance that he would never hear of the matter again.

As to his next step there could be no question. He walked quickly to Kepple Street and asked if Mr. Jefferson Pyke was at home.

Pyke was out, but was expected shortly. Hugging himself for his luck, French said that if he might, he would like to wait for Mr. Pyke. The landlady remembered his previous visit and made no difficulty about showing him up to her lodger’s sitting room.

Before the door closed behind her French saw that his lucky star was still in the ascendant. There on the chimneypiece stood a note addressed “Mr. Jefferson Pyke” in the same handwriting as that for “Mr. James Hurley.”

French carried an old razor blade in his pocket and in less than a minute the envelope was open. The note read:

“Danger. Meet me to-night at old time and place.”

French swore softly in high delight. He had them now! Here was convincing proof of their guilt.

But it was insufficient to bring into court. He must get something more definite. With skilful fingers he reclosed the envelope and put it back where he had found it. Then he settled down to wait for Pyke.

In less than ten minutes the man appeared. French, smiling his pleasant smile, greeted him apologetically.

“Sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Pyke, but I want to ask you for a little further help in this Ashburton affair. I have made a discovery, but first I must ask you to keep what I have to say to yourself.”

Pyke nodded.

“Of course, Mr. French. Sit down, won’t you, and tell me what I can do for you.”

“All I want is a little information,” French declared, taking the proffered chair. “I may tell you between ourselves that certain facts suggest that Colonel Domlio may have been involved. Can you tell me anything that might help me to a decision, anything that your cousin told you or that Mr. Berlyn may have said in your presence?”

Pyke shook his head.

“Colonel Domlio?” he repeated. “Why, no! I never thought of such a thing, and neither Stanley nor Berlyn ever said anything to suggest it.”

French continued to question him long enough to convince him that this was really the business on which he had called. Then he tried to discount the effect which Mrs. Berlyn’s note would have when at last the man had an opportunity to read it.

“I’ve been to see Mrs. Berlyn on this matter,” he explained. “I’m afraid I was rather rude to her, but I just had to frighten her in order to satisfy myself as to whether or not she suspected the colonel. But at least I apologised afterward. I think she forgave me.”

“And did she suspect Domlio?”

“No, I’m sure she did not. And that counts in the colonel’s favour, for she knew him pretty well. Aren’t you thankful you’re not a detective, Mr. Pyke?”

They chatted easily for some moments and then French thinking that some information about the other’s former movements might be useful, turned the conversation to travel.

“You had a pleasant trip to the south of France with your late cousin, I understand?” he remarked. “I wonder if you’d tell me something about it? I’ve just done enough traveling myself to whet my appetite for more, and the idea of the south of France absolutely fascinates me. What part did you go to?”

“The Riviera and Provence,” Pyke answered, with a subtle change of manner. Up to the present he had been polite; now he was interested. “I can tell you, Inspector, that if you’re fond of travelling you should try those districts. You’d enjoy every moment of it.”

“It’s not doubt of that which keeps me away. Money and time are my trouble. Did you get as far as Italy?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you our itinerary if you care to hear it. We went round to Marseilles by long sea. A jolly sail, that. Then——”

“Good weather?” French interposed. He wanted plenty of detail so that he could check the statements up.

“It was dirty when we left Birkenhead and choppy in the Irish Sea. But it quieted down as we got across the Bay, and from St. Vincent to Gata the sea was like a mirror—an absolute flat calm without a ripple showing. Glorious! Then after Gata we ran into fog, which wasn’t so nice. But we got into Marseilles on time.”

“Birkenhead? That’s the Bibby Line, isn’t it?”

“Yes, we went on the _Flintshire_. Fine boat of 16,000 tons.”

“I’ve heard those boats well spoken of. I envy you, Mr. Pyke. Then from Marseilles?”

“From Marseilles we went straight through to San Remo. We spent three or four days there, then worked back to Grasse; that’s a small town where they make perfume, between Nice and Cannes, but a bit inland. I’m considering going into the flower trade and I wanted to see the gardens. A wonderful sight all that country must be with flowers in the season!”

“I’ve read about it,” French assured him. “It’s one of the places I’ve got on my list. Flowers and pretty girls, eh?”

“That’s right. We had a dandy specimen to show us round the perfume factory.”

“I guess I’ll see that factory,” French declared. “Are there good hotels in a small place like that?”

“We stayed at the Metropole and it was quite all right. Then we worked slowly up through Provence, staying a night in different towns—Marseilles, Nîmes, Arles, Avignon, and so on to Paris. I’ve got all mixed about the places, we saw so many. An interesting country that, Inspector! There are buildings standing there for sixteen hundred years and more. Wonderful! First chance you get you should go down and see for yourself. But don’t do it as we did.”

“How do you mean?”

“Don’t go from place to place, staying in each for a night. Stay at a centre. Avignon is a first rate one. There are day char-à-banc trips that let you see all these places and you don’t have the nuisance of packing and going to a fresh hotel every day.”

“That’s a point, certainly. Thanks for the tip. Where do you recommend staying in Paris?”

If Pyke recognised that French was merely pumping him he gave no sign, but replied, readily:

“We stayed at the Regina and found it quite good. But we just broke the journey for a night. Next day we came on here.”

“To these rooms?”

“No. I hadn’t taken them then. We stayed a night at the Houston. That’s the night I had such a joke on Stanley.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“I don’t know how he did it, but while he was dressing he knocked the basin off the stand and it broke and soaked his shoes and deluged the room. You know they have old-fashioned separate basins there, not running water as you get abroad. I imagine he must have set the basin down on a corner of the towel, and when he picked up the towel it twitched the basin off. The wretched thing must have been cracked, for it went into two pieces. But they charged him for it, all right.”

“Rough luck, Mr. Pyke. And after that you both thought one night enough to stay?”

Pyke laughed.

“I wanted rooms,” he explained. “Next day I found these and moved in.”

“I suppose your late cousin went back to Ashburton at the same time?”

“Not quite directly, I think. He went to see some people near Bath. I believe he said for two days only, but I’m not sure.”

“Do you soon return to the Argentine, Mr. Pyke?”

“I’ve not made up my mind. I like this country and I’m half thinking of settling down here and growing flowers for the London market. I’m sick of ranching, anyway, and I’ve instructed my solicitors to begin negotiations for the sale of my property. Of course I’ll have to go out to see to that, but I think I’ll come back very soon.”

They continued chatting about the Roman remains in Provence until at last French looked at his watch and said he must go.

He was jubilant as to his progress. He believed that he had accounted for his presence and that Pyke suspected nothing. He had also obtained enough information to check practically the whole of the man’s movements from his departure with Stanley for his holiday down to the present time. The end of the affair was in sight. And that evening, he promised himself, should see him a step farther on his road.

Chapter Eighteen

On Hampstead Heath

French telephoned for a relief to take over the shadowing of Pyke during the afternoon, but by six o’clock he was back in Kepple Street, with the intention of being, if possible, present at the rendezvous of his new suspects.

“He’s not shown up since,” Sergeant Harvey explained. “No one called, but one person left the house, a girl of about twenty. She returned in about two hours.”

“Tall, good-looking girl, fair hair and blue eyes?” French suggested. “I know her—the landlady’s daughter. I saw her when I called. That’ll do, Harvey. You can get away. I shall manage alone.”