Chapter TWENTY-TWO: Mr. Downer Follows a Lady

Mr. Downer came out of the Newspaper Club with a tightly rolled umbrella under his arm and two inches of cigar in the corner of his mouth.

The day was hot and breathless. It seemed that unless he employed his umbrella to relieve him of the pitiless glare of the sun it was a superfluity. But Mr. Downer would no more have thought of going out without his umbrella than an ordinary man would have thought of going about without his collar and tie. It was part of his personality, like his cigar and his hard Derby hat, and the three pencils and stylo that peeped out of his left-hand waistcoat pocket.

He examined the visible world through his highly magnifying glasses and found it neither good nor bad. What was good was the brief respite he had from labour, for it was the end of the week, and he had a bungalow on the sea-shore, where he could carry his umbrella along the beach and stare through his powerful glasses at the sea.

What was bad was the uncomfortable memory of a failure. He had been reminded of it that morning when his cheque came in from the _Megaphone_ for the Beverley murder case. If the newspapers referred to the killing of Darius Merrivan it was only in a few lines of type on one of the inside pages, for two weeks had passed, there had been an interesting bank failure and a fascinating divorce case to carry the public along, and his offer to begin his investigations anew had been coldly received by the newspaper to which it had been made.

He knew that Andrew Macleod had returned to town. He had seen him twice on other matters. Andrew had given up the case as a bad job, evidently. He had in fact, conveyed as much in his interview with Downer.

Probate of the Merrivan estate had been applied for on behalf of Mr. Arthur Wilmot, who had expressed his intention of selling the Merrivan house just as soon as a likely buyer came along.

Mr. Downer stepped out into the crowded streets, aloof from and superior to his surroundings. He had wondered whether Andy was in love with the Nelson girl—a train of thought brought his mind to her—and promised himself the luxury of describing their wedding, and attaching thereto a réchauffé of the murder case and its romantic sequel.

But apparently Andy had not been back to Beverley Green since he left. That proved nothing, for, according to his information, Stella Nelson had not returned to Beverley either. Downer’s explanation of this latter circumstance was that she was waiting until the little scandal he had aroused had blown over. That, however, did not account for the detachment of Dr. Andrew Macleod.

He was on his way to leave a manuscript at the office of a magazine. Mr. Downer had literary moments. He was the author of _Famous Criminals I have met_; _Professional Sharpers and their Methods_; _Some Famous Cases of Forgery_, and divers other contributions to belles-lettres bore his name upon the title page.

The office was situated in an unfashionable corner of the town, and to reach his objective he found it necessary to pass through a network of small streets occupied by working-class people. He was pausing at a corner marked with the inevitable general store when a girl came from the shop and walked away quickly. She carried a parcel under her arm, and he thought he recognised the figure. There was a certain familiar swing of shoulders, and, instead of pursuing his way, which lay in the opposite direction, he followed her. She turned another corner and he caught a glimpse of her face. There was no doubt at all. It was Stella Nelson. What was she doing in this neighbourhood? he wondered, and followed her cautiously.

He saw her stop at the door of a small house, insert the key, and disappear from view. It was a very tiny house indeed. The number on the discoloured door was 73. He made a mental note and continued until he found a woman standing idly in her doorway. Her arms were rolled in her apron, and she was pathetically eager to find somebody who had as much time as she to gossip.

“No, mister, she doesn’t live here,” she said, shaking her head when Downer asked for a fictitious name.

“I haven’t been in this street for years,” mused Downer. “It hasn’t changed.”

“Nothing changes here,” said the woman oracularly. “It will be just the same in a hundred years’ time.”

“I thought I recognised the young lady who went into 73. How long has she been living here? She used to be very well off.”

“Oh, she,” said the woman. “She doesn’t live here. She comes every day and goes home every night. Quite a lady, too, and yet she does the house work. I’ve seen her sweeping the front of the pavement.”

“Who lives there?”

“A seafaring man, as far as I can understand. Maybe it is her father.”

“A seafaring man, eh?” said Downer. “A sailor?”

“Something like that. He goes away for months at a time, but I have never seen her before.”

Mr. Downer pulled at his dead cigar, scenting a scandal.

“Rather nice-looking fellow, tall——”

She shook her head.

“No, he isn’t what I’d call strong on looks. He’s ill now, and I suppose she’s come to look after him. Got on in the world and hasn’t forgotten her old father. That’s what I like to see about a girl.”

The good lady, now thoroughly wound up, was prepared to express her views on girls at length, but Mr. Downer had his appointment.

He pulled the brim of his hard hat further over his eyes, an action less designed to disguise himself than to shut him still further from the world in which he moved, and, shifting his umbrella from one arm to the other, moved back the way he had come.

It was characteristic of him that he left the woman without an apology and in the midst of her narrative. She had served her purpose, could be of no further use. He might spend time and art in finding acquaintances; he wasted neither in demolishing the structure of friendship which often he had so laboriously created.

After making his call, he worked out to a more salubrious neighbourhood. Passing police headquarters as he did on his way to the station, he stopped and thought, and, reaching a decision, he went into the gloomy building.

“Dr. Macleod is in the laboratory, Mr. Downer.” The door sergeant shook his head dubiously. “I shouldn’t think he’d see anybody.” He lowered his voice. “He’s on the poisoned woman, the Sweizer case. Yes, Reeder is in charge, but the doctor is doing the examinations. We had Tensey, the big specialist, here this afternoon. That’s for yourself.”

Downer nodded, and impressed these two facts upon his memory. He had thought of taking up the case. The _Daily Globe-Herald_ had invited him to do so, but the _Globe-Herald_ were notoriously tight-fisted, and fought every item of the most reasonable expense account.

“Find out if he is visible, and, if he is, get my card to him.”

The gateman beckoned a uniformed man, who was gone some time before he reappeared flourishing Downer’s card.

“Will you step up, Mr. Downer?”

Andy, in his white overall, was washing his hands when Downer came in.

“Sit, will you, Downer. I’ve nothing for you in this case. The autopsy isn’t complete, but you can say that Sweizer has been arrested this morning as he was going aboard a French boat.”

Andy bore no malice. The man had his living to get; he was indubitably painstaking, and had been, and could be again, of real help to the police. Besides which, he was telling him nothing.

“I didn’t come to see you about the Sweizer case, and the news of his arrest is in the evening editions,” said Downer, tossing his cigar-butt into a waste-paper basket. “I came up to see you about Miss Nelson.”

Andy finished drying his hands and hung up the towel.

“I should have thought your interest in Miss Nelson had evaporated by now,” he said. “What is the latest discovery?”

“She’s in town.”

“Here?”

Andy’s surprise was genuine.

“Do you mean that she is living here, or that you saw her passing through?”

“I don’t know where she lives, but for a fortnight she has been visiting a sick sailor at 73 Castle Street.”

Andy was using an orange stick on his nails; he looked across at his informant.

“At 73 Castle Street?”

He gave Downer the impression that he was trying to collect his thoughts. Then:

“A pretty poor neighbourhood, isn’t it?”

Downer nodded.

“I thought you would like to know. Somehow it didn’t strike me that you were aware of this.”

Andy resumed his manicure.

“There is no particular reason why she should not nurse a sick sailor at 73 Castle Street, is there?” he asked carefully.

“Not at all,” said Downer.

“I suppose you know that Miss Nelson had a nursing course? She did a lot of that kind of work during the war.”

“I didn’t know,” said Downer, choosing a cigar from his packed case with some care. “Maybe she’s carrying on the good work.”

“Very likely,” said Andy.

Downer rose.

“I thought of going to Beverley one day next week to see whether there are any loose threads that I could get hold of,” he suggested, and Andy smiled.

“Your old pet thread will be difficult to grip,” he said significantly.

“Wilmot?”

Andy nodded.

“He’s a queer fellow,” ruminated Downer, lighting his cigar. “What does he do for a living? He has some sort of an office in town, hasn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never enquired.”

“Isn’t there a possibility that he is Abraham Selim?”

“That idea occurred to me, but I did not pursue it,” said Andrew. “Why not try your expert hand in that direction? It would make a fine story.”