Chapter TWENTY-FIVE: A Morning at Sea Beach

Mr. Downer was passing the police station at Sea Beach on the way to his bungalow when his eye was attracted to a notice that was pasted on the board outside the station.

It occupied a central position amidst other advertisements dealing with bodies found, absconding cashiers, and particulars of men wanted by the police, and he had not read two words before he realised that he had already perused the poster in town.

“INFORMATION IS REQUIRED CONCERNING ABRAHAM SELIM (_Alias_ WENTWORTH)

“Wanted in connection with the murders of Darius Merrivan and John Albert Sweeny, on the night of the 24th. of June.

“Selim is a moneylender, and is believed to be a man of fifty-five. He has a stoop and wears gold-rimmed glasses, and is clean-shaven. He may endeavour to change cheques signed ‘Jos. Wentworth,’ but he is probably in possession of large sums of money. Any information that will lead to his detention will be rewarded, and should be laid with Dr. A. Macleod, Police Headquarters, or with the inspector in charge of this station.”

Mr. Downer read and was annoyed. Anything that reminded him of the Beverley Green murder annoyed him. He had confidently believed that he had found the solution when Arthur Wilmot had told him in the greatest confidence (“You can trust me, my dear sir,” said the virtuous Downer) that Stella Nelson had visited the house on the night of the murder.

If matters had followed the hoped-for course Mr. Downer would have been as near to being a happy man as it was possible for him to reach. He did not dislike Stella. In a faint, misty kind of way he admired her. He knew what to admire in women as he knew what to admire in architecture. Nor would it have given him any personal gratification if he had ruined Andrew Macleod. He honestly liked Andy. Only in business hours he had no friends. If Downer’s fiancée (supposing he had such an appendage) had been murdered by his best friend his first instinct would have been to estimate the news value of the occurrence. He would have been bitterly unhappy, but he would have described the victim’s funeral and the murderer’s execution with taste and judgment. He was an ideal reporter, a model for all juniors, and deserved the respect he had earned.

His bungalow was on the sea-shore. It consisted of a living-room, a bedroom, bath, and kitchen. There was a broad wooden verandah with hooks for a hammock, and a ten-by-twenty “garden” where chrysanthemums grew wild in the autumn.

So he was told. He had never occupied the bungalow after summer, so he did not know. He opened the windows, pulled a basket-chair on to the stoop, and lit a gas-ring under a kettle. The rooms were furnished plainly but comfortably, and twice a week (as arranged by contract) the widow of a fisherman came in to dust and clean.

From his bag Mr. Downer produced a wad of copy-paper and certain galley-proofs. He was at the moment completing his greatest work _Some Theoretical Solutions of Undiscovered Crimes_ he called it, in the manner of a scientist. His publisher, having a large family to keep and being naturally anxious to make money from the work, had re-christened it _Light on Mystery Murders_.

Amongst the manuscript there was a letter from the publisher received by Mr. Downer that morning.

“If you could only include the Beverley murder the sales would be immense. We want something hot and strong. The public would eat a good theory in regard to that crime.”

Vulgarity in a publisher is rare, but such things have been known.

“Oh, damn the Beverley murder!” said Mr. Downer irritably.

He might thus condemn it, yet not evade its intrusive interruption to his thoughts. When he sat on his wicker chair, and examined the sea impartially (as he did), or when he strode determinedly along the hard sand of the beach, the point of his umbrella leaving a miniature shaft at every two paces, or when he lay in bed and glared at the text over the door, the legacy of a former possessor which Mr. Downer had not troubled to remove, it mattered little what subject occupied his mind, whether it was the need for a new summer suit or the reckless calling of his bridge partners, into the current of his meditations bobbed and spun the crime of Beverley Green.

Two men had been murdered. Presumably the slayer was one Abraham Selim, whose habits were unknown, whose very appearance was beyond identification. Abraham or X—he could not be considered except as an impersonality—could never be found, because for all practical purposes he did not exist. Mr. Downer had dismissed all idea of Stella’s guilt. Wise man that he was, he saw that the most suspicious feature so far as she was concerned was Andy’s desire to shield her.

And—here he was, thinking about that infernal case, he told himself irritably, and turned over in bed seeking yet another hour’s sleep, although the sun was up and gilding the wall with rods of gold that expanded and contracted as the sea-breezes moved the blind. But he had done with sleep. He got up and, finding his slippers, went into the kitchen and began the preparation of his breakfast. By the time he had had his bath the kettle lid was rattling urgently and the bacon he had left under the low-turned griller was curved and crisp.

It was only then that he went into the sitting-room and pulled up the blinds.

“Good Lord!” said Mr. Downer.

Sitting in the basket-chair on the verandah, his back toward him, was a man. He was well dressed; the one polished shoe that Downer could see had the covering of a white spat, the hand nearest to him was gloved, and rested on the golden head of a malacca cane. Mr. Downer unbolted and unlocked his door and walked out. He had strong views of the sanctity of property and the reprehensibility of trespass.

“Excuse _me_,” he said, in a tone which implied that if any excuse was called for it was not from him. “You’ve made a mistake. Why, Mr. Boyd Salter!”

Mr. Salter rose with his shrewd, cheerful smile and held out a gloved hand.

“Will you forgive me for this liberty, Mr. Downer? Unpardonable of me, I’m sure. But I remember that when you came to see me at the Hall—I fear I kept you waiting a long time, but it was one of my bad days—you said you had a bungalow at Sea Beach and I told you that—er—Sea Beach belongs to my family—more than half the land.” He followed his host indoors.

“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” said Mr. Downer with great heartiness. “I must apologise for my scanty attire, but I’ve only just got up.”

“Pray not a word.” Mr. Salter raised a protesting hand. “The apology is due from me. It is a warm morning and green pyjamas harmonise so perfectly with this charming little room. I was afraid I had come too early, but—er—it is eleven o’clock, and Sea Beach is only an hour’s run from Beverley.”

Whilst Mr. Downer sought a few articles of clothing his visitor surveyed the room dispassionately.

“I was only saying to myself yesterday,” said Mr. Downer through the half-opened door of his bedroom, “what a pity I shan’t have another excuse for seeing Mr. Boyd Salter. I see a great many people in the course of my professional duties, and very few impress me. That sounds as if I am trying to flatter. I wouldn’t be such a fool as to butter a man of your experience, and, if you don’t mind my saying so, your age. But probably you have felt that yourself, Mr. Salter?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Salter earnestly, “and I assure you that I should not have intruded into your delightful little home——”

“A mere rabbit-hutch,” said Mr. Downer disparagingly, “but I am a simple man, with simple tastes.”

“A charming little _pied-à-terre_,” said the other graciously, “but I should not have come if I had not recognised certain appealing qualities in you, Mr. Downer.”

Mr. Downer had seldom in his life been flattered. It was a novel experience for one whose chief asset was his skilful employment of the flattering word to find himself smeared with a little of his own oleaginous unguent. And he was more than interested, because this visit meant business. Mr. Boyd Salter, for all his prejudice in his favour, was not making an early morning call for the pleasure of looking upon Mr. Downer’s hard features or listening to Mr. Downer’s soft phrases.

“I suppose you wonder why I have come?”

Mr. Downer did.

“In a sense, yes,” he said. “I can only hope that you want me to render you some small service. If that is the case you are doubly welcome.”

“Not a small service.” Salter shook his head gently. “On the contrary, a great service. The only thing I am worried about is whether I shall offend you.”

Mr. Downer smiled so broadly that he had to refix his glasses.

“I am a difficult man to offend,” he said truly.

Mr. Boyd Salter pursed his lips and stroked his short-clipped grey moustache.

“Well, it is this,” he said at last. “I am going to take the unpardonable liberty of asking you to accept a commission which really should be offered to a detective agency. Now I’ve offended you?”

“No, you haven’t,” said Mr. Downer. “You must remember that my work is almost parallel with that of a private detective. He reports to his employer; I report, in perhaps a little better English and at greater length, to the public.”

“And with greater accuracy,” acknowledged Mr. Salter. “And that is why I have come to you in preference to employing one of those agency people. You are sure you are not offended?”

Mr. Downer was very sure.

“If you had told me that I was asking you to do something which you, as a member of the great profession of letters, considered derogatory to your dignity and your calling, I should have understood. Out of your kindness, however, you have not repulsed me.”

He smiled and Mr. Downer smiled too.

“What I want you to do is this. You were engaged in investigating the Beverley Green murder. For reasons which, I presume, were purely professional you relinquished your work. I imagine that it was no longer a profitable occupation. Forgive me if I adduce the lowest motive for your retirement. You are a professional man living by your pen, and I imagine that your movements and preoccupations are dictated by the arbitrary will of your employers, your editors and publishers, or whatever they are.”

Mr. Downer nodded. He remembered his curt letter of recall and the distressing smallness of his cheque.

“Suppose I ask you to go down to Beverley Green and re-open your enquiries? I want to know more than I know at present. Particularly”—he spoke very deliberately—“do I wish to discover the secret of the burglary at the Hall. What was behind it? Was our friend Dr. Macleod privy to that—er—crime? What does Dr. Macleod know that I do not know? Has he any information concerning Abraham Selim that he has not communicated to his superiors? Where is Miss Stella Nelson?”

“Ah!” said Mr. Downer. “I think I can begin right away by imparting information.”

He told the story of the house in Castle Street and Stella’s mysterious visits thereto.

“Who is the invalid?” asked Boyd Salter, but here his new employee had not pursued his enquiries.

“I think you will find that it is the man who broke into my house,” said Salter, and the other glared at him through his glasses.

“Of course! Now why didn’t that occur to me?”

“Find out for certain. I may be wrong, but somehow, when I jump to conclusions I am usually right, Mr. Downer. I do know that she and the man—Scottie I think his name is—went away on the same day. Scottie is probably the burglar. He is wounded if he is that rascal. But remember this—I do not wish that Dr. Macleod should know that you are conducting investigations. I don’t know how you will manage it, and I would not be so impertinent as to offer you any suggestion.”

“You may rely upon me, Mr. Boyd Salter,” said Downer.

His employer took from his waistcoat pocket a folded paper and put it on the table.

“There will be certain expenses incurred,” he said. “Regard this as on that account, please.”

Mr. Downer came to the end of the verandah to watch his visitor enter the car that was waiting for him on the Beach Road. Then he went back to his room and unfolded the paper. It was a bank-note of considerable value, and Mr. Downer smiled.

“I think I’ll go back to town,” he mused, and put the flat-iron on the gas-ring. He always pressed his own trousers.