Comes a Stranger (14 page)

“Books? He collected books?”

“He did so. Give him some worm-eaten old book and he'd pass up woman, wine, and song without turning a hair. And he liked them all right too, but different someway, not like books. He did a lot with old Mr. Kayne. Mr. Kayne got James A. Junior—that's my cousin, the one who disappeared—a complete set of first editions of John Smith's works.”

“John Smith?” asked the Major, who had not known there was an author of that popular and familiar name.

“Yes, Captain John Smith—you know, one of the founders of Virginia, president at one time. Princess Pocahontas saved his life. You remember the story? Spoils it a bit that she married someone called Rolfe instead. We claim to be descended from her through the Randolph family; and if we can't prove it true, no one can prove it isn't, so it gets by. Result is we're very keen on the John Smith legend, and James A. was mighty pleased when old Mr. Kayne got him first editions of all John Smith's books—and what's more, each blessed one of them with the autograph of a famous person to show it had belonged to him at one time. Your Lord Falkland, the Duke of Buckingham—the one Felton outed—Lord Shaftesbury of the letters, and the prize one of the lot, Nell Gwynne. Made a unique set and worth a lot—and I tell you, James A. paid top figures, too.”

“Very interesting,” said the Major, slightly puzzled, “but I don't quite see…”

“Very interesting,” agreed Bobby, and his mind went back to that series of the various issues of the first edition of Milton's
Paradise Lost
, each of them containing the autograph of a famous man, even though that of Dryden had been missing from the copy he had picked up.

It seemed the Kayne library had indeed many treasures; and Bobby felt his mind, as it were, searching, probing, wondering, as if vaguely knowing that in these series of ancient autographed volumes was somehow concealed a clue to the murder of the night before in the sunken lane through the Wynton wood.

“Spent his money like that,” Virtue went on; “he had a pile came to him from an aunt, so he was independent. He hadn't a big share in the business then. It was understood he had the aunt's money, so his elder brother was to have the business. Well, James A. started off on one of his European trips, and while he was away his father—my uncle Art—and his brother, Art, Junior, were both killed in an auto smash. That meant their business interests passed to James A. under an old will. Since then, we've never heard a thing of James A., whether he's alive or whether he's dead. We traced him here, to this village. He had had a talk or two with Mr. Broast, showed him a rare book he was very proud of, printed by Caxton, swell copy, the
Dictes
it was.”

“
Dictes
?” repeated Bobby, remembering that was the title of a rare and fine specimen of Caxton's work Mr. Broast had seemed proud the library possessed.

“Yes, Apple of James A.'s eye, it was. Well, from here we traced him to Dublin. He had a girl with him. He often had. Seems they created a disturbance and were asked to leave. That wasn't a bit like James A. We didn't believe it was him at first, but the hotel people still had his photo; the girl with him had amused herself by sticking up in the dining-room and throwing knives at— Had too much to drink, probably. It was him all right, the photo, I mean. He had a trick of giving his photo to girls he picked up, his technique, so to say, to persuade them he really loved them alone, that sort of thing.”

“This was ten years ago?” Bobby interrupted quickly.

“More,” Virtue answered. “I get you. Sounds like it was him gave this Perkins girl the photo she showed you? But that was only two years back, she says, and ten years back, she must have been only a kiddy. Don't seem to fit, does it? Because, if it was James A. Miss Perkins means, well, where has he been all this time, and how's he been living? Doesn't seem possible to me it was him.”

“It certainly seems difficult,” Bobby agreed.

“After the Dublin affair there was no trace of him,” Virtue continued, “till his baggage turned up in a Paris hotel. It had been registered through from London and never claimed. And that's all we ever knew. Awkward for business, because he and his mother between them hold a majority of the units, and no one knows whether he is alive or dead—not that there's much chance of his being alive after all this time.”

“Can't you get his death presumed?” asked the Major. “That could be done here. The courts would do that on application. After less than ten years. That would be the normal procedure.”

“Yes,” agreed Virtue, “but aunt—his mother, I mean—won't stand for it. She won't have it he's dead—expects him to walk in any day. It's about all that keeps her alive, poor soul. And she's got it into her head that presuming his death is just taking away his last chance. If we could get actual proof, she would be more satisfied. But she's not going to have it presumed, and the trustees back her up good and hard. You see, if death was presumed, the trust could be wound up and that means they would lose their fees—five thousand dollars a year. Well, they don't see why that should happen any sooner than it's got to. It's a lump of overhead for us to carry, only it's not so easy to dig folks out of a nice fat job like that. They tend to hang on. Also they're an obstructive element. They don't want to develop. Why should they? If we went big, if we sent our sales up ten times over, if we covered ten times the territory we do, their fees would stay the same. Not a cent more. So they want to stand pat, play for safety, refuse consent to any development scheme, and the result is we are getting more and more tied up all the time. It's getting to mean a lot to the family to find out for sure what happened to James A.”

“That is your errand over here?”

“That's so.”

“Have you had any success yet?”

“Well, you know, I haven't been on the job so long,” Virtue answered.

The Major was looking worried and perplexed. He did not see clearly where all this tended. Very specially, he did not see what connection there could be between the disappearance of a young American ten years ago and the mysterious murder of poor young Nat Kayne it was his pressing duty to investigate.

“It's because of your cousin's connection with the Kayne library as a buyer of books from it that you are here?” Bobby said suddenly

“That's so,” Virtue agreed.

The Major go to his feet.

“Mr. Virtue,” he said, “I don't profess to understand your story. I don't think you have been entirely frank with us. We shall make further inquiries, and we shall have to ask you for a formal written statement. For the moment things can be left as they are. There is a good deal to attend to. In the meantime, I will ask you to think over your position very carefully and consider whether there is not something more you can tell us to make the position plainer. Also I must ask you to undertake not to leave here for the present.”

“That's all right,” Virtue answered. “I realize I'm in a jam. But I've nothing to do with any shooting. Why should I?”

The Major made no answer. He opened the door and went out. Bobby, in the act of following him, said to Virtue:

“Much better tell us all about it, you know.”

“Well,” Virtue answered slowly, “there is such a thing as jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. I've got to consider my position pretty carefully. I'm a foreigner here and I've got to think twice before saying anything.”

Bobby nodded, wondered what Virtue meant by talking about out of the frying pan into the fire, since surely suspicion of murder was itself rather a very hot fire than a comparatively cool frying pan, and caught up with the Major who was standing by his car outside, looking at some papers a messenger had just brought him. He glanced up, as Bobby came near and said:

“Well, what do you make of all that?”

“Sounded to me, sir,” Bobby answered, “as if Virtue believes some clue to what happened to his missing cousin is somewhere in the library—some book perhaps he bought or wanted, or something like that. Mr. Broast refused to let Virtue see over it, so he invented this story as a way of getting a search made. You remember how he kept insisting on what he called his right to be present?”

“Preposterous,” growled the Major. “Absurd. Does he think there's a dead body hidden behind the books on the shelves somewhere?”

Bobby said nothing. The Major flung down the papers he was holding. Very red and angry looking, he said:

“I suppose you haven't got it into your head this has anything to do with Miss Kayne's telling you she had committed the perfect murder?”

Bobby continued to say nothing. The Major got more and more red, more and more angry-looking. He picked up again the papers he had just thrown into the car.

“I can't spend any more time running round,” he said. “Everyone's waiting for orders. Half of them can't blow their own noses till they've had official instructions. It's incredible, anyhow, Miss Kayne! You might as well suspect a bishop. Preposterous. Incredible.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, “only things so often are, aren't they? Incredible world altogether, sir, if I may say so.”

“Hang it all, man alive,” protested the Major. “Why should she? how could she? When could she? This fellow is said to have been missing ten years—ten years—and he had nothing to do with anyone here, except that he bought books. Good customer, too, apparently, paid a high price. Well, you don't murder a man because he's buying the books you want to sell, do you?”

“Well, sir, of course it does seem a poor way to encourage trade,” agreed Bobby. “When I was in the library yesterday Mr. Broast showed us a set of Milton, each copy with a famous autograph in it except one I looked at. Mr. Broast was very annoyed. It was Dryden's autograph I wanted to see. Mr. Broast said it was in another copy. He seemed very upset. I don't know why. I noticed he sold the missing Mr. Virtue a set of someone's books that all had autographs of famous people in them, too.”

“Well, why not?” asked the Major. “I believe Broast is famous for that kind of bibliographical discovery. What about it?”

“I don't know, sir,” Bobby answered. “I just noticed it. Point N. sir, so to say.”

The Major grunted.

“We've got to remember it's a murder last night we've on our hands,” he said, “not an American missing ten years ago. I would like to know what's behind that girl's story, though. Have to talk to her again as soon as there's time.”

He got into the car. Bobby followed, and they were just about to start when Mr. Adams came out of the inn. He had been watching them through a window and now he came hurrying out. But the Major greeted him with a scowl.

“No time now,” he said. “Everything's hung up—even if there's been a murder there's all the usual work to attend to. Owen, you hear what Mr. Adams has to say and then report to me.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.

The Major made another grab at his letters as Bobby prepared to alight, and he looked very worried.

“I've got to see about these,” he said. “Can't have everything else at a standstill. There's Broast, too, got to see what he has to say. Sir William, as well. We've got to know what that quarrel was about you spoke of.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I believe Sir William motored across to see Mr. Broast last night. I was there when the 'phone message came. He would have to pass where the sunk lane enters the wood. He may have seen something.”

“Well, look into it,” said the Major. “Get rid of Adams first and then see Sir William and hear what he has to say and report back to me. I shall be busy till lunch or later. If Sir William has anything to say bring him over with you. We can lunch here.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby again.

He alighted. The Major started the car and drove off. Bobby said to Mr. Adams, who was looking half inclined to retreat again:

“There is something you wish to say?”

Mr. Adams hesitated, looked very uncomfortable, coughed, and said nothing.

“I suppose,” Bobby went on, “you have your passport with you? Could I see it?”

“That's just it,” sighed Mr. Adams. “I haven't got one—at least, I mean, not an American one. I suppose you will be making inquiries about everyone here in view of this most unfortunate occurrence so I feel it advisable to explain. I have no connection with the University of Nebraska or with any University. I am a British subject and I live in this country.”

Bobby looked at him doubtfully.

“Your correct name and address, please?” he said.

“I deeply regret,” said Mr. Adams primly, “that in the circumstances I feel unable to answer your question. I trust you will believe me when I say how really unfortunate I feel it that I am obliged to decline to give you any information whatsoever.”

“Oh,” said Bobby, somewhat taken aback. “Dear me,” he said, “someone else, I suppose, who prefers the frying pan to the fire?”

“I fear,” said Mr. Adams, “I do not altogether succeed in grasping your meaning.”

He stood there, mild and respectable, his hands folded together, peering short-sightedly from behind his glasses, looking exactly like a meditative sheep. And Bobby reflected that while a pig may be the symbol of obstinacy, as a matter of fact a sheep is often ten times harder to move. The pig may want to go its own way, the sheep merely remains immobile. Bobby turned to Robins, the inn factotum, who was hovering near, and asked him to bring his motor-cycle from the shed where it was stored. Then he said to Mr. Adams:

“Well, of course, if you won't answer my questions I shall have to ask you to come along to the police station.”

“I regret,” explained Mr. Adams mildly, “to seem disobliging, but I fear I must decline. It would be an entirely useless waste of time.”