Comes a Stranger (19 page)

“Such a coincidence,” the Major told her sternly, “requires an explanation. I am afraid we shall find it necessary to question you further.”

Miss Perkins merely produced again that exasperating giggle. The Major glared and then asked if Mr. Broast was disengaged. Miss Perkins said, “Oh, yes, certainly,” and as they passed through from the anteroom into the library proper, she added to Bobby:

“It's Mr. Virtue you ought to ask questions.”

“Oh, we shall,” Bobby promised her, and then she giggled again, and said it was that way, please, and they would find Mr. Broast at his desk.

“You know,” the Major said to Bobby as they proceeded in the direction indicated, “it's a bit awkward. Nothing much we can do if a man invents a silly yarn about a corpse where there certainly isn't one, or if a girl likes to pretend a photograph she's got hold of is the sweetheart she hasn't got but wishes to goodness she had.”

“No, sir,” agreed Bobby, “only I would like to know how Virtue came to describe the original of the photograph and who that original is.”

“Must try to find out if he ever had a chance to see it,” the Major remarked. “The girl seems to have shown it about pretty freely. Perhaps he heard it described.”

They had paused to exchange these whispered remarks, but now they came to the open alcove at the end of the library where Mr. Broast worked. He was busy with a ‘block' book, technical points of which he was noting down to use as evidence in support of his belief that printing from movable type was in clear line of development from these early ‘block' books printed from whole blocks in which letters had been carved. He received his two visitors without surprise, waved them to chairs, returned to his place behind the writing table so heaped with piled up papers and pamphlets like columns, book after book one on top of another, as to remind one of many-towered Ilium, and said:

“It's about this tragic affair, I suppose. I'm afraid there's nothing I can tell you. But I understand there's some wild tale about a dead man having been seen here—does that mean Nat Kayne? How could that be possible? and there's something about a photograph… isn't there?”

Major Harley produced it.

“Do you recognize this at all?” he asked.

Mr. Broast took it. He put it on the table before him. Resting his chin on his hands he stared at it long and thoughtfully, nor could Bobby, watching him intently, detect any sign of emotion, yet none the less felt sure that to the librarian it conveyed some meaning. His eyes still fixed upon the picture, he said:

“Will you leave it here? I should like you to leave it here.”

“I'm afraid we can't do that,” the Major said, and then he added: “Why?”

“I thought I might remember,” Mr. Broast said. He got to his feet. His eyes were still upon the photograph. He said: “If I ever knew any one like that, I've forgotten.” He made a slow gesture of a deep contempt. “I have other things to think of more important,” he said, “but if you left it here I would keep it on my table and perhaps I might remember.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The past is past,” he said; “and if it returns what does it matter? Take it away.”

As he spoke he picked up the photograph and with a gesture of something like defiance handed it back to the Major.

“That's all as far as I'm concerned,” he said. “Where did it come from?”

The Major did not answer. He said instead:

“We understand there was some kind of quarrel or dispute between Mr. Kayne and yourself and Sir William Winders. Could you give us particulars?”

“He wanted us to sell. Both Sir William and Miss Kayne objected. That's all. Sir William was a little impatient, naturally, at the way in which Mr. Kayne would insist on bringing up something that had been decided over and over again. Sir William got quite cross yesterday. He told Kayne he was behaving like a fool. Kayne made some sort of insolent retort. They both lost their tempers. Of course Kayne was entirely in the wrong. He had no business to keep on worrying like that. Quite ridiculous.”

“What was your own attitude?” asked the Major.

“In my opinion selling would be an almost criminal act of folly,” answered Mr. Broast at once. “Not that my opinion matters. I'm a paid servant of the library. Miss Kayne is the owner. Winders and Nat Kayne are the joint trustees—were I suppose I should say now. Miss Kayne has complete control, and the trustees have merely powers of inspection.”

“Who takes Mr. Nat Kayne's place? Do you know?”

“I rather think I do,” the librarian answered, though with some reluctance. “I really am not sure. Perhaps only for the time. I should have to refer to the will to be sure.”

The Major went on to ask a few more questions. Mr. Broast's replies only confirmed what they knew already. Regarding his own movements, he explained that he had gone to his room almost immediately after dinner on the previous night, in order to attend to his correspondence. It was his habit to speak his letters into a Dictaphone, Miss Perkins typing them afterwards from the records. He finished fairly early, about half past nine or a quarter to ten, he supposed, and then he had waited for a time, expecting Sir William, who had rung up to say he was driving over for a chat. That was not unusual. They had many interests in common, apart from Sir William's position as library trustee. After a time he assumed that Sir William must have changed his mind, or that something or another had prevented him from carrying out his intention. It was, Mr. Broast explained, his own invariable custom to take a brisk walk before bed as a means of inducing sleep, and he had gone out as usual, soon after ten, probably, as soon as he felt it was useless waiting any longer. So far as he knew no one saw him go. He remembered looking into the drawing-room, but it was empty, and he took it that the two ladies had gone to bed. Briggs and the maids were presumably in their own quarters. He had not seen them, and he supposed they had not seen him. He had been out his usual thirty or forty minutes, and on his return had entered by the front door, which was unlocked as usual. He locked and bolted it on his return, also as usual. So far as he knew no one had heard or seen him. No reason why anyone should. His habits were well known and well established. His evening walk before bed was his sole outdoor exercise, and it was quite regular. So far as he knew no one could confirm his statements, but was confirmation really necessary? Mr. Nat Kayne was an extraordinarily ignorant and uncultivated young man but one to whom Mr. Broast had no ill will. He would pick up a rare first edition and handle it as though it were a shilling magazine just bought from a railway book-stall. He was inclined to be bumptious, and aggressive, too, but he had little to do with the library except on inspection days, and even then seldom had much to say to Mr. Broast.

“He really thought,” explained Mr. Broast, “that a librarian was just a clerk with a certain knowledge of books, exactly as a man in a bank is a clerk with a certain knowledge of figures. His ignorance was too gross even to be offensive. I really believe his chief interest in life was football pools. I understand he spent four or five shillings every week, and a very great deal of time, over them, and was highly elated when on one occasion he won one of the prizes offered.”

“He won something once?” exclaimed the Major, much impressed, for indeed he had never before heard of such a thing.

“I gather all his forecasts were correct on that occasion, so he won what they call the pool. Very remarkable. His share came to seven and ninepence, as a great many others were correct that week, too. He was very excited by his success, he thought it highly encouraging.”

Bobby, frowning over his notebook, wondered if the librarian had really been as indifferent to Nat Kayne's activities as he now pretended. Suppose, for example, there had been hints of Miss Kayne being inclined to yield to her cousin's importunities? True, there had been no sign of that as far as seemed to be known. But Broast might have been aware of under-currents unknown to others. Again, had Broast really been as little touched by Nat Kayne's ill-bred behaviour as he now claimed? He had used the word ‘offensive'. And had he really remained entirely aloof from the quarrels between the two trustees? It was to be remarked, too, that the alibi he put forward had no independent evidence to support it, and he admitted having finished his letters in time for him to have reached the scene of the murder by ten. Apparently it would have been easy for him to slip both out and in again unperceived.

On one point Mr. Broast was emphatic. He repudiated with scorn the mere possibility of there being even a modicum of truth in Virtue's story.

“Barefaced lie, pure invention,” he declared. “The shutters were closed, and how could he see through them? Even if the shutters had been opened again, which they weren't, for there was no one to do it, he could have seen nothing in the dark.”

“He suggested,” remarked Bobby, “that the light might have come from a strong electric torch.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Mr. Broast. “Just a pack of lies. There's a lot of rare valuable stuff here. That's what he was after. Hired by some rascally collector perhaps—some of them would stop at nothing. Or perhaps he's a collector himself. The tale he told was his first move. He was trying to get in here when I wasn't present. Then, while your men were searching for a dead body that didn't exist, would be his opportunity to pocket something.”

The Major looked impressed. Put like that, it sounded plausible. He remembered, too, that Virtue had admitted that one of his relatives was ‘crazy' about books and first editions and so on. Perhaps that relative was himself. There had been, too, his insistence on his right, as he had called it, to be present at the search he demanded. All very suggestive. Major Harley glanced at Bobby, who, as a matter of fact, was thinking on much the same lines. He said:

“We are of course considering every possibility. A cable has been sent, asking for information about Mr. Virtue's identity and standing, though at present there does not seem much reason to think he is concerned in the murder. There is one more little matter and then I think we shan't have to worry you any more at present, though I'm afraid I can't promise we won't return. It's possible there may still be information you can help us with. We have not been able to find the pistol used, so as a matter of routine we are checking all we know of. Apparently Kayne was shot with a three-two, and I think I'm right in saying you have a permit for a Colt revolver, a three-two?”

“Yes, it's here,” answered Mr. Broast, pointing to one of the drawers of his writing table. “Very necessary. We have to admit the public once a month. Anyone could easily lay hands on items worth thousands of pounds.”

“I suppose you've missed nothing lately?” the Major asked.

“Certainly not,” snapped Mr. Broast. “I take my precautions. That is what I have a revolver for—in case of emergencies. I know how to use it, too. I took lessons.”

The Major glanced at Bobby. This seemed finally to dispose of the vague accusations Miss Kayne had seemed to want to make against the little typist. Mr. Broast closed with a bang the drawer he had been looking in and opened another. He said:

“It ought to be there. Of course, any thief would have to know what to take and what to leave.” He pointed to a shelf near. “One of those books,” he said, “is the Caxton
Dictes
, almost perfect copy—mint condition. It would fetch a nice little sum at auction if anyone got the chance and knew enough to pick it out.”

“Most interesting,” murmured the Major, looking at the indicated shelf and wondering which was the volume referred to, since to him they all seemed much alike. He added: “You won't mind our taking your pistol away for examination?”

“No. I can't see it,” Mr. Broast said. He opened yet another drawer. He closed it and looked at them. “It's gone,” he said uneasily. “It's been taken. Someone's stolen it.”

In spite of the sharp questioning to which he was subjected, Mr. Broast either could or would tell them no more. The revolver had been there and now it had vanished, and that was all knew. He was not even certain when he had seen it last. Not for some days he thought. He scowled and frowned a good deal, too, at the questioning to which he was subjected—he was certainly not blessed with the most equable of tempers—and often returned testy answers. Finally he refused flatly to say anything more, and tried to order the Major and Bobby out of the library, whereupon he had to be reminded sharply that a case of murder was under investigation.

“If you take that attitude, Mr. Broast,” Major Harley said, “I shall certainly ‘clear out' as you express it, but you will accompany me. I shall detain you for inquiries. Before you force me into action of that kind, I suggest you had better think well.”

“You have no right to do any such thing,” almost shouted Mr. Broast. “You've no warrant.”

“I don't need a warrant,” retorted the Major, “to detain a person under grave suspicion of complicity in murder who refuses to answer questions.”

Mr. Broast had been standing up and hammering on the table with his clenched fists, had indeed looked almost as if preparing to launch a physical attack on them in spite of his age and the fact that they were two and he only one. But at this he sat down abruptly. His face, flushed with anger, turned very pale. Trembling a little, his voice stammering and low and different indeed from the tone he had been using, he said:

“Good God, you don't mean you think I shot young Kayne?”

“You are under the gravest suspicion, much intensified by your present attitude,” retorted the Major.

“Why on earth do you suppose I should want to do anything like that?” demanded the librarian. “I had hardly anything to do with him.”