Elk 04 White Face (8 page)

“You haven’t seen him? You told me you hadn’t. When did you see him?”

Michael licked his dry lips. Donald Bateman! So that was his name! He walked across to her and laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

“My dear, how perfectly rotten for you!” he said huskily. “Isn’t it?”

“Do you think that is true? That he is—what Carl says he is?”

“Yes,” he said. “You gave him the ring, didn’t you?”

She made an impatient little gesture.

“That was nothing; it had no value except a sentimental one—which made it rather appropriate,” she added bitterly.

There was something he had to ask, something so difficult that he could hardly frame the words.

“There are no complications, are there?”

She looked up at him wonderingly.

“Complications? What do you mean, Michael?”

She saw that he avoided her gaze.

“Well, I mean, you aren’t married already secretly married, you know? It can be done three days.”

She shook her head.

“Why should I? Of course not.”

He fetched a long sigh of relief.

“Thank the Lord for that!” he said. “Are you fond of him? Not too fond, are you, Janice?”

“No. I’ve been a mad schoolgirl, haven’t I? I’ve been realising it all the evening, that I didn’t—love him. I wonder if you’ll believe it…I haven’t even kissed him-ugh!”

He patted her shoulder gently.

“Naturally my pride is hurt, but I haven’t crashed so utterly as I should if I—well, if this thing had gone on before I found it out. You’ll never laugh at me, will you, Michael?”

She put up her hand and laid it on that which rested on her shoulder.

“No, I shan’t laugh at you.”

She sat gazing into the glowing electric fire, and then:

“Why did you ask about the ring?”

He made the plunge.

“Because I’ve been lying about it to Mason—Superintendent Mason of Scotland Yard.”

She was up on her feet instantly, here eyes wide with alarm.

“Scotland Yard! Have they got the ring? Have they arrested him? Michael, what is it?” She gripped his arm. “You’re hiding something—what is it?”

“I’ve been hiding something—yes. I’ve been hiding from Mason the fact that the ring was yours. It was in Endley Street. I picked it up myself, near the place where the body of a murdered man was found.”

“A murdered man was found in Endley Street.” She repeated the words slowly. “That was the case you were on…Who was it? Not Donald Bateman?”

He nodded.

“O God, how awful!”

He thought she was going to faint, but when he reached out to catch her she pushed him back.

“He was stabbed by some person unknown,” said Michael. “I—I’ve seen him. That’s how I knew about the scar.”

She was very still and white but she showed no other signs of distress.

“What was he doing there?” she asked. “He didn’t know the neighbourhood; he told me to-day he’d never been there before in his life. Nobody knows who did it?”

He shook his head.

“Nobody. When I saw the ring I recognised it at once. Like a fool I gave myself away, and Mason, who’s as sharp as a packet of needles, knew I was lying when I told him I had never seen it before. He may advertise the ring to-morrow unless I tell him.”

“Then tell him,” she said instantly. “Dead! It’s unbelievable!”

She sat down in the chair again, her face in her hands. He thought she was on the verge of a breakdown, but when she raised her face to him her eyes were tearless.

“You had better go back, my dear. I shan’t do anything stupid—but I’m afraid I shan’t sleep. Will you come early in the morning and let me know what has been discovered? I intended going to see Dr. Marford to-morrow to ask him to let me come back to the clinic, but I don’t think I can for a day or two.”

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he said, but she smiled faintly.

“You’re talking as if I were a mid-Victorian heroine,” she said. “No, my dear, you go. I’d like to be alone for a little while.”

And then, to his great embarrassment, she raised his hand and kissed it.

“I’m being motherly,” she said.

If there were no tears in her eyes, pain was there. He thought it wise of him to leave at once, and he went back to Tidal Basin to find the streets alive with police, for two important things had happened; two new phases of the drama had been enacted in his absence.

“One thing she told me,” said Bray over the wire; “the flat is packed with South African curios. If this girl’s story is true, there are two knives similar to the one with which the murder was committed—they hang on a belt in the hall. She described the sheath exactly, and said they both had the initials of Landor, and that he got them as prizes in South America, where he lived for some years.”

“Hang on,” were Mason’s instructions. “Elk’s gone up to join you. Report to me here or at Scotland Yard. I am making a search on my own.”

He had on his desk the contents of Mrs. Weston’s bag, including the worn hypodermic case that Dr. Marford had produced. The case puzzled him, because it was old and the little syringe had evidently been used many times. And yet Marford had given it as his opinion that the woman was not an addict and that it was only the second time that the needle had been used.

There were a few letters, a bill or two from a West End milliner. Evidently Lorna Weston, in spite of the poverty-stricken neighbourhood in which she lived, spared no expense in the adornment of her person. He found two five-pound notes, half a dozen Treasury bills, a little silver and a bunch of keys, and it was with these keys that, in company with Sergeant Shale, he made his way to the mystery woman’s apartments.

What Mrs. Albert had described as “the grand part of Tidal Basin,” consisted of two or three streets of well-built villas. There were several shops here, and it was over one of these, a large grocery store, that Mrs. Weston had her apartments, which were approached by a side door and a short passage. From this ran a flight of rather steep steps to a landing above.

The place was fitted with electric light and had, he saw, a telephone of its own. He climbed the stairs and was staggered to find that the landing had been painted and decorated in the West End style. Parchment-covered walls, white metal wall-brackets and soft-shaded lamps gave the approach to the apartment the appearance of luxury.

The front room was the parlour, and was tastefully furnished, and this was the case with the other rooms, including an expensively fitted kitchenette.

Mr. Mason was essentially a man of the world. He knew that this style of living was consistent with the earnings of no profession, reputable or otherwise. Either Mrs. Weston had a private income of her own or else—

He remembered that the woman at the police station had spoken of her coming into a lot of money. That might be an explanation. But why did she choose this ghastly neighbourhood in which to live?

There was a small writing-table in the drawing-room, but a search of this—the drawers were unlocked—revealed nothing that was in any way satisfactory to the searcher. It was in the bedroom that he and his assistant decided to make their most careful scrutiny. This was the room next to the drawing-room and the last to be visited. As soon as he switched on the lights, Mason realised that something unusual had happened. The drawers of the dressing-table had been pulled out, the plate-glass door of the wardrobe stood wide open. On the floor was a medley of garments and wearing apparel, and amidst them Mason saw the corner of a black box. He went quickly to this. It had been locked, but somebody had broken open the lid. Scattered about the floor were oddments and papers. There was no framed photograph. What he did see was a small cardboard cylinder. He picked it up and squinted through it; it was empty.

The cylinder interested him, because he knew it was the kind in which marriage certificates were kept; and however unhappy a marriage might be, that little slip of paper is one with which no woman parts willingly.

“Get the men in and we’ll dust the place for fingerprints,” he said.

He had hardly spoken the words before he saw lying on the bed a pair of white cotton gloves. The intruder had taken no risks. He examined them carefully, but they told him nothing except that they were white cotton gloves which had been carefully washed, probably by their user.

When had the burglar come, and how had he secured admission? The door below had not been forced; only the black box, which, he guessed, had been in the bottom drawer of the bureau when it was found, for nothing in this drawer had been disturbed, and there was a space which such a box might have occupied.

Of clues by which he could judge the time, there was none.

“There’s somebody knocking on the door down below,” said Shale. “Shall I see who it is?”

“No, wait; I’ll go.”

Mason went quickly down the stairs and opened the door. A woman was standing there with a shawl over her head to protect her from the rain. She looked dubiously at Mason standing in the light, and edged farther back. It struck him that she was ready to run.

“Is everything all right?” she asked nervously.

“Everything is all wrong,” said Mason. And then, recognising her timidity and guessing the reason: “Don’t worry—I’m a police officer.”

He saw she was relieved.

“I’m the caretaker of the house opposite; the lady is away in the country; and I was wondering whether I ought to go to the police or not.”

“Then you saw somebody go into this flat to-night?” asked Mason quickly.

“I saw them come out,” she said. “I wouldn’t even have taken notice of that if it hadn’t been for the white thing—”

“What white thing? You mean, it was somebody with a white mask?” Mason snapped the question at her.

“I won’t swear to who it was, but I will swear that he had white on his face. I saw it as plain as can be in the light of the street lamp. I’ve had toothache all night and I’ve been sitting in our front parlour—”

He cut short her narrative.

“When did you see this somebody come out?” he asked.

It was less than a quarter of an hour ago. She had also seen him and Shale enter and, believing that they were police officers, she had ventured to come over and knock at the door. He questioned her closely as to how the burglar had been dressed, and the description was a familiar one: the long coat that reached to the heels, the black felt hat and the white mask. He learned one characteristic which had never before been noticed: the man limped painfully. She was very sure of this. He came in no car and went away walking, and had disappeared round the corner of the block, in the direction opposite to that which the two detectives had followed on their way to the flat.

Shale came down and took a shorthand note of her statement, and then the two men returned to the flat and made an even more careful scrutiny in the hope that White Face might have left something else behind than his gloves.

“I don’t even know that these won’t tell us something.”

Mason put the gloves carefully into a paper bag and slipped them into his pocket.

“Then it’s true, White Face is an institution here.”

“They all think so,” said Shalee. “The little thieves round here glorify him!”

Mason returned to the station, a very much baffled man. He had two pieces of evidence, and these he had locked away in the station safe. He took out the ring and the capsule and brought them into the inspector’s room. The garrulous Rudd would be able to tell him something about this. He opened the door and called to the station sergeant.

“I suppose Dr. Rudd will be in bed by now?”

“No, sir; he rang me up a quarter of an hour ago. He said he was coming round to offer rather a startling theory. Those were his words—‘rather a startling theory.’”

Mason groaned.

“It’ll be startling all right! Get him on the ‘phone and ask him if he’ll step round. Don’t mention the theory. I want him to identify a medicine.”

He examined the ring through a magnifying-glass, but there was nothing that could tell him a twentieth of what Michael Quigley could have told.

“That Quigley knows something,” grumbled Mason. “I nearly had it out of him, too.”

“What could he know, sir?” asked Shale.

“He knows who owns that ring,” nodded Mason. The station sergeant opened the door and looked in. “Dr. Rudd went out five minutes ago on his way, sir,” he said, “and there’s a message for you from the Yard.”

It was from the Information Bureau. The mysterious Donald had been located.

“His name is Donald Bateman,” said the reporting detective. “He arrived from South Africa three weeks ago and is staying at the Little Norfolk Hotel, Norfolk Street, The description tallies with the description you sent us, Mr. Mason.”

“He’s not in the hotel now by any chance?”

“No, sir, he went out this evening, wearing a dinner jacket, and said he wouldn’t be back till midnight. He hasn’t been seen since. He has a scar under his chin—that corresponds with your description, too—and he’s about the same height as the murdered man.”

“Pass his name to the Identification Bureau,” said Mason, “see if we have any record of him and—don’t go away, my lad—post a man in the hotel. If Mr. Donald Bateman doesn’t return by seven o’clock tomorrow morning have his trunks removed to Cannon Row Police Station and held until I come and search them,”

He hung up the receiver.

“Donald Bateman, eh? That’s something to go on, Mr. Bray hasn’t rung up?”

“No, sir.”

Mason strolled back to the inspector’s room and resumed his examination of the ring and the capsule.

“Yes, Michael knows all about the ring or I’m a Dutchman. The young devil nearly fainted when he found it.”

“Where could the ring and the capsule have come from?” asked Shale.

“Where else could they have come from than out of Donald Bateman’s pocket? You’ve heard all the witnesses examined: they agree that when Bateman fell he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and tried to get something out. He probably got both these things in his hand; they rolled down the sidewalk into the gutter, and they wouldn’t have been found then but for Michael. I’ll say that of the kid, he’s got good instincts.”

He looked at his watch.

“How far does the doctor live from here?”

“Not four minutes’ walk,” said Shale, who had been sent to fetch the divisional surgeon when the murder was reported.

“Then he ought to be here by now. Ring him again.”

But Dr. Rudd’s housekeeper insisted that he had left ten minutes before.

“Go out and see if you can find him.”

Mason was suddenly serious. He mistrusted the doctor’s theories; he mistrusted more his garrulity. A man who talks all the time and whose topics are limited in number must inevitably say something which the police would rather he did not say. He hoped he had not met a friend on the way.

In a little under ten minutes Shale came back. He had been as far as the doctor’s house but had seen no sign of Rudd. It was a comparatively short and straightforward walk.

“He may be with Dr. Marford. Ring him.”

But Marford could offer no explanation, except that he had been in his surgery and that Rudd had passed, tapping on the big surgery window to say good night.

“And frightened me out of my skin,” complained Dr. Marford. “I hadn’t the slightest idea who it was until I went up and looked behind the blinds.”

The distance from the doctor’s surgery to the police station was less than two hundred yards, but there was another way, through Gallows Alley, an unwholesome short cut, by which the distance could be cut off some fifty yards. As nobody ever went into Gallows Alley, except those lost souls who dragged out their dreary existence there, it was presumable that Rudd had taken the longest route.

The lower end of Gallows Alley ran out through a tunnel-shaped opening flush with and a few yards north of Dr. Marford’s side door. In the days when drunken sailormen from the docks and wharves were as common as lamp-posts, Gallows Alley was a place of picturesque infamy. It was no longer picturesque.

A Chinaman had a tiny lodging-house there in which he housed an incredible number of his fellow countrymen. Four or five Italian families lived in another house, and other families less easy to describe dwelt in the others. It was said that the police went down Gallows Alley in pairs. That is not true. They never went at all, and only with the greatest circumspection when bona fide cries of “Murder!” called for their attention.

Dr. Marford was one of the few people who went down that lane day or night voluntarily and suffered no harm. Did he wish, he could tell hair-raising stories of what he had seen and heard in that malodorous thoroughfare, but he was from choice a poor raconteur.

“I shouldn’t think Rudd would go down there,” he said in answer to the superintendent’s inquiry. “At any rate, if you have any doubt I’ll go myself.”