Man with the Dark Beard (19 page)

Arrived, the inspector produced his ticket and received a small, old-fashioned Gladstone bag. He wrinkled up his brow as he looked at it.

“Now, what the dickens –”

He beckoned to one of the station constables and after a very short delay was taken to a small room at the back of the office. The bag was set on a table and, with Harbord and the station detective looking on, the inspector took out a bunch of keys and turned one of them in the very ordinary lock with little difficulty. Inside there was first a box, then a quantity of papers; lastly, carefully wrapped in paper, a curious, bedraggled-looking object. The eyes of the detectives were riveted upon this.

“What on earth is it? It looks like hair,” Harbord said, bending over it.

“It is hair.” The inspector caught it up. “Heavens, man! Don't you see what it is? An artificial brown beard!”

“Ah!” Harbord drew in his breath sharply. “Then that means –”

“We don't know what it means yet,” the inspector rejoined sharply.

He put it back in its paper and turned to the box, which Harbord had lifted out and placed on a chair beside the table. Stoddart started and looked at it more closely. How long and fruitlessly he had been searching for a red lacquer box with golden dragons sprawling over it, and yet when it stood before him he had not recognized it! He took it up and scrutinized it. Where had it been, he asked himself, all this time he had been looking for it? If only inanimate things could speak! 

*“It is empty, sir,” Harbord's voice interrupted at this juncture. “I looked as I took it out. It is a bit awkward about the catch, though.” Stoddart was still staring at the box silently. Then he put it on the table and pointed to it, touching Harbord's arm.

“Don't you know that this box has been advertised for in every police station in the country?”

It was Harbord's turn to stare now. “No, I never saw it before.”

“Saw it before!” The inspector laughed bitterly. “Neither did I! But I have been looking for it for weeks. Heavens, man! Don't you recognize it now? Dr. John Bastow's Chinese box. The one that was taken from his consulting-room on the day of the murder.”

“Great heavens!” Harbord drew a long breath. “This –this will alter everything, sir – clear Dr. Sanford Morris.”

“I don't know about that, though it will upset a good many preconceived notions, I fancy,” the inspector said, turning back to the tin box which was now empty of all but paper – newspaper for the most part. He took up the top one, a sheet of the “Daily Wire” for March 12th – the day of Dr. Bastow's death – another sheet, a portion of the same issue. A large piece of brown paper at the top of the box had a white label bearing the name of a big London shop and directed in a plain, clerkly hand to Dr. Bastow, 17 Park Road —. The date at the top was that of the day preceding the doctor's death.

The inspector after a moment's pause gathered everything together and, putting artificial beard, Chinese box and paper all back in the bag, locked it up again. Then he turned to the station inspector.

“Our first job must be to find out who brought this to the station and at what time on June the –” glancing at the ticket.

“That oughtn't to be very difficult,” the other said. “A glance at the books will tell us who was on duty at the time, and the one who received the bag should be able to remember something about it. One minute, I will make inquiries.”

He went off. The other two looked at one another.

Harbord was the first to speak.

“Well, of all the rum goes, sir! I suppose there can be little doubt that this beard was worn by Dr. Bastow's murderer? And this is the Chinese box which contained the particulars of the discovery to obtain which Dr. Sanford Morris was supposed to have committed the murder?”

“Yes, of course,” the inspector said in a curiously uninterested tone, continuing to stare at the bag as though he would wring its secrets from it. “There is nothing in it now, however. But there are one or two curious points – Ah, here they are!”

The station detective came in with a dapper-looking young man with ginger hair.

“Here we are, inspector, I just caught him,” the former said with an air of congratulation. “Mr. Meakin remembers the bag being brought in, and thinks he can recall the man who brought it.”

“Does he? Good!” the inspector said approvingly. “Well, Mr. Meakin, will you tell us all you can?”

Mr. Meakin appeared to be rather nervous. “Well, as far as I can remember, it was not very long after I came on duty at six. I can't fix it nearer than that. The day is made certain in my mind by the ticket and the day-book and also because I heard the next morning of the dreadful death in Hawksview Mansions. And I took particular notice of that because my young lady is employed by an elderly lady living in the Mansions. So of course she could talk of nothing but the Wiltons for about a week. The night of the murder I took her to a dance at a night club, and I met her outside the Mansions at 8.30. Of course the poor thing was lying there dead at the time – only we didn't know it. But I got what I did that day fixed in my mind by that.”

“Which flat was your young lady in, how near the Wiltons'?” the inspector inquired.

“Two floors above, it was. But I can't say more than that, never having been in it myself,” Mr. Meakin answered, his nervousness developing into a stammer.

The inspector looked at his notes and cogitated for a minute.

“Two floors above. They would hear nothing of the shot there.”

“They did not,” Mr. Meakin assured him with stuttering haste. “She – my young lady – has often said since it happened she wished she had left earlier, as she did sometimes about five o'clock. Then going or coming she might have seen or heard something that would have cleared Mr. Wilton. A pleasant looking young couple they were, him and his poor wife. My young lady says so.”

“Oh, she knew them by sight?” the inspector said in some surprise.

“Yes. She rendered Mrs. Wilton some slight service one day, and the poor thing always passed the time of day with her afterwards. And she noticed Mr. Wilton when he came, being more or less of an invalid and taking Mrs. Wilton's arm as they went to the lift.”

“Ah, I think I must have a little chat with your young lady some day,” the inspector said, dismissing the subject. “Now, Mr. Meakin, to come back to this bag being brought here, can you give me any sort of description of the person who brought it – man or woman?”

Mr. Meakin shuffled his feet together uneasily. “Man, sir. I am quite clear about that. Not that I took much notice of him, not having occasion to, I am sure I shouldn't know him again – not unless I heard him speak.”

“And then –” the inspector said persuasively. “Was there something about his speech by which you could identify him?”

“Well, I think I might,” the clerk said uneasily. “That is, I noticed him because he spoke in a mumbling sort of way, as if he had plums in his mouth – just the few words he did say.”

“His appearance,” the inspector went on, “can you tell me whether he was tall or short?”

“Tallish, I fancy,” Meakin responded uncertainly. “Anyway he did not look short – not shorter than me I don't think.”

This was not particularly enlightening. The inspector stroked his chin meditatively.

Meakin watched him in silence for a minute or two. Then his face lighted up.

“One thing I can remember, inspector. He had a short, dark beard.”

“Ah!” The inspector drew a deep breath. “Well, then, you say you could identify him if you saw him? I think we shall probably call upon you to see whether you can make your words good within a few days. You shall hear from us.”

Thus dismissed Meakin departed with a curious duck of his head, probably intended for a farewell bow.

The station detective looked at Stoddart. “I don't suppose we shall get much further. But I will have inquiries made to see whether anyone else saw the bag or its owner and let you know.” When they had got well away from the station Harbord looked across at his superior.

“Well, of all the rum goes! That he should crop up again!”

The inspector looked at him fixedly “What do you mean?”

“The Man with the Dark Beard,” Harbord said, meeting the inspector's eyes steadily. “Who is he, inspector?”

“Who is he, Harbord?” Stoddart mimicked. “When we know that and can prove it” – with emphasis – “we shall know and have solved the two mysteries – that of Dr. Bastow's death and of Iris Wilton's. Now our next step –”

“Yes?” Harbord said interrogatively. “After all, the discovery of the box does not definitely connect the two crimes, beyond the finding of the cloak-room ticket in Wilton's coat.”

“And that will be a strong enough connexion for most people, I fancy,” the inspector said cynically.

“If Wilton committed both murders he must be a homicidal maniac,” Harbord went on slowly. “He first kills Dr. Bastow presumably because the doctor will not allow him to marry his daughter, for no other motive has ever been arrived at. And then not apparently caring enough for Miss Bastow to remain constant to her for a few weeks he marries the doctor's pretty secretary, now a rich young woman, on her own, and murders her within three weeks. No possible motive that I can see except to possess himself of her money. And –”

“And that is no motive at all,” the inspector said slowly, “since no money of Iris Wilton's can be found except the ready money at her account in the Bank and a couple of hundred in the Argentine Loan. If she had any other, the most stringent inquiries have failed to trace it. I heard half an hour before we started from Fowler, who is on the job.”

Harbord twisted his face up as if he were about to whistle.

“Who did she blackmail?”

“Ah! That,” said the inspector dryly, “is a question a good many of us would like answered.”

Hawksview Mansions Mystery. Dramatic Development. Discovery of the pistol with which Mrs. Wilton was shot. Arrest of the murdered woman's husband. The bag at the cloak-room.

The newspaper lay upon the breakfast table at Rose Cottage. Hilary Bastow was staring at it with dry, miserable eyes. The “Daily Wire” had really excelled itself this morning. The headlines in extra large type ran across the front page. Beneath there was a highly coloured account of the discoveries at the flat. “The revolver on the wardrobe” was a secondary heading at the top of the first column. The next inquired pertinently: “What is the meaning of the false beard and the Chinese box?”

As plainly as it dared while the case was
sub judice
, the “Daily Wire” indicated that not only had Basil Wilton shot his wife, but that he was also the long sought-for murderer of Dr. John Bastow. There could be no doubt that the revolver and the cloak-room ticket found in his waistcoat pocket, combined with the contents of the bag at the railway station, did make the whole affair look extremely black against Basil Wilton.

Even Hilary could see no way out of it. Her faith in her whilom lover had never faltered hitherto, in spite of his treachery to her. But this morning she could not help asking herself whether it could be possible that she had been deceived all along. As she sat there gazing at the paper with unseeing eyes, she told herself that it was – it must be a miserable dream from which she would presently awaken to find herself a happy girl in her father's house, with her young lover by her side. Then her future had seemed to be all bathed in golden sunshine. Now it was veiled in horrible darkness; and in the horizon there loomed that dense, awful cloud of which she dared not even let herself think.

The door opened softly and Miss Lavinia Priestley came into the room and laid her hands on the girl's shoulders.

“Ah, you have seen it, Hilary! I hoped I should be in time to tell you before you had the paper.”

“Aunt Lavinia!” Hilary sprang to her feet and swung round to confront her aunt. “It's not true – not a word of it. Doesn't everybody say the ‘Daily Wire' is a horrible rag?” She crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor.

“Well, I don't hold a brief for the ‘Daily Wire.' Heaven forbid that I should!” observed Miss Lavinia dispassionately. “Personally I rather enjoy a glance at it with my breakfast – don't feel up to the ‘Times Literary Supplement' then. And the ‘Wire' is a cheerful gossipy sort of paper that goes well with your bacon and eggs, though to be sure what it tells you one day it generally contradicts the next. But this morning all the papers tell the same tale.”

“I don't care if they do,” Hilary said, stamping her foot. “Basil did not kill Dad. Why should he? They were always friendly. Dad liked him very much – until that last day, and he knew – Basil knew that Dad would have been kind to us – when he had had time to realize – things.”

“Should say the man is mad myself,” Miss Lavinia said, avoiding her niece's eyes. “Always thought he was myself when he married that sly-faced creature. Wouldn't have had her in my house for ten fortunes. I don't wonder he shot her. Aggravating little fool! I dare say I should have shot her myself if I had had to live with her.”

“Aunt Lavinia!” Hilary turned upon her passionately. “How can you speak as if you thought Basil was guilty?”

“My dear Hilary!” Miss Lavinia's countenance was fully of pity. “It is no use trying to shirk facts: you have got to face them. That is why I came hurrying to you after I had seen the evening papers. How did your father's Chinese box and that false beard get into Basil Wilton's bag at the cloak-room, if he was innocent? Tell me that!”

“Oh, I don't know!” Hilary said in a tone of wrathful impatience. “The tickets may have got mixed together, or something of that kind. Anyway, it's no use your talking, Aunt Lavinia – or the ‘Daily Wire' – or – or anything. I know Basil is innocent.”