Without Trace

At ten o'clock, Tranter and Monsieur Dupont stood with Inspector Fay in the garden. The Rev. Percival Delamere joined them a few minutes later, and the theatrical manager arrived shortly afterwards. Finally, still in the same half-dazed condition, George Copplestone emerged from the house.

"Mon Dieu," Monsieur Dupont whispered quickly. "Look at that man!"

His face was white, with a sickly pasty whiteness. In the few hours that had passed he seemed to have wasted to a startling gauntness. His cheeks were drawn, his sunken eyes dull and filmy. He moved slowly and heavily, as if compelling himself under an utter weariness.

"What do you want first?" he asked the inspector curtly. "First," replied Inspector Fay, "I want to be shown the spot where the body was found."

Copplestone led the way across the lawns. In the daylight Monsieur Dupont eagerly followed the maze of winding paths and hedges that had imprisoned him so helplessly in the darkness. It was a veritable looking-glass garden. The end of every path mocked its beginning. To reach an object it was necessary to walk away from it. To arrive at the bank of the river, Copplestone conducted his followers in the opposite direction.

"This garden might have been designed for a crime," the inspector remarked, as they turned yet another corner.

"It was," Monsieur Dupont agreed from the rear. "It was designed for the most abominable crime of making men and women go backwards instead of forwards. And last night it attained the height of its purpose."

For an instant Copplestone glanced back at him, a quickening in his dull eyes. A moment afterwards they turned a final corner, and emerged on to the broad lawns, sloping down to the edge of the river. Copplestone halted, and looked round, measuring distances. Then he moved on, keeping close to the trees.

"About here, I think," said the clergyman, pausing.

Copplestone stopped a few paces ahead.

"It was very dark," he said, looking at the ground. "I don't think I knew exactly where we were. As near as I can judge, it was just here."

"There ought to have been some sign left to mark the place when the body was taken away," the inspector said sharply.

"You will find," said the quiet voice of Monsieur Dupont, "a pencil in the ground at the exact spot. It is a useful pencil, and I should be obliged if you would kindly return it to me."

The inspector shot him a rather grim smile. All, except Copplestone, bent down to look for the sign.

"Here it is," Tranter exclaimed, pulling a pencil out of the ground. They stood aside to give the inspector room.

"The rain has washed away any traces that might have helped us," that official grumbled, after a fruitless search.

"And even if it had not," the manager observed, "you would only have found traces of all of us, as we were all here."

The inspector continued his examination. Copplestone stood apart, his eyes fixed on the river. He did not appear to be taking the slightest interest in the proceedings.

"In what position was the body lying?" the inspector asked, looking up at the clergyman.

"It was so horribly contorted that it is difficult to say in what position it was lying," the latter replied, bending down beside him. "The head, I think, lay towards the river, and the feet towards the trees."

"It was so when we came," Copplestone corroborated, without turning his head.

"There are no signs of a struggle here," said the inspector, straightening himself after another pause. "If there had been one, some of the heavier indications might have remained in spite of the rain." "It is possible," Monsieur Dupont suggested, "that the body was carried here from the place where the struggle did take place."

"Quite possible," the inspector agreed. He turned to Tranter. "Will you show us now, Mr. Tranter, where you parted from Miss Manderson?"

"I am not familiar with the garden," Tranter replied. "I only know, as I told you last night, that we had just passed under some arches across the path. I do not know where they are."

"Mr. Copplestone will show us," said the inspector.

Copplestone started at the sound of his own name, and turned to them.

"What next?" he asked abruptly.

"The rose arches," returned the inspector.

Copplestone indicated an opening in the trees, some distance ahead of them.

"Over here," he directed, moving towards it.

There were twelve ornamental arches, overgrown with roses. Monsieur Dupont looked at the wealth of flowers almost with reverence.

"So far," he muttered, "the only innocent things I have seen in this garden."

Tranter stopped at a point where several paths intersected.

"I left her here," he said. "I went down that path to the right, which she told me would lead to the main lawns where I should be most likely to Mr. Copplestone. She said she was going straight back to the house."

"She should have taken that path," Copplestone said, turning to one in another direction. "That is the way to the house."

"Did she know the garden well?" asked the inspector.

"Perfectly well."

"Still, she might easily have taken a wrong turning in the darkness."

"She might. But it is about the straightest path in the garden. I don't think she would have made a mistake."

Slowly and carefully Inspector Fay followed the path to the house, under the guidance of Copplestone. Every yard of the way was examined, but yielded nothing. The inspector's face became darker and darker. He stopped when they turned a corner and found themselves at the house.

"She could not possibly have got so far as this before the attack was made," he said discontentedly.

"Impossible," agreed the manager. "If the murderer had killed her here, he would have left her here. He would not have taken the risk of dragging her all the way to the river."

"It seems a curious thing," the clergyman remarked, "that apparently she did not utter any cry for help."

"Ah!" said Monsieur Dupont quietly.

He looked at the clergyman with a new interest. Copplestone also glanced at him quickly.

"Even the thunder would hardly have drowned a sharp cry, and some one would surely have heard it."

"Probably she hadn't time," suggested the manager. "No doubt he sprang out and attacked her from the back. He must have been as quick as the lightning itself."

Monsieur Dupont drew Tranter aside. "Our clerical friend does not realize the importance of his own point," he said softly. "But he has put his finger on the key to the whole mystery."

"The key?" Tranter repeated.

"If Christine Manderson had uttered a cry for help, this would have been a simple, straightforward case," said Monsieur Dupont. "In the fact that she did not lies the whole secret of the crime."

"Bolsover's reason would seem to be the obvious one," Tranter returned. "The assault must have been made so quickly that she had no time."

"Mr. Bolsover's reason is, as you say, the obvious one," admitted Monsieur Dupont. "But it is not the correct one. I have already warned Inspector Fay to disregard the obvious. If he will not take my advice, that is his affair."

"But what do you mean?" asked Tranter.

Monsieur Dupont's voice sank lower.

"Don't you see that a cry for help would have completely transformed the whole case? It would have brought it down in one crash to a human level. It is the silence—the utter, horrible silence—that makes it what it is. It is the silence——"

The inspector's voice recalled them.

"Now, Mr. Bolsover, just whereabouts was Layton when you disturbed him?"

"He was sneaking round there," the manager replied, pointing to a corner of the house, "towards the drawing-room windows."

"Which path did he run to when he saw you?"

"That one—to the river."

"Does that path communicate anywhere with the one which we presume Miss Manderson was following to the house?"

"Yes," said Copplestone.

They moved along the path indicated by the manager. It twisted about unproductively for some distance.

"How far was he in front of you?" asked the inspector.

"I don't know," confessed the manager. "I should say about ten yards when we started—but I am not much of a runner. I had lost him altogether before I got here." They went on.

"That cursed rain," the inspector muttered.

"This is the branch that leads to the other path," said Copplestone, halting.

"And it was further along there, by that fir tree that I met Monsieur Dupont," added the manager.

"That is so," agreed Monsieur Dupont. "Layton certainly did not come beyond this point in my direction."

"By taking that branch," the inspector calculated, "he would have met Miss Manderson just at the time that the crime was committed."

"He would," said the manager.

Monsieur Dupont turned again to Tranter.

"We must be quick," he whispered, "Layton is already hanged."

"There doesn't seem to be much chance for him," returned Tranter. "It will be a very strong case. No criminal could complain at being hanged on such evidence."

"And yet," said Monsieur Dupont slowly, "so far as the actual crime is concerned, there is not a single trace. Not one single trace. Is it not extraordinary?"

He doubled his fists.

"That luck!" he ground out angrily. "Again that luck!"

"What luck?" Tranter exclaimed.

"If that most unfortunate young man had not come here and made a fool of himself last night, the police might have searched forever without finding a clue. There is no clue here. And there was the rain. The very elements sweep up after the passing of the Destroyer."

"What on earth do you mean?" Tranter cried.

"Hush!" said Monsieur Dupont.

"I am obliged to you, gentlemen," said the inspector. "Your evidence will of course be required at the inquest, of which you will receive notice. I need not detain you any longer."

The clergyman and the manager hurried away. Monsieur Dupont lingered at the inspector's side, and Tranter strolled back with Copplestone. "Well?" queried the inspector. "Not much doubt about it, is there?"

"You have a strong case," said Monsieur Dupont. "Very strong."

"You agree with it?"

Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders.

"At all events, I am not in position, at present, to contradict it."

"You will have your work cut out to build up another one," said the inspector complacently. "There isn't a trace."

"That is it," said the other sharply. "There is no trace. There is never a trace." He lowered his voice cautiously. "One point I recommend to you, as I have just recommended it to Tranter—that remark of Mr. Delamere that there was no cry for help."

"What of it?" returned the inspector.

"It is the key," said Monsieur Dupont.

He moved on abruptly, and overtook Tranter.