the deserted flat

When Triffitt had fairly separated from the detective and had come to reckon up the events of that morning he became definitely conscious of one indisputable fact. The police knew more than he did. The police were in possession of information which had not come his way. The police were preparing some big coup. Therefore—the police would get all the glory.

This was not what Triffitt had desired. He had wanted to find things out for himself, to make a grand discovery, to be able to go to Markledew and prove his case. Markledew could then have done what he pleased; it had always been in Triffitt’s mind that Markledew would in all probability present the result of his reporter’s labours to the people at Scotland Yard. But Markledew had become somewhat previous—he had insisted that Triffitt should talk to the Scotland Yard folk at this early—in Triffitt’s view, much too early—stage of the proceedings. And Triffitt had felt all the time he was talking that he was only telling the high official and the apathetic Davidge something that they already knew. He had told them about his memories of Bentham and the Scottish murder trial—something convinced him that they were already well acquainted with that story. He had narrated the incident of the taxi-cab driver: he was sure that they were quite well aware that the man who had been driven from Orchard Street to St. Mary Abbot church that morning after the murder was Barthorpe Herapath. Their cold eyes and polite, yet almost chillingly indifferent manner had convinced Triffitt that they were just listening to something with which they were absolutely familiar. Never a gleam of interest had betrayed itself in their stolid official faces until he had referred to the fact that he himself was living in a flat next door to Burchill’s. Then, indeed, the detective had roused himself almost to eagerness, and now he was coming to see him, Triffitt, quietly and unobtrusively. Why?

“All the same,” mused Triffitt, “I shall maybe prove a small cog in the bigger mechanism, and that’s something. And Markledew was satisfied, anyway, so far. And if I don’t get something out of that chap Davidge tonight, write me down an ass!”

From half-past six that evening, Triffitt, who had previously made some ingenious arrangements with the slit of his letter-box, by which he could keep an eye on the corridor outside, kept watch on Burchill’s door—he had an instinctive notion that Davidge, when he arrived, would be glad to know whether the gentleman opposite was in or out. At a quarter to seven Burchill went out in evening dress, cloak, and opera hat, making a fine figure as he struck the light of the corridor lamp. And ten minutes later Triffitt heard steps coming along the corridor and he opened the door to confront Davidge and another man, a quiet-looking, innocent-visaged person. Davidge waved a hand towards his companion.

“Evening, Mr. Triffitt,” said he. “Friend of mine—Mr. Milsey. You’ll excuse the liberty, I’m sure.”

“Glad to see both of you,” answered Triffitt, cordially. He led the way into his sitting-room, drew chairs forward, and produced refreshments which he had carefully laid in during the afternoon in preparation. “Drop of whisky and soda, gentlemen?” he said, hospitably. “Let me help you. Will you try a cigar?”

“Very kind of you,” replied Davidge. “A slight amount of the liquid’ll do us no harm, but no cigars, thank you, Mr. Triffitt. Cigars are apt to leave a scent, an odour, about one’s clothes, however careful you may be, and we don’t want to leave any traces of our presence where we’re going, do we, Jim?”

“Not much,” assented Mr. Milsey, laconically. “Wouldn’t do.”

Triffitt handed round the glasses and took a share himself.

“Ah!” he said. “That’s interesting! And where are you going, now—if one may ask?”

Davidge nodded his desires for his host’s good health, and then gave him a wink.

“We propose to go in there,” he said with a jerk of his thumb towards Burchill’s flat. “It’s what I’ve been wanting to do for three or four days, but I didn’t see my way clear without resorting to a lot of things—search-warrant, and what not—and it would have meant collusion with the landlord here, and the clerk downstairs, and I don’t know what all, so I put it off a bit. But when you told me that you’d got this flat, why, then, I saw my way! Of course, I’ve been familiar with the lie of these flats for a week—I saw the plans of ’em downstairs as soon as I started on to this job.”

“You’ve been on this job from the beginning, then—in connection with him?” exclaimed Triffitt, nodding towards the door.

“We’ve never had him out of our sight since I started,” replied Davidge, coolly, “except when he’s been within his own four walls—where we’re presently going. Oh, yes—we’ve watched him.”

“He’s out now,” remarked Triffitt.

“We know that,” said Davidge. “We know where he’s gone. There’s a first night, a new play, at the Terpsichoreum—he’s gone there. He’s safe enough till midnight, so we’ve plenty of time. We just want to have a look around his little nest while he’s off it, d’you see?”

“How are you going to get in?” asked Triffitt.

Davidge nodded towards the window of the sitting-room.

“By way of that balcony,” he answered. “I told you I knew all about how these flats are arranged. That balcony’s mighty convenient, for the window’ll not be any more difficult than ordinary.”

“It’ll be locked, you know,” observed Triffitt, with a glance at his own. “Mine is, anyway, and you can bet his will be, too.”

“Oh—that doesn’t matter,” said Davidge, carelessly. “We’re prepared. Show Mr. Triffitt your kit, Jim—all pals here.”

The innocent-looking Mr. Milsey, who, during this conversation, had mechanically sipped at his whisky and soda and reflectively gazed at the various pictures with which the absent Mr. Stillwater had decorated the walls of his parlour, plunged a hand into some deep recess in his overcoat and brought out an oblong case which reminded Triffitt of nothing so much as those Morocco or Russian-leather affairs in which a knife, a fork, and a spoon repose on padded blue satin and form an elegant present to a newly-born infant. Mr. Milsey snapped open the lid of his case, and revealed, instead of spoon or fork or knife a number of shining keys, of all sorts and sizes and strange patterns, all of delicate make and of evidently superior workmanship. He pushed the case across the table to the corner at which Triffitt was sitting, and Davidge regarded it fondly in transit.

“Pretty things, ain’t they?” he said. “Good workmanship there! There’s not very much that you could lock up—in the ordinary way of drawers, boxes, desks, and so on—that Milsey there couldn’t get into with the help of one or other of those little friends—what, Jim?”

“Nothing!—always excepting a safe,” assented Mr. Milsey.

“Well, we don’t suppose our friend next door keeps an article of that description on his premises,” said Davidge cheerfully. “But we expect he’s got a desk, or a private drawer, or something of that nature in which we may find a few little matters of interest and importance—it’s curious, Mr. Triffitt—we’re constantly taking notice of it in the course of our professional duties—it’s curious how men will keep by them bits of paper that they ought to throw into the fire, and objects that they’d do well to cast into the Thames! Ah!—I’ve known one case in which a mere scrap of a letter hanged a man, and another in which a bit of string got a chap fifteen years of the very best—fact, sir! You never know what you may come across during a search.”

“You’re going to search his rooms?” asked Triffitt.

“Something of that sort,” replied Davidge. “Just a look round, you know, and a bit of a peep into his private receptacles.”

“Then—you’re suspecting him in connection with this——” began Triffitt.

Davidge stopped him with a look, and slowly drank off the contents of his glass. Then he rose.

“We’ll talk of those matters later,” he said significantly. “Now that my gentleman’s safely away I think we’ll set to work. It’ll take a bit of time. And first of all, Mr. Triffitt, we’ll examine your balcony door—I know enough about these modern flats to know that everything’s pretty much alike in them as regards fittings, and if your door’s easy to open, so will the door of the next be. Now we’ll just let Jim there go outside with his apparatus, and we’ll lock your balcony door on him, and then see if he finds any difficulty in getting in. To it, Jim!”

Mr. Milsey, thus adjured, went out on the balcony with his little case and was duly locked out. Within two minutes he opened the door and stepped in with a satisfied grin.

“Easy as winking!” said Mr. Milsey. “It’s what you might call one of your penny plain locks, this—and t’other’ll be like it. No difficulty about this job, anyway.”

“Then we’ll get to work,” said Davidge. “Mr. Triffitt, I can’t ask you to come with us, because that wouldn’t be according to etiquette. Sit you down and read your book and smoke your pipe and drink your drop—and maybe we’ll have something to tell you when our job’s through.”

“You’ve no fear of interruption?” asked Triffitt, who would vastly have preferred action to inaction. “Supposing—you know how things do and will turn out sometimes—supposing he came back?”

Davidge shook his head and smiled grimly and knowingly.

“No,” he said. “He’ll not come back—at least, if he did, we should be well warned. I’ve more than one man at work on this job, Mr. Triffitt, and if his lordship changed the course of his arrangements and returned this way, one of my chaps would keep him in conversation while another hurried up here to give us the office by a few taps on the outer door. No!—we’re safe enough. Sit you down and don’t bother about us. Come on, Jim—we’ll get to it.”

Triffitt tried to follow the detective’s advice—he was just then deep in a French novel of the high-crime order, and he picked it up when the two men had gone out on the balcony and endeavoured to get interested in it. But he speedily discovered that the unravelling of crime on paper was nothing like so fascinating as the actual participation in detection of crime in real life, and he threw the book aside and gave himself up to waiting. What were those two doing in Burchill’s rooms? What were they finding? What would the result be?

Certainly Davidge and his man took their time. Eight o’clock came and went—nine o’clock, ten o’clock followed and sped into the past, and they were still there. It was drawing near to eleven, and they had been in those rooms well over three hours, when a slight sound came at Triffitt’s window and Davidge put his head in, to be presently followed by Milsey. Milsey looked as innocent as ever, but it seemed to Triffitt that Davidge looked grave.

“Well?” said Triffitt. “Any luck?”

Davidge drew the curtains over the balcony window before he turned and answered this question.

“Mr. Triffitt,” he said, when at last he faced round, “you’ll have to put us up for the night. After what I’ve found, I’m not going to lose sight, or get out of touch with this man. Now listen, and I’ll tell you, at any rate, something. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock there’s to be a sort of informal inquiry at Mr. Halfpenny’s office into the matter of a will of the date of Jacob Herapath’s—all the parties concerned are going to meet there, and I know that this man Burchill is to be present. I don’t propose to lose sight of him after he returns here tonight until he goes to that office—what happens after he’s once there, you shall see. So Milsey and I’ll just have to trouble you to let me stop here for the night. You can go to your bed, of course—we’ll sit up. I’ll send Milsey out to buy a bit of supper for us—I dare say he’ll find something open close by.”

“No need,” Triffitt hastened to say. “I’ve a cold meat pie, uncut, and plenty of bread, and cheese. And there’s bottled ale, and whisky, and I’ll get you some supper ready at once. So”—he went on, as he began to bustle about—“you did find—something?”

Davidge rubbed his hands and winked first at Milsey and then at Triffitt.

“Wait till tomorrow!” he said. “There’ll be strange news for you newspaper gentlemen before tomorrow night.”

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