davidge’s trump card

Burchill paused for a moment, to give full effect to this dramatic announcement, which, to tell truth, certainly impressed every member of his audience but one. That one skilfully concealed his real feelings under a show of feigned interest.

“You never say!” exclaimed Davidge, dropping into a favourite colloquialism of his native county. “Dear me, today! A man that you knew, Mr. Burchill, and that for the present you’ll call Mr. X. You knew him well, then?”

“Better than I know you,” replied Burchill. He was beginning to be suspicious of Davidge’s tone, and his resentment of it showed in his answer. “Well enough to know him and not to mistake him, anyhow! And mind you, there was nothing surprising in his being there at that time of night—that’s a point that you should bear in mind, Davidge—it’s in your line, that. I knew so much of Jacob Herapath’s methods and doings that it was quite a reasonable thing for this man to be coming out of the estate offices just before midnight.”

“Exactly, sir—I follow you,” said Davidge. “Ah!—and what might this Mr. X. do then, Mr. Burchill?”

Burchill, who had addressed his remarks chiefly to the listeners on the other side of the table, and notably to Cox-Raythwaite, turned away from the detective and went on.

“This man—Mr. X,” he said, “came quickly out of the door, turned down the side-street a little, then turned back, passed the carriage-entrance, and went away up the street in the opposite direction. He turned on his own tracks so quickly that I was certain he had seen somebody coming whom he did not wish to meet. He——”

“Excuse me a moment,” broke in Cox-Raythwaite. “How was it X. didn’t see you?”

“Because I was on the opposite side of the street, in deep shadow,” replied Burchill. “Besides that, the instant I caught sight of him I quietly slipped back into a doorway. I remained there while he turned and hurried up the street, for I was sure he had seen somebody coming, and I wanted to find out who it was. And in another minute Barthorpe Herapath came along, walking quickly. Then I understood—X. had seen him in the distance, and didn’t want to meet him.”

“Just so, just so,” murmured Davidge. “To be sure.”

“Barthorpe Herapath turned into the carriageway and went into the office,” continued Burchill. “Now, as I’ve already said, I knew Jacob Herapath’s methods; I hadn’t served him for nothing. He was the sort of man who makes no distinction between day and night—it was quite a common thing for him to fix up business appointments with people at midnight. I’ve been present at such appointments many a time. So, I dare say, has Mr. Selwood; any one who acted as secretary to Jacob Herapath knows well that he’d think nothing of transacting business at three o’clock in the morning. So I knew, of course, that Barthorpe had gone there to keep some such appointment. I also knew that it would probably last some time. Now I wanted to see Jacob Herapath alone. And as there didn’t seem to be any chance of it just then, I went home to my flat in Maida Vale.”

“Walked in?” asked Davidge.

“If you’re particular as to the means, I took a taxi-cab at the Gardens end of the High Street,” replied Burchill, half-contemptuously. He turned his attention to Selwood and the Professor again. “Now, I’m going to tell you the plain truth about what happened afterwards,” he continued. “This part of the story is for the particular benefit of you two gentlemen, though it has its proper connection with all the rest of the narrative. I sat up rather late when I got home that night, and I lay in bed next day until afternoon—in fact, I’d only just risen when Barthorpe Herapath called on me at three o’clock. Now, as I don’t have papers delivered, but go out to buy what I want, it’s the fact that I never heard of Jacob Herapath’s murder until Barthorpe told me of it, then! That’s the truth. And I’ll at once anticipate the question that you’ll naturally want to ask. Why didn’t I at once tell Barthorpe of what I’d seen the night before?—of the presence of the man whom we’re calling Mr. X.?”

“Just so!” murmured Davidge. “Ah, yes, why not?”

“I’ll tell you,” continued Burchill. “Because Barthorpe immediately sprang upon me the matter of the will. And I just as immediately recognized—I think I may count myself as a quick thinker—that the really important matter just then was not the murder of Jacob Herapath, but the ultimate disposal of Jacob Herapath’s immense wealth.”

“Clever!” sighed Davidge. “Uncommonly clever!”

“Now, Professor Cox-Raythwaite, and you, Mr. Selwood,” Burchill went on, adding new earnestness to his tone. “I want you to fully understand that I’m giving you the exact truth. I firmly believed at that moment, and I continued to believe until the eventful conference at Mr. Halfpenny’s office, that the gentleman whom I had known as Mr. Tertius was in reality Arthur John Wynne, forger and ex-convict. I say I firmly believed it, and I’ll tell you why. During my secretaryship to Jacob Herapath, he one day asked me to clear out a box full of old papers and documents. In doing so I came across an old North-country newspaper which contained a full account of the trial at Lancaster Assizes of Arthur John Wynne on various charges of forgery. Jacob Herapath’s name, of course, cropped up in it, as a relative. The similarity of the names of Jacob Herapath’s ward, Miss Wynne, and that of the forger, roused my suspicions, and I not only put two and two together, but I made some inquiries privately, and I formed the definite conclusion that Tertius and Wynne were identical, and that the semi-mystery of Tertius’s residence in Jacob Herapath’s house was then fully accounted for. So when Barthorpe told me what he did, and explained his anxiety about the will, I saw my way to upsetting that will, for his benefit and for my own. If I swore that I’d never signed that will, and could prove that Tertius was Wynne, the forger, why then, of course, the will would be upset, for it seemed to me that any jury would believe that Tertius, or Wynne, had forged the will for his daughter’s benefit. And so Barthorpe and I fixed that up. Reprehensible, no doubt, gentlemen, but we all have to live, and besides, Barthorpe promised me that he’d treat Miss Wynne most handsomely. Well, that procedure was settled—with the result that we’re all aware of. And now I’d like to ask Mr. Davidge there a question—as I’m about to tell him who the real murderer of Jacob Herapath was, perhaps he’ll answer it. I take it, Davidge, that the only evidence you had against me in regard to the murder was the document which you found at my flat, by which Barthorpe Herapath promised to pay me ten per cent. on the value of the Herapath estate? That and the fact that Barthorpe and I were in league about the will? Come now—as all’s being cleared up, isn’t that so?”

Davidge rubbed his chin with affected indifference.

“Oh, well, you can put it down at something like that, if you like, Mr. Burchill,” he answered. “You’re a very clever young fellow, and I dare say you’re as well aware of what the law about accessories is as I am. ’Tisn’t necessary for a party to a murder to be actually present at the execution of the crime, sir—no! And there’s such a thing as being accessory after the crime—of course. Leave it at that, Mr. Burchill, leave it at that!”

Cox-Raythwaite, who had been eyeing Burchill with ill-concealed disgust, spoke sharply.

“And—the rest?” he asked.

“I’m going along in order,” answered Burchill coolly. “Well, I come to the time when Davidge there arrested Barthorpe and myself at Halfpenny and Farthing’s, and when I escaped. There’s no need to tell you what I did with myself,” he went on, with an obvious sneer in the detective’s direction. “But I can tell you that I didn’t particularly restrict my movements. And eventually—a few days ago—I come into touch with Dimambro, who had returned to England. As I said before, we had met during the time I was secretary to Jacob Herapath. Dimambro, when I met him—accidentally—was on his way to the police, to tell them what he knew. I stopped him—he told his story to me instead. I told him mine. And the result of our deliberations was that we got an interview—at least I did—with Mrs. Engledew here, with respect to the diamonds which she had entrusted to Jacob Herapath. And——”

“I should like to ask you a question, Mrs. Engledew,” said Cox-Raythwaite, interrupting Burchill without ceremony. “Why did you not inform the police about your diamonds as soon as you heard of the murder?”

Mrs. Engledew betrayed slight signs of confusion, and Davidge gave the questioner a look.

“I think if I were you, I shouldn’t go into that matter just now, Professor,” he said apologetically. “Ladies, you know, have their reasons for these little—what shall we call ’em?—peculiarities. No, I wouldn’t press that point, sir. We’re having a nice, straight story—quite like a printed one!—from Mr. Burchill there, and I think we’d better let him come to what we may term the last chapter in his own way—what?”

“I’m at the last chapter,” said Burchill. “And it’s a short one. I saw Mrs. Engledew and made certain arrangements with her. And just after they were made—yesterday in fact—Dimambro and I got a new piece of evidence. When Dimambro was collecting those pearls for Jacob Herapath he bought some from a well-known dealer in Amsterdam, a specialist in pearls. Yesterday, Dimambro got a letter from this man telling him that a small parcel of those very pearls had been sent to him from London, for sale. He gave Dimambro the name and address of the sender, who, of course, was the Mr. X. of whom I have spoken. So then Dimambro and I resolved to act, through Mrs. Engledew——”

“For a slight consideration, I think,” suggested Davidge dryly. “A matter of a little cheque, I believe, Mr. Burchill.”

“We’ve quite as much right to be paid for our detective services, amateur though they are, as you have for yours, Davidge,” retorted Burchill. “However, I’ve come to an end, and it only remains for me to tell you who Mr. X. really is. He hasn’t the slightest notion that he’s suspected, and if you and your men, Davidge, go round to his house, which isn’t half a mile away, you’ll probably find him eating his Sunday evening supper in peace and quietness. The man is——”

Davidge suddenly rose from his chair, nudging Triffitt as he moved. He laughed—and the laugh made Burchill start to his feet.

“You needn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Burchill!” said Davidge. “Much obliged to you for your talk, there’s nothing like letting some folks wag their tongues till they’re tired. I know who murdered Jacob Herapath as well as you do, and who your Mr. X. is. Jacob Herapath, gentlemen,” he added, turning to his astonished listeners, “was shot dead and robbed by his office manager, James Frankton, and if James Frankton’s eating his Sunday supper in peace and quietness, it’s in one of our cells, for I arrested him at seven o’clock this very evening—and with no help from you, Mr. Burchill! I’m not quite such a fool as I may look, my lad, and if I made one mistake when I let you slip I didn’t make another when I got on the track of the real man. And now, ma’am,” he concluded, with an old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Engledew, “there’s no more to be said—by me, at all events, and I’ve the honour to wish you a good night. Mr. Triffitt—we’ll depart.”

Outside, Davidge took the reporter’s arm in a firm grip, and chuckled as he led him towards the elevator.

“That’s surprise one!” he whispered. “Wait till we get downstairs and into the street, and you’ll have another, and it’ll be of a bit livelier nature!”

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