  I glanced in Anthony’s direction. Evidently the Inspector imagined that Barker knew something, or perhaps as an alternative he fancied that he in his turn knew something about Barker. I scanned Anthony’s face in the idea of ascertaining, if I could, if he attached any degree of importance to the man we were awaiting. Personally, I couldn’t see Barker as a murderer ... he was a chap whom I had always liked, no end of a decent sort ... surely they didn’t regard him in that light ... it seemed to me ridiculous ... preposterous.... “Come in, Barker,” said Sir Charles Considine kindly. He, too, seemed to sense the hostility in the atmosphere and appeared to be desirous of putting the man at his ease, were such a thing possible. “Inspector Baddeley, as you are fully aware, is conducting a little inquiry into the terrible tragedy that has—er—overwhelmed us this morning, and would like to feel that any information you can give him in the matter, you will do so unhesitatingly. Understand, m’boy?” Barker smiled. He had one of those sunny smiles that run, so to speak, in all directions across the smiler’s face. You know what I mean—the eyes light up, and the whole face seems radiantly happy. This was a blue-eyed smile, and I always think that’s the finest variety. “Delighted, sir,” he answered. “May I sit down?” He seated himself in the chair that Baddeley proffered him. The latter leaned across the table in his direction. “I am relying on you, Lieutenant Barker, to be perfectly frank with me,” he said. “Fire away, Inspector,” smiled the Lieutenant. “How many tables were playing cards last night?” “I really couldn’t tell you, Inspector. I believe Sir Charles Considine here was playing ‘Auction’ with some of the others—Sir Charles can confirm this if you ask him, and give you full particulars—I really didn’t pay much attention—but I was playing ‘Solo’ myself with Major Hornby, Robertson and Prescott. You’ve seen Robertson already, hasn’t he told you?” His teeth flashed into another disarming smile. “And you lost money, didn’t you? Consistently?” “That seems to me my business, Inspector, but I’ll be perfectly open and frank ... I did.” “Remember, Lieutenant Barker,” snapped Baddeley, “we are investigating a murder, and a singularly brutal murder at that, not the theft of two pennyworth of tripe.” “I do, Inspector,” responded Barker with an almost affected languidity, “that was the sole reason I answered you. Rest assured that I certainly shouldn’t have done, otherwise.” Baddeley glared. Then his experience gained the victory over his temper. “Do you object to telling me the amount you lost to the dead man?” Barker hesitated momentarily. Looked up at the ceiling and tapped his foot on the carpet. Then, to all appearances, came to a decision. “I’ll tell you. I suppose it’s your job to nose into things. I lost over two hundred pounds—two hundred and eight, to be strictly accurate.” “Did you pay it over there and then?” Barker flushed under his tan. “I gave Prescott an I.O.U. for the amount,” he said very quietly. I felt rather than saw Anthony straighten himself in his chair. And I was relieved to think that Barker, having furnished the information regarding the I.O.U. himself, I should be saved the unpleasant business of telling Anthony as I had intended. Baddeley’s voice cut into my thoughts. It rang with expectancy. “Now then, Lieutenant, you gave that I.O.U. to Prescott?” “Yes.” “What did he do with it? Do you know? Can you remember?” I am certain that Barker hesitated ever so slightly over his reply, and I caught myself wondering if one of those machines they use in France for measuring heart-beats or something—or the time a suspected person takes to answer pregnant questions—would have registered and recorded this almost imperceptible hesitation. The answer came, however, and perhaps not quite what I anticipated. “Yes! He put it into his pocket wallet.” “Certain?” “I watched him—it meant two hundred and eight pounds to me, did that tiny piece of paper.” “Tiny? How tiny?” “Half an ordinary-sized envelope. I tore an envelope in half to write it.” “By Moses! this is important, Lieutenant Barker. Do you realize the importance of it?” “Possibly I do.” “I’ve been through Prescott’s papers—I’ve been through that wallet arrangement you spoke about—that I.O.U. has vanished!” But Barker met his almost accusing eyes—unflinchingly. “How can you be positive as to that?” he urged. “Prescott may have put it anywhere, since placing it in the wallet—it might conceivably be in a dozen places!” “There is no trace of that I.O.U. in Mr. Prescott’s bedroom—nor among his belongings. I’ve looked for it. And I can’t find it. I may as well tell you that it had a special interest for me, because I deduced its existence, there’s no harm that I can see in telling you how. I knew Prescott had won money, several witnesses can prove that—and I knew also that it was a good-sized sum. It was distinctly unlikely that cash would pass for a large amount. Therefore I suspected an I.O.U.” “I might have settled by check for all you know,” muttered Barker. “Possible, but the chances are—no!” replied Baddeley. “Gentlemen don’t usually carry their check-books in their dress clothes.” This laconically. “Prescott had no money anywhere, had he, Inspector?” asked Sir Charles. “Not a coin, sir—he was robbed as well as murdered. But this is a significant fact, he was only robbed of cash. Not of anything else.” “May I ask Lieutenant Barker a question?” from Anthony. Barker raised his eyebrows. “When you gave Prescott your I.O.U. was it at the card-table or after you rose?” “At the card-table—directly we had finished playing.” The answer came promptly and abruptly. “So that,” and here Anthony spoke with extreme deliberation, “at least two people saw it passed over? Eh?” “Hornby and Robertson undoubtedly,” continued Barker. “There may have been others near.” “Can you recall anybody?” Barker reflected. “Captain Arkwright and his wife were standing close by—Mrs. Arkwright had just come from the piano—and I rather think her sister was with them—I can’t remember anybody else.” I interposed. “I saw you give the I.O.U. to Prescott—I was standing by the French doors.” Baddeley flashed an angry look at me. “You didn’t tell me that, Mr. Cunningham,” he remonstrated. I “finessed.” “I told you Prescott won money,” I argued. “I couldn’t think of everything on the spur of the moment.” Anthony intervened. “That’s all right, Bill. The Inspector understands that.” Baddeley, however, had not finished with Lieutenant Barker. “When you had handed your I.O.U. over, what did you do?” Again I imagined that I detected a certain hesitation in his answer. “I chatted for a few minutes with Prescott over the amazing luck he had ... then I went upstairs to bed.” “Prescott go with you?” “N-no! He gave me the impression he had something he wished to do.” “That’s so,” I interjected again, “I spoke to him as I went up, and I gathered something similar.” “Then you went straight to bed?” “Yes!” “Didn’t speak to anybody after you got upstairs to your bedroom?” “No—yes, I did,” correcting himself. “I sang out ‘good-night’ to Hornby, Robertson and Cunningham here. If you call that speaking to people.” “The three of them? Where were they?” “Not exactly to them, Inspector, but as I passed their bedroom doors. I walked down the corridor and called out ‘good-night’ to them as I went. See?” “Why to those three?” “Because I knew they were there. They were the only three whom I had seen go up. Bathurst and Jack Considine were in the garden.” Baddeley nodded in acquiescence, and accepted the explanation. “Did the three people answer you?” suddenly queried Anthony. “Lord, what a memory I’m expected to have,” groaned Barker. “Let me think.” He passed his fingers through his hair. “I can only recall that Major Hornby answered, with any certainty. But that may perhaps be because I know his voice best. I can’t answer for the others.” “What do you say, Bill?” continued Anthony. For the life of me I wondered what he could see in a point of detail like this. I hesitated. “Did you hear him, Bill? Did you answer him? Is his memory correct? These little things count so much in a case of this kind. What do you say?” I thought very carefully. Had I any accurate remembrance of what Barker said he had done? Yes! I had! “Yes,” I replied. “I heard Lieutenant Barker go by along the corridor, and I answered him. Perhaps he failed to hear me.” “Good,” muttered Anthony. “You were occupying the last bedroom along the corridor, weren’t you, Barker, and you, Bill, the last but one?” We nodded in agreement. Then Baddeley cut in. “Hand the Lieutenant that letter we found in Mr. Prescott’s bedroom, Roper,” he ordered. Lieutenant Barker took it. “Know that handwriting?” “Never seen it! Absolutely certain on the point.” He handed it back. Baddeley appeared almost to have expected this answer. Perhaps he was getting used to it by now. He drummed on the table with his finger-tips. “Anything more, Inspector?” asked Barker. “For the time being, no thank you,” was the answer, when Anthony, who had been leaning across the table chatting to Sir Charles, broke in. “I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, Barker, but I’d be eternally obliged ... was last night the first night that Prescott had won much?” Barker shifted uneasily. “From me.... Yes!” “That isn’t quite what I asked you,” continued Anthony relentlessly. “By Moses,” cried the Inspector, “this case fairly beats the band for a lot of tight-lips.” Barker looked from one to the other. Then he suddenly seemed to realize the value to himself of the information that was his to give. “The night before last,” he answered a trifle obstinately, perhaps sullenly is the happier word, “he won a considerable amount from a brother officer of mine.” “Major Hornby?” Lieutenant Barker bowed. Anthony turned to the Inspector. “Inspector,” he said, “gentlemen are traditionally ‘tight-lipped’ when it comes to what they regard as ‘telling tales.’ I think you have misjudged Lieutenant Barker.” Barker blushed, he was the type of Englishman that finds praise embarrassing. But Baddeley did not take his semi-rebuke passively. “Gentlemen do lots of funny things,” he declared. “Even to fracturing the Sixth Commandment.” “Now, I’ve a second question ...” proceeded Anthony. “You stated a few moments ago that your I.O.U. to Prescott was half an ordinary-sized envelope. You said you tore an envelope in half to write it. I am not quite clear as to your exact meaning. Do you mean that your I.O.U. was half an envelope or half the back or front of an envelope? You get my meaning? There’s a difference if you think it over carefully.” “I see what you mean, Bathurst. I slit an envelope down the side with my finger, separated the back from the front, then tore the back in two and used a half.” “I follow you! So that your I.O.U. would have measured say two inches by three?” “Just about.” “Thank you! That’s all I wanted to know.” Barker bowed to Sir Charles and retired. “You seem to be able to extract all the information you require, Mr. Bathurst,” said Baddeley. “Much more successful than I am.” Anthony grinned. “Put it down to my irresistible charm of manner.” His tone altered. “Who’s next? Major Hornby?” The Inspector nodded in agreement. Sir Charles Considine rose. “I’ll convey your message.” He passed through the door. “We are now going to have a few words with Lieutenant Barker’s ‘brother officer,’” declared Baddeley, “and military blood is thicker than ...” Sir Charles entered with the Major on his heels. Baddeley commenced with a direct action. In this instance the attack came early. “Of course, Major,” he said, “doubtless you are quite cognizant of the fact that you are not bound to answer any of my questions ... all the same, I hope that you will ... your rank and position have taught you that Duty is very often unpleasant ... but nevertheless remains Duty ... it is my Duty as an Inspector of Police to prosecute these inquiries ... however much against the grain....” Major Hornby’s face remained set ... immovable. “Your apologies are unnecessary, Inspector,” he said. “Apologies? You misunderstand me ...” Baddeley was floundering now, a trifle out of his depth ... these people were different from those of his usual encounters ... he went straight to his objective ... safer, no doubt. “We have been informed, Major,” he remarked, “that on the evening before last, you lost a large sum of money to Mr. Prescott.” “Quite true.” “How much?” “The amount doesn’t concern you, Mr. Inspector, that I can see.” The muscles of Baddeley’s face tightened. But despite the rebuff he stuck manfully to his guns. “Did you pay him or ...” “Don’t be insultin’ ...” Baddeley winced as though he had been stung. “You refuse to answer my question?” he retorted. “On the contrary—I have answered it. I told you not to be insultin’!” The atmosphere had become electrical. Two or three times Sir Charles had half-risen from his seat in a deploring kind of manner—a venerable peacemaker. Anthony watched with keenest interest while Roper remained inscrutable, the perfect subordinate. “I don’t appreciate your attitude, Major Hornby,” insisted the Inspector, “and perhaps it may not be extended to the consideration of this letter”; he held his hand out to Roper, who passed the letter across to his chief once again. “Do you know that handwriting?” he asked in a curt voice. Major Hornby flung the letter on the library table contemptuously. “I do not! It’s not addressed to me, and therefore has nothing whatever to do with me. Also, I’ll wish you a very good-morning.” He left us! “Tut, tut,” commented Sir Charles. “This is very unfortunate!” Anthony smiled. Then burst into laughter. “Sorry I don’t possess your irresistible charm of manner, Mr. Bathurst, nor yet your keen sense of humor,” put in Baddeley. “If all people were like that specimen that has just departed, Justice wouldn’t often be appeased and many murderers would survive to exult over their crimes. I’m not sure, however, that he hasn’t proved of some assistance. In murder, motive must always be pursued first. To whose benefit was the death of this man Prescott? A burglar? Or somebody inside the house? Which? When I can answer correctly to those two questions, I shall be nearer a solution. For both have possibilities.” He paused. Then turned to Sir Charles again. “I hope Captain Arkwright will prove more reasonable.” Sir Charles replied. “My son-in-law will help you all he can ... for my sake.” Now Dick Arkwright was a white man. One of the best, all the way through, and I felt assured that whatever his father-in-law’s wishes were he would fall into line. His marriage with Helen Considine had been a love-match and it was patent to all observers that it had brought no regrets with it. His consideration for his wife carried with it consideration for the members of her family, particularly for the head thereof. “Captain Arkwright,” said Baddeley, “I have very little to ask you, and as a consequence, I will not detain you for more than a few moments. That is of course assuming that you have nothing to tell us?” He paused. “I am sorry to think that I am unable to help you, Inspector, by supplying any facts of importance, beyond those with which you are already acquainted,” Arkwright said. “I appreciate that. Thank you. First, take a look at that letter. Know the handwriting? No? Thanks! Secondly, your bedroom, Captain Arkwright, is the nearest to the door of the billiard room—it is on the same floor—with Sir Charles’—did you hear any noise in the night, any sounds of the struggle that appears to have taken place there?” “No, Inspector! I can’t honestly say that I did. But I have a very hazy recollection that I heard footsteps in the garden not so very long after I had gone to bed. I can’t be sure even of that—and yet the sound of footsteps seems to belong to my last night’s sleep! Have you ever experienced anything of the kind, gentlemen?” he appealed to all of us,—“and I have a reason for telling you. As a matter of fact,” he continued, “the reminiscence was so vague, so entirely nebulous, that I had decided to say nothing about it. But something has happened to make me change my mind.” “What is that?” demanded Baddeley. “Mrs. Arkwright heard them too,” he replied quietly. “But she can’t place the time.” Baddeley nodded his head in apparent confirmation. “I’m not surprised.” There was a respectful tap on the door. “Come in,” called Sir Charles. Fitch, the butler, entered. He went to our host. “Wants me at once, Fitch?” muttered Sir Charles. “If you please, Sir Charles.” “Excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen. Lady Considine wants me immediately.” Fitch held the door open. We waited. But not for long. Sir Charles was quickly back, agitated, breathless, but alert. “Inspector Baddeley,” he said, “I have news for you at last. Lady Considine has been robbed of her pearls—the Considine pearls.” |
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