Читать книгу The Framing of Inspector Denvers - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

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MARK DENVERS left the Commissioner's office much perplexed. He went slowly down the stairs and into the street, nodding carelessly to men he met on the way. Once he turned and looked back, at a couple of men entering Police Headquarters—men he had worked with long and intimately. Brother officers! Once he had been proud to claim them that. Now? Now they were no longer "brother officers"—they were strangers—people of a strange race. They were without his vision; soon—he shrugged slightly—soon they would be active antagonists!

He laughed. But a few minutes before he had sat at the Commissioner's desk, writing his resignation from the Police Department. That resignation would be made public the next day. Then the country would know that "Cain" had reappeared on the scene of his old activities and triumphs, and that he, Mark Denvers, one-time Inspector of Detectives. had resigned. What would people say? What would the news-men write? Would they declare that he had resigned because of the reappearance of his old foe? A dull flush mounted to his face; his shoulders lifted irritably.

And then?

When they—the newspapers and the public—learned that he had gone down into the underworld! When they realised that he had become a crook. When they recorded the activities of his old comrades as they strove to track him down—convict him—send him to prison!

No, thank God! That humiliation was spared him! He would disappear. From now he was James Frost. Only Sir Edmund and himself knew the truth. Yet the hunt after "James Frost" would be keen and sincere. The men he had so long consorted with would do their uttermost to capture and convict him.

He would have ho court of appeal—no rights but those of the sneak-thief, the purse-snatcher, the whizz, dip, doper, and thug. Almost he realised why the man he had sworn to hunt down—the man whom to find he was stepping down into the depths of earth's hell—had named himself "Cain."

For some moments Denvers stood on the pavement, undecided as to his first actions. The events of the morning had marched so swiftly that as yet he had no plans formed, or even nebulous in his brain. All he realised was that he had to find "Cain"—get in touch with him; make him a friend, a comrade—then betray him. "Cain!" Where should he find him? Instinctively, to his mind came the thoughts of the girl—Martha Tayne; the girl who had last seen and spoken to the man. Could she tell him anything new? Had she, in her previous talks with him missed any vital point in her brief account of her interview with the man?

Martha Tayne! Denvers smiled at the name. Martha Tayne! She, the lawyer, Alec Kempton, the shop-assistant, Forde, and Detective-Sergeant Davidson, comprised those who had seen the master-criminal on his last adventure.

What could they tell him? He had seen them, one and all—and their accounts had materially differed. Martha Tayne had seen the man three times—and each time he had seen to her a different identity, she had been insistent on that point. He had changed, not only in personal appearance but in his very thought processes, expressions, mannerisms. Denvers wondered. Could any man do that? Why had "Cain" returned the Montgomery emeralds—and to the girl; leaving them lying on her desk, after being with her for more than half-an-hour, alone?

Again Denvers shrugged. The affair was incomprehensible! "Cain" had taken too great pains; plotted too carefully to steal the jewels—and had then abandoned them. Why?

Impulsively, the ex-detective turned and walked down to the main street. He must find an answer to some of the many questions crowding his brain. Where should he start? What point in the disconnected stories surrounding the re-appearance of the master-crook could he lay hold of to give him the clue he sought? He could not longer rely on the orthodox police methods in which he had been trained. No longer had he an efficient organisation vii which to call for support. Now he was a lone hand, playing against a lone hand. The fight was between "Cain," the master-crook and "Jimmie Frost" alias Mark Denvers.

Outside the discreetly groomed windows of bother Banke & Co., Jimmie Frost hesitated. The Montgomery emeralds were in the window, still in their long, narrow, jewellers' case, mounted on a small stand. On the pavement was gathered a small crowd, intent on personal examination of the gems which had occupied much news-space that morning—gems that had attracted the covetousness of the much-advertised crook—"Cain."

"Good-morning. Miss Tayne." The detective stood just within the office door, watching the girl narrowly. "Can you spare me a few minutes?"

"Is it important, Mr—Inspector." The man thought she paled slightly at the realisation of his presence. "We—we are very busy this morning. Yesterday-"

"Yesterday threw matters out of gear." The man who now was Jimmie Frost laughed gently as he went to the girl's desk. "Of course!" Yet he knew that he must press his point. Tomorrow the news would race through the city. Detective-Inspector Mark Denvers had resigned—rather than face a renewal of the duel with the noted master-crook, "Cain!" He could not come to her then.

"I shall not trouble you long."

"Very well." With a little impatient shrug Martha pushed the papers from her, swinging her chair half-round from the desk. "What is it you want to know, Mr—Inspector Denvers?"

"Mister will do." The ex-detective's mouth twisted bitterly at the evasion. For a moment he waited, looking down on the girl, then drew a chair to the side of her desk. "Miss Tayne, what did 'Cain' say when he gave you the emeralds?" The girl's face lost colour—this time quickly; to be flooded by a flush that stained neck and cheeks. Almost Denvers nodded. He knew now that his subconscious guess had been right. "Cain" had not returned the jewels under the urge of conscience. He had had no ulterior object. What could that have been?

"Mr. 'Cain' did not return the jewels to me—he left them on my desk when he left the room."

"And walked out of the door, unmolested?" The ex-detective paused. "You knew that he was 'Cain'—the much advertised criminal?"

"He told me his name." The girl spoke under her breath. "He—he stole the emeralds—and made restitution of them."

"You did not raise an immediate alarm?"

"No."

"Although you realised that a thief was escaping?"

"For the moment—no. I was not—well."

"When you did raise the alarm, 'Cain' was far from the shop?" The girl bowed her head in assent of what was not a question but a statement. "Had you a reason, Miss Tayne, for that delay?"

"No." A long pause, then the girl spoke again; "I was surprised. I had to think. I had to inform Mr. Luther Banke first."

"You informed him about a quarter of an hour after 'Cain' passed through the shop to the street." Denvers pressed his point relentlessly.

"It may have been that." Martha raised her head proudly. "Mr—Inspector Denvers, are you accusing me of being a confederate of a thief?"

"I am testing motives, times, positions." The ex-detective spoke determinedly. "I know your actions—I have been able to check them by those of others. But I do not know the actions of 'Cain'. There you are baffling me; why?"

For some moments the girl did not reply. She was looking down at her notebook, open on the desk before her; her pencil, held loosely in her fingers, made indecipherable marks on the page. She looked up at the ex-detective, seated by the desk, searching her face with penetrating, eager glances.

"You accuse me of protecting Mr.—Cain?" she said at length. "Will you—will you repeat that accusation to Mr. Luther Banke?"

"Is there necessity for me to see Mr. Banke?" countered Denvers quickly. "I have made no accusation."

"You accuse me of holding back information," Martha smiled.

"Are you?"

"You think so." A long pause. "I have told you all I know."

"All?"

"Is it necessary for me to reveal my thoughts—they are—may not be evidence."

Denvers did not speak. Now he knew that the girl was concealing something. What had she to conceal? He knew that until Cain came to Luther Banke's shop the girl had never set eyes on the man. How had he gained this influence over her? "You think that I sympathise with Cain?" The girl spoke proudly. "I do. I—I think there is good in him. Perhaps—perhaps he has been unjustly hounded by the law. Who knows? I do not. I do not know his history—only his name."

"Is Cain his name?"

"Why ask me?" The girl rose abruptly from her chair. "It may be—that he Is aptly named. Cain—with every man's hand against him! Cain—with the mark of those 'set-apart' on his forehead! Cain—who suffered—"

"Cain—the murderer!" Denvers interrupted sternly. "Have you sympathy with a murderer, Miss Tayne?". Again the girl was silent. She went to the barred windows, overlooking the side-street.

Presently she turned to face the room. "Sometimes I think I understand." Almost she was speaking to herself. "He calls himself Cain. For what reason? There is no blood-guilt on his brow—he told me that. Then, why Cain? Cain, set apart from his fellows—a solitary man, with every other man's hand upraised against him. Is that the reason? I wonder!"

Her words went straight to the heart of the ex-detective. They pierced through the armour of conventionality he had striven to cloak about him since he had sat at the Police Commissioner's desk, writing his resignation from the Department he had served so faithfully. They brought back to memory the words Sir Edmund had used: "—on the roll of this world will appear the name of James Frost, a crook, a denizen of this city's underworld—" Himself the man! For the moment he had the urge to tell this girl all; of the Interview he had had that morning with the Commissioner of Police; of his resignation from the Police Department; of his coming descent into the underworld of the city.

He stiffened. Those facts he had to keep secret; no one but Sir Edmund must know that in them he was merely acting a part; that his "disgrace" was but a cloak, from behind which he would spy and betray.

"Miss Tayne!" Neither of them had heard the door open and Luther Banke enter the room. "Have you that letter from the Goldsmiths' Jewellery Company? I don't think we answered that inquiry regarding pink pearls."

"You answered that letter late yesterday afternoon, Mr. Banke." Martha was again the efficient, deft secretary. "I typed it and sent it to the post this morning."

The girl went to an open filing cabinet, her quick fingers ruffling the papers. She found a sheet of coloured paper and handed it to her employer. Luther Banke read the carbon copy of the letter slowly, a puzzled frown on his face. Meanwhile Denvers studied the jeweller. The man was nervous. The ex-detective noticed that the hand holding the letter trembled. He noted the thinness of the bearded face, the hair heavily sprinkled with grey. The beard was close-cropped, coming to a short point under the chin. He saw that the eyes were lined and weary—and he watched two deep furrows appear on the tired brow.

"Where did you get that letter, Miss Tayne?" asked Luther Banke wearily. "I never dictated this."

"What do you mean, Mr. Banke?" Denvers took a quick step forward. "Miss Tayne states that she took dictation of this letter late last night, and posted it early this morning. Did you not see that letter after it was typed?"

"Mr. Banke forgets." There was much sympathy in the girl's voice. "You must remember, Mr—Inspector Denvers, that he is not at all well."

"But—Mr. Luther Banke dictated that letter. You are quite sure of that?" The ex-detective spoke eagerly. "Mr. Luther Banke came back from the street last night, specially to dictate that letter to me." Martha spoke evenly. "I was then clearing up, preparatory to going home. He said that he must answer the Goldsmiths' Jewellery Company's letter before he left in case he was detained at home this morning. I took the dictation from him. He said I could type the letter immediately I arrived this morning and—and that if he had not arrived by ten o'clock I was to sign it and post immediately."

"You typed the letter this morning?"

"Yes."

"And placed it, and a carbon copy, on Mr. Luther Banke's desk?"

"Yes."

"What time did Mr. Luther Banke arrive here this morning?"

"Quite early; shortly after I did—and I was here punctually at nine-thirty."

"I did not leave home until a quarter to ten." The jeweller spoke with keen anxiety.

"Did you dictate that letter?" Denvers swung round on the man, abruptly.

"No." The negative was firmly spoken; yet there was a trace of hesitancy in Luther Banke's manner.

"What time did you leave here last night?"

"A few minutes to six." The ex-detective looked at the girl.

She nodded. "Mr. Luther Banke went from his office at five minutes to six. I followed him into the shop. He was there, talking to the shop-manager, for some minutes, then went through the street-door. Five minutes later he returned and called me into his private office, and dictated the letter to me," The girl's reply was decisive.

"My car was at the door. I entered it and my man drove me straight home. I never re-entered the shop or my room."

Denvers stared at the girl and man in amazement. He felt that they were telling the exact truth, as they knew it. Then, who had come into that office a few minutes after Luther Banke had left it for the night—disguised as Luther Banke?