Читать книгу The Hangman's Knot - Arthur Gask - Страница 5

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"OF course," said the Chief Commissioner of Police when the following Thursday morning Larose was discussing things with him in Scotland Yard, "we are not dealing with ordinary criminals here, and, from the very first, we suspected the motives behind these killings to be ones of revenge. Then, as they went on, long before we heard the story of Cynthia Cramm, we were certain of it. All the parties concerned, except that Samuel Wiggins of Leigh-on-Sea were, or had been public men, and in positions to excite enmity in unbalanced minds, particularly so Sir John Lorraine, as an ex-judge of the Criminal Courts. Apart from that, too, where opportunity had occurred, there had been no robbery from the person after any of the murders had been done."

"The series of crimes may have began with acts of private vengeance," commented Larose, "but now its manifestations seem to be merging into a general expression of hatred against the community." He spoke very thoughtfully. "That means, surely, that the assassins at one time or other have suffered public humiliation, that they have been socially ostracised, or maybe, even undergone terms of imprisonment with the entire approval of every one."

"Exactly," agreed the commissioner, "we are dealing therefore with the most dangerous type of criminal—fanatics who will strike here, there, and everywhere, and who are hampered very little by the risks they are running."

"And assuming," went on Larose, "that the men they have killed were instrumental in bringing them to justice, or were in some way connected with the punishments they received, then it is probable those punishments were inflicted some time ago, for we notice they have been taking their revenge upon people getting up in years, all over sixty in fact."

"We considered that point," said the commissioner, "for three of the victims have retired from their professions, upwards of five years ago." He nodded. "Yes, that past is being raked up here."

"Then it all amounts to this," said Larose. "We have to uncover four men," he paused for a moment "—of the better nourished class, because they have a preference for the best quality of port wine and a choice in liqueurs—in command of ample means, because they are able to travel about the country to accomplish their ends—and of outward appearance of respectability, because the girl says their footwear was of an expensive kind, and their trousers were well creased." He laughed softly. "Not much to go upon, is it?"

"But you have seen in the reports that have been furnished you," replied the Commissioner a little testily, "that in not one single instance have we been able to light upon the ghost of any clue." He shrugged his shoulders. "Why these poor men have been killed we are equally in the dark, although the life-history of each one of them has been minutely gone into, to ascertain, of course, what probable enemy he may have had. In the case of Sir John Lorraine, for instance, all the prisoners he has sentenced and whose terms of imprisonment have expired recently have been accounted for, but with no profit to us in any way."

"But the elderly clergyman," asked Larose, looking very puzzled, "how possibly could he have offended to the extent of any one wanting to take his life?"

"Or the two medical men either, for the matter of that," said the Commissioner, shaking his head. "Lord Burkington was a very honoured member of his profession, and Dr. Bellew, a benevolent old gentleman, who in his day had been a most reputable leading women's physician."

"And there were no eye-witnesses," went on Larose musingly, "of the actual committing of any of these murders?"

The Commissioner shook his head. "No, no one has been near any of these people when they have died," he replied impressively. "No one either, has seen any suspicious strangers about, either before or after the crimes; no one has heard a cry, or the report of the rifle, even, when a rifle has been used. Just the dead bodies of five of them have been found, as silent and uncommunicative as if there were no tale that could be told." He smiled pathetically. "It is most heart-breaking, for the public will soon be clamouring for our blood, and I almost jump out of my shoes every time the telephone rings, thinking that another killing is coming through. Thank heaven, Parliament is not sitting now, or there would be a lot of questions asked."

A long silence followed, and then Larose got up from his chair. "Well, I think I'll be going now," he said, "to have my little talk with that girl at the Gibbett Inn, for it seems that there is the only hope of picking up any trail."

"And I wish you luck," said the Commissioner heartily, "although our best men have been to the inn and pumped everybody dry. But I'll have to give you a note of introduction to the landlord," he added, "for they have all been sworn to silence. Luckily Cramm himself is a taciturn man by nature, and so far nothing has leaked out to the public of the girl's story." He spoke sharply. "Now, which of our men would you like to take with you?"

"None of them," replied Larose promptly, "and I'll get you, please, to make out the introduction for a plain Mr. Smith, for I don't want it to become known that I'm on the job." He smiled. "I'm a married man now, and as these four gentlemen appear to be so very enterprising, it's quite possible if they learn that I'm about they may be paying a visit to Carmel Abbey and taking a pot shot at some one there."

Larose found Croupin eagerly awaiting him in the lounge of the Savoy, and over a good lunch explained to him upon what mission he was going, and suggested that the Frenchman should drive them both in his new car and give what help he could.

Croupin was delighted, and indeed he could not have appeared more happy if another dear friend of his had died and bequeathed him another large inheritance.

"And it is from this young girl," he exclaimed, excitedly, "that you expect to learn everything." His voice thrilled. "Perhaps she is beautiful, and from Beauty's lips will then fall the words that summon these monsters to the scaffold."

"But you mustn't speak to her," said Larose, with a smile. "You must wait outside, or talk to her parents about the weather."'

For the moment Croupin looked very disappointed, but then his face brightened. "Ah! well," he exclaimed cheerfully, "then I will talk to her mother. Perhaps she will be beautiful also, and I have always eyes for your rosebud country beauty"—he shrugged his shoulders—"if it is of course, not too full blown."

Larose eyed the exquisitely dressed Frenchman up and down. "And you'll please change those clothes of yours," he said sternly, "or else cover them over with a dust-coat, and you're to wear a proper chauffeur's cap. Also, please take off that emerald ring. You are not coming out with me, as a rich milord of France." He grinned. "You are going to be my chauffeur, and I shall call you Sam."

Croupin made a grimace, but replied meekly enough. "All right, Meester Larose, I will take any orders from you, because you have promised me some danger and some fun."

He coughed slightly. "One thing however, I should like to mention. Although I shall of course always be Raphael Croupin to you, still I might inform you that upon coming into my inheritance I adopted my mother's maiden name, and am now known is Raphael de Croisy-Hautville." He laughed softly. "By that means, perhaps, I thought the reputation of one Raphael Croupin, might the sooner be forgotten."

"Good gracious, Monsieur!" exclaimed Larose in some surprise. "An aristocrat, are you?"

"My mother's father," assented Croupin modestly, "was the Count Robert de Croisy-Hautville and a member of the old nobility."

Towards four o'clock in the afternoon the two then drove up to the Gibbett Inn, and Larose, alighting quickly, made his way into the bar. It was unoccupied except for a surly looking man who was seated behind the counter, reading a newspaper. The man rose leisurely when Larose appeared.

"Mr. Cramm, I believe," said Larose, and upon the man nodding a rather suspicious acquiescence, he presented the letter of introduction.

"Ah! I thought so," exclaimed the landlord frowningly after a glance down at the letter. "Another of them, are you?" He regarded Larose with not very friendly eyes. "Well, we're sick of it," he went on, "and if it were not for the drinks your people buy when they come down, I'd not answer another question. Here, walk this way."

He led Larose round into a passage at the back of the door and shouted "Cyn, where are you?" whereupon, a shrill voice came from upstairs. "Here, Dad, do you want me?"

The landlord jerked with his thumb. "Up those stairs," he said to Larose, "and you'll find her in the sitting-room. You won't want me," and then, as if detectives of all kinds had become of no interest to him, he returned unceremoniously into the bar.

Ascending the stairs, Larose found himself in the elf-like presence of Miss Cynthia Cramm, with the girl for the moment regarding him as her father had done, with no appearance of pleasure. But then taking in that her visitor was fashionably dressed, quite young, and decidedly good-looking, her expression changed quickly, and she gave him a quiet and reserved smile.

"Another detective, of course!" she exclaimed. "And what do you want?"

Larose took her measure at once, and made a most respectful bow. "So sorry to worry you, Miss Cramm," he said with great deference, "and I won't keep you long." He beamed at her. "No, I'm not a detective, but my friend, Lord Ransome, expressly asked me to come and see you."

A most pleasurable feeling thrilled through the angular little frame of Miss Cynthia Cramm as Larose mentioned the name of the Cabinet Minister. So Lord Ransome had asked him to see her, and he was quite different to the others, too! They had treated her as a child, and called her by her Christian name, but he was now addressing her as Miss Cramm.

She thawed all at once. "Come in here," she said sweetly, and she led the way into a small sitting-room containing a piano. "We'll sit on this sofa," she went on, as cool and collected as if she were addressing a person of her own age, "and then we can speak quite quietly, in case any of the maids should try to 'listen-in' at the door."

The smile of Larose was now a perfectly genuine one, and he had difficulty in not letting it pass into a grin. The girl was as self-possessed as if she were three or four and twenty, instead of sixteen, which was the age he now knew her to be.

"Now ask me anything you like," she said graciously when the door was shut and they had seated themselves upon the sofa. "I am sure I should like to help Lord Ransome, if I can. I have read about him, of course. He is the Home Secretary."

Larose was delighted, for with all the airs she was giving herself, here he perceived was an intelligence that should prove most useful to him. He came to the point at once.

"Now, Miss Cramm," he said, "it seems as if everything is going to depend upon you, for apart from what you can tell us, we can learn nothing whatsoever about these men"—he spoke very slowly—"these monsters who are taking life after life and escaping without being caught."

"Well, I've helped all I can," protested the girl, "and I tell you I've not had a too pleasant time." She bridled with indignation. "First, I was treated as a liar, and after that they've shouted at me as if by their shouting they could make me remember things that I hadn't seen or heard."

"I know, I know," Larose said soothingly. "Detectives are very annoying men, but I'm going to be quite different. I don't want to go over the whole thing again, because I've got a copy here of everything you told them on a sheet of paper in my pocket," and he took out and unfolded some closely-written typescript.

He glanced down at the paper and went on, speaking very slowly. "You say you suddenly woke up and heard the horrible mad laugh of one of them. Then a lot of names were mentioned but you remember only two of them, Burkington, because you have a girl friend of that name, and Clutterbuck, because it has such a funny sound." He laughed. "And I quite agree with you. Clutterbuck does sound funny." He went on. "Then it at once came to you that whoever was in the room, they were not eating, because there were no familial sounds of the clicking of knives and forks. Then—what happened?"

"Then I knew I must have been asleep a long time," replied the girl, "for I saw that lunch was finished with and over. So I squirmed my body round until my eyes were opposite a crack in the ottoman and I saw four pairs of feet and the lower part of four legs. The crack in the ottoman is not wide and quite low down, but I could see right across the room and that all the chairs at the long table were unoccupied." She nodded reminiscently. "I tell you I was very frightened, for Dad is quick-tempered and I knew he would thrash me hard for having been away so long."

"But how did you know the meal was over?" asked Larose. "It mightn't have yet begun."

The girl looked scornful. "If you had ever helped clear up," she replied, "after a lot of piggish men and women had been filling their insides, you'd know right enough from the state of the floor whether the meal was over or not yet begun." She tilted up her chin contemptuously. "Serviettes thrown under the table, crumbs and crusts of bread all scattered about, and even lumps of half-chewed meat, if they've come upon anything tough." She smiled. "Besides, I could smell the Stilton cheese and the port wine those men were drinking."

Larose was highly amused, for this chit of a girl was talking, as if for all the world her father were giving the meals away.

"But about the shoes these men were wearing," he said, "that's what I want to learn." He smiled challengingly. "Now do you know anything about shoes?"

Again, the girl looked scornful. "If you'd cleaned as many pairs as I have," she replied, "you'd be able to boast of something." She looked injured. "Why, before we got on and mum's cooking brought such a lot of people to the place—before we could afford to keep any maids—I, if you please, cleaned all the boots and shoes of everyone who was staying here. What were their shoes like?" She rattled off quickly. "A six, two nines, and a 10. All of good quality and one of the nines had a very broad welt. The broad welt belonged to the man who talked most, and who afterwards paid the bill for them all, the ten was the man with a horrible laugh, the six spoke very quietly, and the other nine was gruff and rather rude." She smiled at the look of surprise upon Larose's face. "They all spoke as if they were educated men besides being well dressed."

Larose was not only surprised but delighted also. Here, he was already learning something that had not been put down in the police reports—the shoes with the broad welt. A small thing, certainly, but in the tracking down of crime the smallest things at times become important and often their cumulative value is priceless.

"But tell me," he asked quickly, "did you see the soles of any of these shoes?"

"Of two of them," she replied, "and you could tell they had been driving their cars, for, when they leant back in their chairs and rested their feet upon their heels, I saw the polished spot where they press down the accelerator. Those shoes belonged to the ten and one of the nines, not the nine with the broad welt."

"And his shoes," asked Larose quickly, "the broad-welted shoes of the man who you say talked the most. Did they look like shoes you would go motoring in?"

"Our customers are practically all motorists," she replied grandly. "We don't cater for hikers. Our prices are much too high. We charge 3/6 for lunch."

"Never mind that," said Larose, "for he may have been an exception. Think"—he smiled—"would you be likely to be driving a car in those shoes, for if they had broad welts they would be likely, also, to have thick soles and be walking shoes."

For the first time Miss Cynthia did not seem to be quite so ready with her reply, and she sat frowning and biting her underlip very thoughtfully.

"No-o," she said slowly, after a long pause, "I don't think I should, for they would be rather heavy." Then she added suddenly and in a very different tone. "No, he might not perhaps have come in a car, for I remember now there was mud upon his shoes." She nodded brightly. "Yes, his were the only dirty pair. All the others looked spick and span as if they had just been put on."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Larose, "then he may have walked here! But how do you know," he went on quickly, "if you could only see the legs of these men, that it was the one with these heavy shoes who did most of the talking?"

She smiled as if she were amused. "After a few minutes," she replied, "I could tell instantly which of the four was speaking by the movements of his feet or the shifting about of the legs of his chair. They were all talking earnestly, and there was some movement in their bodies when they spoke. The man with the thick shoes had a lovely voice, like an educated clergyman or some one speaking over the air, and when he was talking the front legs of his chair kept tilting up and down, and you could tell his body was moving backwards and forwards, or from side to side. You understand," she explained, "I could see much better than I could hear, for their voices were always muffled to me except when I was just raising the lid of the ottoman, and I couldn't keep that up for long at a time. It made my arm ache so."

"You are very intelligent, Miss Cramm," said Larose warmly, "and it is a pleasure to talk to you." He laughed. "You would make a good detective."

The girl laughed too. "But if you only knew the time I've had during the last few days," she said, "ever since the detectives began coming up, you would be sorry for me." She looked very sorry for herself. "I lie awake at night for hours and hours, trying to recall something else they said." She sighed. "But I think I've told everything I can remember."

Larose was looking down at a paper in his hand. "Well, there are one of two questions," he said, "that I want to ask you about. You told the detectives that one of the men mentioned they had tools all ready to hand."

"Yes," nodded the girl, "the man with the nice voice said that."

"And then he went on to say," said Larose still looking at the paper, "that some one they knew would cut any one's throat with his razor if only they paid him well enough for it."

"Yes," replied the girl, "he said he was sure the man would be willing to do it, or at any rate, he looked as if he would be willing to do it. He then said that he had seen this same man buying filthy black cigarettes one night in a shop in Soho, and he wouldn't wonder if he hadn't fought against us in the war."

Larose looked up sharply. "But you didn't mention about those cigarettes to the detectives," he said with a frown. "It's not down here on this paper."

"No," she replied calmly. "I didn't think of it until just now, when those nicotine stains on your fingers reminded me of it."

Larose repressed a smile. "Black cigarettes, he said he saw him buy?" he asked.

"Filthy black ones," was the reply. "Those were his exact words."

"And then one or them said," went on Larose turning back to his paper, "that the smell of some place they used to go into made him feel sick every time for a few minutes until he got used to it."

"Yes, the man with the gruff voice said that," replied the girl, "the man with the other shoes of size nine."

"And did he say that immediately after the remark had been made about the man cutting throats with his razor," asked Larose, "as if there were some connection between the razor man and the smell?"

"Almost immediately it must have been," said the girl, "because I remember I was pushing up the top of the ottoman then, and had to let it down very soon after to give myself a rest."

"And did any one else say anything about this smell?" was the next question.

The girl hesitated. "I think it was the man with the horrible laugh," she replied slowly, "who said something like, 'Oh! that's nothing to them, for they live on smells where they come from.'" She nodded emphatically. "Yes, and he said, too, it was a better smell than that of men and women who never washed or changed their clothes."

"And then they talked about Hankow!" said Larose.

"They only said that someone they knew about came from there. I just caught the name of the place."

Larose looked down again upon the paper and remarked meditatively: "And you saw a diamond ring upon the finger of the man who paid the bill when he bent down to arrange one of his socks, and the hand was big and plump and white." He thought for a moment. "And should you know that man's voice again?" he asked.

"If I live to be a hundred," exclaimed Cynthia fervently, "for it was a beautiful voice, and kept going up and down."

"Now, one last question," said Larose, "and think over it before you reply, because it is very important." He eyed her solemnly. "Now, did it strike you, from the way they spoke to one another, that they were old friends—or that they were comparative strangers to one another?"

"I can't say," replied the girl slowly. She nodded. "All I can tell you is that they talked about that throat cutting man and other people they had been with as if they knew all about them."

"That's not what I mean," said Larose quickly. "I want to find out if it seemed to you that that they had had chats together before. If they had had meals and drinks together and knew each other's little ways."

The girl thought for a long time. "Perhaps not," she replied, after a while, "for I remember when the man with the nice voice asked the one with the small shoes once if he was sure he wouldn't have one of his cigarettes, the answer was, 'No, thank you. I tell you I never smoke.'"

"That's it!" nodded Larose. "That's what I wanted to know." He rose to his feet. "Well, thank you very much, Miss Cramm. I'm sure you've been most helpful. Now, a last favour. Could I see this head waitress of yours, although I've been told she can recollect nothing, and the other two girls are just as useless?"

"Of course you can," replied Cynthia. "I'll go and fetch her at once." She rose up from the sofa and walked over towards the door, but then, in passing the window, she stopped suddenly and ejaculated, "My!"

Larose followed the direction of her eyes and saw that it was Croupin, who had now attracted her attention. The Frenchman was standing by the car below, and with a very disconsolate look upon his face, smoking a cigarette.

"But isn't he handsome," went on Cynthia ecstatically. "He looks like a film star." She turned sharply to Larose. "Is he a friend of yours? Did he come with you?"

"He's my chauffeur," smiled Larose, "and when you've sent that waitress to me, you can go and talk to him."

"Sure, I will," replied Cynthia archly. "I like talking to good-looking men."

Larose questioned the waitress, but could get nothing out of her. She was wooden and unintelligent and could add nothing to that she had already told the detective, indeed she declared she would not have recollected the incident of the four men at all, if it had not been that it had happened upon the afternoon when the landlord's daughter could not be found anywhere, and was not at hand to help them tidy up the room.

A few minutes later, Larose and Croupin drove off from the inn, the former in good spirits, but the latter, seemingly rather depressed.

"Well, Croupin my boy," asked Larose presently, as they were speeding along towards the south coast, "did you admire the beauties you saw."

"I saw no beauties," replied Croupin in disconsolate tones. "Only a very red-faced woman who waddled like a duck, and a child who came and asked me silly questions."

"She was not a child!" exclaimed Larose, as if very surprised. "She is getting on for seventeen and is the daughter I came to see!"

"Bon nuit!" exclaimed Croupin disgustedly, "and I told her to go back to her dolls." Then he asked abruptly, "And did you get anything out of her?"

"Yes," nodded Larose emphatically, "most certainly I did. I have several things to talk over with you to-night after I've seen the judge's widow. We're off to Eastbourne now to catch her before dinner time."

Lady Lorraine was a frail old lady, well over seventy, and she received Larose with a gentle old-world courtesy. She did not mind discussing her husband's dreadful end and was anxious to give all the help she could. Larose had been up the lane and with the aid of a photograph he had brought with him, had picked out the exact spot where the judge had been killed. Now he pressed her hard as to any trivial happenings in the weeks just prior to when her husband died.

"We have got as far as this," he said. "We are sure that if this terrible happening were not the unpremeditated act of a madman, then it was carefully prepared for and someone waited to seize the opportunity when your husband would be alone. You have told us the lane is little used, but that he passed along it every day, as a matter of routine, for his short morning walk. You almost invariably accompanied him, but did not do so the morning upon which he died, because you were in bed with a bad cold."

The old lady nodded. "Yes, that is so," she replied sadly, "and it was the first morning for a long time that I had not gone with him."

"Then you told the inspector," went on Larose, "that you had never noticed any suspicious strangers hanging about and had no recollection of meeting the same party twice, but you also said that the day before everything happened, you both came upon a man at the bottom of the lane, standing on the tree-trunk there, looking over your garden wall."

"Yes," said Lady Lorraine, "he said he had been admiring our roses."

"And you only happened to speak to him," continued Larose, "because your little fox-terrier ran up and began barking at him and Sir John then called the dog back and apologised."

"That is so," said the old lady, "and the gentleman was most polite. My husband asked him if he would like to come in and go through the garden, but he excused himself that he had only just time to get back to his hotel for lunch."

"And you can't describe him!" said Larose.

"No, I am very short-sighted without my glasses," she replied, "which I never wear when out-doors, and except that I think he was of medium height and rather stout, I can tell you nothing about him." She shook her head most emphatically. "But he would never have harmed my poor husband. He was a gentleman, whatever he was."

"And, of course, you realised that from the way he spoke," said Larose quietly, "from his voice. Now, tell me what was his voice like?"

"Very cultured and pleasant," replied Lady Lorraine, "and my dear husband remarked upon it, too, later on."

"Oh! and what did he say?" asked Larose quickly.

"That it was the voice of an orator," was the answer, "and recalled to him the days when the great King's Counsels used to plead before him in the Courts." She smiled wistfully. "You see, Mr. Smith, living the quiet and uneventful lives that we did, all by ourselves, most trifling things interested us and that is why I happen to remember this gentleman speaking to us."

"And perhaps," said Larose very gently and endeavouring to keep her thoughts in the same channel, "this chance encounter made Sir John reminiscent, and he spoke about some of the cases that had been tried before him."

Lady Lorraine smiled. "You are quite a wizard," she said. "Yes, he did, and we sat over lunch for quite a long time that day." Tears welled up into her eyes. "I remember that meal so well, because it was the last one we had together. I went to bed that afternoon and was there"—her voice choked—"when his body was brought home."

Larose waited until she had entirely recovered from her emotion and then asked carelessly—

"And can you recall any of the trials, in particular, that he mentioned?"

She thought for a moment. "One," she replied, "when some doctor was being tried for murder and Mortimer Fairfax was prosecuting. He said it was a battle royal between Mr. Fairfax and the counsel for the defence, Sir Arnold Trevane, and they both were so wonderful that he himself could never be quite certain as to whether the doctor were guilty or not." She nodded. "However, he was hanged."

That was all Larose could learn from her, and when he left the house a few minutes later, he carried away with him the remembrance of a very dear old lady, who was brave enough to be living out the remainder of her life within a few yards of the spot where her husband had met with such a dreadful end.

They put up at the Queen's Hotel in Eastbourne, and when after dinner they retired to their common bedroom, Larose at once began to talk business.

"Now, Monsieur," he said with a smile, "you may be a great rogue but at the same time you are a very wise one, and in that nicely shaped head of yours there is plenty of imagination, and good reasoning power, or you would not have been wanted so much by the authorities of your very charming country."

"I am a rogue no longer, Meester Larose," said Croupin with great dignity, "for I am now your friend, and I know you would not be consorting with an evil-doer."

"I'm not so certain of that," replied Larose, with a grin, "for it seems to me I've been consorting with evil-doers all my life." He took some papers out of his pocket. "Never mind, here goes. I'm going to ask you for your suggestions and advice."

Then in minute detail he proceeded to go through the conversations he had had with Cynthia Cramm, and the widowed Lady Lorraine. "Now, Monsieur Croupin, what do you make of it?" he asked, when he had finished. "Have I learnt anything to-day that will be of use to us or not?" He looked doubtful. "You see, I can imagine so many things that hang upon such slender threads that I am afraid to let my imagination go."

"But some things are so clear, Meester Larose," said Croupin earnestly, "that there is no need for imagination. One thing—that man who paid for the meal and the wine was, of course, the host, therefore it was he who had asked those others to meet him there."

"It looks as if the host of that dinner lives close to the inn," commented Larose, "and that he walked, for there was mud on both his shoes, not a chance splash, but mud on the broad welt between the soles and the uppers." He nodded. "Yes; this man, the host, the leader of the four, should live within a few miles of the inn, and he chose it as a place of rendezvous, because it suited his convenience."

"But if he lives near," argued Croupin, "why didn't he ask those men to come to his own house? They must have thought it strange!"

"I take it they didn't know where he lived," replied Larose quickly, "indeed, probably they were none of them aware where one another lived. Also, I am of opinion that the man who called them together was the only one there who knew there was going to be a party." He scoffed. "If they had all known it, why should they have gone through the farce of sitting apart from one another at the meal, knowing that the waitresses were going to see them all hobnobbing together afterwards?" He added convincingly. "This was their first meeting, too."

"Oh!" exclaimed Croupin, "how do you make that out?"

"They met to plot murder and outrage, we know," replied Larose. "None of the series we are now called upon to deal with had commenced up to then, but they commenced immediately afterwards. Also, over that port wine and liqueurs, they were not too well acquainted with one another." He shook his finger at Croupin. "Remember, the man who gave the party asked one of them if he was sure he would not have one of his cigarettes, and the reply was 'I tell you I don't smoke.'" He nodded. "That 'I tell you' means the stout man had asked him once before, and therefore had not fully taken in his tastes and habits."

"Bien, Monsieur," said Croupin with a smile, "they are little things, but the little things count"—he drew himself up proudly—"with men who are tracking murderers down."

"Well, now," went on Larose, "he spoke about 'tools ready to hand,' and then went on immediately to talk about some man who looked as if he would cut any one's throat with his razor." He looked sharply at Croupin. "Now, when you talk about a man and his razor, obviously, who are they thinking of?"

"A barber," replied Croupin, "and as he went on to say he had met the fellow one night in Soho buying black cigarettes, the barber is probably not an Englishman. Also as he said that perhaps the man had fought against England in the war, then this barber should be a Swiss and not either a Frenchman or a German, for in either of those cases the stout man would have been certain whom the barber had been fighting against, and would not have used the word 'perhaps.'" He laughed gaily. "Perhaps I am stealing your thunder, Meester Larose, but I am of opinion we must look for a Swiss barber here."

"Excellent!" laughed back Larose, "we are now giving our imagination full play, but for all that we may be quite right."

"And there is, of course, a Chinaman mixed up in it as well," went on Croupin. "The gentleman from Hankow."

"Yes," agreed Larose, "and now we come to the smell." He spoke very thoughtfully. "What did it mean, when immediately after talking about the barber the gruff man said that the smell of somewhere they used to go into always made him feel sick for a few minutes, until he had got accustomed to it?"

"They had been accustomed to meet in some place where there were chemicals," replied Croupin promptly, "or tallow, or hides"—his eyes sparkled—"in some warehouse perhaps, down by the docks in the East End."

"Good!" exclaimed Larose, "and that's where most of the Chinamen are. Didn't the man with the unpleasant voice say 'they live on smells where they come from.'" He smiled. "Yes, our imaginations are not failing us."

A short silence followed and then he went on. "And now we come to something that may eventually prove to be the strongest link in the chain we are going to forge about these men." He spoke impressively. "I have been to two houses to-day, and in both of them mention has been made of a voice, and taking all the circumstances together there is no doubt in my mind that I have been hearing about one and the same voice, the voice of the stout man in the Gibbett Inn and the voice of the stroller in the lane, who one morning spoke so charmingly to Sir John Lorraine, and the next day bludgeoned him to death almost at the same spot."

He leant back in his chair. "You see, Monsieur," he went on, "that voice made a great impression upon little Cynthia Cramm, and in a lesser degree interested Lady Lorraine. The girl described it as the voice of a fine preacher, or some one chosen to broadcast over the air, and the judge's widow referred to it as stamping its possessor as a gentleman. Also, it had a singular effect upon Sir John himself, for it made him reminiscent and stirred in him memories of great legal battles of long ago." He nodded very solemnly. "Now, my opinion is that the old judge subconsciously recognised the voice, that he had heard it before, and that is why it carried him back in memory to the environment where he had once encountered it."

"It may be," admitted Croupin slowly, "for memory can play us strange tricks. What we remember and why we remember depends upon such trifles some times." He sighed, "A violet, for instance, always recalls to me a girl in Picardy I once plighted my troth to. I can recall her face vividly, whenever I smell one, and yet, for the life of me, I can never remember her name. She was exquisite and——"

"You see," broke in Larose, cutting him short, "the voice roused in two people the same parallel lines of thought: in Cynthia Cramm a melodious preacher in the pulpit, and in the judge, a great pleader arguing before him in the court. Therefore——"

"But how can the voice help you?" interrupted Croupin in his turn, annoyed perhaps that the recital of his romance in Picardy had been shut down. "You can't pick out a voice from among the fifty millions of others in England, and even if you could you can't use a voice as evidence in a court of law."

Larose began unloosening his tie. "Well, you see if I can't, my friend," he smiled. "I've got a good idea there." He took off his collar. "But it's shut-eye time for us both now, and you can start straight away to dream of that girl in Picardy you were speaking about. To-morrow we're off to Surbiton to guess why that old clergyman died," and he started taking off his clothes, humming to Croupin's amused annoyance, "Somewhere a voice is calling!"