Читать книгу The House on the Fens - Arthur Gask - Страница 4

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THE afternoon following upon that early morning when he had been dragged from his comfortable bed to go to Avon Court, Chief Inspector Charles Stone was closeted with his colleague Chief Inspector Elias Carter in the former's private room in Scotland Yard.

Carter was cockney-born and, tall and lanky and with high cheek bones, he looked out upon the world with shrewd grey eyes from under very bushy brows. Stone had been detailing to him all the happenings of the previous night at Sir George Almaine's house in Hampstead and he had listened intently, interjecting with a remark only very occasionally and asking very few questions. He knew Stone well enough to be quite sure that nothing of any importance would have escaped the observation of the big stout man with whom he had worked for so many years. They had been humble policemen together, they had been transferred to the plain clothes branch almost at the same time and, step by step, they had mounted together to their chief inspectorships. Now, as far as possible, the most important cases were always entrusted to them and it would be a mystery indeed if one or other of them did not flash some bright light into its darkest corner.

"But I believe that night watchman," went on Stone, "for, contrary to the usual run of his calling, he is quite an intelligent man, and not only that, but he had had toothache all the evening, and so is not likely to have dropped asleep. So we can take it for granted that no stranger entered the grounds through the drive. Then the walls surrounding the grounds are high and studded with broken glass, and there is no sign of anyone having climbed over."

He nodded. "So we came to the inevitable conclusion that someone inside the house committed the murder, and that leaves us with five maid-servants, Sir George and Lady Almaine, and eight guests. Now I dismiss the maids at once. The two housemaids were in bed by half past ten and have a perfect alibi, the cook is fifty-one, stout and motherly, and the two parlourmaids were with her in the kitchen until the three of them went upstairs to their rooms, a short time before half past eleven." He looked enquiringly at his colleague. "Now, Elias," he asked, "have you got a grasp of everything up to the moment when we finished with Avon Court?"

"Except who it was," said Carter, "who brought the inspector's cap and cape into the drawing-room when you had switched off the lights; you haven't told me that yet."

Stone smiled. "And I can't tell you for certain. When the inspector roared out to know who had done it no one owned up, and I didn't press the question." His smile broadened. "But, of course, I expect it was our lively friend, Gilbert. Flower had continued to be so stubborn that everything pointed to him as being the guilty party and that no one could have had any opportunity to commit the murder except him that, naturally, Larose wanted to prove him to be wrong," his smile became a broad grin, "and he did it very neatly. Flower was completely knocked off his pedestal."

He went on, "Well, when I left Avon Court early this morning, although I was certain that one of those ten people must be the guilty party, I had no suspicion about any one of them in particular." He spoke very solemnly. "Now I am sorry to say I have, although I confess the very idea shocks me and, also, it doesn't fit in accurately with all the facts."

"But surely you don't think it was Larose?" asked Carter sharply.

Stone shook his head vigorously. "No, no, not for a moment. But you listen to me, Elias, and, although you know none of the parties concerned, you see if you are not a bit shocked, too. This morning I took possession of everything which had come out of the dead man's pockets, including his bunch of keys, and went off to his house in Maida Vale. He was a well-to-do bachelor, and although his house is on the small side, everything suggests ample means. He kept a working housekeeper and one maid. I unlocked the big roll-top desk in his study and at once saw, lying face open before me, a letter which was dated yesterday. I'll read it to you."

He produced a sheet of notepaper from a portfolio and proceeded to read very slowly:

19 Queen Street,

Maida Vale.

July 22nd.

My Dear Tom,

You will not receive this letter until after I am dead, but in case anything should happen to me I am making all arrangements for everything to be in order when I am gone. I am well off, and my estate should be worth about 40,000. Except for a few small legacies, I have left everything to you in appreciation of our happy friendship. I took great pleasure in the thought of what comfort the money will bring to you.

I have not much trust in lawyers, and so yesterday sent this last Will of mine, which of course nullifies all previous ones, to our mutual friend, Sir George Almaine, to produce at the proper time.

"Hoping you will live for many years to enjoy what I am bequeathing you,

Affectionately yours,

Henry Sampon.

P.S.——

But there is no postscript," went on Stone, "and it is evident he was keeping the letter open to add one. Another thing, for the moment I don't know to whom this letter was written, for there was no addressed envelope with it." He looked hard at his companion. "Now, before I go on, do you quite understand the significance of this letter?"

Carter nodded. "He was expecting he would not live long, and"—he hesitated—"it almost looks as if he knew his end was going to be a sudden one."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Stone. "In other words, he was intending to make away with himself." He produced another letter and held it up to his colleague. "Now here's the one which was in a sealed envelope, addressed to Sir George. Under the circumstances I had no compunction in opening it. It is dated yesterday, too, and"—he spoke very solemnly—"you just listen to what he wrote."

"My Dear George,

"It is terrible for me to have to write this letter. I shall be dead when it reaches you, for I cannot endure life any more. But I dare not die with my unconfessed guilt upon me. I half think, however, that you will guess what I am about to write. Joyce believes she burnt that letter which she cannot find, but an instinct tells me you found it and know all about our guilty affection. Joyce and I had been lovers since long before she met you.

"No, George, in the beginning it was not dishonouring you, because she was not bound to you then and was free to do what she liked with herself. The wrong only began after she became your wife. We have met here many times unknown to you.

"The awful mistake was that I did not marry her before I went to Africa for those six months. Then, when I came back it was too late for, believing she no longer loved me and dazzled by your title, she had married you. When I returned home, although only a bride of three weeks, she realised at once she still cared for me and—but I won't put it into words, George, remembering there is now that little boy.

"It is a dreadful thing for me to have to write this about Joyce, and I feel mean and contemptible in doing it and then escaping the consequences. But in your mercy and forgiveness never let Joyce know I have told you. It was all my fault for I am so much older than she is. If you keep silent you can still be happy for, if Joyce could not give you the love which was mine, she has at least as great a respect for you as any woman could ever have for any man.

"Your broken-hearted one-time friend,

"Henry Sampon.

"P.S.—I do not know when I shall post this letter, for like a moth I still hover round the candle. Rest assured, however, that when it reaches you I shall be dead."

Stone finished reading the letter and looked up at his colleague. "A ghastly letter from a most despicable coward! Why the devil didn't he say nothing and just shoot himself?" He sighed heavily. "But we've got a motive now for the murder, sure enough, and it points straight to Sir George. He went out on to the balcony under cover of the darkness when they were all listening to that ghost story and killed the man." He thumped upon the table. "But I should never have dreamed her ladyship was that kind of woman. She's one of the last I should have picked out to be deceiving her husband."

"She's much younger than he is, you say?" queried Carter.

"Yes, about eight years, and she's a pretty, dainty thing and, to look at, a perfect little lady. Gosh, but she must be some actress, too, as last night she was pretending to look at Sir George as if he were the only man in the whole world to her! She certainly doesn't suspect him of the murder—and God! what'll happen when we accuse him of killing her lover?"

Carter raised one hand protestingly. "One moment, Charlie, you're going too fast. To make it quite clear Sir George had a reason for wanting to kill the man, you've first to prove he was aware of his wife's unfaithfulness."

"But that won't he difficult," frowned Stone. "Sir George is a gentleman and not of the type to be able to lie plausibly. He won't break down but'll probably admit everything, so that we don't have to bring in this letter of Sampon's as evidence of probability. He'll try to save his wife's reputation at all costs and, perhaps, make out he knew Sampon had designs upon his wife and killed him to save her from him."

"But the weak spot there," said Carter, "is that if Sir George had suspected him of being his wife's lover, is it likely he would have asked him to the house last night?"

"Oh, I thought of that, right enough," nodded Stone. "Still, as you know quite well, the unfaithfulness of their women will stir men to the most cunning and patient waiting for their revenge."

"But another thing," commented Carter, "the murder was, of course, quite unpremeditated, for it was only by chance the murderer found his victim sitting defenceless and with his back towards him in that chair. Then, too, it was chance again that the hammer happened to be so handy to strike him with."

"Certainly," agreed Stone readily, "and I know you'll want to argue that if Sir George had not gone out on the balcony expressly to injure the major—why should he have gone out there at all?"

"Exactly," smiled Carter, "and if he had no evil purpose in his mind, why should he have left the drawing room when it was all in darkness in the secretive, stealthy manner you want to make out he did?"

"I don't say he left in a stealthy manner," retorted Stone instantly. "He may have just left it quietly so as not to disturb those listening to the ghost story. His only idea then might have been to bring the major back as a pleasant surprise for everyone, and restore the harmony of the evening. Remember, he was the host and, if he had masked his suspicions sufficiently to have invited the major to the house, he would naturally be wanting to keep up the pretence of being friendly with him."

Carter shook his head. "No Charlie, it doesn't sound convincing and, until you can prove Sir George knew of his wife's deceit, you have no case at all against him."

Stone was still stubborn. "Well, you and I will go and have a talk with him straightaway. We'll soon find out if he suspected her." He rubbed his chin uneasily. "But it's not too pleasant to ask a husband if he knows his wife has been carrying on with another man"—he pointed to the letter upon the desk—"particularly so after that significant reference to the little boy."

There was a knock upon the door, and a constable entered. "Mr. Gilbert Larose would like to see you, sir," he said, addressing Stone.

The two chief inspectors looked hard at each other. "All right," said Stone to the constable, "ask him to wait a few minutes. Tell him I shan't be long."

"Well, Elias, what about it?" asked Stone when the constable had left the room. "Shall we ask Gilbert to have a yarn with us? I think we're justified in telling him this new development."

"Y-e-s, I suppose we are," admitted Carter slowly, and his face broke into a dry smile, "although he's also one of the suspects."

"Gad, he's that right enough with Flower?" exclaimed Stone. "Why, if I hadn't arrived when I did, Gilbert would have been under arrest in another two minutes." He shook his head. "Still, we can put him right out of our calculations at once. We've never known him lose his temper, have we?"

"Never," replied Carter emphatically, "and he always thinks carefully before he acts."

Larose came in smilingly and shook hands with both the men. In his old days at the Yard they had all three worked many times together and had always been the best of friends.

"Well, my boy," smiled Stone, "have you had one of those wonderful inspirations of yours and got the whole thing cut and dried for us?"

"No, I haven't," said Larose with an unsmiling face, "but I think I've picked up a trail." He shook his head. "You know neither you nor I, Charlie, nor that damned inspector, either, had all our wits about us last night. Every one of those guests ought to have been searched at once, for I'm pretty confident that Major Sampon was robbed as well as murdered."

"O-oh," exclaimed Stone, "and how do you make that out?"

"Well, only 31 was found in his wallet," said Larose, "and I am sure there should have been much more than that. As far as I can remember and reckoning roughly, of that 31 he had won more than 20 of it from us that evening. That makes out he started to play with only 11 on him."

"And quite enough for him to be prepared to lose at a friendly game!" commented Stone.

"But not when directly we sat down," snapped Larose, "he wanted to play for high stakes. You see, there were five of us and bridge was first suggested, with one of us to cut out. Then the major said at once, 'All right, and we'll play for shilling points!' But Dr. Revire said he'd prefer poker, if we didn't mind, as he'd not played bridge for a long while. So poker was agreed upon and Sir George suggested a one pound limit but Sampon at once wanted to raise it to a fiver."

"A fiver!" exclaimed Stone, "Pretty hot, that, at a private house!"

"Yes," nodded Larose emphatically, "and do you think he'd have suggested shilling points at bridge or a 5 limit at poker if he'd come with only 11 on him and no cheque book?"

But the two chief inspectors making no comment, Larose went on. "Then another thing, and a most suspicious one. Before we started playing Sampon asked if anyone could change a 10 note for him and Travers, the barrister, obliged. Then when Sampon produced his pocket-book to get out the ten pound note, I took in, subconsciously, that it didn't seem very fat. It was one of those pretty soft doeskin ones and——"

"Here it is," broke in Stone, as he fished it out from a drawer, "I've got everything here that was found in his pockets."

"Ah," exclaimed Larose, with his eyes glinting, "and there should be twelve notes in it now! That's what there was when it was taken out of his pocket by the inspector."

"Correct," nodded Stone as he handed it out to him, "five fivers, five ones and two halves."

"But I'll swear when he took it out at the card table to give Travers the tenner," said Larose, "it wasn't anything like as fat as that. It couldn't have had more than four or five notes in it then. It was quite thin." He shook his head frowningly. "I'm sure there's something funny there."

"You mean, of course," commented Carter, "that, wanting to play heavily and having few notes upon him, some of those few would have been high ones."

"Yes, and high enough," nodded Larose, "to make it worth while for his murderer to take them." He went on quickly. "You see, I look at it like this. When his body was being dragged into the shadow of that balustrade, perhaps this pocket-book fell out of his pocket and, the murderer picking it up—being doeskin there was no risk of any finger-marks—glanced inside. Then seeing some bank-notes of high denomination, say of fifty or a hundred pounds each, he thought it would be quite safe to take them. With 31 left intact, no one would dream for a moment that the man had been robbed."

"Very plausible," smiled Carter with his dry humorous smile, "but all conjecture, isn't it?"

"By no means!" rejoined Larose sharply. "I've got plenty to support it. Now you listen. Not two hours ago I was lunching with Sir George and Lady Almaine and I brought up this idea of the major having been robbed to them. Then Sir George almost jumped out of his chair. He said Major Sampon had won 200 at Sandown Park last Saturday. He had had 3 on Maid of Orleans at a hundred to six and then, when the Maid had won, he had put the whole 50 on the favourite, Atlantic, in the next race at three to one, and picked up 200 altogether in the two bets. Now, what do you think of that?"

Stone frowned. "Was Sir George at Sandown Park with him?" he asked.

"No, but Sampon told Lady Almaine about it on Sunday."

"Does Sir George know with whom he had the bets?"

"No, nothing more than that they were cash ones," replied Larose, "and the only bets he had had that afternoon. Now another thing. Sir George knew where Sampon banked and is acquainted with the manager there. So, directly after lunch we both went round to the Regent Street branch of the Consolidated Bank and, explaining everything to the manager, he at once found out for us that Sampon had paid in no money or cheques for longer than three weeks."

"And that means, of course," began Stone, "that——"

"If you don't find the notes at his house in Maida Vale," said Larose, "they have been stolen from him."

"I've just come from looking through his things," said Stone, "and there was no money either in his desk, the safe, or the pockets of his other clothes." He nodded. "Still, I'll go back and see if he's hidden any notes anywhere else."

A short silence followed and then Carter said, "And you had lunch to-day with Sir George and his wife! Then, of course, you found them very upset?"

"Terribly so," replied Larose, "for, quite apart from the dreadful scandal which will fall upon them, they have lost one of their greatest friends."

Carter spoke casually. "Was he as great a friend of her ladyship's as of her husband?"

"Probably a greater one," nodded Larose. "She had known him longer than she could remember and was saying to-day he'd been like an elder brother to her. When she was a little girl in pig-tails he used to call for her and take her to the Zoo. But for him, too, she might never have known Sir George. He introduced him to her less than two years ago."

"Do you think Sir George was ever jealous of him?" asked Carter in the same careless tone.

Larose shook his head. "No, he's not that kind of man and she"—he looked scornfill—"is not that kind of woman to make him jealous. Anyone can see with half an eye that she almost worships him."

Stone cleared his throat uneasily. "Well, Gilbert, we're going to take you into our complete confidence, and so you just read this letter. I found it this morning in his desk. There was no envelope and I don't know who this Tom is," and he handed him the first of the letters he had shown to Carter.

Larose read it carefully and frowned hard, "'In case anything may happen to me,'" he repeated. "What the devil did he mean? Did he anticipate someone was going to murder him? What for? What had he done?"

But instead of replying to his questions, Stone handed him the second letter. "This was in a sealed envelope and addressed to Sir George," he said very solemnly. "I opened it. Notice it is dated yesterday, so, as with the other letter, Sampon must have written it a few hours before going up to Avon Court to dinner."

Larose took the letter from his out-stretched hand and, starting to read it, his face instantly became puckered into a frown; then he paled, his lips parted and his expression was one of horrified and incredulous amazement.

He read it slowly through to the end, and for a long moment there was a dead silence. Then he asked hoarsely, "But are you sure he wrote it? Are you certain this is his handwriting?"

"Quite," replied Stone. "Here's his driving licence with his signature upon it, and here is his cheque book with the used butts. There's not the slightest doubt the handwritings are the same."

"Good God!" exclaimed Larose, "then what a little Jezebel that girl must be! Married to one of the best of men, a happy wife and mother!" His voice rose. "But no, I can't believe it! I don't believe it! She's not that kind of woman!" He spoke sharply. "Now, look here, Charlie. You've seen and spoken to her, and so tell me honestly, did she strike you as one who would be deceiving her husband in the way this Sampon writes she was?"

Stone shook his head. "No, she didn't, Gilbert, but I learnt from Sampon's housekeeper this morning that she'd been visiting him a lot lately, sometimes coming for an hour or so even as often as three and four times a week." He shrugged his shoulders. "But then you can never really sum up a woman. Their minds are unfathomable to us."

"Nonsense!" snapped Larose. "On broad lines, women can be summed up just as easily as men. You can tell at a glance whether they're warm and impulsive or cold and unemotional; whether they're good or bad-tempered, and whether they tell more untruths than are permissible to their sex." He scoffed. "I don't say for a moment that you can tell everything about them, but you can see instantly if they're thorough bad lots, and if ever there's been one who isn't, it's Lady Almaine. No, I don't believe she's ever carried on with that brute. He is a brute to have written a letter like that and it shows him up as a man of despicable character."

"It's not a nice letter, certainly," admitted Stone. "He dragged the girl in and then was intending to get out of everything himself by committing suicide. It's a very selfish letter."

"Selfish!" exclaimed Larose angrily. "It seems actually spiteful to me. He makes out he's broken-hearted and yet he deliberately rubs in his treachery by that ghastly hint about the child." He calmed down again and asked sharply. "Then what do you intend to infer from it?"

"That Sir George had found out from the lost letter referred to," replied Stone, "that Sampon was carrying on with his wife and——"

"Invited him to dinner," broke in Larose sarcastically,

"A-ah, that might have been a ruse," retorted Stone, "as I have been arguing with Carter here. He might have wanted to watch them when they were together."

"Then going out on to the balcony," went on Larose, "in a sudden fit of fury he killed him. That's your idea, isn't it?"

"Exactly!"

"But don't you see," argued Larose, "if he'd been enraged enough to be in the mood to want to kill him, he would have been much more than suspecting him—he'd have been certain of everything." His voice rose scoffingly. "Then if he were certain, can you imagine him inviting the wretch to his house? What would have been his object? What was there to gain by it?"

Stone made no answer and Larose went on, "No, it all crystallises into this. If his wife had indeed been unfaithful to him there is not the slightest indication that Sir George suspected anything of it. Then, that being so, the motive for his committing the murder is gone and he drops out of the lime-light altogether."

Stone spoke firmly. "We shall go up to Avon Court and ask Sir George a question or two."

Larose nodded, "Yes, about that letter Sampon wrote to his friend, Tom. Find out what Sampon said when he sent the Will to Sir George. He must have sent a covering letter with it. Of course you won't show Sir George that other letter about his wife."

"Not if we can help it," said Stone rather uneasily, "We don't want to, but we may have to and——"

Larose looked horrified. "But you mustn't show it him on any account," he said emphatically. "Whether Lady Almaine has been unfaithful or not, with Sampon dead, it's only her secret now and there's no necessity to bring the matter up, point-blank, to her husband."

Stone shook his head. "But our whole case against him depends upon whether he knew of his wife's relations with the dead man."

"Well, you can find that out at once without asking him directly. Question him as to the reputation the major had, and he won't be subtle enough to hide his real feelings about the man." Larose spoke scornfully, "Goodness, gracious, you've been all these years having dealings with people who've fallen foul of the law, and if you can't form a pretty good idea now when you're being lied to, well, you haven't learnt much from your experiences."

"All right, my son," smiled Stone, "we'll go up to Avon Court straightaway and manage everything as tactfully as we can." A thought struck him. "And if you like you can come with us. As a friend of his, you can lead him on to talk about what we want to know without, perhaps, exciting his suspicions."

"Certainly, I'd like to come," said Larose, "and, as I've suggested, the excuse will be to show him this letter to Tom and find out who Tom is and all about the Will."

"Then we'll go off immediately," nodded Stone. "But, first, is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"Yes, there is," replied Larose instantly, "and please listen patiently to me for a minute or two." He paused a few moments as if to collect his thoughts and went on, "Now are you quite convinced the major was murdered by someone who came from inside the house? Well, so am I and, as Sir George tells me you are certain none of the maids could have had any hand in it, the enquiry can be narrowed down to Sir George, Lady Almaine and his eight guests. Then, that being so, the only chance any of them—excepting, of course, myself—had of committing the murder was during that twenty minutes of darkness when the ghost story was on. We are agreed there, are we not?"

Stone smiled. "Yes, both you and I made it quite clear anyone could move about in that room, unnoticed."

"Then of those ten people," went on Larose, "leaving out Sir George and me for the moment, what about the women? Can you imagine any of them striking that blow?"

Stone considered for a moment. "I wouldn't say it was impossible. That Livingstone girl looks muscular and the widow's not a weakling by any means."

"By Jove, no!" agreed Larose. "She's a noted golfer and golfs five or six days out of the seven. As for the pretty Alma Livingstone, she captained an English hockey team to France last year. Yes, they both could have struck that blow easily enough, but I don't think for a moment they did. If one of them had, she would certainly have shown some noticeable signs of emotion when she was back in the room and the lights went up. As it was, no one noticed anything about anyone. Then——"

"One moment," interrupted Stone. "What about Lady Almaine herself? Suppose she had got an idea that Sampon was going to make a confession to her husband, it is possible she might have struck that blow to prevent him speaking. Certainly she's dainty and most refined looking, but she's healthy and strong and no weakling, either."

"Yes," agreed Larose sarcastically, "and directly after she had murdered her lover she was rolling a cigarette for her husband and she did it so neatly and with such unshaking hands that we all stood round to watch her!"

Stone made no comment and Larose went on, "But to return to the men, and we are left with only Arnold Gauntry, Dr. Revire and the barrister, Julian Travers. Now the only one of them I had met before was this Travers, but Sir George has told me everything he knows about the other two. Revire he has known about three years but Gauntry only for about one. He met him at the house of a mutual friend and——"

"One moment," interrupted Carter, "how long have you yourself known Sir George?"

"About a year, but I have only been to his house twice before last night. I know Travers pretty well. His people live near my place in Norfolk and he comes of an irreproachable family. So I am inclined to dismiss him from my calculations altogether."

"Here, but you're pretty quick in giving him a clearance, aren't you?" frowned Stone.

"I'm only going on general principles," replied Larose, "for as I think someone both murdered and robbed last night, then if he wasn't already a hardened criminal, he is not unlikely to have come from a family, some of whose members are abnormal in some ways and, certainly, Travers does not fill the bill there."

"Was Travers a friend of the dead man?" asked Carter.

"Yes, and Dr. Revire was a friend of his, too. That brings us to the doctor, and we must be careful there. As we all know, we must always be careful when considering a medical man, for no calling brings out the inherent good and bad qualities more than theirs."

"That's true, Gilbert," nodded Stone. "There are more outstanding saints and sinners among doctors than among any other class of men, but thank Heaven the saints are in the greater number."

"Well, Revire's father was a Russian nobleman who married an English girl," went on Larose. "Revire was born in London and educated at Charterhouse. He then went on to Batholomew's Hospital and, after a distinguished career, started to practise as a nerve specialist. He has private means, is of good reputation and, on the surface, there is nothing against him. Now we come to Arnold Gauntry."

Stone laughed. "Keeping your host card until the last, aren't you, Gilbert?"

"Unhappily, it's not much of a best card," said Larose frowningly, "but still there are one or two things about this man which stand out in sharper relief than those about any of the others. His antecedents are unknown and Sir George says he never mentions his family or connections or says anything about his life prior to his setting up as a rubber broker in the city. Now this seems peculiar to me as he's, naturally, a chatty, conversational sort of fellow. At dinner last night he was most entertaining with some happenings about a holiday he'd recently spent in Scotland. I'm of opinion, too, he's lived abroad at some time or other of his life and, if so, he has some special reason for never referring to it."

"What makes you think he's lived abroad?" asked Carter.

"Well, I was asking Sir George every question I could think of about him," replied Larose, "and he happened to mention he was subject to bad attacks of influenza, all the year round, and nothing put him right but big doses of quinine." He nodded, "Now big doses of quinine suggest malaria rather than influenza to me."

"Certainly," nodded back Stone, "and if his business is in rubber, then we can reasonably infer from these bouts of malaria that he learnt it in—say Malaya or Ceylon. He has a slightly yellow look, too, as if he'd lived in the tropics."

"But he's never mentioned to Sir George that he's been out of Europe," frowned Larose, "and that's what seems curious to me. He must have some reason for his reticence."

"Well, we'll find out all we can about him," said Stone. "He's given us his address at 17 Swallow Street, Lothbury."

"But that's only his place of business," said Larose. "He's got a flat in 22 Fitzroy Square. Still, don't you go enquiring there; I'll see to that end. If there are too many of us on his trail he may get to hear of it. Now another thing about this man—and I'm thinking about it quite a lot."

Here he paused for so long that Stone at length said a little testily, "Well, get on with it. What's worrying you?"

"It's this," said Larose. He looked from one to the other of the inspectors, and the words came out with a jerk. "I wonder if I fell into a trap last night. Yes, a trap deliberately set for me and me alone. Look here. Sampon had insulted me and everybody in that house knew it. Sampon was murdered and I was induced to go out to look for him. So when he was found dead it was naturally everyone's first thought that I had killed him." He raised his hand to emphasize his point. "Now had this Arnold Gauntry murdered Sampon and wanted to fasten suspicion on me?"

Stone smiled. "But as he had not met the man until last night, what possible motive could he have had for killing him?"

Larose nodded. "That's the snag. Things don't fit in there." He frowned. "Still, looking back, I am sure Gauntry's manner towards me was peculiar last night. I didn't realise it so much at the time, but I can see now that for some reason he was particularly interested in me. When we were first introduced, apparently he didn't get my name correctly, for, speaking to me a few minutes later, he addressed me as 'Mr. Rose.' I corrected him, 'Larose,' I said, 'Gilbert Larose,' and he immediately puckered up his face into a frown. I imagined then, with some amusement, that he was remembering me as having been once here at the Yard and was wondering how a policeman, as Sampon called me afterwards, came to be a friend of Sir George."

"And what are you imagining now?" smiled Stone.

Larose hesitated. "Well, I don't forget that if it hadn't been for this Gauntry's damned interference there wouldn't have been any suspicion about me at all. When you come to think of it, too, it was a fearful piece of cheek his taking upon himself to suggest that I should go out and ask the sulking major to come in. What had he got to do with it? It was no business of his."

Neither of the two chief inspectors made any answer and Stone looked at his watch. "Well, we'd better be going now to have that talk with Sir George."

Arriving at Avon Court, they were ushered into Sir George's study, where the baronet was busy writing. Carter was introduced to him, and then Stone said briskly, "Now, we want to ask you a few questions, and the first is, do you know the purport of the last Will Major Sampon made?"

Sir George nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact I've just come from his lawyer. He's left everything to my little son."

Stone could not contain his surprise. "O-oh," he exclaimed, "and when was the Will made?"

"Just after the baby was born. A little less than two months ago."

"O-oh," exclaimed Stone again, "and did you know he'd made that Will?"

"Not exactly, but he'd mentioned more than once that he was intending to make my son his heir."

"Did your wife know that?"

"Oh, yes, it was her he told."

Stone thought for a moment. "Well, do you know a friend of his," he asked, "whose Christian name is Tom."

"Yes, Tom Kennedy. He's on the Stock Exchange. He lives at Earl's Court."

"Was he a great friend of Major Sampon?"

Sir George hesitated. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly that they were great friends. They were very good friends and often went fishing together. Kennedy is a nice fellow. I know him well."

Stone drew in a deep breath and, producing the 'My dear Tom' letter, handed it to Sir George. "Well, just read that," he said. "We found it this morning, lying open in Major Sampon's desk."

Sir George started to read it, but almost immediately he frowned. "'In case anything should happen to me,'" he read out. "What does he mean?" He read on and then he frowned harder. "But I've had no Will from him!" he exclaimed. He looked at the date. "And this was written on Wednesday. Then if he sent it to me the day before he wrote this, I ought to have had it on the Wednesday." He shook his head emphatically. "No, I've had no Will or even a letter from him lately. He always phoned up when he wanted to speak to my wife."

"But are you quite sure it's not come," asked Stone sharply, "and not been given to you?"

"Most unlikely," replied Sir George, and then, apparently realising for the first time the significance of what everything meant, he reddened slightly.

"Who takes in the letters?" asked Stone.

"The parlourmaid, nearly always," replied Sir George emphatically,

"What time do they come?"

"Just before seven, about twelve, and again about half past four."

"But perhaps it came by hand," suggested Stone.

"Why should it?" asked Sir George, now obviously beginning to put himself upon the defensive. "The post only takes a few hours."

"Well, you don't mind our questioning the parlourmaid, do you?" asked Stone.

"Certainly not," replied Sir George, and he pressed a bell upon his desk. "You'll find her intelligent and she has a good memory. When anything in the house is mislaid she generally knows where it is."

And certainly the parlourmaid did seem intelligent, answering Stone's questions quickly and with no hesitation. She said it was she who always took the letters out of the box on the front door. Yes, she remembered what letters came yesterday; there were five in the morning, one at mid-day, and one in the evening. There was one long one with a half-penny stamp on it but it was only a circular, with Dunlop Tyres printed on the envelope. The day before that she was quite certain there had been none in long envelopes. No, no letter addressed in Major Sampon's handwriting had come for a long time. She was certain of that.

Stone eyed her intently. "How do you come to know his handwriting?" he asked.

"Because when he was away in South Africa," she replied, "he wrote several times to her ladyship, and his handwriting is easy to remember. It is so very big." She smiled. "I have been in service here for nearly four years and naturally have got to know the handwritings of most of the people who write."

A short silence followed when she had left the room, and then Stone asked thoughtfully, "Was the major a greater friend of Lady Almaine than of you?"

Sir George hesitated. "Well, I suppose he was," he said slowly. "I had known him since we were boys at Harrow together, but lost touch with him afterwards until about three years ago. My wife, however, had known him all her life. Besides, he was at all times very reserved with men and told me much less about himself than he did her." He nodded. "Yes, I suppose he was a closer friend to her than to me, although we always got on very well together."

"Did she see him often?" went on Stone.

"No, only occasionally; perhaps once in every two or three weeks. Sometimes Sampon's time was very occupied, his work is at the War Office, and then he would be away a lot. No, we neither of us saw him very often."

A hard, tense silence followed, Sir George's statement was most damning to his wife, and Stone sighed heavily. There was no help for it, and he, Stone, must now produce the dreadful letter Major Sampon had written. His hand moved to his breast pocket while, at the same time, he looked furtively at Larose. But Larose, very much on the alert, had been watching him intently and he now spoke up quickly.

"But one moment," he said. "May I suggest something. As Lady Almaine knew the major so well, couldn't we have a word with her now. Perhaps she may even be able to explain to us what this letter to Mr. Tom Kennedy means." He pointed through the long French window. "I see she's out on the lawn there with the baby. May I call her in?" and he rose to his feet and walked over to the window.

"Certainly," said Sir George. "But I don't think she'll know anything about the letter to Mr. Kennedy or she'd have told me."

The window was opened and Sir George called out, "Joyce, dear, will you come here for a minute? Inspector Stone wants to speak to you."

Lady Almaine nodded and came through the window. For the moment she seemed to look rather frightened at seeing so many there, but quickly recovered herself and gave Larose and Stone a friendly smile. She was introduced to Inspector Carter and then Stone said genially, "So this is the son and heir, is it! What a splendid little fellow," and it might almost have been said that a look of relief came over his face as he added, "And isn't he like his father!"

Lady Almaine laughed lightly. "He's going to be much more handsome, I think," she said, but the proud look she flashed at her husband made them all doubt that she was giving expression to her real opinion.

Certainly the baby was very like Sir George, with the same cast of features and the same shape of head. His beautiful grey eyes, however, came from his mother.

For the second time Stone sighed heavily as he looked from the child to the mother. Most susceptible always to the charms of the gentler sex, he was well aware of his weakness and was now fighting hard lest his conviction of Lady Almaine's guilt should be swamped by her winsome attractiveness.

Larose repressed a smile. In spite of the sickening suspicion in his heart that she might be a guilty woman, he yet wanted to save Sir George the agony of learning it and, seeing the struggle which was now going on in Stone's mind, he thought there were good hopes of averting the catastrophe. He spoke up quickly, so that Stone should not get in first.

"It's like this, Lady Almaine," he said. "Mr. Stone has come across a letter in Major Sampon's desk and we wonder if you can explain it. It was one he wrote yesterday to Mr. Tom Kennedy and was lying open, evidently awaiting the postscript he was intending to add."

Stone did not seem to mind that Larose had taken the initiative from him, and at once held out the letter to Lady Almaine, who had passed over the baby to her husband.

Lady Almaine took the letter from him but, as she proceeded to read down it, her expression became a very puzzled one. Watching her intently, Carter thought she was prettier than ever Mrs. Carter had been, although at one time in his opinion his Nancy had been the handsomest girl in Tooting. With his eyes upon her, too, Stone could not help sighing regretfully that his own days of romance were over.

Lady Almaine read through the letter and then looked up at her husband. "But you've had no Will, George!" she exclaimed.

"No, dear," he replied. "That's the puzzle!"

"And this sounds, too, as if he thought he was soon going to die," she went on, frowningly, "although on Sunday he certainly had no idea of it, as he was talking about going to Switzerland at Christmas." She turned to Stone. "I was at his house with him for more than an hour that afternoon and he was quite bright and chatty."

Stone cleared his throat. "You knew him well, did you, Lady Almaine?" he asked.

"Very well. I've known him all my life."

Stone hesitated. "And would you say he was a truthful man?"

She seemed surprised at the question. "Of course, he was. He was a gentleman. He would never have purposely deceived anyone."

"Then how do you account," asked Stone sharply, "for his writing he had sent the Will to your husband the previous day and yet Sir George has not received it?"

"Why, it's just a mistake," she replied. "He was intending to send it and forgot to do so." Her face clouded. "But I don't understand his making this new Will, as he's told me several times he had made our small son his heir. Not that we wanted the money for him, as we've plenty to give him ourselves," she added quickly, "but it makes it look as if he were offended with us in some way."

"Then you have no idea what made him change his mind?" asked Stone.

"Not the slightest. He was as kind and friendly as he could be when I saw him on Sunday."

"Was he a man of moods?" asked Stone.

"Not a bit," replied Lady Almaine. "He was always the same, quiet and calm. I've never seen him upset until last night. In all these years I've never seen him in a temper before." Then, as if wanting to make excuses for him, she went on, "Still, he hasn't seemed to me in the best of health lately."

"Oh, in what way?" asked Larose instantly.

"Well, he said that of late he'd been getting tired very easily and had not felt inclined to do anything."

"Had he been to see a doctor?" asked Larose.

"I don't know," replied Lady Almaine. She shook her head. "He wouldn't have told me if he had. Although he and I were such good friends, he was most reticent in some ways and there were some things in his life about which he never talked. For instance, he's never told anyone, not even me, what his work in connection with the War Office was. But it must have been very important, for it sometimes took him away from home for many days on end together. When we saw him again, however, he never used to mention where he'd been."

A short silence followed and then Stone said, "So we're to understand he was a secret, silent man who made very few friends." He eyed Lady Almaine very sharply. "Well, do you think there was a woman in his life?"

In spite of her general air of sadness, Lady Almaine laughed. "I'm quite sure there wasn't. He wasn't that kind of man. He was in no way a woman-hater, but there was nothing passionate in his liking for us." Her voice rippled. "I'm sure he's never been in love in his whole life."

Stone frowned. "But I understand he was very friendly with that widow who was here last night?" he asked.

Lady Almaine nodded. "Yes, but I'm sure she and I were the only women friends he had. She is the widow of a brother officer of his, and the attraction there was wholly intellectual. They were both students of foreign languages and knew French, German, Italian, Japanese, besides other languages as well."

At last Stone evidently thought he had got the opportunity he wanted and, turning to Sir George, he asked bluntly, "And in the matter of the other sex do you, too, consider Major Sampon was a moral man?"

Sir George smiled. "I haven't the slightest doubt about it. He never thought about women, he never talked about them and, although a man of wide reading, he hated books touching on matters of sex." He shrugged his shoulders. "In fact, he was rather an old-fashioned prude."

They talked on for some time and then, to Larose's great relief, the conversation began to languish. He saw that, at any rate for the time being, Stone had shot his bolt and was not going to produce the second letter.

Then Lady Almaine would insist upon providing refreshments and Stone found himself looking smilingly into her eyes as she mixed him a whisky and soda. He sighed heavily for the third time as he thought in what dainty and attractive surroundings evil could be. He felt disgusted with himself, however, for his weakness.

At length they all took their leave, and directly their car was out of the drive Larose asked curiously, "Well, what do you think of it?"

"I wish I hadn't got to think of it at all," grunted Stone. "It'll be the death of that man when he comes to learn what his wife has been doing."

"He'll never learn it," said Larose calmly. "Under the circumstances it's quite unnecessary for us to make known our suspicions to him."

"Suspicions!" ejaculated Stone contemptuously. He seemed about to speak with some heat, but then immediately calmed himself down. "No, Gilbert," he went on sadly, "with all her prettiness and nice manners, we simply can't get away from that vile letter Sampon wrote. She is a guilty woman, without the slightest doubt."

"But I have a great doubt," retorted Larose stoutly. "An instinct tells me she is devoted to her husband and has never been untrue to him."

"But what reason then had the man for writing as he did?" asked Stone. He looked very troubled. "I'd like to think it was all a pack of lies, but my cooler judgment won't let me." His face broke into a smile. "Gosh! but what a perfect little actress she is! She almost won me over several times." He turned round to his colleague on the back seat. "What do you think of her, Carter? Can she be a wrong 'un, with that beautiful face of hers?"

Carter took quite a long time to answer. "I haven't made up my mind yet," he said slowly. "I'll have to consider it carefully, now I'm not under that sort of spell she would always throw over all us poor weak men. She's an exceedingly pretty woman." He spoke with more animation. "But I'm quite of the opinion her husband has never had any suspicions of her, whatever she's been doing. He's a man of very transparent nature and if he thought she was a guilty woman he couldn't have hidden it from us."

"Then what about that Will Sampon said he sent her?" grunted Stone.

"He never received it," replied Carter. "His surprise was quite genuine there. But I'll read those two letters again when we get in. I'm thinking now they must be taken together. They were written at the same time, when the writer was in the same mood and therefore they both reflect the same condition of mind. So we have a double chance of making out what it was."

"Yes, and in my opinion he was lying in both of them," commented Larose dryly. "He had never sent any Will to Sir George."

"Then why the blazes was he writing to that Kennedy man?" snapped Stone, evidently not liking the confident way in which Larose was speaking.

"Probably to cause further anxiety to his best friend," replied Larose contemptuously. He spoke angrily. "Don't you realise how deuced awkward it will make it for Sir George when Kennedy gets that letter and reads that Sampon has made him his heir and entrusted the Will to Sir George's keeping? Of course, it will look as if Sir George is suppressing this second Will, so that his kid may come into all the money under the first one!"

"Well, the Will may turn up yet," nodded Stone. "We may find Sampon's housekeeper knows something about it." He laughed. "You know, Gilbert, a pretty woman could always get round you, but I can't bring myself to believe that Major Sampon suddenly started upon a campaign of lying. It isn't reasonable. Now is it?"

Larose dropped them at the Yard and Stone, going up to his room, learned that a caller had been waiting some time most impatiently to see him.

The caller was shown in and, directly he was alone with Stone, he said sharply, "I'm Colonel Templar and I want all details about the murder of Major Sampon." He handed a card to the Chief Inspector. "I come from the Intelligence Department, where Major Sampon was one of our most trusted officers."

"Oh, he was in the Secret Service, was he?" asked Stone, drawing a deep breath.

"Yes, and we have just learnt that at the time of his death he was in the company of a man whom we believe to be a dangerous spy in the pay of the Soviet, a Dr. Ansell Revire."

And, even in that day of many surprises, Stone thought this announcement the greatest surprise of them all.