Читать книгу The Three Oak Mystery - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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ONLY for a second did Jetheroe's mask-like face twitch.

"That is certainly Miss Templeton's shoe," he said, "and its presence here is easily explained. She came over one rainy day and arrived minus a shoe. She said she had lost one in the mud somewhere. It was towards evening and rather dark. I borrowed a pair of old shoes from my housekeeper to send her back in and I made a search for the other. I kept this shoe in my study for some days, and only last night I threw it into the basket, thinking it was very unlikely that the other would be found."

Socrates Smith was silent. As for Lexington, he drew a sigh of relief because the story sounded plausible. But Jetheroe made the mistake of attempting to elaborate the story and offer further explanation.

"Miss Templeton returned the borrowed shoes the next day," he said, "and I hadn't to explain to my housekeeper why I took her property without her knowledge!"

"I see," said Socrates. "So that if I questioned your housekeeper on this incident she would know nothing at all about it. Very ingenious. Good-morning, Mr. Jetheroe."

Jetheroe did not reply. He stood, a silent, watchful figure by the table and made no attempt to escort them to the door.

"Well, what do you think, Soc?" asked Lexington as they trudged back to meet the inspector.

"I think Jetheroe is a cold-blooded liar," said Soc cheerfully.

"What was the name you wrote in your book?"

Soc chuckled.

"I'll bet you tuppence you'll never guess," he said.

He stopped and opened the book, and reading the name, Lexington's eyebrows went up.

"Why, that is the name of an American film star," he said. "What has she got to do with it?"

"Nothing at all," replied the cheery Soc, his eyes twinkling. "Only did you notice he was eating buttered toast?"

"What the dickens is the connection between buttered toast and Mary Miles Minter?" asked the astonished Lexington.

"However cleanly a man may be, and however carefully he may wipe his fingers, after eating buttered toast," replied Socrates, "he generally leaves a film of grease upon his fingers, and if you look very carefully you will see a thumb print on the corner. Just turn the book that way so that the sun strikes it at the right angle."

"Did you want his thumb print?" asked Lexington in astonishment.

"That is exactly what I wanted and that is exactly what I got," said Soc, closing the book carefully and slipping an elastic band about it. "I tell you I am mighty suspicious of gentlemen who go away from this country and remain away for many years. Particularly when nobody seems to know what country they've been living in. Haven't you noticed about genuine travellers and sojourners in distant lands, that the first thing they talk about is the country of their residence, its attractions, its beauties, its hardships or whatever are its characteristics? Take the returned Anglo-Chilean, or the man who has spent years in the Argentine, or Australia, or South Africa. Almost the first information he gives to his new acquaintances is that he knows these countries. When a man comes back after a long absence and is silent or vague about the land in which he has lived, he has either come out of prison or a lunatic asylum, or he is a fugitive from justice from the country of his adoption."

"You're a suspicious old devil," said the admiring Lex. "Do you think Jetheroe knows anything about this murder?"

"Let us ask the inspector what he has discovered," replied Soc.

The inspector had discovered nothing. With the aid of two labourers who had been commandeered for the purpose, the body of John Mandle had been lowered to the ground. As Socrates had discovered, it had not been bound and the rope about the body had only the appearance of being fastly tied.

"Now," said Socrates, "we've got the unpleasant job of breaking the news to this poor girl. If you don't mind, inspector, I will go up first."

Inspector Mallett nodded.

"I think it would be wise, sir, and somebody ought to go over to Mr. Stone and tell him."

"I'd forgotten Stone," said Soc thoughtfully.

"It will be a great shock to him," the inspector went on. "They were great friends and were together in the police. I suppose you know that."

"Yes," nodded Soc.

He was very silent on the way to the house, and the questions which Lexington put were answered in monosyllables.

The servants were up and about when they returned, and the absence of John Mandle had not been noticed. Timms, his valet, was brushing his clothes when Soc gave him the news. The man went pale and almost collapsed.

"Dead!" he said in a terrified whisper. "Murdered? How? In his room, sir?"

"No, he was murdered at Three Oaks," said Socrates quietly.

"But how could he get there, sir? The poor gentleman couldn't walk."

"You haven't been into his room, of course."

"No, sir. I never go into his room until he rings. He doesn't like being wakened."

"Is Miss Templeton down yet?" asked Socrates.

"I'll ask the maid," said the valet, and disappeared into the servants' quarters. He returned shaking his head.

"No, sir. Miss Templeton doesn't usually get down until about half-past nine."

"Let us see Mandle's room first. Ask the maid to wake Miss Templeton and tell her that I have something very important to say to her."

John Mandle's room was a large, airy apartment, the most spacious in the house. It was well but not elaborately furnished. A single bed stood in one corner and it was, of course, empty. More than that, it had not been slept in, as he saw with a glance. He turned to the valet, Timms, who had accompanied the men.

"Didn't you put your master to bed last night?" he asked.

"No, sir," the man shook his head. "Mr. Mandle was very particular about that. He always managed to undress himself, though he wanted a little help in dressing."

"Where did you leave him last night?"

"I left him sitting on the edge of the bed just there."

He pointed to a depression where somebody had sat heavily on the edge, near the foot of the bed. The sheets were turned back, the pyjamas, neatly folded, lay on the pillow, but no head had touched the pillow.

"Where does this door lead to?" asked Soc pointing.

"That's a private staircase Mr. Mandle had made. It leads down to his study on the ground floor; but he seldom uses it."

Soc tried the door. It was unlocked. The stairway was narrow and dark, and looking round for some means of illumination, he saw a large portable electric lamp standing on a chest of drawers. He took it up and switching on the light made his investigation. The light was particularly brilliant for a battery lamp, but it revealed no clue that made the mystery of John Mandle's extraordinary disappearance any clearer. At the foot of the stairs was another door that was unlocked, and they came into the study which Mandle had built and in which he spent so many hours. His wheel chair stood by the side of his writing-table. Soc tried the door leading into the garden. This also was unlocked.

"Curious," he mused. "Very curious. The door has an electric control. I saw the switch by the side of his desk. He would hardly go to bed without having fastened the door in some way or other."

He made a further discovery. Not only was the switch turned to "open," but the second control, which he found by John Mandle's bed in the room above, was also turned to "open."

"Very extraordinary," he said. "What do you want?" this to an agitated servant.

"I can't get any answer from Miss Templeton's room," she said. "I knocked and knocked. The door is locked."

Socrates Smith went swiftly up the stairs.

"This is the room, sir," said the maid. He tried the door, then, stooping, looked through the keyhole.

"The key is taken out," he said, and knocked again.

"Miss Templeton!" he called loudly.

There was no answer. He put his shoulder against the door and pressed. With a crack the lock broke, and Lexington, who had never before witnessed an exhibition of his brother's remarkable strength, opened his eyes in amazement.

Soc walked swiftly into the room. It was empty!

Here, too, the bed had not been slept in. He came out into the passage and found the valet.

"Timms," he said, "where does Mr. Mandle keep his valuables?"

"In his safe, sir," said the man.

"Where is his safe?"

Timms explained that the safe was in what he called the "library," a small apartment at the back of the house to which John Mandle would retire for days when the mood was on him.

The receptacle stood in the corner of the room, a small fire-proof safe, and there was no need to ask what had happened; for the door was wide open, and the safe was empty of anything in the shape of valuables.