Читать книгу The Thief in the Night and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

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JACK made a very complete search of the grounds, particularly in the vicinity of the mansion. Beneath Diana's window he looked for the tell-tale marks of a ladder, but there were none to be found.

All the time he was searching he had the certainty in his mind that the crime had been committed from the inside of the house. Who was there to suspect? Strangely enough, he had already ruled out the possibility of a servant being responsible for the robbery. Most of the guests had brought their own maids; but they were housed in a part of the building which made it impossible that they could reach Diana's room in the middle of the night.

He came back in a troubled frame of mind to interview Lord Widdicombe. His lordship was pacing his library when the detective entered.

"Well, Danton," he said, "have you discovered anything?"

Jack shook his head.

"Nothing," he said.

Widdicombe resumed his pacing.

"I wish to heaven it hadn't happened," he said. "Diana can well afford the loss—she is very rich. It is the thought that it is somebody in this house, a guest possibly, who is the thief that bothers me. When are you going back to town?" he asked suddenly.

"To-day. I thought of going back by the same train as Miss May."

Lord Widdicombe frowned.

"Barbara May, eh?" he said, "a very nice girl, and a very unfortunate girl, too," he added significantly.

"What do you mean?" asked Jack, alert to defend where no defence was called for.

"Unfortunate, because she has been in every house where as burglary has been committed. In other words, Danton, whenever this mysterious visitor has come, Barbara May has been a guest. "Wait, wait," he said, holding up his hand, "I am not suggesting that Barbara knows anything about this wretched thief—that would be too preposterous a suggestion; but there is the fact. It has been rubbed into me by Diana, and you can't get away from 'it, Danton."

Jack shrugged.

"For the matter of that, Miss Wold has been at most of the places where the burglaries have been committed."

"By jove! so she has," said Lord Widdicombe thoughtfully; "but, pshaw! I don't think we need consider either Diana or Barbara. Now, the point that strikes me—and I am not a detective—is: if the thief is a guest in this house the jewel must be in this house still. Unless—"

"Unless what?" asked Jack.

"Unless," said Lord Widdicombe slowly, "they have managed to get it away."

"That presupposes a confederate," said Jack Danton, "and I have an idea that the thief is playing a lone hand."

"Either a confederate, or else the plaque has been—well, posted."

Jack laughed.

"They must have got up very early," he said. "The only person who went to the post-office in the first part of the morning was myself." He stopped suddenly. Barbara also had been to the post- office, and—

"Nobody else?" asked Lord Widdicombe curiously.

"Nobody," said Jack.

He got away from his host as soon as he could. He must settle this torturous suspicion which was disturbing his mind. Barbara May! It was impossible.

As soon as he could get away, he went to the post-office and found the old post-master making up his books.

"Mr. Villers, as a servant of the Government, you will understand that what I tell you is very confidential."

He passed his card across the counter, and the old man, fixing his glasses, read, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"I had no idea, sir, you were in the police," he said. "I've got a nephew—"

But Jack cut short the recital of his relative's qualities.

"Mr. Villers, can you tell me how many registered parcels have been despatched from the post-office to-day?"

"None, sir," said the old man promptly, "not a single one."

Jack heaved a sigh of relief.

"And the letters, of course, you could not keep track of?"

"No, sir; the only one I know anything about is an express letter which was handed in early this morning."

"By whom?" asked Jack quickly.

"By that young lady, Miss May, I think her name is."

The heart of Jack Danton sank.

"Are you sure?"

"Why, yes, sir; she came in with you early this morning, and then she came back and said she had forgotten she had the letter to send."

He remembered now that Barbara had said she was going back to buy some stamps.

"What sort of letter was it?" he asked, feeling a little sick at heart.

"Well, it was a pretty bulky letter, sir; it felt to me as though there was a cardboard box inside."

"To where was it addressed? I suppose you don't remember that?" asked Jack quickly.

"Yes, I do, sir; I took a note of it, because it was an unusual thing to send an express letter from here."

He turned up a book.

"It was sent to Mr. Singh, 903 Bird-in-Bush Road, Peckham. That's what made me notice the address particularly; I never knew there was such a road in London."

Jack jotted down the address mechanically.

Singh! An Indian name. He frowned, and tried to associate this circumstance with something he had heard only recently. He must know the truth, he felt, as he walked slowly back to the house, for her sake and for his. He realized now all that Barbara May meant to him, all the high hopes that had been planted in his heart, and whilst he could not bring himself to believe that the girl was a common thief, yet every new fact which was disclosed went to support that view. The meeting she had had with the mysterious Mr. Smith at Hyde Park Corner, the discovery that he had in his possession a diamond plaque similar to that which had been stolen—this was a damning confirmation of his worst fears.

Diana Wold treated the matter of her loss very lightly; she strolled into Barbara May's room and watched her packing.

"The world's sympathy is very precious to me," she said cheerfully, "it is almost worth the loss of my plaque."

"I don't believe that," smiled Barbara.

"What a tremendous lot of baggage you bring," said Diana interested. "That great box and two suit-cases; really, Barbara, you are equipped for a world tour."

"Aren't I," laughed the girl, and then Lady Diana smelt something. It was a fragrant and peculiar perfume. What was more, it was a perfume which was made especially for her.

"Excuse me if I sniff," she said. "What scent is that Barbara?"

"Scent," said Barbara in surprise, and then slowly, "I have noticed it before. I never use any other perfume than lavender water."

Diana changed the subject, and a few minutes after went back to her own room and rang for her maid.

"Amile, where is my perfume?"

"You put it in your jewel case, madame," said the girl.

Diana unlocked the little steel box and, putting in her hand, brought out a squat cut-glass bottle. She knew before she touched it that the stopper was out, and feeling gingerly on the bottom of the box she found it was damp.

"I remember now," she said slowly, "I put it away in a hurry, and I must have spilt a little. That will do, Amile."

She sat down on the bed to think.

So it was Barbara May whose hand had been inside that box: Barbara May who—suddenly Diana went white and, unlocking the little safe again, she took some papers out and examined them. They were all there. She sighed her relief. All there, but they reeked of her perfume. She carried the papers to the fireplace, put them in and set a match to them. As she watched the flames curl upwards there came to her the faint fragrance of the perfume with which they were saturated.

So Barbara May was the thief.