Читать книгу The Blue Daffodil - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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"I HOPE that Tanberg did not recognise you," Ronnie said.

"I am quite sure he did not," Vera replied. "I gave him every chance. I forced myself to look deliberately into his bold eyes, and could read no recognition there. Ronnie, he must never know who I am—never."

"No need for that," Brentford agreed. "You have always been 'Miss Goff' ever since you came here, and now that poor Garnstone is dead, the secret is ours—and Medway's, of course. He wants all the help we can give him. But, for the moment at any rate, we will keep this business of Manstar alias Tanberg to ourselves. Because, you see, Vera, I am going to take a hand in this game and never rest until the murderer has been brought to justice. I mistrust this Manstar fellow who, I think, may be of use to us. Now, why did he want to see over the flat?"

"For some sinister purpose I am sure," Vera cried. "I believe that the story of the gold cup was untrue. I don't believe that there is any gold cup. Remember how cooly he behaved when no such cup was found. He wasn't even annoyed over it. There is something evil here, and we have got to get to the bottom of it, Ronnie."

And there for the moment they left it. Nothing further could be done until the safe was opened. Meanwhile Vera, who had taken rooms close by, came in to the flat every day to deal with letters and other matter that poured in from all parts of Europe. Whenever it was necessary she could reach Brentford by telephone and in addition they were together most evenings.

A day or two passed before Brentford could make a personal contact with Medway, and, when he did, it was only to find that the inspector was as much in the dark as ever.

"The most baffling case I ever handled," he admitted quite freely. "Not a thread to hang on to. I am still as convinced as ever that Garnstone was taken by surprise that night by some scoundrel who managed to find a way into the flat. Given that, I am at the end of my resources."

"I don't think so," Ronald said, smiling. "Now I am interested in that Rumanian gentleman who visited the flat in search of a gold cup—or so he says. I'm not suggesting that he murdered the poor old gentleman, but I do suggest that he could tell us quite a lot if he were so disposed. I don't know whether you are keeping an eye on him or, if you know——"

"Were he lives," Medway interrupted. "Yes, I found that much out from the man himself. He was kind enough to ask me to dine with him one night which I may or may not do. But one of my men has been told off to keep an eye on him and make a note of his movements and the sort of company he keeps. One never knows what is going to turn up."

"Any luck so far?" Brentford asked.

"Well, no, but I have not been altogether idle. I have seen Mr. Garnstone's lawyers, for instance. I rather wanted to have a look at the old man's will. They hadn't got it—nothing but draft instructions made some time ago. Mr. Garnstone took the original away with him a month ago; probably it is in the safe. Then I went to Mr. Garnstone's bankers, and there I did make something of a discovery."

"I am all attention," Brentford murmured.

"Very well. On the morning of the crime, Mr. Garnstone came into the bank and drew out a thousand pounds in Bank of England notes—mostly fivers. Of these I have the numbers. Sooner or later the present holder will cash one or more of these and then we shall learn something. As far as I remember, no money was found on the body save a few treasury notes. I particularly want to know where that big money went."

"Very interesting," Brentford commented. "The missing clue may be behind the bank paper. But what about Tanberg and his statement to the effect that he and Garnstone met in the lounge of the Regal Palace on the night of the murder? Gunter swore his master never left the flat that night—at least not much before midnight, by which time he was dead."

"That part I am on my way to investigate at this very moment, and if you like you can come along."

Brentford wanted nothing better. Ere long the two were in close conversation with the head waiter at the Regal Palace.

"Oh, yes, sir," he said in answer to Medway's question. "I knew Mr. Garnstone very well. He frequently dined here. Was he here on the night of his murder? No doubt whatever about it. He spoke to me when he came in and when shortly before 10 o'clock he went off in his little two seater car. Two or three of our waiters will tell you the same thing."

Medway professed himself satisfied on the point after he had questioned others of the staff.

"Very strange," he whispered to Brentford. "Gunter must have been entirely mistaken or was not telling the truth for some reason or another. Now for the hall porter."

But that individual was as firm in his statement as the rest of the staff. He distinctly remembered Mr. Garnstone leaving the lounge with a gentleman whom he knew by the name of Tanberg. A foreigner, he was, and a regular customer of late. The two stood on the pavement chatting before Mr. Garnstone climbed into his two seater, saying something about a man he was to visit who lived somewhere down east—Whitechapel Road, the hall porter thought. Not that he was listening.

"Did Mr. Tanberg go with him?" Medway asked.

"No sir," the porter replied. "He came back into the lounge, and there he stayed till about eleven o'clock after which he left on foot, the night being fine."

"Strange, very strange," Medway ruminated as they turned their backs on the hotel. "Gunter tells me that Mr. Garnstone had no car. Did you know of one?"

"Most certainly not," Brentford, declared emphatically. "He professed a real hatred of cars. And as to driving one——"

"Well, there you are, anyway," Medway said. "We have a number of reliable witnesses who have nothing, to gain by paltering with the truth who knew that Garnstone not only owned a car but actually drove it. Through London streets, too. Now, what do you think of that, my friend?"

"I wonder if the hall porter knew the number of the car?"

"Now that is a real brain wave!" Medway cried. "Though I ought to have thought of it myself. Just a moment."

Medway retraced his footsteps only to return a few moments later with a half-amused look on his face.

"Got it," he said. "And yet not got it. The man is certain that the number is ZX 1001."

"What do you mean, not got it?"

"Simply this—there is no such number, couldn't be. Now I wonder what that old chap was up to. Keeping a secret car in some equally secret garage whilst vowing that the sight of a car was anathema to him. It would seem that the great man was leading a double life. What I am asking myself at moment is whether there is a secret passage from the flat to the street. It must either be that or Gunter is in the conspiracy and is the finest liar I ever met. Yet I have a feeling that Gunter quite believes in what he says."

"What is the next move now?" Brentford asked.

"Why to trace that car. I shall have to send out a general call. That is a description, to the street patrols, of the car, its make, colour and so on. It's any odds I shall pick up something in the next 24 hours."

Medway was not very far off in his prophesy, for late the following afternoon a constable presented himself at the Yard with a request to see Inspector Medway. Presently the two were sitting in Medway's office.

"About that motor car, sir," the man began. "I was on duty a few nights ago and——"

"Stop a moment," Medway interrupted. "Which night? And what fixes it on your memory?"

"It was the night of the flat murder sir."

"Good man," Medway murmured. "Go on."

"Well sir, I went on night duty at the usual hour. Down Whitechapel Road way, that is. At about 10.20 I saw a small car coming east. In it was a single person. The car tallied in every way with that described in the general call."

"Stop there for a bit," Medway interpolated. "Did you take any particular notice of the driver?"

"No sir; I can't say I did."

"But you might recognise him if you saw him again?"

"I think I should, sir, especially in the face of what happened afterwards. You see sir——"

Once more Medway held up his hand for silence. From a bundle of cuttings on his desk he produced a photograph evidently taken from some picture paper.

"Now try and describe the car driver," he commanded.

"Very tall and thin, sir. White hair and the features of an aristocrat. Commanding-looking gentleman. Might have been a general or a statesman."

Medway passed the cutting over to his visitor.

"Something like that, for instance?" he asked.

"Why sir, it is the very gentleman. Of course I don't know his name, only the number of the car."

Medway smiled, for he had carefully removed the letterpress from the cutting. Time enough for that later on. "And the number of the car is ZX1001 eh? Yes, I can see it is without asking. But that is not what jogged your memory. Something out of the common happened."

"Not so much, after all, sir. Just another car coming in the opposite direction, and a skid which forced the two seater on to the pavement. Front wheel buckled and so on. The old gentleman got out undamaged, and declined to make any charge against the other driver. Quite polite he was, about it. So he hopped into a taxi, saying that he would send for his car almost at once, as he knew of a garage not far off."

"So that you did not see him again?"

"No sir, I didn't. Just as I came that way again there was a mechanic and his mate tinkering with the car and fixing a new wheel. They had just about finished when I turned up, and off they went before I could ask a question."

"Um," Medway muttered thoughtfully. "I presume that you might be able to recognise those mechanics again?"

"I don't think so," the officer replied, with a shake of his head. "They were very dirty and black as sweeps, besides being in dungarees. Anything else, sir?"

Medway shook his head in turn, and for a long time after the officer had gone sat there plunged in deep thought.

"I wonder," he said, earnestly to himself. "I wonder."