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« on: March 11, 2023, 10:44:49 am » |
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"I DON'T know whether you wish to tell me this, Mrs. Clifton," said the reporter, "but there's a story---which naturally we haven't printed without confirmation---that your husband and Mr. Hale quarrelled violently yesterday evening, and that, in fact, there was a fight."
She nodded. Her brain was ice-cold now: she was entirely mistress of herself. Lie must be met by lie till more substantial weapons came into her hand.
"Mr. Hale was very offensive. He broke into our house the night we arrived there, and my husband, discovering it was he, told him when he found him in the grounds to leave. It was Mr. Hale who struck him, and I do not think that my husband did any more than defend himself. That is all I can tell you."
In a moment of inspiration she added:
"I don't know whether you think it wise to print this---such a statement might reflect upon my husband and suggest that he had some grievance against Basil Hale."
The reporter smiled.
"We aren't likely at this stage to print anything which might incriminate your husband or anybody else, Mrs. Clifton," he said. "I am asking now for my private information---I am covering the case. There is another point which strikes us as curious. The murder was committed between three and a quarter past; we have made inquiries of the press agency which supplied us with the information, and we find that this was telephoned through to the press agency office at ten minutes to four. Another account which has come from Longford Manor is to the effect that Hale's body was not discovered until somewhere in the region of seven. Have you any idea who supplied the agency with the first news?"
She was content here to plagiarise Bourke.
"If you knew who gave the agency that news, you would know who committed the murder," she said.
After he had gone, she went into her room, locked the door and began unpacking her trunk. It was some time before she reached the thick sheets of wrapping paper which separated her clothes from Peter's bloodstained garments. Overcoming a repugnance which was almost nauseating, she lifted out the horrible things, and put them into the wrapping paper she had thrown on the floor. They had left no marks in the trunk, she was relieved to find. They must be got rid of at once---but how and where?
She made a small parcel of the clothes, in which she wrapped the hammer-head, took it into the small sitting-room which she had already allocated as her own, and rang the bell for the butler.
"Central heating? Yes, madam. It's operated from the basement---the under porter attends to the furnace. Have you anything you wish to be burnt?"
The question was too direct for Jane.
"No," she said.
There was a pond in Green Park, but this she knew was drained at regular intervals. The river? It seemed a simple matter to drop that tell-tale evidence into the fast-flowing Thames; but the spectacle of a lady throwing a big parcel into the water would hardly escape attention. It must be done at night, she decided, and sat down to plan the disposal of the package. She would take a cab to the Thames Embankment late that night, and, waiting a favourable opportunity, would drop the package over the parapet. It sounded easy, but would it be? The Embankment was well lighted and was seldom free from pedestrians even on the most inclement nights. A fog would make it easy, but there was no possibility of fog. . . .
"Will you see Mr. Bourke?"
She started guiltily at the sound of Walker's voice.
"Mr. Bourke?" she stammered, and changed colour. "Yes---yes, I will see him in the drawing-room."
She took the package and locked it away in the empty cupboard of a secretaire before she hurried to meet the detective.
"No, Peter didn't come up," he said as he shook hands. "He wanted to stay the night, and I think he's wise---there will be an inquiry to-morrow. But you needn't worry about him, Mrs. Clifton: nothing can happen to him. I've left three of my best men there, and they do not include Mr. Rouper," he added grimly.
Before she could reply he went on:
"Have you seen the evening newspapers?" and, when she replied: "Fierce, eh? Mr. X is going to get Peter into this case or die in the attempt!"
"Who is Mr. X?" she asked.
"Possibly it's Mrs. X," he said, as he settled himself comfortably in the chair she indicated. "This is the queerest case I've ever known in all my police experience. Murders? Dozens of 'em! But just straightforward crimes where you had only to find who was the last person with the deceased, or who had had the most reason for wishing him out of the way, to be able to nail your man. But here's Basil Hale murdered by some person or persons unknown, and here's the murderer making the most strenuous efforts, not to save his own skin, but to put the blame on Peter! By the way, I've found out all about the message to the News Association. It was phoned through at twelve minutes to four."
"From where?" she asked quickly.
"From Longford Manor," said Bourke, examining the carpet attentively as though he had lost something. "Queer thing, isn't it? Longford Manor! The Longford operator was half asleep when the signal came through, and took two minutes to connect. So therefore the first attempt to send the message must have been some time before ten minutes to four. Who sent it? That's the queer thing." Bourke rubbed his chin irritably. "The operator, who knows the district and who would be well aware that Longford Manor is frequently let to strange guests, asked the name of the sender."
"Who was it?" Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Bourke turned his eyes slowly in her direction.
"Who do you think, Mrs. Clifton? Who but Peter! It was Peter who sent the details of the murder. The operator says he recognised the voice."
A long silence followed.
"Queer," said Bourke at last, and then, with abruptness, he said something that terrified her. "There are one or two things I want to find, Mrs. Clifton. Part of the dress suit and shirt that Peter wore on the night of the murder. The second thing is a coal hammer that was in the study. The old man who has been looking after your husband at Longford Manor volunteered a statement to me that Peter had two dress suits, that the coat of one of them had disappeared---he wasn't sure about the waistcoat, which was white, but he's very certain of the coat; and he's equally sure of a shirt, the shirt that Peter wore that same night. He says he noticed it because the one he put out for Peter to wear had a square cuff---the only shirt that was shaped that way, the others having rounded corners. He also says that the shirt that was in Peter's room, and which apparently he had worn the night before, had never been worn at all, that one of the sleeves was starched together for the space of about six inches between shoulder and elbow, which proved that no arm had been through it."
Still he did not look at the white-faced girl.
"When Peter was found," he continued after a while, "he was dressed in his singlet and trousers, which almost suggests to me that somebody undressed him. This somebody may also have washed his face and hands---I'm not certain about this. I'd like to be absolutely sure"---his eyes were on her now, fixed, unwavering and, to her, menacing---"where those clothes are at this present moment---and the coal hammer."
She was about to speak but he stopped her.
"Don't say anything till I've finished. And remember, Mrs. Clifton, that I hold a very responsible position at Scotland Yard, and that though theoretically I am on duty twenty-four hours a day, I have my moments of relaxation, when I relapse into the rôle of a private citizen. And when I'm a private citizen I have to forget that I'm a detective, or I should go mad."
He looked at his watch.
"I have been a private citizen for three minutes. And maybe I'll be a private citizen till about seven o'clock to-night. In that period of time I'm a very good friend of Peter's."
She understood and nodded to him.
"Now about this coat and possibly vest, and certainly shirt, and very likely coal hammer."
He fumbled in his coat pocket, and this time asked permission to smoke. She held a match for him with a hand that was quivering, but apparently he did not notice her agitation.
"Thank you, Mrs. Clifton---as I say, about all these interesting articles: I should be terribly worried if I thought that they were in the hands of Peter's enemies, or that they were so placed that they were likely to fall into their hands. That, I confess, would worry me like the devil, but"---he sent a ring of smoke up to the high ceiling and watched it with curious interest---"but if I could be sure in my mind that these souvenirs were in the hands of somebody who was fond of Peter and wanted to help him, why, I shouldn't worry so much."
"Then I don't think you need worry," she said promptly.
He looked at her for a while.
"Is that so? Well, I'm rather relieved---speaking as a private citizen. Round about seven o'clock to-night I may be seeing you in another capacity and asking you all sorts of bothering questions. Could I have a cup of tea, please?"
She jumped up and rang the bell. Mr. Bourke wanted further time to consider the situation.
"I've a weakness for tea," he confessed, when Walker brought in the tray, "and that's not my only weakness."
He watched the servant till the door closed, then:
"I've a weakness for the poor---like to give 'em old clothes and such things. Suppose you'd got an old dress jacket or a shirt you've no use for, I'd find a good home for 'em. And tools. Chisels, or even hammers---a lot of the criminal classes who want to go straight can't carry on their work because they haven't the right kind of tools. It's asking a lot, I know," he continued, all his attention upon the tea he was stirring, "and I can well understand your hesitating for fear they got into the wrong hands. But suppose you have such things, Mrs. Clifton, and you wanted to get rid of them? You wouldn't care to throw 'em in the ashpan, and you're not allowed by law to throw rubbish into the river. Rouper's a conscientious man," he went off at a tangent. "He's the type of man who'd hate to see the Thames Conservancy laws broken, and possibly if you went out of Carlton House Terrace with a parcel you wanted to get rid of, he'd be shadowing you, and if you tried to throw it in the river there he'd be ready to stop you. You see, Mrs. Clifton"---again his eyes shot back to hers---"I'm not the only person anxious to give clothes to the poor, and suspecting you may have some you'd like to get rid of."
Jane found her voice.
"I'd rather you had them than anybody," she said. Mr. Bourke nodded.
"I'm glad to hear you say that." He was stirring his tea furiously now. "When Rouper comes with a search warrant, as he might, he'd probably want to take all the old clothes he found for his poor friends."
"You don't seem to like Mr. Rouper," she said, and realised she was making a very fatuous remark.
Bourke smiled broadly.
"We're a band of brothers at Scotland Yard, and I'm Rouper's boss. There are a lot of things I could suggest if I were Rouper's equal, but being his boss makes a difference."
He put down the tea, which he had not tasted.
"Have you ever seen a search warrant executed?" he asked, resuming his cigar, which he had temporarily balanced on the edge of the fireguard.
She shook her head.
"Would you like to see how it's done?" Then, noting her look of alarm, he chuckled. "You wouldn't like to have a rehearsal?"
"Do you mean that?" she asked seriously. "That they will search this flat?" And, when he nodded: "To-night?"
"Somewhere about six, I should imagine," said Bourke slowly. "I'd like to show you what they'll do, quite unofficially."
She rose at once.
"Which room would they start on?"
"Peter's," said he promptly. "He's got a study, hasn't he? Most people have. Personally, I do my studying in bed."
"You haven't been there before?" she asked as she led the way.
"Dozens of times," he replied coolly, "but I'm putting myself in the position of a fellow who doesn't know the run of the flat. My name's Rouper for the time being."
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