Chapter 19

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PETER's study was a large room on the second floor (his flat occupied two floors) and was immediately over the drawing-room. Bourke stood in the doorway and gave a swift glance round.

"They wouldn't touch the bookcases, would they?" he mused. "And I suppose the desk is locked?"

The desk was an empire writing table and he tried its four drawers. They opened readily, and contained nothing but stationery and the paraphernalia which a tidy man would keep in the drawers of his desk.

"There's a safe here somewhere."

He found it at last, set into the wall, and to her amazement twisted the combination unerringly, and, turning the handle, pulled open the door.

"Yes, I know the combination: it's one of the secrets Peter and I share," he said. "You see, he was always afraid----"

He stopped suddenly, frowned, and stared out of the window.

"I never thought of that," he said, speaking his thought aloud.

"Thought of what?" she asked. "What was Peter afraid of?"

He did not answer her, but turned his attention to the safe, peering into its depths. There were a number of tightly filled envelopes: these were heavily sealed. He took them out one by one, glanced at the superscriptions, which he did not let her see, and then, putting in his hand:

"Here it is!"

He almost shouted the words as he drew to light a thick diary, as it proved. It was bound in red leather and bore the figures of the current year.

As he handled this he turned a beaming countenance upon the girl.

"I'm not being mysterious, but I'm telling you that this is the one book that I, Moses Rouper, wanted to find."

"What is it?" she asked, and then saw the figures. "A diary!"

He drew another chair up to the table and they sat down side by side. He did not open the book: his big hand covered it.

"Do you want to see this?" he asked.

"What is it?" She was bewildered. "I didn't know that Peter kept a diary."

She realised that there were so many things she did not know about Peter that to particularise any one was superfluous. He turned back the cover, and then one page after another, till he came to the first writing page. It was blank; so was the next, and the third; on the fourth there was an entry in Peter's characteristic handwriting.

    "240 U.S.C.N. 100 all excellent: mailed Baltimore."

She frowned over this.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"Two hundred and forty United States currency notes for a hundred dollars," said Mr. Bourke calmly. "They were posted to an agent, if one believes his account."

She went suddenly limp; her head whirled, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. In an instant his arm was round her.

"It's true, then?"

It did not seem her voice that was speaking.

"I'm Rouper---don't forget I'm Rouper. I'm telling the brutal truth. After a bit I'll be Bourke again."

He turned page after page and stopped again. She did not want to look at this hideous record, but it fascinated her, and her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the page.

    "300 U.S.C.N. 100 three flaws: mailed SG. 3. Chicago."

"Notice how he calls them notes and not bills? That's his insularity," murmured Bourke, as page after page slipped under his fingers.

Again he stopped against the entry, May 3rd.

    "700 Ml. S.F.B. Exlnt plate, 2 flaws."

This entry puzzled her till the detective explained.

"'Ml' stands for 'mille,' and mille means a thousand. 'S.F.B.' is the Swiss Federal Bank. No destination. To be called for, I guess. There were a lot of S.F.B. duds put on the market at the end of May."

"Oh, this is horrible, horrible!" She put her hands before her eyes. "I don't want to read any more. Is it true, Mr. Bourke?"

"Rouper," corrected Bourke laconically. "It's no use asking him if it's true, because he'll say yes. Anyway, Rouper doesn't know anything about the truth and never will."

"I don't want to see any more," she said again, as he turned the pages.

He chuckled at this and got up stiffly from the table.

"I'd better put this with the old clothes," he said. "I know lots of poor fellers who'd give their heads for a diary, even if it was part used."

Only for a second did she experience a panic sense that this lethargic man was trapping her, and he seemed to read her thoughts, for, in quite a different tone, he said:

"You've got to trust somebody, Mrs. Clifton."

Going back to the safe, he closed it, and measured with his eye the distance from the wall, wherein it was placed, to the window. He lifted the lower sash and, stepping out on to a balcony, gazed down.

"Inside job," he said cryptically when he returned, but offered no explanation.

He made a quick but thorough search of the room, ran his eyes along the books on the shelves, taking one or two down to turn their pages, and eventually he seemed satisfied.

"No, I don't want any other rooms, Mrs. Clifton. I should think my tea's got cold, but that doesn't matter. I'm going to the drawing-room now." He spoke deliberately, and every word had a significance. "If you'd be kind enough to bring along any parcels of clothes that you've no use for, I'll be obliged."

He went out into the corridor by himself, returned to his seat by the fire, and a few minutes later she came in very pale, carrying a brown paper parcel in her hand.

"These are the clothes, Mr. Bourke," she said, and forced a smile. "Or is it Mr. Rouper?"

"Bourke," said that gentleman promptly. "Mr. Rouper----"

The door opened quickly, but before the butler could announce the visitor, Jane saw Rouper's face. He came into the room unceremoniously, dismissed the butler with a jerk of his head.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Clifton, but I've got an unpleasant duty to perform," he said.

Only then did he seem to become aware of Superintendent Bourke's presence.

"You're a little ahead of me, sir," he said with some asperity.

"Just arrived, Rouper," murmured the other "Get on with your job."

Rouper swallowed something, groped in his inside pocket and produced a paper.

"I've a search warrant issued by a Metropolitan magistrate, Mrs. Clifton, and I want to make a thorough search of this flat."

"It is his duty, Mrs. Clifton." Bourke's voice was sympathetic, almost benevolent.

He picked up his hat and tucked the brown paper parcel under his arm.

"Taking home the family washing, Rouper," he said, smiling blandly, and with a nod to Jane walked out of the room, leaving her to conduct a baffled Rouper prying into every corner of the flat in a vain search for bloody clothes and incriminating diaries.

Almost the first place to which he went was the wall safe.

"Do you know the combination of this?" he asked.

"No," she replied truthfully.

Obviously he did not believe her; but apparently the question had been entirely unnecessary, for he took a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket, studied a group of letters, and in a minute the safe was open.

He opened the sealed packages one by one and examined their contents. There seemed to be nothing of a really private nature: a lease or two, a thick wad of correspondence, apparently having some connection with Peter's visit to South Africa, and a legal document which Rouper opened and glanced at. Over his shoulder she saw it was a will, and guessed it was the will of Peter's father. At that moment there flashed upon her the recollection of Mr. Radlow's words. "If the fools had only studied the will. . ." Was there anything that Rouper could detect, she wondered. Apparently not: he folded up the document, replaced it in its envelope and put it on the chair with the others.

On one thing she was determined—she would get the code word, which so far she did not know, and examine the will carefully. A resolution, however, which was to pass from her mind in the new problems which the evening brought.

The search was a disappointment for Rouper, and he closed the safe with a savage thud.

"Have you unpacked the baggage you brought from Longford Manor?"

It so happened that when she had taken out her things to remove Peter's clothes, she had replaced her own belongings. Through these Rouper went. And then, in his annoyance, he made a grievous mistake.

"What was that parcel Superintendent Bourke was carrying?" he demanded, and had no sooner asked the question than he realised his blunder.

"Isn't that a question you should ask Superintendent Bourke?" said Jane.

"I was only joking, Mrs. Clifton."

From his hurry and his fear she guessed that Bourke was the one man in the world of whom he stood in awe.

"I hope you won't repeat that to Mr. Bourke; he mightn't understand it."

He took his departure almost at once, and Jane was left with a few more pieces assembled in this baffling jigsaw puzzle of hers.

Just before her solitary dinner was served, Peter rang up. He was very nervous; she sensed the strain under which he was living.

"I'm sorry I didn't call before, but I've been most unpleasantly occupied," he said, and asked if she was comfortable and had everything she wanted. "It must be dull for you. Couldn't you ask your father to come over and stay the night?"

She had thought of that plan, but had rejected it.

"I shall be up to-morrow," he went on, and then: "Have you seen Bourke---and Rouper?"

She told him briefly of Rouper's visit, but thought it wise not to speak over the telephone of Mr. Bourke's peculiar conduct.

"I'm in rather a mess," he said. "It seems that I was the fellow who telephoned the news agency, though why I should do so, heaven knows, because I didn't know of their existence, much less their address----"

"What?" She was startled. "Are you sure you didn't know the telephone number?"

"Sure?" His voice was surprised. "Of course I'm sure. I've never had occasion to communicate with the Press. Why?"

She did not answer for a while and he repeated his question, thinking she had not heard.

"Because," she said slowly, "there isn't a telephone directory at Longford Manor. I wanted to find an address the first morning I was there, and Anna said it had been thrown away under the impression it was an old one, and that the new directory hadn't been delivered."

She did not think it was wise at that moment to tell him of the visit of Radlow, since he made no inquiry about the lawyer.

"Peter"—she lowered her voice—"I want to see you very particularly to-morrow—about your diary."

"My what?"

"Your diary."

A pause.

"I don't keep a diary."

"I never dreamt that you did." Her voice was almost jubilant.