Chapter 24

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ON the floor by the side of the desk was a square silver box, which the superintendent had overlooked. Rennie stooped and picked it up.

"Hallo, what's this?" he said.

He opened the lid. It was a cigarette box, a motor-car accessory, and Bourke recognised it before Rennie had turned back the lid and read the monogram "P. C."

Not a muscle of his face moved.

"I dropped that," he said. "It's a little case that Peter Clifton carries in a leather pocket by the side of the driving wheel."

He had seen this box in use a dozen times. Peter had one peculiar habit: he very seldom smoked cigarettes unless he was driving a car, and had this little box made so that he should always have a supply at hand.

He looked inside again; the box was packed tight. He drew out one cigarette and examined it. It was a popular and widely advertised brand of Virginians.

"Amazing fellow," he said, apropos of nothing, and slipped the case into his pocket.

The two detectives were searching the room carefully.

"By the way, that window was open when I came in. The papers may have blown outside," said Bourke, though he was very sure that if they had blown anywhere it would have been into the passage when he opened the door.

"There are some foot-stains on the carpet," said one of the detectives suddenly, as he bent down and touched the muddy surface, "and it's wet."

"Phone up to the Yard for a photographer," said Bourke. "Ask them to get into touch with Chief Inspector Watkins and send him down." (He named the Area Chief Inspector.) "He'll be in charge of the case. And by the way, when you question the servants they will tell you that they expected a visit from Mr. Peter Clifton. Radlow was his lawyer---or rather, his father's lawyer. I came instead."

A little crowd had gathered round the gateway when he went out to the car, for ill news spreads fast. The policeman introduced a gentleman who was a next-door neighbour of Radlow's, a well-known City tea merchant. He had been in his garden, looking for an Airedale pup that had strayed out into the night and would not answer his whistle. Bourke took this witness back to the hall.

"Come into the house," said Bourke when he had heard the preliminaries.

He escorted this new and important witness to the drawing-room.

"What did it sound like?"

"It sounded rather like a pistol fired through a silencer," said the neighbour. "I was in the Musketry School at Hythe during the war, and we made experiments with various kinds of silencers, so the sound was pretty familiar; and the wind was blowing in my direction, which made it sound all the more distinctly."

"Did you hear any other noise?"

"I heard nothing, and from where I stood could see nothing. I walked a little way along my path, which runs by the side of the dividing wall, till I came to a place where I could look over. I wasn't very curious, naturally, because on a miserable night like this one doesn't want to be out of doors longer than one can help. But as I looked over I thought I saw a man walk across the lawn in the direction of the back gate. This house and the next six have back gates, which in every case except Mr. Radlow's have been converted into the entrance of a garage. I called out, thinking it was Radlow, but had no reply. From where I stood I could see the window in Radlow's room was open. We've had burglars in this neighbourhood lately, and I was a little alarmed. In fact, I almost telephoned for the police, but one doesn't like to interfere with a neighbour's business, and I happen to know that Mr. Radlow always spent the evening in that room and was rather a demon for fresh air."

"You didn't see the man?"

"No, not well enough to identify him."

"Was he tall or short?"

Here the witness could not help. He had heard the garden gate slam and soon after he had found his pup and taken him inside.

"One thing only I want to ask you: did this man walk quickly or slowly? Did he walk straight or did he stagger?"

"He walked very straight and very quickly."

Bourke nodded.

"I should have been surprised if he hadn't."

He drove straight back to Carlton House Terrace, a very anxious man. Peter's car was not outside the house; he wondered if Jane had got back, but it was she who opened the door to him.

"He's sleeping," she said in a low voice.

"He hasn't recovered, then?" frowned Bourke.

"Only for a little while. He was able to walk into the house, and I'm quite sure he didn't recognise me or know where he was. Thank heavens Walker was in his pantry, and I was able to get him to his room without help."

She was looking anxiously into his face.

"Something terrible has happened?" And, when he nodded: "Mr. Radlow----?"

"Radlow has been shot at close quarters. I don't think I should ask any questions if I were you, Mrs. Clifton. Where is this man of yours?"

She took him to the bedroom. Peter lay fully dressed on the bed, covered by an eiderdown quilt. He was sleeping, and Bourke did not attempt to wake him, but made a quick search of his pockets. The first thing he brought to light was a long, black, spare magazine, which he knew without testing fitted the butt of the automatic. The second object of interest was a flat package in Peter's inside pocket. It was heavily sealed and tied about with green tape, but bore no superscription of any kind. Bourke broke the seals; inside he found another wrapping of fine silver paper. Within this, a pad of American currency bills, each for a hundred dollars. There were fifty of these, and he could count them the more easily because they were numbered consecutively. Mr. Bourke's nose wrinkled.

"All he wants now is a confession in his left boot!" he growled.

One thing interested him: it was a thin gold cigarette case which he found in Peter's pocket. It was empty. The sight fascinated him. He had seen Peter fill that case a few hours before.

He shook the sleeping man, and slowly Peter's eyes opened.

"Get up," said Bourke authoritatively, and the sleeper obeyed. "Take off your coat."

Peter, his eyes still closed, carried out the operation, assisted by Jane and the detective. He either would not or could not speak; he was so dead with sleep that when they lowered him again to the pillow he was immediately unconscious. Bourke rolled up the sleeve, and with the help of his flash lamp began to examine the arm. What he saw evidently satisfied him, for he turned to the anxious Jane with a smile of triumph.

"Do you know what your husband wants? Light!"

"Light?" said the puzzled girl.

Bourke indicated the two shaded wall brackets which were the only illuminants of the room. There was a lamp by the bedside; he removed the silken cover, and, switching this on, held the lamp before the face of the sleeper. She saw Peter's eyelids quiver, saw the grimace that was almost painful---he put up his hand to push it away, but Bourke was adamant.

"Wake up," he said, and as though his words had some magical quality Peter's eyes opened wide and he sat up without assistance.

"What's the trouble?"

"You are," snarled Bourke. "You've ruined a promising career that was nearly at an end. I've two years to serve for my pension, and I look like serving them in one of His Majesty's prisons!"

Peter looked from the detective to the girl, then he glanced round the room.

"I got home, did I?"

"You got home all right, in every sense of the word," said Bourke. He glanced significantly at Jane, and she left them alone.

It was a quarter of an hour before they followed her. Peter was very pale; Bourke's hair was ruffled in all directions.

"Do your servants know Peter is back?" was the first question the detective asked.

"Yes; I told them he had been in some time."

"Good. They didn't hear him come in."

He looked at his watch.

"You returned here at ten minutes to ten. Was there a hall porter?"

"He wasn't on duty when I came in. The lifts work automatically."

He nodded again.

"Good. Who took his car away?"

"I did; as soon as I got him into the house I drove the car round to a garage I sometimes use. I don't know where Peter's own garage is."

"Excellent," commented Bourke; "which means that your chauffeur will not see it."

Peter groaned.

"You've tied my hands, Bourke," he said.

"What did you want to do?" asked Jane quickly.

Bourke nodded.

"The great and original idea of Mr. Peter Clifton was to walk into the nearest police station and confess himself guilty of two murders," he said. "But as he can only do that by implicating his wife as an accessory and Detective-Superintendent Joe Bourke as a confederate, he has very kindly promised to refrain. Where did you leave that car, Mrs. Clifton?"

She wrote down the address of the garage.

"I'll go along and give it a look over. You go to bed, Peter; but what your wife will do I don't know. If I were she, I'd sit up near the telephone, refuse to give any information except that her husband is in bed and asleep, and be ready to admit Detective-Inspector Moses Rouper when he calls. I may be back before him, but I shall certainly return."

"Shall I come with you?" asked Peter.

"You're the last person I want with me," said Bourke. "You stay here. If reporters come, refuse to see them."

"Won't that look a little suspicious?"

Bourke shook his head.

"Here's a man who's just come up from Longford Manor, where a murder's been committed and where a certain amount of suspicion attaches to him. What is more likely than that he should expect to be bothered with reporters? There's every excuse for refusing to see anybody. I don't think the house is watched. Rouper, I should imagine, is too busy elsewhere."

Bourke was gone immediately afterwards.