Chapter 26

WELLS shook his head.

"I don't know what on earth you're talking about. Which car?" And then, suddenly: "Sit down, Bourke. You and I are at cross purposes. You're being horribly mysterious and I'm being appropriately mystified. Now tell me just what's in your mind. Is it about Peter? And who is the duly qualified medical man? I know none except myself." He chuckled at this. "Are you accusing me of doping Peter or something? And what has all this to do with Radlow?"

He talked in his quick, nervous way and could not altogether hide from the cold-blooded scrutiniser the tension under which he laboured.

"I should like to know what's in your mind, Superintendent."

"I'll tell you what's in my mind, Dr. Wells," said Bourke quietly. "It's in my mind that you're taking the news I've brought you in quite the wrong way. You're a friend of Mr. Clifton's---I'll call him Peter because I have the honour to be a friend of his too. And you haven't reacted---is that the medical term? a useful one---exactly as I should have expected. I've come and told you that another acquaintance of his has been murdered. I've as good as told you that Peter's suffering from the effects of a drug; and I haven't noticed that you're upset about this, and I haven't heard you say you'd like to go straight away to where Peter is and do what you can for him. And that's exactly what I should have expected you to do, Dr. Wells, and you haven't done it. All the time I've been here you've been defending yourself---against what? When I used the word 'arrest' you nearly collapsed---why? What have you to fear? I'm talking to you now as man to man, without witnesses."

Cheyne Wells stood in front of the fire, a favourite attitude of his, his hands thrust down into his trousers pockets, his head on one side, watching the detective, and he had recovered something of his old poise.

"And I'm going to tell you something man to man---and without witnesses," he said softly.

He stepped forward and tapped the table to emphasise his point.

"Suppose, Superintendent Bourke, I were to tell you that Peter Clifton had confessed to me that he murdered Basil Hale---what would you do? That would be a very embarrassing moment for you, wouldn't it? Suppose I say here and now, or put it to paper: 'I consider it my duty as a citizen to inform the police that Mr. Peter Clifton, of 175, Carlton House Terrace, has made a statement to me in which he confessed that in a moment of insanity he murdered Basil Hale at Longford Manor,' signed and handed that paper to you---what would you do?"

Bourke's huge head shot forward. His eyes were the veriest slits.

"I'll tell you what I'd do," he said in his deep, rumbling voice. "I'd take you into custody right here! If anybody has to be tried it shall be you. And I've got enough evidence to make a prima facie charge against you."

In spite of his self-control, Wells's face went white.

"On what charge?"

"Passing a forged fifty-pound note at Hurst Park race-course, knowing it to be forged. That's one charge. I dare say by this time to-morrow I'll have another couple up my sleeve."

The masks were off now. In Donald's eyes burnt cold, malignant hatred.

"You don't seem to realise what you're saying, Superintendent. You're not talking to Dr. Wells of Nunhead, you know."

Bourke nodded.

"You don't seem to understand, Wells"---he dropped all titles of courtesy---"that the police never go looking for trouble. When it comes they're ready to deal with it, but they don't try to make crime---they wait till crime sticks up its head and then they belt it one. You're not Dr. Wells of Nunhead, I know. Within twelve months of that inquest you were in a good practice at Harley Street. Where did you get the money?"

"What the hell's that to do with you?" flamed the other.

"It's a lot to do with me. Suppose I put you on the stand, could you produce two witnesses whose evidence any sane jury would accept to explain how you suddenly became wealthy, and from Dr. Wells of Nunhead developed into Dr. Cheyne Wells of Harley Street, a nerve specialist? Turn that over in your mind---if that marvellously sudden prosperity of yours can be explained, you can go up to Scotland Yard and get the coat off my back, for I'll not deny what I've said to you to-night. I'm warning you"---his forefinger shot out towards the pallid Donald---"leave Peter Clifton alone; and if you've got a good scheme for raking in his millions---forget it. There have been two murders committed. You were at Longford Manor when Basil Hale was killed----"

"I haven't left the house this night."

"You're a liar," said Bourke calmly. "I've had a man trailing you all day. You left the house at eight o'clock to-night and returned at a quarter to eleven. My man lost sight of you---I present you with that information---between the hours of nine fifteen and when you got out of your taxi at this front door."

He picked up his hat, and walking to the door flung it open so violently that he nearly wrenched it from its hinges.

"Somebody is going to be caught for these murders, Wells," he said, "and it won't be Peter Clifton. Get that into your nut. Nor can Rouper help you---even if Rouper's in the force this time next week. You can pass that bit of information on to him. Not cigarette cases filled with cigarettes he doesn't smoke, and not forged diaries written by your pal the Clever One."

He pulled the door to with a bang and went out. Donald Wells sat down to consider a peculiarly dangerous situation. His servant came after midnight and found him sitting with his head between his hands.

"Go to bed," said Donald without looking up, and maintained that attitude for nearly two hours. Then he rose and stretched his cramped limbs, went out into his little laboratory, and mixed himself a draught more potent than whisky.

His head was clear now, his mind quick and alert. He drew a sheet of paper towards him from the stationery rack and began writing. He had finished his letter at six o'clock, placed it in a large envelope addressed to the Chief Constable, C.I.D., Scotland Yard. He put on a stamp, walked into the hall and hesitated at the door. No, he would sleep on it; the letter could very well go later in the day.

It was not unfortunate for him that he made this decision, for outside the house there waited a Scotland Yard man, who had had strict instructions from Superintendent Bourke.

"If you see Wells come out to post a letter, and that letter's addressed to the Yard, take him into custody and detain him at Marylebone Lane till I come."

Mr. Bourke had reached the decision that if he himself were going to be hanged it might as well be for a sheep as for a lamb, though not in his most charitable moment did he regard Dr. Donald Cheyne Wells as being in the least sheeplike.