Part 4

The court was crowded to its last inch. The coroner was conscious of his importance, and made the most of it in a long harangue. The divisional surgeon was more pompous than ever, and made it a point of honour to use terms so technical that all his evidence had to be translated to the jury, and the coroner and he argued over the translation.

“What a life, ain’t it?” Mr. Gordon murmured in Reggie’s ear.

At last came what the evening papers called “Dramatic Evidence”: the housemaid who had found the body and had hysterics over again as she described it; Mrs. Betts, who had found May Weston sleeping beside it, waked her, and heard her say, “I did it--oh, I did it!”

“Sensation in Court” was the cross-head for that. The coroner looked over his glasses at the jury, and the jury muttered together, and May Weston came into the box. With the manner of a chaplain at an execution the coroner warned her that she need not give answers that would incriminate her. “I want to tell you everything,” she said. She was very pale in her black, and listless of manner, but quite calm.

What she told was the queer story she had told Reggie, but she was not allowed to tell it her own way. The coroner badgered her with continual questions designed to make the queerness of it seem queerer. He made her nervous, confused her, frightened her. “You bother me so that I don’t know if I’m telling the truth or not,” she quavered.

Then, in the language of the newspapers, “another sensation.” Mr. Ford, large and red, started up and roared, “I ought to be there, sir. Let her alone. I ought to be there.”

Reggie put his head between his hands and bowed himself, groaning.

Every one else was much excited by Mr. Ford. He was pulled down in his seat. The coroner rebuked him with awful majesty. The foreman of the jury wanted to know if he would be called. The coroner pronounced that the court would most certainly require Mr. Ford to explain himself--and came back to May Weston.

“The fool that he is, he’s done the trick, though,” Reggie muttered to Mr. Gordon, and Gordon nodded and grinned. For after this interruption the coroner handled May Weston much more gently, almost indulgently, as a good man sorry for a woman’s weakness. And he was soon done with her.

“Any questions?” He looked at the lawyers. Reggie bent forward and whispered to the solicitor appearing for Miss Weston.

That large, bland man stood up. “Now, Miss Weston, about that coffee.” He had his reward. Every one in the court, and Miss Weston not least, stared surprise at him. Slowly he extracted from her (she seemed bewildered at each question) the whole history of that after-dinner coffee. Coffee had been brought to the boudoir just before Mr. Ford came; no one but she had expected Mr. Ford; another cup was brought for Mr. Ford; Mr. Ford and she had both drunk their coffee. Miss Bolton--why, no, Miss Bolton had not. Miss Bolton had been very gay, and in doing a few steps of a dance had upset her coffee.

“No more questions, sir.” The large solicitor sat down smiling.

The coroner was visibly unable to understand him, and made a great business with his papers. It was now long after tea-time. “I suppose we shan’t finish to-day, gentlemen?” the coroner suggested.

“Quite impossible, sir,” said the large solicitor cheerfully. “I have some long medical evidence. Dr. Fortune, Miss Bolton’s physician. The first medical man who saw the lady. The first medical man who saw Miss Weston.”

The court rose. Reggie, with Gordon at his heels, went out by the solicitor’s door and found Superintendent Bell waiting for him. “Now are you playing the game, doctor?” said Superintendent Bell sadly.

“For keeps,” Reggie laughed. “Come and dine with me. Bring Mordan. He’s so genial.”

“We do have to take these little things so seriously,” the Superintendent murmured.

But a party of four, the Superintendent and the large Inspector, Reggie and the little Jew, packed themselves into a taxi-cab and drove into town. Reggie was full of elegant conversation. He grew iris, and told them all about iris, with appendices on the costumes in revue.

Once or twice Superintendent Bell tried to turn his attention to serious subjects. Vainly. At last Inspector Mordan broke out with, “I say, doctor, what’s the wheeze about the coffee?”

“The Inspector touches the spot. Care not, all will be known ere long. There’s a jolly little iris from the Himalayas----” Reggie returned with enthusiasm to horticulture.

“Where are you taking us, doctor?” said the Superintendent. The taxi, which had for some little time been running through the city, seemed to intend coming out on the other side--a locality promising no good dinner. As he spoke, it turned into Liverpool Street Station.

“Liverpool Street, by George!” the Inspector said. “This is a bean-feast. Going to take us to Epping Forest, doctor?”

“We may have to go farther,” Reggie said, and Gordon laughed.

“Are you in this, sir?” The Inspector turned on him.

“Professional secret, dear boy.”

Reggie led the way to the station dining-room. “I don’t know the cook. But let’s hope for the best. A tirin’ day, an active evening. Strength is what we need. Strength without somnolence. Salmon, I see. Lamb chops, I would add. One of your younger ducks would comfort me. Do you sleep after Burgundy, Inspector? A warm night, as you say. Larose is a genial claret. Let us all be genial.”

“Well, you’re a bit supercilious,” the Inspector complained.

“How can you say so? I am keeping all the glory for you. Glory on ice. All ready for Inspector Mordan. So gather you roses while you may. Talking of roses, what do you think of the hybrid Austrian briers?” He explained what he thought of them to a silent audience, sliding gracefully into an appreciation of salmon eaten at Waterford, at Exeter, and at Berwick. Few are the men who will not talk about food. The detectives produced much valuable experience of bourgeois cookery, and the dinner went merrily. In its later stages Reggie became silent and watched the clock. He seemed to grudge Inspector Mordan his cheese, and as soon as it was swallowed made a move.

“Well, doctor, I did think we should have had some coffee,” the Inspector chuckled.

But Reggie was already making for the door. By the door stood his chauffeur looking for him. Reggie beckoned impatiently to the detectives and followed the chauffeur out. He led them to the main line departure platforms. It was near the time of the Harwich boat-train. A dark, wiry man was registering some luggage for Amsterdam. By his side stood a veiled woman of full figure. Both he and she carried suit-cases. As the man turned round he bumped into Reggie, who was looking the other way, and seemed to have some difficulty in disentangling himself. He glared at Reggie and hurried away. The woman was ahead of him.

Reggie grabbed Superintendent Bell. “See that pair. Take them both. Picking my pocket. Get the bags.”

Bell and Mordan hurried after the pair. Bell tapped the man’s shoulder, and he jumped round.

“I thought so. You’ll come with me to the station, my man,” said Superintendent Bell, with admirable calm.

“What is it?” the man cried. His accent was slightly foreign. “What station? What do you mean?”

“You know all right,” said the Superintendent. “I am Superintendent Bell of Scotland Yard.”

“I do not know at all,” the man protested. “What do you want with me?”

The woman saw Reggie. She hissed something to the man in a foreign argot, and turned to run. The Superintendent laid hold of her. Inspector Mordan closed with the man. The Inspector was large and brawny, but at the end of a moment he was on his back and the man making off. Reggie dived for his legs in the manner of Rugby football, and they went down together.

The railway police came on the scene. The man was handcuffed, and he and the woman and the two detectives packed into a cab. Reggie and Gordon followed in another to the police station in Old Jewry.

When they arrived, the two prisoners were already in the charge-room and the woman was protesting vehemently, to the great edification of the uniformed inspector at the desk and a plain-clothes friend of his, and the embarrassment of Superintendent Bell and Inspector Mordan. It was an outrage. Why did they assault her and her husband? Why? They were respectable people. She would not endure it.

“Oh, Flora, Flora!” Reggie shook his head at her.

The woman whirled round on him. “You! Ah, it is you, then, the doctor. You are a traitor. You are a wicked villain. I spit upon you.” And she did. The man said something to her in the strange foreign argot they seemed to use between themselves, and she was silent.

The plain-clothes man came forward grinning. “Why, Bunco! It is my dear old pal, Bunco! What have they got you for now, old thing?” The man scowled. Dusty and bruised from the scuffle and in the ignominy of handcuffs, he had still a certain arrogant dignity. He was well made for all his slightness, and the strength which had upset Mordan showed in his poise. It was a dark, aquiline face with a good brow, but passionate and cruel.

“What is the charge, doctor?” said Superintendent Bell.

“Oh. On the seventh instant--murder of Wilhelmina, otherwise Birdie Bolton,” Reggie drawled. “Better search them.”

“It is a lie!” Flora screamed; and continued to scream.

Reggie and Gordon were smoking in another room when Bell and Mordan came back with the results of the search. A suit-case was put on the table, opened, and seemed to be full of light, a mass of jewels.

“Can you identify, gentlemen?” Mordan said.

Superintendent Bell laid on the table a sheath knife. An unusual knife, rather long, rather narrow, rather stiff. “I’ll identify that,” Reggie said, and took it up. “That’s the thing that killed her!”

“Coo!” said Mr. Gordon. “You’ve got a real head, doctor. This is Birdie’s bunch all right. Swear to those rubies anywhere.”

“Who’s the man?” said Reggie.

Superintendent Bell sat down with a bump. “He asks me that.” He appealed to the company. “I put it to you. He asks me that! The woman--she’s Miss Bolton’s maid, of course. But the man----”

“Oh, he’s Ford’s chauffeur. I told you to watch Ford. But you only sat on the steps of his flat. You’ve given me a lot of trouble, you know. I was up all last night. Chauffeur doesn’t sleep in, of course. But who is he?”

“We call him Bunco in the Force,” said the Superintendent meekly. “He’s a jewel thief. Quite in the front of the profession. American-Austrian, I think. I believe Nastitch is his name--Alexander Nastitch or Supilo.”

“Croat, I think,” Reggie said. “This knife--they use ’em down that way.”

“Coo! Tell us something you don’t know,” said the little Jew.

Reggie laughed. You may have noticed that he had his vanities. He passed his cigar-case round. “Where will I begin?” said he.

“At the beginning, please.” Mordan grinned.

“The Inspector touches the spot as ever. Well, it hasn’t been quite fair. I had the start of you. On the day before the murder Birdie Bolton consulted me. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Heard noises at night. Now you see your way, don’t you? No? Dear, dear. And I showed you that broken rose! Well, well. These two beauties, Flora and Nastitch, I suppose they got their situations to have a go for the jewels. Nastitch, as Ford’s chauffeur, would have an excuse for hanging round the house and a car to use. He’s had the car out of the garage till the small hours several times. I think he got in by the window last week--more than once, perhaps. And each time poor Birdie stirred. Better for her if she hadn’t, poor girl. But they didn’t mean murder, bless ’em. So they chose to drug her. There was morphia in that coffee. As you heard to-day, Birdie didn’t drink hers. Another rotten chance. So May Weston went to sleep while Birdie was storming at her. Birdie raged off to her room. Whether she got out that will and tore it, we’ll never know. It may have been Flora’s little game. Nastitch came in, reckoning she was sure to be sound, and Flora was with him, I think. Birdie was very wide awake. There was a struggle and he stabbed her. He’s a hot-tempered devil, as you saw to-day.”

“This is all very pretty, doctor, but it ain’t all evidence,” Mordan said.

“You’re so hasty. When she was dead, they took her into the boudoir where the Weston girl was asleep. They laid her on the couch and stabbed at her with her scissors and the bodkin. Filthy trick. That was what May Weston saw in the opium dream. Then I suppose they cleared the safe, and Nastitch went off. Flora annexed the emerald ring. Her perquisite, I suppose. Now, you shall have your evidence. When I came to the body, I saw those scissors never did the business. Ever tried killing anybody with scissors, Inspector? Poor game. No. We wanted something like this.” He fingered the knife affectionately. “Just like this. Also somebody had left his mark on Birdie--a queer hand--a hand that wasn’t quite all there--long fingers with no top joint. Did you notice Mr. Nastitch’s left hand?”

The detectives looked at each other.

“That was in a burglary in New York,” said the Superintendent. “He escaped out of a window, and a constable smashed his hand on the sill.”

“So I photographed the wound and the bruise. Well, when I saw Weston, I saw she had really been drugged. Contracted pupils, bluish pallor. Morphia. Same symptoms in Ford. Why should they drug themselves and not drug Birdie? That ruled them out. Also, I surprised Flora in Birdie’s bedroom doing something by the bed. When I browsed round afterwards I found a wet bloodstain under a clean rug. When Flora knew the Weston girl was arrested and the jewels had been missed, she chucked the ring into Weston’s room. While you were searching the house, I drifted into Miss Flora’s room. Several medicine bottles about. One of ’em empty. That had carried a strong solution of morphia. So I set my chauffeur to watch for Flora. And that night she went off to the lodgings of Nastitch. She’s been buzzing round ever since. Well?”

“Well, sir, it’s a good thing you didn’t take to crime,” said Superintendent Bell.

“Oh, that’s much harder,” said Reggie.

CASE III

THE NICE GIRL

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them. That was Dr. Reginald Fortune’s trouble. He had become a specialist, and, as he told anybody who would listen, thought it an absurd thing to be. For he was interested in everything, but not in anything in particular. And it was just this various versatility of mind and taste which had condemned him to be a specialist. Obviously an absurd world.

The Criminal Investigation Department, solicitors, and others dealing with those experiments in social reform which are called crimes, by continually appealing to his multifarious knowledge and his all-observant eye, turned Dr. Reginald Fortune, general practitioner at Westhampton, into Mr. Fortune of Wimpole Street, specialist in--what shall we say?--the surgery of crime. And Reggie Fortune, though richer for the change, was not grateful. He liked ordinary things, and any day would have gladly bartered a murder for a case of chicken-pox. This accounts for his unequalled sanity of judgement.

Reggie was in that one of his clubs which he liked best, because no member of it knew anything about his profession. He had just completed an animated discussion on the prehistoric art of the French Congo, and was going out, when the tape machine buzzed and clicked at his elbow, and he stopped to look.

“Murder of Sir Albert Lunt,” said the tape and, “Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie. The tape continued the conversation--thus: “Sir Albert Lunt, the well-known mining magnate, was found dead this afternoon in the deer park of his estate at Prior’s Colney, Bucks. The body was discovered by an employee, in circumstances which suggested foul play. A medical examination led to the conclusion that the deceased had been shot. The local police have the case in hand, and search is being actively prosecuted for----” Words failed the tape, and it relapsed into a buzz.

Reggie stared at it with gloomy apprehension. “I believe the beggars get murdered just to bother me,” he was reflecting, when a jovial tea-merchant (wholesale--that club is a most respectable club) clapped him on the shoulder, and asked what the news was. “They only do it to annoy because they know it teases,” said Reggie, and held up the tape.

“Albert Lunt!” said the tea-merchant, and whistled. “Well, he won’t be missed!”

“Don’t you believe it,” Reggie groaned, and went out.

Upon his way home the passionate interest which the world, expressing its emotions on newspaper placards, took in Sir Albert Lunt was heaped upon him. When he let himself in, his factotum, Samuel Baker, was hovering in the hall.

“Oh, don’t look so alert, Sam. It’s maddening,” Reggie complained.

Samuel Baker grinned. “You’ll want all the papers, sir?”

“I suppose so!”

“I’m getting each edition as they come along, sir. Would you like a photograph of Sir Albert?”

“Go away, Sam.” Reggie waved at him. “Go quite away, Sam. Do you know one reason why many fellows get murdered? It’s because other fellows can’t live up to them.”

As he changed, Reggie looked through the papers. They were eloquent upon Sir Albert Lunt. His career, even when treated with the delicacy due to those who die rich, was a picturesque subject. Sir Albert Lunt, with his surviving brother Victor, had gone out to South Africa in the early days of diamonds. His first vocation was discreetly veiled. Some references to his life-long passion for sport reminded the knowing of the story that he and his brother had been in the front rank of the profession which works with three cards, the thimble, and the pea. Sir Albert, always in close alliance with Victor, had come out into daylight in the second stage of the diamond fields, when the business man was following in the steps of lucky adventurers. It had been Sir Albert’s habit through life to appear in the second stage of things. The polite newspaper biographies called this prudence and sound judgment. He had always been fortunate in reaping other people’s harvests. There were strange tales of his devices at Kimberley and Johannesburg, and just a hint of a clash with Cecil Rhodes, in which Rhodes had said what he thought of the Brothers Lunt with a certain gusto.

So ways that were dark and tricks that were anything but vain in Kimberley and Johannesburg made Albert Lunt a millionaire. He was not satisfied. South Africa was too small for him. Or was it too hot for him? He had spread his “operations” round the world. He was “interested” in some Manchurian tin and the copper belt of the Belgian Congo. “One of our modern Empire builders,” as the evening papers sagely said.

How Sir Albert came by his title was a problem left in decent obscurity. Much was said of the magnificence of his life in England, his rococo palace not quite in Park Lane, his pantomime splendours at Prior’s Colney--the ball-room which was in the lake, and the dining-room which was panelled in silver. The knowing reader could divine that Sir Albert had lived not only blatantly but hard and fast.

“Yah,” said Reggie Fortune.

Just as he was putting on his coat, Sam arrived with a photograph of Sir Albert, and Reggie sat down to it. A plump man of middle height, rather loudly dressed; a long, heavy face, rather like a horse’s, but with protruding eyes--commonplace enough. It was only the expression which made Reggie examine the fellow more closely. Under the photographic smirk was a look of insolence and conceit of singular force. The man who owned that would never allow any creature a right against him. Behold the secret of Sir Albert Lunt’s success. And “Oh, Peter, I don’t wonder some one murdered the animal,” said Reggie. “Justifiable porcicide.”

On which he went off to dinner with his sister, who had married a man in the Treasury, and gave him the pleasant somnolent evening you would expect.

When he came back there were two telegrams waiting for him.

Number one: “Was called in to Lunt case. Desire consult you. Lady Lunt also anxious your opinion.--GERALD BARNES.”

Number two: “Desire consult you Lunt case. Please see me Prior’s Colney morning.--LOMAS.”

Reggie whistled. “Let ’em all come,” said he.

Gerald Barnes had been house surgeon when Reggie was surgical registrar at St. Simon’s Hospital, and had gone into practice somewhere in Buckinghamshire. The Hon. Stanley Lomas was the head of the Criminal Investigation Department.

“Have they had a scrap?” Reggie smiled to himself. “Lots of zeal at Prior’s Colney. Sam! The car after breakfast. We’ll go and see life.” And he went to bed.

But in the morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he was told that Nurse Dauntsey wanted to see him and said it was most urgent. Nurse Dauntsey was at St. Simon’s Hospital and had a partiality for Reggie, who (quite paternally) liked her for being gentle and kindly and pretty. A trim figure, a pair of honest grey eyes, a wholesome complexion, and an engaging red mouth were the best of Nurse Dauntsey’s charms, but there was a simplicity about her which commended them. “Types of English Beauty.--Third Prize, Nurse Dauntsey,” somebody said once. And it was felt to be just.

On this morning Nurse Dauntsey’s nice face was troubled, and she had lost her usual calm. “Oh, Mr. Fortune, will you help me?” She rushed at Reggie. “It’s the Lunt case.”

“Now what in wonder have you to do with the Lunt case?”

Nurse Dauntsey blushed. “I’m engaged, Mr. Fortune,” she said.

“Well, he’s a very lucky man. And I hope you’re a lucky girl.”

“Oh, I am,” said Nurse Dauntsey, with conviction. “He has been arrested. They say he murdered Sir Albert Lunt. Mr. Fortune, you will help us?”

“Who in creation is the lucky man?”

“His name is Vernon Cranford. He’s a mining engineer. Oh, he’s been everywhere. He’s a born explorer, you know. He discovered a copper mine in Portuguese East Africa, one of the richest mines in the world. He came home last year and told Sir Albert Lunt about it, and Sir Albert sent him out to show the place. There was a sort of expedition, you know. And then, somehow, on the way up country Vernon was left behind. The other men tricked him. And when he got back to Mozambique he found that the other men had claimed the place was theirs. They had--what do you call it?--secured the concession, the rights in it. Wasn’t it a shame? Vernon was just furious. I don’t know quite how it happened. He only came back on Monday. I know he thought it was Sir Albert Lunt’s fault. He said he was going to see him and have it out with him. He was going to see him yesterday. And then, last night, I had this note from him.” She held it out, then couldn’t bear to let it out of her hands, and so read it to him.

“‘DEAR JO,--You mustn’t worry. Lunt’s been found shot, and the police have pinched me. Take it easy and go slow, and we’ll comb it all out.--Yours, V.’”

Nurse Dauntsey gazed at Reggie with very big eyes.

“Sounds as if he knew his own mind,” Reggie murmured. “And all this bein’ thus, you want me to take up the case. Why?”

Nurse Dauntsey was startled. “But to get him off, of course--to defend him.”

“Yes. But don’t let’s be previous. Speakin’ frankly, did he do it?”

Nurse Dauntsey stood up. “I am engaged to him, Mr. Fortune,” she said with dignity.

“Quite. That’s the best thing I know about him. But I don’t know much else.”

“And I am sure he’s not guilty.”

“That kind of man, is he?”

“Just that kind of man,” said Nurse Dauntsey, and her eyes glowed. “He couldn’t do anything that wasn’t fair and clean.”

“Then he’d better have a solicitor. Do you suppose he’s got one?”

“He’d never think of such a thing.”

“Make him have Moss and Gordon. Ask for Donald Gordon, and say I sent you.”

“But I want you, Mr. Fortune. You know there’s no one like you.”