Chapter 11

No Smoke Without Fire

This is the episode of Mr. Spolger, which came about in this wise. Roger was very indignant with his friend for speaking so plainly to Judith, and told him so in somewhat strong language when the carriage had departed. Fanks said nothing at first, being much exercised in his own mind over the peculiar attitude taken up towards him by Miss Varlins, but Axton was so very free in his condemnations, that for the moment he lost his self-control, and answered sharply.

"I've taken up this case, Roger, and I intend to carry it out to the bitter end, if only for your sake; but you must let me act in every way as I think best, otherwise--"

"Otherwise!" repeated Axton, angrily, as Octavius paused.

"I will throw up the whole affair."

"No, you must not do that," said Roger, quickly. "I want to see the end of this for my own sake, as you very truly say, so don't leave me in the lurch for the sake of a few hasty words. But you must admit, old fellow, that you spoke rather sharply to Judith."

The philosophic Fanks thereupon recovered his temper and said sententiously:

"Women are the devil."

"Eh, how so?"

"They cause trouble whenever they get mixed up in any affair. This case was difficult yesterday; to-day it is more difficult because feminine influence is now at work."

"With whom?"

"With me, with you, with Judas, with us all. May I say something without being thought rude?"

"If it's about Judith--"

"It is about Judith."

"Then don't say it," retorted Roger, in a huff.

"Very well," replied Fanks, resignedly; "but if you take away my guiding stars I'll never find my way across the ocean of mystery."

Roger made no reply, but walked on rapidly with a frown on his good-looking face. Suddenly he stopped so dead short that Fanks, also using his legs in no slow fashion, shot past him a yard or so before he could pull up.

Quoth Roger savagely:

"Say your say and have done with it."

Mr. Fanks surveyed his friend with a quiet smile, and then took him gently by the arm.

"Come and have luncheon with me," he said, persuasively.

"No."

"They've got an excellent cook at the 'Foundryman.'"

"I won't come."

"I can give you a good bottle of claret."

Axton exploded furiously.

"Confound it, Fanks, why do you treat me like a child?"

"Because you are one at present."

"Oh, indeed," said Roger, with a sneer, "from your point of view."

"From a common-sense point of view," replied Fanks, with great good-humour. "Come, don't be silly, my good fellow! You're sore because I don't worship your idol. Be easy, I'll do so when this case is finished."

"But if--"

"Oh, come to luncheon," said Fanks, and marched him off without further parley.

The luncheon was good, both as regards victuals and wine, while Fanks, in the capacity of host, behaved in a wondrously genial fashion, so by the time they finished and were smoking socially by the fire, Roger had quite recovered his temper, and felt ashamed of his fit of ill-humour.

"But you know," he said, guiltily, "I'm in love."

"Business first, pleasure afterwards," quoth the philosopher, sagely.

"Apropos of what?"

"This case. I know you are in love, I know the lady you love. I quite approve of that love. Marriage, however, should begin with no secrets between man and wife."

"Pish!"

"In this case the wife would have a secret from the husband."

"Rubbish!"

"It may be, but it's rubbish that concerns those letters."

"Perhaps you'll accuse Judith of the murder," cried Roger, in great wrath.

A blank wall would have been more expressive than the face of the detective.

"Why didn't she want me to read those letters?" he asked, quietly.

"There are the letters--read them."

"Thank you," replied Fanks, imperturbably, "I will." And he did so slowly and carefully, taking note of the dates and arranging the letters in due order. Having finished, he tied the letters up again and handed them over to Roger.

"Please deliver them to Miss Judith."

"Oh, ho," said Roger, slipping the parcel into his pocket. "So the letters are no use to you?"

"Not the letters that are there."

"What, do you think some of the letters are missing?"

"I'm certain of it."

"Then who is the thief?"

"Judas."

"Oh!"

Roger flung himself back in his chair with a sigh of relief, as if he had half expected to hear another name, and that a name similar in sound.

"There are in that bundle," said Fanks, gravely, "letters written at Ironfields--so far so good. But they are only silly girlish letters!"

"As Judith told you!"

"Exactly, as Judith told me," responded Octavius, suavely, "but I want to see the letters written in London and in Ventnor."

"Perhaps she never wrote any in those two places."

"Humph! the chances are she did."

"You are excessively mysterious," said Roger, sarcastically, "but the question can easily be settled. Ask Miss Marson herself."

"I thought I heard Miss Varlins say she was ill!"

"So she is, poor child," said Roger, soberly; "I blurted out the fact of Melstane's death too suddenly, and she fainted. Now she is very ill."

"Oh! brain fever?"

"I'm afraid so!"

"In that case I can get nothing out of her," said Fanks, coolly; "it's a pity. By the way, do you know who I think knows a good deal about this case?"

"Monsieur Judas."

"You'll make a good detective some day," replied Fanks, approvingly. "Yes! I mean Monsieur Judas. He's a crafty wretch, that same Frenchman, and knows a good deal."

"About Melstane and Miss Marson?"

"Probably."

"And Melstane's death?"

"Possibly."

"You don't suspect him?" asked Roger, breathlessly.

"I don't suspect any one--at present, as I said before," replied Fanks, with a sudden movement of irritation. "Confound it, the more I go into this case the more mixed up it seems to get. It seems to me it all depends on those pills. The box went from Wosk's shop into the hands of Melstane, certainly--"

"Yes, and it went from Melstane's hands into those of Spolger," said Axton, with sudden recollection.

"What do you mean?" asked Fanks, eagerly.

Whereupon, Roger, in a terrible state of excitement, told his friend all about Melstane's interview with Spolger--of the pill-box left behind, and of the sending of it back to Melstane.

"And don't you see, Fanks," cried Axton, in great excitement, "Spolger is a bit of a chemist, so he could easily put in the two extra pills before he sent back the box. Melstane would never suspect, and so would come by his death. Oh, Spolger's the man who killed Melstane, I'm certain of it."

"Wait a bit," said Fanks, rapidly making a few notes in his pocket-book. "When a crime is committed, the first thing is to look for a motive. Now, what motive had Spolger for killing Melstane?"

"Motive!" repeated Roger, in amazement, "the strongest of all motives. He was in love with Florry and wanted to marry her. She, however, was in love with Melstane, and while he lived Spolger had no chance. So of course he removed his rival by death. It's as clear as daylight."

"Why! 'of course'?" said the detective, putting his note-book in his pocket. "Even love would hardly make a man like Spolger commit a crime."

"He's a scoundrel."

"Eh! but a nervous one."

"He's fond of Florry."

"And fond of his own skin."

"I tell you I'm convinced he committed the crime."

"Don't jump to conclusions."

"I'm not jumping to conclusions," retorted Axton, hotly. "Look at the case, you blind bat. Spolger loves--adores Florry. He wants to marry her, but finds out she won't have him because she loves another man. Chance, by means of the forgotten pill-box, throws in his way the means of injuring that other man. What is more natural? He takes advantage of the chance."

"Injuring a man doesn't mean killing him."

"Who said it did? Put it in this way. Spolger intended to merely injure him, but in making up the morphia pills he puts in too much of the drug, and kills Melstane without intending to do so."

"Theory! Pure theory!"

"Well, as far as I can see, the case is all pure theory at present."

"By no means. We have ascertained the cause of death; the way in which the drug was taken; also a number of suspicious circumstances connected with Melstane's past life. That's not all theory."

"I think the most suspicious theory connected with Melstane's past life is Monsieur Jules Guinaud, better known as Judas."

"Because he has red hair and a crafty face," said Fanks, coolly.

"No; because he loves Florry."

"How do you know?"

"I think so."

"Ah, that's theory," replied Fanks, nodding his head; "purely theoretical, if you like. Well, we must be off."

"Where to?"

"To test your theory. I'm going to see Mr. Jackson Spolger."

"He'll tell you nothing," said Axton, putting on his coat.

"Perhaps not; but his face may. He's a nervous man. Japix told me that, so if he knows anything about this murder, he may betray himself unconsciously. Come along."

So they went down into the sloppy street and hired a cab, but just as they were going to step in, Fanks suddenly darted to the window of a brougham standing a short distance away. It was a large brougham, and contained a large man, who put out his head when he saw Fanks, and roared out a welcome in a stentorian voice:

"Hey, Monsieur Fouché!"

"Don't advertise me so publicly, Japix."

"Pooh! no one here knows Fouché. They think he's a Chinese."

"It's best to be on the safe side, anyhow."

"Very well, Mr. Rixton."

"That's better. I say, Doctor, do you believe in patent medicines?"

"No," roared Japix, indignantly, "I don't."

"But I've been advised to take Spolger's Soother."

"Then don't take it. Who advised you?"

"A lady."

"Humph! Only a woman would give such silly advice. If you're ill, come to me like Spolger, and I'll cure you, but don't touch his medicine."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Not very. The pills are only bread, gum, and morphia."

"Morphia?"

"Yes; small quantity, of course. Not like that pill you gave me to analyse the other day. Good heavens!" exclaimed Japix, as a sudden idea struck him, "what do you mean?"

"I'll tell you to-night."

"When you come to dinner?"

"Yes; can I bring Axton with me?"

"By all means. Good day!"

"Good day!" replied Fanks, and darted back to his cab, where he found Roger awaiting him.

"Roger," he said, when the vehicle started towards the Spolger residence, "there may be something in that idea of yours after all."

"I think so. But why do you say that?"

"Because I've just discovered that Spolger puts morphia in his pills."