Part 8

Tab smiled to himself. He who had investigated so many burglaries had never imagined that he would be favoured by the attention of those midnight adventurers. He went into Rex’s room, turned the switch and had only to take one glance to know that somebody had been very busy indeed in his absence. Under the bed which his companion had occupied, were two shallow trunks, filled with those of Rex Lander’s belongings which he had not taken with him. One of these had been pulled out, placed on the bed and opened. It had been opened unscientifically with a chisel, which Tab knew was his property, and must have been taken from the tool-box in the kitchen. The lock was wrenched off and the contents of the box were scattered on the bed. The other trunk had not been touched. Whether the thief had been successful in his quest Tab did not know, because he was ignorant of the box’s contents. He guessed he must have been disappointed, for beyond a quantity of underlinen, more or less in a state of disrepair, a few books and drawing instruments, and a packet of letters which Tab saw at a glance were from Jesse Trasmere, there was nothing at all valuable in the trunk.

He went to his own room, but none of his things had been touched. And then he began a careful search of the other rooms in the flat. They yielded, however, no clue as to the identity of the mysterious visitor, and Tab got on to the ’phone to Carver and was lucky to find him.

“Burglars? That’s poetic justice, Tab,” said Carver’s sad voice. “I’ll come right along.”

The detective was at the house in ten minutes.

“If this had happened in the daytime I could find a fairly simple explanation,” said Tab, “because the front door below is left open until nine, and the tenant who comes in or goes out nearest to nine o’clock, closes it. We keep the door open because it saves a lot of running up and down stairs, but the street-door was closed when I came home.”

“How would it have been a simple matter to burgle the flat?” asked Carver, and Tab explained that there was a window on the landing through which a sure-footed and skilful adventurer might emerge on to a narrow ledge by which the kitchen window could be reached.

“He didn’t go that way I should think,” said Carver, after he had inspected the kitchenette. “No, the burglar opened the door like a gentleman. Do you know whether Mr. Lander had anything worth stealing in that trunk?”

Tab shook his head.

“I am perfectly certain he hadn’t,” he said. “Poor old Rex had nothing of value except the money he drew from his uncle’s estate just before he left.”

Carver went back to Rex’s room and carefully emptied the trunk item by item.

“It was something at the bottom of the trunk. I should imagine it was in this box.”

He handled a little wooden box with a sliding lid.

“And here is the top,” he said, picking it up from the bed. “Can you get in touch with Mr. Lander?”

“He’ll be at Naples in a day or two. I’ll wire him then, but I shouldn’t imagine he had lost anything worth the thief’s trouble,” said Tab.

They went back to the sitting-room and Carver stood a long time by the table, tapping its covered surface nervously, his long face puckered in thought.

“Do you know what I think?” he said suddenly.

“Generally,” said Tab.

“Do you know what I am thinking now?”

“You think I am giving you a lot of trouble over a happening which wasn’t worth mentioning,” said Tab.

Carver shook his head.

“I am thinking this,” he said slowly and deliberately, “that the man who burgled this flat was the man who killed Jesse Trasmere! If you ask me to give chapter and verse for my conclusion I shall both disappoint you and disappoint myself. I have always found,” he went on, “that when one has an instinctive conviction, it is a mistake to make too close an examination of one’s mind. Every human being was endowed some time or other, with as powerful and potent an instinct as the most sensitive of wild animals. With the growth of reason, the instinctive quality faded, until today, in humanity, we find only the faintest trace of it. Yet,” he said earnestly, “it is possible for humanity to cultivate that germ of instinct so that one can go to a race-track and pick every winner.”

“You are joking,” said Tab surprised, but Carver shook his head.

“You get flashes of it at times; you call them ‘hunches’. It is really your atrophied instinct asserting itself. But you won’t give it a chance. You slay it with the hands of logic and smother it with argument, and my instinct tells me that the hand that opened Mr. Lander’s trunk was the hand that destroyed Trasmere. I had a queer feeling when you telephoned to me,” he went on, “a queer feeling as though you or somebody was going to hand to me a ready-made solution of Trasmere’s death.”

“And you are disappointed. My poor old Carver,” said Tab, pityingly. “You think too much!”

“We all think too much,” said Carver, relapsing into his natural gloom.

The next morning the tenant who occupied the flat below came up whilst Tab was dressing and Mr. Holland was a little taken aback to see one who so seldom put in an appearance on any day. He was a red-faced gentleman, somewhat sportily attired.

“I hope you didn’t mind my shouting up at you last night,” he said apologetically, “but I had been travelling night and day and I had had no sleep and naturally I was a little rattled when I heard that noise going on overhead. Did you drop a box or something?”

“To be exact, I didn’t drop a box at all,” said Tab. “In fact, the noise you heard was made by a burglar.”

“A burglar?” said the startled man. “I heard the row and it woke me up. I got out of bed and yelled up, as I thought, to you.”

“What time was this?”

“Between ten and half-past,” said the other. “It was just getting dark.”

“He must have dropped the box as he was putting it on the bed,” said Tab thoughtfully. “You didn’t by any chance see him?”

“I heard him go out about a quarter of an hour after I’d made a fuss,” said the man from downstairs, “and I was feeling so ashamed of myself for losing my temper that I opened the door to apologize for shouting at him.”

“You didn’t see him?”

The man shook his head.

“He shut the door quick, just as I got into the passage. The only thing I saw was his hand on the edge of the door. He was wearing black gloves. Naturally I thought it was you, though the black gloves seemed to be a queer sort of thing for a young man to wear, even if he was in mourning, and taking it for granted that it was you, and that you were mad with me, I thought no more about it.”

All this Tab duly reported to Carver.

That ended the episode of Saturday. Sunday’s surprise was more pleasant but not less disturbing. It was late in the evening, and Tab was reading by the light of a table-lamp, when the bell which connected with the front door rang urgently. This meant that the front door was closed. On the night of Wellington Brown’s visit it was open. He unconsciously connected the two visitations and wondered whether his instinct was working as well as Carver could wish. Putting the book aside, he went down and opened the door, and nearly staggered in his astonishment, for his visitor was Ursula Ardfem, and her little car stood by the edge of the side-walk.

“I am on my way to the Central,” she explained. “May I come in?”

He had seen the two suit-cases strapped to the back of the car and had wondered to what distant and inaccessible spot she was bound.

“Come in, please,” he said hastily. “I am afraid this room is rather smoky.” He made to pull up the blind, but she stopped him.

“Please don’t,” she said, “I am all nerves and shivers and I feel I could swoon on the slightest excuse. It is rather a pity that that delightful practice of our grandmothers’ days went out of fashion. It would be such a relief to swoon sometimes.” Her tone was half-jesting, but there was a whole lot of seriousness in her face. “I am coming to live at the Central again,” she said, “though I really cannot afford that extravagance.”

“What has happened?”

“Stone Cottage is haunted,” was the staggering reply.

“Haunted?”

She nodded and a momentary smile came into her eyes, only to fade as quickly as it came.

“Not by a ghost,” she said, “but by a very human man, a mysterious individual in black. The woman who looks after me saw him the other night in the garden: I myself have seen him from my window and challenged him. He has been seen by other people pacing the road outside. Now tell me honestly, Tab Holland, am I under the observation of the police?”

The thought had also occurred to Tab.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Carver does not tell me everything, but he has never mentioned your name to me as being under the slightest suspicion. In black, you say?”

“Yes,” nodded the girl. “From head to foot in black, including black gloves. It was rather spectacular----”

“Black gloves?” interrupted Tab. “I wonder if it is my burglar?” and he told her of the visitor who had come the night before.

“It is extraordinary,” she said, “more extraordinary because he was not seen last night. I am not usually nervous, but I must confess that it is a little worrying to know that somebody is watching me.”

“How did he come? Had he a car or bicycle, or did he come by train?”

On this point she could not enlighten him.

“I almost wish you had not come up,” said Tab. “If you had told me, I would have gone to Stone Cottage and stayed the night, especially after my burglar. I should like to meet the gentleman who treats my flat so unceremoniously.”

She made no reply and then:

“Why did I come here, I wonder?” she asked, and it was as though she were speaking to herself, for she laughed. “Poor Mr. Tab,” she said, with that little hint of mockery in her voice which he adored, “I am laying all my burdens upon you. Mystery upon mystery, some of my own, but this, I promise you, not of my making.” She considered, her finger at her lips. “Suppose I return to Stone Cottage on Monday morning and you come down later? My woman will be an efficient chaperon, and I think you should come after dark--that is, if you can spare the time.”

Tab wanted to tell her that all eternity, so far as he was concerned, was at her disposal, but very wisely refrained.

He saw her to her car and went back to his room with a sense of exhilaration that he had not felt all that week.

XVII

It was a delicate matter broaching the subject of police espionage to Carver. In the first place, he did not want to give the inspector the slightest hint that Ursula Ardfern expected to be watched. He compromised by telling that gloomy man, at the first opportunity, that he had seen Miss Ardfern. And then he mentioned casually and by-the-way, the story of her watcher.

“Of course it isn’t a thief,” said Carver promptly. “Thieves do not advertise their presence by alarming the people they hope to rob. Has she complained to the local police?”

Tab did not know, but he guessed that she had not.

“It may be a coincidence,” said Carver, “and the man in black may really have nothing whatever to do with the murder of Trasmere, but I am intrigued. You are going down, you say? I wonder if Miss Ardfern would mind my coming too?”

Tab was in a dilemma here. To hesitate would be to give the police officer a wholly wrong impression. To accept was to eclipse the happy evening he had in prospect. For to be alone with Ursula Ardfern, to stand to her in the nature of a protector, would be a wonderful experience, which he had no desire to share.

“I am sure Miss Ardfern would be delighted,” he said.

“If I can get away I will come,” said Carver.

Tab fervently hoped that urgent business would keep his friend in town.

He sent a note round to Ursula putting forward Carver’s suggestion and received a reply by return, extending her invitation.

After mature thought, Tab decided that it was not at all a bad idea to have Carver with him. It would give the girl an opportunity of making friends with one who might, in certain circumstances, be a difficult man to satisfy. She could not have too many friends, he thought, and was almost relieved when Carver hurried into the station a few minutes before the last train to Hertford left.

It was dark when they arrived and by prearrangement they did not speak in the long walk which separated them from Stone Cottage, but in single file, keeping to the shadow of the road, they marched forward without meeting with a soul.

When at last they came to the highway in which Stone Cottage was situated, they proceeded with greater caution. But there was nobody in sight and they reached the garden unobserved.

Ursula was standing in the doorway to welcome them.

“I’ve had all the blinds pulled down,” she said, “and Inspector Carver’s coming is rather providential, for my woman has had to go home--her mother has been taken ill. I hope you don’t mind appearing in the role of a chaperone,” she smiled at Carver.

“Even that is not an unusual one,” he replied unsmiling. “Where does she live, the mother of your servant?”

“At Felborough. Poor Margaret only had time to catch the last train.”

“How did Margaret know her mother was ill?” asked the inspector. “Did she have a telegram?”

Ursula nodded.

“Late this afternoon?”

“Yes,” said the girl in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“She got the telegram in time to catch the train to town; in time, too, to catch a train for Felborough. That was why I asked. You did not see the man last night?”

“I didn’t come down until this morning,” she answered troubled. “Do you think that Margaret has been sent for by--somebody--that it was a ruse to get her away?”

“I don’t know,” said Carver. “In my profession we always apply the worst construction and we are generally right. What time do you usually go to bed?”

“At ten o’clock in the country,” she said.

“Then at ten o’clock you will go up to your room, put on your lights, and after a reasonable time, put them out again. You may, if you wish, come down, but you must be prepared to sit in the dark, and if you want to talk, you must carry on your conversation in whispers.” A rare smile softened his face. “We shall probably all be feeling a little foolish in the morning, but I would rather feel foolish than miss the opportunity of meeting the man in black.”

She gave them supper, and after the men had helped clear away the remains of the meal, Tab, at her request, filled his pipe. Carver said he did not wish to smoke.

Conversation, for some reason, seemed to flag. They sat silently about the table, each busy with his own thoughts. Suddenly Ursula said:

“I am almost inclined to make a restricted confession to you, Mr. Carver. I don’t think I should never have dreamt of doing so if I had ever met you.”

“Restricted confessions are irritating things,” said Carver, “so I don’t think I should confess if I were you, Miss Ardfern, especially as I know what the restricted confession is all about.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“You know,” she said.

He nodded.

“You would tell me,” he said, “that you were in the habit of going to Trasmere’s house every night, to leave your jewels with him, though that wasn’t the object of your visit. You went there,” he said slowly and not looking at her, “to act as his secretary. All the letters that were sent away by Jesse Trasmere were typewritten by you on a portable machine, the make of the machine is a Cortona, its number is 29754, it has one key-cap missing, and the letter ‘r’ is a little out of alignment.”

He enjoyed her consternation for a second and then went on:

“Perhaps you weren’t going to tell me that you and Yeh Ling, the proprietor of the Golden Roof, paid a visit to Mayfield the night I nearly caught you? No, I see that you weren’t. So we’ll restrict the confession to your peculiar occupation.”

Tab was speechless.

Ursula Ardfern the old man’s secretary! One of the most successful actresses in London acting as amanuensis to that crabbed misanthrope; it was unbelievable. Yet a glance at the girl’s face told him that Carver had only spoken the truth.

“How do you know?” she gasped.

Carver smiled again.

“We have very clever people in the police,” he said drily. “You would never imagine it to read the newspapers. Clever old sixty-nine inch brains, eh, Tab?”

“I never said that you had a sixty-nine inch brain,” avowed Tab stoutly.

“But--” interrupted the girl, and her voice was agitated, “do you know--do you know anything else? Why we went that night?”

“You went to show Yeh Ling where the old man kept some of his secret documents, in the fake brick in the fireplace. You went hoping that in that box there were some papers which related to you and you were disappointed. The only thing I am in doubt about is this--was Yeh Ling disappointed too?”

She shook her head.

“I wondered,” mused Carver. “Of course, I guessed that it was in the little lacquer box, and guessed also that the little lacquer box had a false bottom. Am I right?”

She shook her head again.

“No--Yeh Ling thought it was there; the document he sought was in the brick-box.”

“You have the key of Mayfield,” said Carver. “I think you had better give it to me. Otherwise, you may be getting into serious trouble.”

She went out of the room without a word, came back and handed him the small yale key, which he glanced at and dropped into his pocket.

“If I were a writing man, which, thank heavens, I am not,” he said, “I should carry this story of the Trasmere murder, the ‘Mystery of the Three Keys.’ Here is one solved, and it wasn’t much of a mystery. There are two others. The third is the most difficult of all.”

“You mean the key that was found on the table in the vault?”

He nodded.

“Yes,” he said, and said no more.

In her discretion, Ursula asked no further questions.

Tab was looking at Carver with a new respect.

“Every day, Carver,” he said seriously, “you are getting nearer the fictional ideal of a real detective!”

Carver’s down-turned lips took an upward curve, and then he looked at his watch.

“Ten o’clock, Miss Ardfern,” he said with mock severity, and Ursula made a move to the door. “We must turn these lights out before you leave the room. Everything must be done in order, remembering that somewhere the Black Man is watching.”

She shivered.

It was Tab who blew out the light in the drawing-room.

“I think we may draw the curtains,” said Carver softly, and pulled back the heavy velvet hangings from the window.

It was a starlight night and there was just sufficient light in the sky to outline the gateway.

“This will do admirably,” he said, settling himself in the window-seat. “If you must smoke, Tab, don’t bring your pipe within sight of that gate.”

Tab groaned and laid his pipe upon the fender.

Ten minutes later Ursula came into the room.

“May I stay?” she whispered. “I have put out my bedroom light most artistically.”

They conversed in whispers for an hour, and Tab was beginning to feel sleepy when a hiss from Carver stopped him in the middle of a sentence. Looking out of the window he saw a dark figure by the gate. It was impossible to distinguish more than the outlines. It appeared to be a man of considerable height, but this might have been and probably was an illusion. It wore a broad-brimmed hat, presumably dark; more than this they could not see. They waited in silence as the gate opened and the figure stole noiselessly into the garden.

It was half-way to the door when another figure appeared. It came from nowhere, seeming to rise up from the ground; and then before the man in the wide-awake hat could draw back, the second man had flung himself upon him. The watchers sat paralyzed until Carter, jumping to his feet, ran out of the room, Tab close behind him.

When they flung open the door, both figures had disappeared. Carver sprang toward the gate and stumbled. His foot had struck a soft bulk which stretched across the garden path, he turned back, flashing an electric lamp upon the object. It was a man, and for a moment they did not see his face.

“Who are you?” Carver pulled the man over on his back. “Well, I’m--”

The man at his feet was Yeh Ling!

XVIII

The Chinaman was unconscious and Carver looked around for the second visitant. He rushed to the gate, the road was deserted. Flinging himself upon the roadway to secure an artificial skyline, he peered first in one direction and then in the other. Presently he saw his man running swiftly in the cover of the hedges and started in pursuit.

A hundred yards away from the house was a secondary road, and into this the runner turned. As Carver reached the corner he heard a motor-car engine and dimly saw the bulk of a large touring car retreating rapidly.

He came back to the house to find Yeh Ling sitting in Ursula’s room holding his head in his hands.

“This is the second man; it isn’t the wide-awake gentleman,” said Carver. “Now, Yeh Ling, give an account of your actions. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty dizzy,” said Yeh Ling and to Tab’s surprise his tone was that of a cultured man, his English faultless.

He looked up at the girl reproachfully.

“You did not tell me these gentlemen were coming down, Miss Ardfern, when you wrote to me,” he said.

“I hadn’t any idea when I wrote, that they were coming, Yeh Ling,” she answered.

“If I had been here a little earlier I should have seen him,” he said. “As it was, I am afraid I have spoiled your evening, Mr. Carver.” His expressionless brown eyes looked up at the detective.

“I see! You were on guard too, were you?” said Carver good-humouredly. “Yes, we seem to have made a mess of it between us. Did you see the man?”

“I didn’t see him,” said Yeh Ling, “but,” he added, “I felt him,” and he rubbed his head. “I think it must have been his fist. I did not notice any weapon.”

“You didn’t see his face?” persisted Carver.

“No, he had a beard of some kind. I felt it as my hands clutched at him. I am afraid I over-estimated my strength,” he said apologetically to the girl, “yet there was a time when I was a star performer at Harvard, in the days when Chinese students were something of a curiosity.”

“Harvard?” said Tab in surprise. “Great Moses--I thought you were a--” he couldn’t very well finish his sentence.

But the other helped him.

“You thought I was a very ordinary Chink?” he said. “Possibly I am. I hope I am,” he said. “Certainly Miss Ardfern knew me when I was a very poor Chink! We lodged in the same house, she will remember, and she placed me under an eternal obligation by saving the life of my son.”

Then Tab remembered the little Chinese boy Ursula had nursed when she herself was little more than a child. Remembering this, a great many things which had been obscure to him, became clear and understandable.

“I had no idea you would come tonight, Yeh Ling, but you begged me if I was in any kind of difficulty to let you know,” she said. “You shouldn’t have taken the trouble.”

“Events seem to prove that,” said the Chinaman drily, “I am merely being consistent, Miss Ardfern. You have been under my personal observation for seven years. Seven years, day and night, either I, or one of my servants have been watching you. You never went--” he stopped and changed the conversation.

“Miss Ardfern never went to Mr. Trasmere’s house but you weren’t watching outside, that is what you were going to say, wasn’t it, Yeh Ling?” smiled Carver. “You need not be reticent, because I know all about it, and Miss Ardfern knows that I know.”

“That was what I was going to say,” said the other. “I usually followed Miss Ardfern from the theatre to her hotel; from her hotel to Trasmere’s house, and home again when she had finished working.”