Crossword Mystery (25 page)

“Perhaps,” agreed Mitchell, rising to go. “Then all I can do is to ask you to communicate to us any new fact that comes to your knowledge, and especially to inform your client, Mr. John Smith, that we are extremely anxious to get in touch with him, that our inquiries have nothing whatever to do with the legality or illegality of the very remarkable and interesting scheme he has in hand, but that we should take a very grave view of any reluctance he might conceivably display to coming forward – not that we anticipate that for one moment. But, if he fails to get in touch with us as promptly as possible, he must not be surprised at any action we may think it necessary to take.”

“I shall certainly deliver your message as soon as the opportunity occurs,” Mr. Dreg answered stiffly. “And, on your side, I am sure you will understand that I consider it my duty to protect my client's interest, to the best of my poor ability, consistently with my professional obligations.”

“Oh, quite so,” said Mitchell; and, when they were outside, he added to Bobby: “All of which means that Dreg smells money in this sea-gambling stunt, and means to have his share if he can – if the thing does get going and isn't interfered with, I daresay it'll mean a lot to be appointed solicitor to the company. What do you think?”

“Looks to me,” said Bobby slowly, “that it's just another blank wall we're up against – and I think we shall get no more assistance from Mr. Dreg than he can help.”

“Think it really is Shorton behind it all?”

“I don't think I'm thinking at all just at present, sir,” Bobby answered frankly. “I'm just bewildered.”

“Good,” declared Mitchell, “being bewildered is the first step to getting understanding.”

“Well, then, sir,” Bobby observed thoughtfully, “I've taken a pretty big first step towards getting understanding if I may measure by the extent of my present bewilderment. And all the same, though I can't see how on earth it can be fitted in, I've noticed a copy of Shakespeare in the Fairview library, and I'm going to have a look at it to-night.”

“I daresay I could guess which play,” Mitchell commented; “but all that's only the psychology of the thing; what we want is evidence. Treasury counsel would have quite a lot to say if we offered them the one for the other. Well, you had better get back to Suffby Cove and report to Major Markham. I'll write to him to-night, and you can give him any further details he wants – but whether it's Shorton behind the ‘Suffby Cove Sea Sports Development' scheme, or whether it's someone else, I'm no more sure than I was before.”

“No, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Though I can't help thinking the whole business, from the appearance of the launch in the cove the morning Jennings was tied up, right to the handing in of his instructions to Mr. Dreg the other day all makes one complete whole, if only we could see how. And I was wondering, sir, if I might slip round to the Brilliant Hotel and have a drink there, and see if I could get a look at the register, or the chance of being able to make something out of the signature of the man who sent that telegram. It must have meant something,” he added almost despairingly.

Mitchell looked at him sadly.

“Young man,” he said, “official life is telling on you – the usual deterioration is setting in. A year or two ago, you would have gone there first and asked permission after.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Bobby protested, quite hurt. “I always asked permission, unless there wasn't time, or I thought I mightn't get it.”

“Your instructions,” said Mitchell severely, “are to get on your motor-cycle as quick as you can, and proceed at full speed to Suffby Cove, so as to put yourself at the disposition of Major Markham at the earliest possible moment.”

“Very good, sir,” answered Bobby; and added: “I ought to explain, sir, that I had some engine trouble coming up I asked them at the garage to see to. I'm not sure the 'bike will be ready for another half hour or so.”

“I don't know,” sighed Mitchell, “what discipline's coming to. Now when I joined the force – but perhaps I've told you about that before. Anyhow, lose no time in reporting to Markham. My own idea is, he is only waiting to hear from us to decide whether to have the ports watched in case Shorton tries to bolt.”

“There's hardly evidence enough against him to make him want to do that, is there?” Bobby asked, surprised.

“Oh, no,” Mitchell agreed. “Only when a man is guilty, he never knows what the evidence is against him and the more he doesn't know, the more likely he is to lose his head and bolt.”

With that Mitchell nodded and departed, and Bobby made his way to the Brilliant Hotel, a small establishment near the Strand, its dingy outer appearance harmonising little with its name. But, inside, it seemed comfortable enough. The drink supplied was of excellent quality, and when Bobby introduced himself no difficulty was made about allowing him to examine the register.

The name entered there was, as Mitchell had described it, a mere illegible scribble, of which the hotel interpretation, “Mutton,” seemed as good as any other. But “Mutton” as a name seemed to Bobby lacking in verisimilitude, and, besides, he could not find any trace of anything like any crossing of the two supposed “t's.” The more he pored over it, the less he could make of it, and then he adopted the expedient he had heard of some time or another of going over the writing with a dry pen. But that did not seem to help much, except to confirm him in his belief that the two centre letters were not “t's.” But, if they were not “t's,” two “l's” seemed the most likely suggestion for them he could think of, and that, again, suggested the name might be really “Miller.” Another experiment with the dry pen persuaded him that there were two strokes to the letter between the undoubted “M” with which the name began, and the two tall letters in the middle of it. But, then, that would make it a “u,” and transform the name into Muller, and for a long time Bobby remained brooding and intent, every sense he possessed concentrated as it were upon the open page before him.

At last he closed the book, and spoke to the hotel clerk, who had been regarding him with some amusement. It was information about “Mutton,” “Miller,” or “Muller” that he wanted, but apparently the passage of that gentleman had left little trace. No one seemed to know much about him, or remember anything of interest. He had not struck any one as being a foreigner, and, disappointed at having failed to learn anything more, Bobby asked permission to use the hotel 'phone, and rang up to report to Mitchell.

The official who answered his call said, however, that the superintendent had not yet returned, so Bobby had to be content with leaving a message that he thought it just possible the name was “Muller” and, if so, that perhaps Mr. Muller might be a German.

“Motor-launch for oversea somewhere; sack from Holland; the telegram; and now someone who may be a German,” Bobby said to himself as he hung up the receiver and turned thoughtfully away. “I suppose I needn't emphasise all that to Mitchell – he'll see it sharp enough – but I had better turn in a memo as well. For it does look as if the wheel had come full circle again.”

For one or two reasons of no special importance – a clean handkerchief was one of them – Bobby thought he would call at Fairview for a moment or two on his way to the county police headquarters, where his instructions directed him to report to Major Markham the details of the interview of Mr. Shorton.

During his wanderings about the neighbourhood before the tragedy of Mr. Winterton's death he had noticed a path that ran from behind the house, through the garden, and past the Greek temple summer-house, to join the main road half a mile or so further on, thus saving travellers to or from the south some considerable distance. The path was only a foot track, but quite practicable for cyclists who did not mind pushing their machines most of the distance or lifting them over one or two low stiles, and now Bobby thought to save a few minutes by following it.

A gate in bad repair, fastened only by a latch, led into the Fair – view garden, and, after Bobby had passed through this, he came almost at once to the summer-house. Remembering the odd incident of the recently swilled floor that had so bothered him with its apparent lack of purpose, he leaned his motor-cycle against a convenient tree and went across to see if any further attempt at cleaning out the place had been made. But what he saw was something different for there was plain evidence, in freshly turned earth and clay and in the recently disturbed stone flooring, that someone had been digging there.

Of the fact itself there could be no doubt. The flooring had been replaced in position and efforts had been made to clear up, but the traces of what had been done were plain enough. Someone, for some purpose, had been digging there, and the conclusion seemed plain that something either was or had been there hidden.

But what that something could be, though he asked himself the question, he made no effort to determine. If whatever had been hidden there was still there, why, then it would be better to have witnesses for the discovery, and for his seniors to be in charge of the necessary operations. And if whatever had been concealed had been removed, then, too, plainly it would be for his seniors to decide what steps to take.

But he was a little pale as he came out again from the gloom and shadows of the half-ruinous summer-house into the fresh air and the sunshine, and he was a little glad, too, that the trees and shrubs growing near hid the place well enough to make it unlikely that there had been any witness of his visit.

He went on slowly towards the house, thinking that, after all, people do not dig up the floors of deserted summer-houses without good reason; and that here was another puzzling item, that might or might not be important, to fit into the general bewilderment and maze it was his business to make straight.

Leaving his cycle in the drive, he entered the house, and as he did so Miss Raby came out quickly from the study.

“Oh,” she said, looking a little disappointed as she saw Bobby, “I thought it was Mr. Ross. You haven't seen him, have you?”

“No, why? Isn't he in the house somewhere?” Bobby asked in his turn.

“No. He must have gone out late last night after we thought he had gone to bed. He went upstairs very early. He didn't say anything about going out, but his bed hasn't been slept in, Mrs. Cooper says, and there's someone on the 'phone keeps ringing up and wants to speak to him, and says it's important.”

“Oh. Who is it?”

“I don't know. It's a man's voice, but he won't give his name or leave any message. It's something about money or racing, I think, but he won't say.”

“Well, if he rings up again, have another shot at getting him to say who he is,” Bobby told her. He added slowly: “If Ross's bed hasn't been slept in, he must have been out all night.”

“I suppose so.”

“And no one's seen anything of him all day?”

“No one at all,” Miss Raby said. She added with an uneasy, somewhat tremulous laugh: “Of course, it's silly to be nervous, but how can you help it, after what's happened?”

Bobby did not answer, nor did he join in her laughter. He was thinking of the disturbed floor of the summer-house. Absurd, of course, but... He broke off his thoughts abruptly. Anyhow, he was a man under orders, and his business was to obey them, not to start a fresh investigation on his own responsibility. That Colin Ross seemed to have disappeared, and that digging had recently taken place in a deserted summer-house where it might reasonably have been supposed no one would poke an inquisitive nose for months to come, were two facts that very likely stood in no kind of relation to each other – if, indeed, there were any two facts in the whole of this complicated business that were not more or less intimately related. At any rate, all he could do was to report them to his superiors, for such action to be taken as they might think proper.

Miss Raby said in a detached sort of tone, much as if she were making some remark upon the weather:

“I shan't be able to stand it much longer. I expect I shall go mad or hysterical or something.”

“Well, that wouldn't do any good,” was all Bobby could think of to say.

“You don't expect it to, do you? That isn't why it happens; it's because you just can't stand any more – then you crash,” she said moodily. “I know quite well you think it may be Miles.”

“I don't know what to think, if you ask me,” he retorted. “Besides, what does it matter what I think?”

“Well, the police think,” she answered more quietly, “and you're police, aren't you?”

He was too disconcerted to reply at first. He did manage to stammer something incoherent, but that was all, for that his identity was known to this girl had never even occurred to him. But he felt he had done badly in letting her see so plainly that she had hit upon the truth, though he felt also quite sure that it would only have been foolish to attempt to deny what apparently she was well convinced of. At last he said:

“How do you know? Who told you?”

She turned away with an impatient gesture, as much as to say that that did not matter and in any case she was not going to tell, and then Mrs. Cooper came into the hall from the back part of the house.

“I heard someone talking,” she explained. “I thought perhaps Mr. Ross had come back.”

“He didn't sleep here last night?” Bobby asked.

“His bed hasn't been touched,” she answered cautiously. “I can't see his hat and raincoat anywhere. It looks as if he went out instead of going to bed last night; but, if he did, he didn't say anything. Perhaps he meant to come back and then he changed his mind.”

“It seems funny,” Bobby commented. “I wonder what can have become of him?”