MRS3 The Velvet Hand (22 page)

"The guards are unable to throw any light on the tragic happening. This train makes five stops between Banchester and Paddington, and the running time is three hours. The viaduct over the vale of Sturton is seventy miles from London. The train was well filled last night. During the journey nothing happened of a character to attract the attention of the guards to the compartment in which Mr. Hendrie rode. Tickets are punched as the traveller enters the platform at Banchester and are taken up as he leaves the platform at Paddington. They are not asked for on the train.

"The guards are agreed in stating that at no time during the journey were there less than three or four persons in any third-class compartment. This suggests that Mr. Hendrie fell into the hands of a gang of thugs. The fact of there being more than one will make the task of the police easier. There was no conceivable motive for the dastardly act other than the fifty pounds the victim carried in his wallet. The whole country will be aroused to anger at the thought of that valuable life snuffed out for the sake of a beggarly fifty pounds. In former times such crimes were only too common; happily, since the improvement of the railway service, they have become rare. Popular opinion will now insist that the railways go further and make such happenings impossible."

The story went on to recapitulate Mr. Hendrie's services in the cause of science, together with other biographical data, a list of learned societies to which he belonged, etc. All I took note of in this part was that he had left a widow but no surviving children; and that his nearest friend seemed to be a Mr. Woodley Bristed, who was described as his principal assistant and the chief of his laboratory staff.

So much for the newspaper account. When she finished reading it Mme Storey looked across at the inspector.

"And did you really think," she said, "that I had stabbed this unfortunate old man with a horn-handled pocketknife and had then thrown his body out of the car?"

"No!" he said with a horrified gesture. "But by your own account you were in the compartment when it happened."

"Asleep," she reminded him.

"Asleep!" he echoed. "He was seated opposite you. Third-class compartments are narrow. Your knees must have been all but touching. How could he have been stabbed and thrown out of the door—the door beside you—without your having knowledge of it?"

"It occurred to my secretary and me that we had been drugged," she suggested.

This was a new thought to him. "Drugged?" he repeated hopefully—he didn't want to believe us guilty—but his face quickly fell again. "How could you have been drugged after entering the compartment without your knowledge?"

"I don't know," said Mme Storey. "That's what we've got to find out."

The poor gentleman was falling more and more under the influence of my mistress's beauty and charm. "Under the circumstances," he said almost apologetically, "how could I have acted differently than by detaining you until the matter is cleared up?"

"You could not have acted differently," she quickly agreed. "But consider, for fifty pounds! Why, I carry a letter of credit for two thousand pounds, which I will show you later."

"Another motive for the crime has been suggested," he said, looking out of the window. "We kept it out of the papers. It has been suggested that Mr. Hendrie was in possession of an enormously valuable chemical secret which the murderer may have hoped to find in his wallet."

"Hm!" said Mme Storey. "This is getting interesting."

"He had intimated that he had something of supreme importance to disclose at the meeting of the Royal Society to-day."

"I wonder what became of the pot of pansies," said my mistress reflectively.

At the door of Scotland Yard, which is not a yard at all as we understand the word, but an immense brick building tucked out of sight between Whitehall and the Thames Embankment, Inspector Battram dismissed his man with some low-voiced instructions. This individual had not once opened his mouth since he had appeared at our hotel. The inspector then led us to his private office. It was evident, from the attitude of all the underlings in the place, that he was a person of considerable consequence there. You may be sure that we were stared at. But my fears had departed. I now had confidence in the inspector, and was assured that we should be treated fairly.

In his office we found the British matron, our travelling companion of the previous evening. She had evidently just been brought in by another assistant. She was in a state of hard, dry excitement very painful to witness. Both the bun and the superimposed hat were awry. She was talking when we entered, and went right on talking.

"... outrageous! I am Mrs. Hargreaves. Lord Stukeley is my cousin. Never in my life have I been subjected to such an indignity. It's a nice thing if a lady of position must submit to such a thing! Dragged here to Scotland Yard like a common criminal! Somebody shall suffer for this!"

A bored expression came over Inspector Battram's face. I expect he was familiar with her type. "I am exceedingly sorry to have to trouble a relative of Lord Stukeley's," he said drily, "but you had the misfortune to travel from Banchester to London last night in a carriage where a serious crime was committed."

"And do you dare to say that
I
did it?" she demanded stridently. "My husband is clerk of the waterworks in Banchester. The Dean of the Chapter is my intimate friend. You shall hear more of this, young man!"

"I do not suggest that you committed the crime," said the inspector patiently, "but it is my duty to ask you certain questions."

"How do you know what carriage I travelled in?"

The inspector turned to me. "Is this the lady you described to me as having shared your seat?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"That's a lie!" cried Mrs. Hargreaves furiously. "I never saw the woman before. Who is this woman anyway? She probably committed the crime herself!"

Mme Storey and I exchanged a glance. This was no proof of the woman's guilt, of course. She had lost her head. It was nothing but the horror that respectable English people have of getting mixed up in anything unpleasant, of getting their names in the papers.

"Can you swear that this lady rode in your carriage?" the inspector asked Mme Storey.

"Oh, yes," said my mistress, with delicate malice. "She had the same clothes on."

"And who is this person?" demanded Mrs. Hargreaves. "Is her word to be preferred over mine? Hm! Very fine, I dare say. Much too grand to be travelling in a third-class carriage. I said to myself as soon as I laid eyes on her——"

"Then you have seen her before," the inspector put in quickly.

Mrs. Hargreaves bit her lips and the tears came into her hard eyes—tears of vexation. She was silenced.

"Now tell me what happened during the journey," said the inspector soothingly.

"I can tell you nothing," she said sullenly. "I slept the entire way. I suppose you don't believe that, but it's the truth."

"When did you awaken?"

"Not until the train was pulling into Paddington."

"And who was in the carriage then?"

"These women had got out; and so had the old man who sat opposite them. There was nobody in the compartment but myself and a young man sitting opposite me with his hat pulled over his eyes."

"Did you not awaken during the entire journey?"

"Not that I can remember. I don't know when I have slept so soundly on a train."

The inspector questioned her at some length, but did not bring out anything material. The woman seemed to be in the same case as ourselves. It was amusing to see how in her answers she endeavoured to turn suspicion against my mistress. Yet she had nothing against her except the instinctive animosity of a plain woman for a handsome one. The inspector was not impressed by her insinuations.

Her testimony was interrupted by the entrance of still another of his men, leading by the arm the young fellow who had ridden with us from Banchester to London. Thus, before one o'clock the police had succeeded in rounding up every person in that compartment. It was a first-rate tribute to their efficiency. Mme Storey congratulated the inspector.

At the sight of the young man my heart was wrung by compassion. He was sallow and still unshaven; he looked sick, but with a spiritual disease, not physical. His manner was more than ever hangdog and reckless, and there was now an ugly fear in his face—more than ever the creature at bay. The same thought leaped into the minds of everybody in the room. There, if the murderer had ridden in our compartment, certainly stood the man. And yet—and yet! There were other things in his face: something wild and beautiful and unsubdued. I recollected Mme Storey's saying that it is sometimes the finest spirits that our civilization chucks on the dung heap. This young fellow had been made for love and laughter and fighting, and somehow the net of circumstances had caught him, and all had been spoiled. It almost brought the tears to my eyes.

The man who brought him in could not contain his jubilance. "There's your man, sir," he said to the inspector, without waiting to be addressed.

"Ha!" said the inspector. "Where did you pick him up?"

"In the offices of the Brevard Line, sir. He appeared there half an hour ago and asked for a second-class ticket to Canada on the
Pannonia
, sailing to-morrow. We had already circularized the steamship offices, and something about his actions aroused their suspicions, so while the ticket was being made out they gave us a call on the telephone. When the ticket was handed him he offered in payment six £5 notes of the same numbers as those carried by Mr. Hendrie. I found three more of the notes in his pocket and the change from the tenth one. Nothing else in his pockets."

This seemed conclusive. I turned a little sick at heart. Suppose in a moment of madness that he had committed this crime, I asked myself, would it square matters to take his life in payment for that other?

Inspector Battram, with a grave face, pulled a pad toward him. "Name and address?" he asked.

"George Albert—no home," the young man replied with a swagger of bravado very painful to see. He had an educated voice; the sort of voice that speaks of a good home.

The inspector paused with his pencil in the air. "This attitude is not going to do you any good," he said mildly.

"I shan't give you my right name," the young man burst out. "It would please my old man far too well. When he kicked me out he prophesied that I'd end in jail."

"It's bound to come out," said the inspector.

"Well, let it come. It shan't come through me."

"Have you got anything to say for yourself?" asked the inspector. "Anything you say here may be used against you."

"I didn't steal that money," cried the prisoner. "But what's the use of saying anything about it? I might as well go to jail as to Canada. I only want to lose myself."

"It's not a question of going to jail," said the inspector. "The penalty for murder is hanging."

The young man started and paled. "Murder!" he said huskily. "Good God! I am no murderer! My hands are clean!"

That was either a genuine start of dismay, or else the most marvellous piece of acting I had ever beheld. I was for the prisoner; still, I have been deceived so many times, I never trust my own judgment at such moments. I glanced at my mistress, but her pale, grave face betrayed nothing.

"Murder!" cried Mrs. Hargreaves. "Merciful Heaven! to think of me being mixed up in anything like that! What will my friends say!"

The unfortunate young man looked at each one of us in turn with his eloquent eyes as if imploring some assurance that he had dreamed the hideous charge. Gone were the sneer and the swagger. He looked a mere lad at that moment. Several times he essayed to speak before any words came out.

"I—I—I swear I don't know how that money came to be in my pocket!" he chattered. "When I got off the train at Paddington last night I was flat broke. At least, I thought I was. It had taken my last penny to buy the ticket to London and a bite to eat before I got on the train. I went to the Embankment to spend the night on a bench. Would I have gone to the Embankment if I had known I had money in my pocket? When my hands became cold I put them in my pockets and found a wallet there. It contained a lot of papers and ten five-pound notes. The money was like manna to a homeless man. I never even looked at the papers. I was afraid if I came on the name of the owner my damned conscience would force me to return the money. I thought some thief, hard pressed by the police, had slipped the wallet into my pocket. I flung it into the Thames and kept the money. Any man in my position would have done the same! ... Don't you believe me? You must believe me! I am no murderer!"

"Always the same story," said the inspector wearily.

"But this time it happens to be true!" said the young man fiercely. He struck the edge of the inspector's desk. "It's true!"

"It would be better for you in the end to tell me what happened on the journey," said the inspector.

The young man's arms fell helplessly at his sides. "I can tell you nothing," he said. "I slept the whole way from Banchester to Paddington."

"You slept," said the inspector scornfully, "while a man was murdered in your compartment and flung out of the door!"

"It's the truth! It's the truth! I swear it!"

The inspector nodded to his man, and the latter started to lead the prisoner away. The inspector said, not unkindly—there was nothing of the hard-boiled inquisitor about him:

"Better think it over for a while and come back and talk to me later."

When the door closed after him he was still crying pitifully: "I didn't do it! I didn't do it!"

That ridiculous Mrs. Hargreaves bustled out of her chair. "I suppose I may go now," she said acidly.

"Certainly, madam," said Inspector Battram. "I am sorry it was necessary to trouble you. We shall have to call upon you to testify later, but of course we have your address."

She departed with a snort of indignation.

"I assume that you have no further need of us either," said Mme Storey, rising.

"I wish I had," said the inspector gallantly.