Wallace Edgar
The Daffodil Mystery
CHAPTER XXVI
IN MRS. RIDER'S ROOM
There was a deep silence. Tarling could feel his heart thumping almost noisily.
"After I had left Lyne's Store," she said, "I had decided to go to mother to spend two or three days with her before I began looking for work. Mr. Milburgh only went to Hertford for the weekends, and I couldn't stay in the same house with him, knowing all that I knew.
"I left my flat at about half-past six that evening, but I am not quite sure of the exact time. It must have been somewhere near then, because I was going to catch the seven o'clock train to Hertford. I arrived at the station and had taken my ticket, and was stooping to pick up my bag, when I felt a hand on my arm, and turning, saw Mr. Milburgh. He was in a state of great agitation and distress, and asked me to take a later train and accompany him to the Florentine Restaurant, where he had taken a private room. He told me he had very bad news and that I must know.
"I put my bag in the cloak-room and went off with him, and over the dinner—I only had a cup of tea, as a matter of fact—he told me that he was on the verge of ruin. He said that Mr. Lyne had sent for a detective (which was you), and had the intention of exposing him, only Mr. Lyne's rage against me was so great, that for the moment he was diverted from his purpose.
"'Only you can save me,' said Milburgh.
"'I?' I said in astonishment, 'how can I save you?'
"'Take the responsibility for the theft upon yourself,' he said. 'Your mother is involved in this heavily.'
"'Does she know?'
"He nodded. I found afterwards that he was lying to me and was preying upon my love for mother.
"I was dazed and horrified," said the girl, "at the thought that poor dear mother might be involved in this horrible scandal, and when he suggested that I should write a confession at his dictation and should leave by the first train for the Continent until the matter blew over, I fell in with his scheme without protest—and that is all."
"Why did you come to Hertford to-night?" asked Tarling.
Again she smiled.
"To get the confession," she said simply "I knew Milburgh would keep it in the safe. I saw him when I left the hotel—he had telephoned to me and made the appointment at the shop where I slipped the detectives, and it was there that he told me–" she stopped suddenly and went red.
"He told you I was fond of you," said Tarling quietly, and she nodded.
"He threatened to take advantage of that fact, and wanted to show you the confession."
"I see," said Tarling, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. "Thank God!" he said fervently.
"For what?" she asked, looking at him in astonishment.
"That everything is clear. To-morrow I will arrest the murderer of Thornton Lyne!"
"No, no, not that," she said, and laid her hand on his shoulder, her distressed face looking into his, "surely not that. Mr. Milburgh could not have done it, he could not be so great a scoundrel."
"Who sent the wire to your mother saying you were not coming down?"
"Milburgh," replied the girl.
"Did he send two wires, do you remember?" said Tarling.
She hesitated.
"Yes, he did," she said, "I don't know who the other was to."
"It was the same writing anyway," he said.
"But–"
"Dear," he said, "you must not worry any more about it. There is a trying time ahead of you, but you must be brave, both for your own sake and for your mother's, and for mine," he added.
Despite her unhappiness she smiled faintly.
"You take something for granted, don't you?" she asked.
"Am I doing that?" he said in surprise.
"You mean—" she went redder than ever—"that I care enough for you—that I would make an effort for your sake?"
"I suppose I do," said Tarling slowly, "it's vanity, I suppose?"
"Perhaps it is instinct," she said, and squeezed his arm.
"I must take you back to your mother's place," he said.
The walk from the house to the station had been a long and tedious one. The way back was surprisingly short, even though they walked at snail's pace. There never was a courting such as Tarling's, and it seemed unreal as a dream. The girl had a key of the outer gate and they passed through together.
"Does your mother know that you are in Hertford?" asked Tarling suddenly.
"Yes," replied the girl. "I saw her before I came after you."
"Does she know–"
He did not care to finish the sentence.
"No," said the girl, "she does not know. Poor woman, it will break her heart. She is—very fond of Milburgh. Sometimes he is most kind to mother. She loves him so much that she accepted his mysterious comings and goings and all the explanations which he offered, without suspicion."
They had reached the place where he had picked up the wallet, and above him gloomed the dark bulk of the portico with its glass-house atop. The house was in darkness, no lights shone anywhere.
"I will take you in through the door under the portico. It is the way Mr. Milburgh always comes. Have you a light?"
He had his electric lamp in his pocket and he put a beam upon the key-hole. She inserted the key and uttered a note of exclamation, for the door yielded under her pressure and opened.
"It is unlocked," she said. "I am sure I fastened it."
Tarling put his lamp upon the lock and made a little grimace. The catch had been wedged back into the lock so that it could not spring out again.
"How long were you in the house?" he asked quickly.
"Only a few minutes," said the girl. "I went in just to tell mother, and I came out immediately."
"Did you close the door behind you when you went in?"
The girl thought a moment.
"Perhaps I didn't," she said. "No, of course not—I didn't come back this way; mother let me out by the front door."
Tarling put his light into the hall and saw the carpeted stairs half-a-dozen feet away. He guessed what had happened. Somebody had seen the door ajar, and guessing from the fact that she had left it open that she was returning immediately, had slipped a piece of wood, which looked to be and was in fact the stalk of a match, between the catch of the spring lock and its sheath.
"What has happened?" asked the girl in a troubled voice.
"Nothing," said Tarling airily. "It was probably your disreputable step-father did this. He may have lost his key."
"He could have gone in the front door," said the girl uneasily.
"Well, I'll go first," said Tarling with a cheerfulness which he was far from feeling.
He went upstairs, his lamp in one hand, an automatic pistol in the other. The stairs ended in a balustraded landing from which two doors opened.
"That is mother's room," said the girl, pointing to the nearest.
A sense of impending trouble made her shiver. Tarling put his arms about her encouragingly. He walked to the door of the room, turned the handle and opened it. There was something behind the door which held it close, and exerting all his strength he pushed the door open sufficiently far to allow of his squeezing through.
On the desk a table-lamp was burning, the light of which was hidden from the outside by the heavily-curtained windows, but it was neither at the window nor at the desk that he was looking.
Mrs. Rider lay behind the door, a little smile on her face, the haft of a dagger standing out with hideous distinctness beneath her heart.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE LAUGH IN THE NIGHT
Tarling gave one glance before he turned to the girl, who was endeavouring to push past him, and catching her by the arm gently thrust her back into the passage.
"What is wrong? What is wrong?" she asked in a terrified whisper. "Oh, let me go to mother."
She struggled to escape from his grip, but he held her firmly.
"You must be brave, for your own sake—for everybody's sake," he entreated her.
Still holding her arm, he forced her to the door of the second inner room. His hand felt for the electric switch and found it.
He was in what appeared to be a spare bedroom, plainly furnished, and from this a door led, apparently into the main building.
"Where does that door lead?" he asked, but she did not appear to hear him.
"Mother, mother!" she was moaning, "what has happened to my mother?"
"Where does that door lead?" he asked again, and for answer she slipped her trembling hand into her pocket and produced a key.
He opened the door and found himself in a rectangular gallery overlooking the hall.
She slipped past him, but he caught her and pushed her back.
"I tell you, you must be calm, Odette," he said firmly, "you must not give way. Everything depends upon your courage. Where are the servants?"
Then, unexpectedly, she broke away from him and raced back through the door into the wing they had left. He followed in swift pursuit.
"For God's sake, Odette, don't, don't," he cried, as she flung herself against the door and burst into her mother's room.
One glance she gave, then she fell on the floor by the side of her dead mother, and flinging her arms about the form kissed the cold lips.
Tarling pulled her gently away, and half-carried, half-supported her back to the gallery. A dishevelled man in shirt and trousers whom Tarling thought might be the butler was hurrying along the corridor.
"Arouse any women who are in the house," said Tarling in a low voice. "Mrs. Rider has been murdered."
"Murdered, sir!" said the startled man. "You don't mean that?"
"Quick," said Tarling sharply, "Miss Rider has fainted again."
They carried her into the drawing-room and laid her on the couch, and Tarling did not leave her until he had seen her in the hands of two women servants.
He went back with the butler to the room where the body lay. He turned on all the lights and made a careful scrutiny of the room. The window leading on to the glass-covered balcony where he had been concealed a few hours before, was latched, locked and bolted.
The curtains, which had been drawn, presumably by Milburgh when he came for the wallet, were undisturbed. From the position in which the dead woman lay and the calm on her face he thought death must have come instantly and unexpectedly. Probably the murderer stole behind her whilst she was standing at the foot of the sofa which he had partly seen through the window. It was likely that, to beguile the time of waiting for her daughter's return, she had taken a book from a little cabinet immediately behind the door, and support for this theory came in the shape of a book which had evidently fallen out of her hand between the position in which she was found and the book-case.
Together the two men lifted the body on to the sofa.
"You had better go down into the town and inform the police," said Tarling. "Is there a telephone here?"
"Yes, sir," replied the butler.
"Good, that will save you a journey," said the detective.
He notified the local police officials and then got on to Scotland Yard and sent a messenger to arouse Whiteside. The faint pallor of dawn was in the sky when he looked out of the window, but the pale light merely served to emphasise the pitch darkness of the world.
He examined the knife, which had the appearance of being a very ordinary butcher's knife. There were some faint initials burnt upon the hilt, but these had been so worn by constant handling that there was only the faintest trace of what they had originally been. He could see an "M" and two other letters that looked like "C" and "A."
"M.C.A.?"
He puzzled his brain to interpret the initials. Presently the butler came back.
"The young lady is in a terrible state, sir, and I have sent for Dr. Thomas."
Tarling nodded.
"You have done very wisely," he said. "Poor girl, she has had a terrible shock."
Again he went to the telephone, and this time he got into connection with a nursing home in London and arranged for an ambulance to pick up the girl without further delay. When he had telephoned to Scotland Yard he had asked as an after-thought that a messenger should be sent to Ling Chu, instructing him to come without delay. He had the greatest faith in the Chinaman, particularly in a case like this where the trail was fresh, for Ling Chu was possessed of super-human gifts which only the blood-hound could rival.
"Nobody must go upstairs," he instructed the butler. "When the doctor and the coroner's officer come, they must be admitted by the principal entrance, and if I am not here, you must understand that under no circumstances are those stairs leading to the portico to be used."
He himself went out of the main entrance to make a tour of the grounds. He had little hope that that search would lead to anything. Clues there might be in plenty when the daylight revealed them, but the likelihood of the murderer remaining in the vicinity of the scene of his crime was a remote one.
The grounds were extensive and well-wooded. Numerous winding paths met, and forked aimlessly, radiating out from the broad gravel paths about the house to the high walls which encircled the little estate.
In one corner of the grounds was a fairly large patch, innocent of bush and offering no cover at all. He made a casual survey of this, sweeping his light across the ordered rows of growing vegetables, and was going away when he saw a black bulk which had the appearance, even in the darkness, of a gardener's house. He swept this possible cover with his lamp.
Was his imagination playing him a trick, or had he caught the briefest glimpse of a white face peering round the corner? He put on his light again. There was nothing visible. He walked to the building and round it. There was nobody in sight. He thought he saw a dark form under the shadow of the building moving towards the belt of pines which surrounded the house on the three sides. He put on his lamp again, but the light was not powerful enough to carry the distance required, and he went forward at a jog trot in the direction he had seen the figure disappear. He reached the pines and went softly. Every now and again he stopped, and once he could have sworn he heard the cracking of a twig ahead of him.
He started off at a run in pursuit, and now there was no mistaking the fact that somebody was still in the wood. He heard the quick steps of his quarry and then there was silence. He ran on, but must have overshot the mark, for presently he heard a stealthy noise behind him. In a flash he turned back.
"Who are you?" he said. "Stand out or I'll fire!"
There was no answer and he waited. He heard the scraping of a boot against the brick-work and he knew that the intruder was climbing the wall. He turned in the direction of the sound, but again found nothing.
Then from somewhere above him came such a trill of demoniacal laughter as chilled his blood. The top of the wall was concealed by the overhanging branch of a tree and his light was valueless.
"Come down," he shouted, "I've got you covered!"
Again came that terrible laugh, half-fear, half-derision, and a voice shrill and harsh came down to him.
"Murderer! Murderer! You killed Thornton Lyne, damn you! I've kept this for you—take it!"
Something came crashing through the trees, something small and round, a splashing drop, as of water, fell on the back of Tarling's hand and he shook it off with a cry, for it burnt like fire. He heard the mysterious stranger drop from the coping of the wall and the sound of his swift feet. He stooped and picked up the article which had been thrown at him. It was a small bottle bearing a stained chemist's label and the word "Vitriol."
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE THUMB-PRINT
It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Whiteside and Tarling were sitting on a sofa in their shirt-sleeves, sipping their coffee. Tarling was haggard and weary, in contrast to the dapper inspector of police. Though the latter had been aroused from his bed in the early hours of the morning, he at least had enjoyed a good night's sleep.
They sat in the room in which Mrs. Rider had been murdered, and the rusty brown stains on the floor where Tarling had found her were eloquent of the tragedy.
They sat sipping their coffee, neither man talking, and they maintained this silence for several minutes, each man following his own train of thought. Tarling for reasons of his own had not revealed his own adventure and he had told the other nothing of the mysterious individual (who he was, he pretty well guessed) whom he had chased through the grounds.
Presently Whiteside lit a cigarette and threw the match in the grate, and Tarling roused himself from his reverie with a jerk.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Whiteside shook his head.
"If there had been property taken, it would have had a simple explanation. But nothing has gone. Poor girl!"
Tarling nodded.
"Terrible!" he said. "The doctor had to drug her before he could get her to go."
"Where is she?" asked Whiteside
"I sent her on an ambulance to a nursing-home in London," said Tarling shortly. "This is awful, Whiteside."
"It's pretty bad," said the detective-inspector, scratching his chin. "The young lady could supply no information?"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing. She had gone up to see her mother and had left the door ajar, intending to return by the same way after she had interviewed Mrs. Rider. As a matter of fact, she was let out by the front door. Somebody was watching and apparently thought that she was coming out by the way she went in, waited for a time, and then as she did not reappear, followed her into the building."
"And that somebody was Milburgh?" said Whiteside.
Tarling made no reply. He had his own views and for the moment was not prepared to argue.
"It was obviously Milburgh," said Whiteside. "He comes to you in the night—we know that he is in Hertford. We know, too, that he tried to assassinate you because he thought the girl had betrayed him and you had unearthed his secret. He must have killed his wife, who probably knows much more about the murder than the daughter."
Tarling looked at his watch.
"Ling Chu should be here by now," he said.
"Oh, you sent for Ling Chu, did you?" said Whiteside in surprise. "I thought that you'd given up that idea."
"I 'phoned again a couple of hours ago," said Tarling.
"H'm!" said Whiteside. "Do you think that he knows anything about this?"
Tarling shook his head.
"I believe the story he told me. Of course, when I made the report to Scotland Yard I did not expect that you people would be as credulous as I am, but I know the man. He has never lied to me."
"Murder is a pretty serious business," said Whiteside. "If a man didn't lie to save his neck, he wouldn't lie at all."
There was the sound of a motor below, and Tarling walked to the window.
"Here is Ling Chu," he said, and a few minutes later the Chinaman came noiselessly into the room.
Tarling greeted him with a curt nod, and without any preliminary told the story of the crime. He spoke in English—he had not employed Chinese since he discovered that Ling Chu understood English quite as well as he understood Cantonese, and Whiteside was able from time to time to interject a word, or correct some little slip on Tarling's part. The Chinaman listened without comment and when Tarling had finished he made one of his queer jerky bows and went out of the room.
"Here are the letters," said Whiteside, after the man had gone.
Two neat piles of letters were arranged on Mrs. Rider's desk, and Tarling drew up a chair.
"This is the lot?" he said.
"Yes," said Whiteside. "I've been searching the house since eight o'clock and I can find no others. Those on the right are all from Milburgh. You'll find they're simply signed with an initial—a characteristic of his—but they bear his town address."
"You've looked through them?" asked Tarling
"Read 'em all," replied the other. "There's nothing at all incriminating in any of them. They're what I would call bread and butter letters, dealing with little investments which Milburgh has made in his wife's name—or rather, in the name of Mrs. Rider. It's easy to see from these how deeply the poor woman was involved without her knowing that she was mixing herself up in a great conspiracy."
Tarling assented. One by one he took the letters from their envelopes, read them and replaced them. He was half-way through the pile when he stopped and carried a letter to the window.
"Listen to this," he said:
"Forgive the smudge, but I am in an awful hurry, and I have got my fingers inky through the overturning of an ink bottle."
"Nothing startling in that," said Whiteside with a smile.
"Nothing at all," admitted Tarling. "But it happens that our friend has left a very good and useful thumb-print. At least, it looks too big for a finger-print."
"Let me see it," said Whiteside, springing up.
He went to the other's side and looked over his shoulder at the letter in his hand, and whistled. He turned a glowing face upon Tarling and gripped his chief by the shoulder.
"We've got him!" he said exultantly. "We've got him as surely as if we had him in the pen!"
"What do you mean?" asked Tarling.
"I'll swear to that thumb-print," replied Whiteside. "It's identical with the blood mark which was left on Miss Rider's bureau on the night of the murder!"
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," said Whiteside, speaking quickly. "Do you see that whorl? Look at those lineations! They're the same. I have the original photograph in my pocket somewhere." He searched his pocket-book and brought out a photograph of a thumb-print considerably enlarged.
"Compare them!" cried Whiteside in triumph. "Line for line, ridge for ridge, and furrow for furrow, it is Milburgh's thumb-print and Milburgh is my man!"
He took up his coat and slipped it on.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to London," said Whiteside grimly, "to secure a warrant for the arrest of George Milburgh, the man who killed Thornton Lyne, the man who murdered his wife—the blackest villain at large in the world to-day!"
