Wallace Edgar
The Daffodil Mystery
CHAPTER VII
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
"May I keep this telegram?" asked Tarling.
The woman nodded. He saw that she was nervous, ill at ease and worried.
"I can't quite understand why Odette should not come," she said. "Is there any particular reason?"
"That I can't say," said Tarling. "But please don't let it worry you, Mrs. Rider. She probably changed her mind at the last moment and is staying with friends in town."
"Then you haven't seen her?" asked Mrs. Rider anxiously.
"I haven't seen her for several days."
"Is anything wrong?" Her voice shook for a second, but she recovered herself. "You see," she made an attempt to smile. "I have been in the house for two or three days, and I have seen neither Odette nor—nor anybody else," she added quickly.
Who was she expecting to see, wondered Tarling, and why did she check herself? Was it possible that she had not heard of the murder? He determined to test her.
"Your daughter is probably detained in town owing to Mr. Lyne's death," he said, watching her closely.
She started and went white.
"Mr. Lyne's death?" she stammered. "Has he died? That young man?"
"He was murdered in Hyde Park yesterday morning," said Tarling, and she staggered back and collapsed into a chair.
"Murdered! Murdered!" she whispered. "Oh, God! Not that, not that!"
Her face was ashen white, and she was shaking in every limb, this stately woman who had walked so serenely into the drawing-room a few minutes before.
Presently she covered her face with her hands and began to weep softly and Tarling waited.
"Did you know Mr. Lyne?" he asked after a while.
She shook her head.
"Have you heard any stories about Mr. Lyne?"
She looked up.
"None," she said listlessly, "except that he was—not a very nice man."
"Forgive me asking you, but are you very much interested—" He hesitated, and she lifted her head.
He did not know how to put this question into words. It puzzled him that the daughter of this woman, who was evidently well off, should be engaged in a more or less humble capacity in Lyne's Store. He wanted to know whether she knew that the girl had been dismissed, and whether that made much difference to her. Then again, his conversation with Odette Rider had not led him to the conclusion that she could afford to throw up her work. She spoke of finding another job, and that did not sound as though her mother was in a good position.
"Is there any necessity for your daughter working for a living?" he asked bluntly, and she dropped her eyes.
"It is her wish," she said in a low voice. "She does not get on with people about here," she added hastily.
There was a brief silence, then he rose and offered his hand.
"I do hope I haven't worried you with my questions," he said, "and I daresay you wonder why I have come. I will tell you candidly that I am engaged in investigating this murder, and I was hoping to hear that your daughter, in common with the other people who were brought into contact with Mr. Lyne, might give me some thread of a clue which would lead to more important things."
"A detective?" she asked, and he could have sworn there was horror in her eyes.
"A sort of detective," he laughed, "but not a formidable one, I hope, Mrs. Rider."
She saw him to the door, and watched him as he disappeared down the drive; then walked slowly back to the room and stood against the marble mantelpiece, her head upon her arms, weeping softly.
Jack Tarling left Hertford more confused than ever. He had instructed the fly driver to wait for him at the gates, and this worthy he proceeded to pump.
Mrs. Rider had been living in Hertford for four years, and was greatly respected. Did the cabman know the daughter? Oh yes, he had seen the young lady once or twice, but "She don't come very often," he explained. "By all accounts she doesn't get on with her father."
"Her father? I did not know she had a father," said Tarling in surprise.
Yes, there was a father. He was an infrequent visitor, and usually came up from London by the late train and was driven in his own brougham to the house. He had not seen him—indeed, very few people had, but by all accounts he was a very nice man, and well-connected in the City.
Tarling had telegraphed to the assistant who had been placed at his disposal by Scotland Yard, and Detective-Inspector Whiteside was waiting for him at the station.
"Any fresh news?" asked Tarling.
"Yes, sir, there's rather an important clue come to light," said Whiteside. "I've got the car here, sir, and we might discuss it on the way back to the Yard."
"What is it?" asked Tarling.
"We got it from Mr. Lyne's manservant," said the inspector. "It appears that the butler had been going through Mr. Lyne's things, acting on instructions from headquarters, and in a corner of his writing-desk a telegram was discovered. I'll show it you when I get to the Yard. It has a very important bearing upon the case, and I think may lead us to the murderer."
On the word "telegram" Tarling felt mechanically in his pockets for the wire which Mrs. Rider had given him from her daughter. Now he took it out and read it again. It had been handed in at the General Post Office at nine o'clock exactly.
"That's extraordinary, sir," Detective-Inspector Whiteside, sitting by his side, had overlooked the wire.
"What is extraordinary?" asked Tarling with an air of surprise.
"I happened to see the signature to that wire—'Odette,' isn't it?" said the Scotland Yard man.
"Yes," nodded Tarling. "Why? What is there extraordinary in that?"
"Well, sir," said Whiteside, "it's something of a coincidence that the telegram which was found in Mr. Lyne's desk, and making an appointment with him at a certain flat in the Edgware Road, was also signed 'Odette,' and," he bent forward, looking at the wire still in the astonished Tarling's hand, "and," he said in triumph, "it was handed in exactly at the same time as that!"
An examination of the telegram at Scotland Yard left no doubt in the detective's mind that Whiteside had spoken nothing but the truth. An urgent message was despatched to the General Post Office, and in two hours the original telegrams were before him. They were both written in the same hand. The first to her mother, saying that she could not come; the second to Lyne, running:
"Will you see me at my flat to-night at eleven o'clock? Odette Rider."
Tarling's heart sank within him. This amazing news was stunning. It was impossible, impossible, he told himself again and again, that this girl could have killed Lyne. Suppose she had? Where had they met? Had they gone driving together, and had she shot him in making the circuit of the Park? But why should he be wearing list slippers? Why should his coat be off, and why should the night-dress be bound round and round his body?
He thought the matter out, but the more he thought the more puzzled he became. It was a very depressed man who interviewed an authority that night and secured from him a search warrant.
Armed with this and accompanied by Whiteside he made his way to the flat in Edgware Road, and, showing his authority, secured a pass-key from the hall porter, who was also the caretaker of the building. Tarling remembered the last time he had gone to the flat, and it was with a feeling of intense pity for the girl that he turned the key in the lock and stepped into the little hall, reaching out his hand and switching on the light as he did so.
There was nothing in the hall to suggest anything unusual. There was just that close and musty smell which is peculiar to all buildings which have been shut up, even for a few days.
But there was something else.
Tarling sniffed and Whiteside sniffed. A dull, "burnt" smell, some pungent, "scorched" odour, which he recognised as the stale stench of exploded cordite. He went into the tiny dining-room; everything was neat, nothing displaced.
"That's curious," said Whiteside, pointing to the sideboard, and Tarling saw a deep glass vase half filled with daffodils. Two or three blossoms had either fallen or had been pulled out, and were lying, shrivelled and dead, on the polished surface of the sideboard.
"Humph!" said Tarling. "I don't like this very much."
He turned and walked back into the hall and opened another door, which stood ajar. Again he turned on the light. He was in the girl's bedroom. He stopped dead, and slowly examined the room. But for the disordered appearance of the chest of drawers, there was nothing unusual in the appearance of the room. At the open doors of the bureau a little heap of female attire had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor. All these were eloquent of hasty action. Still more was a small suit-case, half packed, an the bed, also left in a great hurry.
Tarling stepped into the room, and if he had been half blind he could not have missed the last and most damning evidence of all. The carpet was of a biscuit colour and covered the room flush to the wainscot. Opposite the fireplace was a big, dark red, irregular stain.
Tarling's face grew tense.
"This is where Lyne was shot," he said.
"And look there!" said Whiteside excitedly, pointing to the chest of drawers.
Tarling stepped quickly across the room and pulled out a garment which hung over the edge of the drawer. It was a night-dress—a silk night-dress with two little sprays of forget-me-nots embroidered on the sleeves. It was the companion to that which had been found about Lyne's body. And there was something more. The removal of the garment from the drawer disclosed a mark on the white enamel of the bureau. It was a bloody thumb print!
The detective looked round at his assistant, and the expression of his face was set in its hardest mask.
"Whiteside," he said quietly, "swear out a warrant for the arrest of Odette Rider on a charge of wilful murder. Telegraph all stations to detain this girl, and let me know the result."
Without another word he turned from the room and walked back to his lodgings.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SILENCING OF SAM STAY
There was a criminal in London who was watched day and night. It was no new experience to Sam Stay to find an unconcerned-looking detective strolling along behind him; but for the first time in his life the burglar was neither disconcerted nor embarrassed by these attentions.
The death of Thornton Lyne had been the most tragic blow which had ever overtaken him. And if they had arrested him he would have been indifferent. For this hang-dog criminal, with the long, melancholy face, lined and seamed and puckered so that he appeared to be an old man, had loved Thornton Lyne as he had loved nothing in his wild and barren life. Lyne to him had been some divine creature, possessed gifts and qualities which no other would have recognised in him. In Sam's eyes Lyne could have done no wrong. By Sam Stay's standard he stood for all that was beautiful in human nature.
Thornton Lyne was dead! Dead, dead, dead.
Every footfall echoed the horrible, unbelievable word. The man was incapable of feeling—every other pain was deadened in this great suffering which was his.
And who had been the cause of it all? Whose treachery had cut short this wonderful life? He ground his teeth at the thought. Odette Rider! He remembered the name. He remembered all the injuries she had done to this man, his benefactor. He remembered that long conversation which Lyne and he had had on the morning of Sam's release from prison and the plannings which had followed.
He could not know that his hero was lying, and that in his piqué and hurt vanity he was inventing grievances which had no foundation, and offences which had never been committed. He only knew that, because of the hate which lay in Thornton Lyne's heart, justifiable hate from Sam's view, the death of this great man had been encompassed.
He walked aimlessly westward, unconscious of and uncaring for his shadower, and had reached the end of Piccadilly when somebody took him gently by the arm. He turned, and as he recognised an acquaintance, his thick lips went back in an ugly snarl.
"It's all right, Sam," said the plain-clothes policeman with a grin. "There's no trouble coming to you. I just want to ask you a few questions."
"You fellows have been asking questions day and night since—since that happened," growled Sam.
Nevertheless, he permitted himself to be mollified and led to a seat in the Park.
"Now, I'm putting it to you straight, Sam," said the policeman. "We've got nothing against you at the Yard, but we think you might be able to help us. You knew Mr. Lyne; he was very decent to you."
"Here, shut up," said Sam savagely. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it! D'ye hear? He was the grandest fellow that ever was, was Mr. Lyne, God bless him! Oh, my God! My God!" he wailed, and to the detective's surprise this hardened criminal buried his face in his hands.
"That's all right, Sam. I know he was a nice fellow. Had he any enemies—he might have talked to a chap like you where he wouldn't have talked to his friends."
Sam, red-eyed, looked up suspiciously.
"Am I going to get into any trouble for talking?" he said.
"None at all, Sam," said the policeman quickly. "Now, you be a good lad and do all you can to help us, and maybe, if you ever get into trouble, we'll put one in for you. Do you see? Did anybody hate him?"
Sam nodded.
"Was it a woman?" asked the detective with studied indifference.
"It was," replied the other with an oath. "Damn her, it was! He treated her well, did Mr. Lyne. She was broke, half-starving; he took her out of the gutter and put her into a good place, and she went about making accusations against him!"
He poured forth a stream of the foulest abuse which the policeman had ever heard.
"That's the kind of girl she was, Slade," he went on, addressing the detective, as criminals will, familiarly by their surnames. "She ain't fit to walk the earth–"
His voice broke.
"Might I ask her name?" demanded Slade.
Again Sam looked suspiciously around.
"Look here," he said, "leave me to deal with her. I'll settle with her, and don't you worry!"
"That would only get you into trouble, Sam," mused Slade. "Just give us her name. Did it begin with an 'R'?"
"How do I know?" growled the criminal. "I can't spell. Her name was Odette."
"Rider?" said the other eagerly.
"That's her. She used to be cashier in Lyne's Store."
"Now, just quieten yourself down and tell me all Lyne told you about her, will you, my lad?"
Sam Stay stared at him, and then a slow look of cunning passed over his face.
"If it was her!" he breathed. "If I could only put her away for it!"
Nothing better illustrated the mentality of this man than the fact that the thought of "shopping" the girl had not occurred to him before. That was the idea, a splendid idea! Again his lips curled back, and he eyed the detective with a queer little smile.
"All right, sir," he said. "I'll tell the head-split. I'm not going to tell you."
"That's as it ought to be, Sam," said the detective genially. "You can tell Mr. Tarling or Mr. Whiteside and they'll make it worth your while."
The detective called a cab and together they drove, not to Scotland Yard, but to Tarling's little office in Bond Street. It was here that the man from Shanghai had established his detective agency, and here he waited with the phlegmatic Whiteside for the return of the detective he had sent to withdraw Sam Stay from his shadower.
The man shuffled into the room, looked resentfully from one to the other, nodded to both, and declined the chair which was pushed forward for him. His head was throbbing in an unaccountable way, as it had never throbbed before. There were curious buzzes and noises in his ears. It was strange that he had not noticed this until he came into the quiet room, to meet the grave eyes of a hard-faced man, whom he did not remember having seen before.
"Now, Stay," said Whiteside, whom at least the criminal recognised, "we want to hear what you know about this murder."
Stay pressed his lips together and made no reply.
"Sit down," said Tarling, and this time the man obeyed. "Now, my lad," Tarling went on—and when he was in a persuasive mood his voice was silky—"they tell me that you were a friend of Mr. Lyne's."
Sam nodded.
"He was good to you, was he not?"
"Good?" The man drew a deep breath. "I'd have given my heart and soul to save him from a minute's pain, I would, sir! I'm telling you straight, and may I be struck dead if I'm lying! He was an angel on earth—my God, if ever I lay me hands on that woman, I'll strangle her. I'll put her out! I'll not leave her till she's torn to rags!"
His voice rose, specks of foam stood on his lips his whole face seemed transfigured in an ecstasy of hate.
"She's been robbing him and robbing him for years," he shouted. "He looked after her and protected her, and she went and told lies about him, she did. She trapped him!"
His voice rose to a scream, and he made a move forward towards the desk, both fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Tarling sprang up, for he recognised the signs. Before another word could be spoken, the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, and lay like one dead.
Tarling was round the table in an instant, turned the unconscious man on his back, and, lifting one eyelid, examined the pupil.
"Epilepsy or something worse," he said. "This thing has been preying on the poor devil's mind—'phone an ambulance, Whiteside, will you?"
"Shall I give him some water?"
Tarling shook his head.
"He won't recover for hours, if he recovers at all," he said. "If Sam Stay knows anything to the detriment of Odette Rider, he is likely to carry his knowledge to the grave."
And in his heart of hearts J. O. Tarling felt a little sense of satisfaction that the mouth of this man was closed.
CHAPTER IX
WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM
Where was Odette Rider? That was a problem which had to be solved. She had disappeared as though the earth had opened and swallowed her up. Every police station in the country had been warned; all outgoing ships were being watched; tactful inquiries had been made in every direction where it was likely she might be found; and the house at Hertford was under observation day and night.
Tarling had procured an adjournment of the inquest; for, whatever might be his sentiments towards Odette Rider, he was, it seemed, more anxious to perform his duty to the State, and it was very necessary that no prurient-minded coroner should investigate too deeply into the cause and the circumstances leading up to Thornton Lyne's death, lest the suspected criminal be warned.
Accompanied by Inspector Whiteside, he reexamined the flat to which the bloodstained carpet pointed unmistakably as being the scene of the murder. The red thumb prints on the bureau had been photographed and were awaiting comparison with the girl's the moment she was apprehended.
Carrymore Mansions, where Odette Rider lived, were, as has been described, a block of good-class flats, the ground floor being given over to shops. The entrance to the flats was between two of these, and a flight of stairs led down to the basement. Here were six sets of apartments, with windows giving out to the narrow areas which ran parallel to the side streets on either side of the block.
The centre of the basement consisted of a large concrete store-room, about which were set little cubicles or cellars in which the tenants stored such of their baggage, furniture, etc., as they did not need. It was possible, he discovered, to pass from the corridor of the basement flat, into the store room, and out through a door at the back of the building into a small courtyard. Access to the street was secured through a fairly large door, placed there for the convenience of tenants who wished to get their coal and heavy stores delivered. In the street behind the block of flats was a mews, consisting of about a dozen shut-up stables, all of which were rented by a taxicab company, and now used as a garage.
If the murder was committed in the flat, it was by this way the body would have been carried to the mews, and here, too, a car would attract little attention. Inquiries made amongst employees of the cab company, some of whom occupied little rooms above their garages, elicited the important information that the car had been seen in the mews on the night of the murder—a fact, it seemed, which had been overlooked in the preliminary police investigations.
The car was a two-seater Daimler with a yellow body and a hood. This was an exact description of Thornton Lyne's machine which had been found near the place where his body was discovered. The hood of the car was up when it was seen in the mews and the time apparently was between ten and eleven on the night of the murder. But though he pursued the most diligent inquiries, Tarling failed to discover any human being who had either recognised Lyne or observed the car arrive or depart.
The hall porter of the flats, on being interviewed, was very emphatic that nobody had come into the building by the main entrance between the hours of ten and half-past. It was possible, he admitted, that they could have come between half-past ten and a quarter to eleven because he had gone to his "office," which proved to be a stuffy little place under the stairs, to change from his uniform into his private clothes before going home. He was in the habit of locking the front door at eleven o'clock. Tenants of the mansions had pass-keys to the main door, and of all that happened after eleven he would be ignorant. He admitted that he may have gone a little before eleven that night, but even as to this he was not prepared to swear.
"In fact," said Whiteside afterwards, "his evidence would lead nowhere. At the very hour when somebody might have come into the flat—that is to say, between half-past ten and a quarter to eleven—he admits he was not on duty."
Tarling nodded. He had made a diligent search of the floor of the basement corridor through the store-room into the courtyard, but had found no trace of blood. Nor did he expect to find any such trace, since it was clear that, if the murder had been committed in the flat and the night-dress which was wound about the dead man's body was Odette Rider's, there would be no bleeding.
"Of one thing I am satisfied," he said; "if Odette Rider committed this murder she had an accomplice. It was impossible that she could have carried or dragged this man into the open and put him into the car, carried him again from the car and laid him on the grass."
"The daffodils puzzle me," said Whiteside. "Why should he be found with daffodils on his chest? And why, if he was murdered here, should she trouble to pay that tribute of her respect?"
Tarling shook his head. He was nearer a solution to the latter mystery than either of them knew.
His search of the flat completed, he drove to Hyde Park and, guided by Whiteside, made his way to the spot where the body was found. It was on a gravelled sidewalk, nearer to the grass than to the road, and Whiteside described the position of the body. Tarling looked round, and suddenly uttered an exclamation.
"I wonder," he said, pointing to a flower-bed.
Whiteside stared, then laughed.
"That curious," he said. "We seem to see nothing but daffodils in this murder!"
The big bed to which Tarling walked was smothered with great feathery bells that danced and swayed in the light spring breezes.
"Humph!" said Tarling. "Do you know anything about daffodils, Whiteside?"
Whiteside shook his head with a laugh.
"All daffodils are daffodils to me. Is there any difference in them? I suppose there must be."
Tarling nodded.
"These are known as Golden Spurs," he said, "a kind which is very common in England. The daffodils in Miss Rider's flat are the variety known as the Emperor."
"Well?" said Whiteside.
"Well," said the other slowly, "the daffodils I saw this morning which were found on Lyne's chest were Golden Spurs."
He knelt down by the side of the bed and began pushing aside the stems, examining the ground carefully.
"Here you are," he said.
He pointed to a dozen jagged stems.
"That is where the daffodils were plucked, I'd like to swear to that. Look, they were all pulled together by one hand. Somebody leaned over and pulled a handful."
Whiteside looked dubious.
"Mischievous boys sometimes do these things."
"Only in single stalks," said Tarling, "and the regular flower thieves are careful to steal from various parts of the bed so that the loss should not be reported by the Park gardeners."
"Then you suggest—"
"I suggest that whoever killed Thornton Lyne found it convenient, for some reason best known to himself or herself, to ornament the body as it was found, and the flowers were got from here."
"Not from the girl's flat at all?"
"I'm sure of that," replied Tarling emphatically. "In fact, I knew that this morning when I'd seen the daffodils which you had taken to Scotland Yard."
Whiteside scratched his nose in perplexity.
"The further this case goes, the more puzzled I am," he said. "Here is a man, a wealthy man, who has apparently no bitter enemies, discovered dead in Hyde Park, with a woman's silk night-dress wound round his chest, with list slippers on his feet, and a Chinese inscription in his pocket—and further, to puzzle the police, a bunch of daffodils on the chest. That was a woman's act, Mr. Tarling," he said suddenly.
Tarling started. "How do you mean?" he asked.
"It was a woman's act to put flowers on the man," said Whiteside quietly. "Those daffodils tell me of pity and compassion, and perhaps repentance."
A slow smile dawned on Tarling's face.
"My dear Whiteside," he said, "you are getting sentimental! And here," he added, looking up, "attracted to the spot, is a gentleman I seem to be always meeting—Mr. Milburgh, I think."
Milburgh had stopped at the sight of the detective, and looked as if he would have been glad to have faded away unobserved. But Tarling had seen him, and Milburgh came forward with his curious little shuffling walk, a set smile on his face, the same worried look in his eyes, which Tarling had seen once before.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, with a flourish of his top hat. "I suppose, Mr. Tarling, nothing has been discovered?"
"At any rate, I didn't expect to discover you here this morning!" smiled Tarling. "I thought you were busy at the Stores."
Milburgh shifted uneasily.
"The place has a fascination for me," he said huskily, "I—I can't keep away from it."
He dropped his eyes before Tarling's keen gaze and repeated the question.
"Is there any fresh news?"
"I ought to ask you that," said Tarling quietly.
The other looked up.
"You mean Miss Rider?" he asked. "No, sir, nothing has been found to her detriment and I cannot trace her present address, although I have pursued the most diligent inquiries. It is very upsetting."
There was a new emphasis in his voice. Tarling remembered that when Lyne had spoken to Milburgh before, and had suggested that the girl had been guilty of some act of predation, Milburgh had been quick to deny the possibility. Now his manner was hostile to the girl—indefinitely so, but sufficiently marked for Tarling to notice it.
"Do you think that Miss Rider had any reason for running away?" asked the detective.
Milburgh shrugged his shoulders.
"In this world," he said unctuously, "one is constantly being deceived by people in whom one has put one's trust."
"In other words, you suspect Miss Rider of robbing the firm?"
Up went Mr. Milburgh's plump hands.
"I would not say that," he said. "I would not accuse a young woman of such an act of treachery to her employers, and I distinctly refuse to make any charges until the auditors have completed their work. There is no doubt," he added carefully, "that Miss Rider had the handling of large sums of money, and she of all people in the business, and particularly in the cashier's department would have been able to rob the firm without the knowledge of either myself or poor Mr. Lyne. This, of course, is confidential." He laid one hand appealingly on Tarling's arm, and that worthy nodded.
"Have you any idea where she would be?"
Again Milburgh shook his head.
"The only thing—" he hesitated and looked into Tarling's eyes.
"Well?" asked the detective impatiently.
"There is a suggestion, of course, that she may have gone abroad. I do not offer that suggestion, only I know that she spoke French very well and that she had been to the Continent before."
Tarling stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"To the Continent, eh?" he said softly. "Well, in that case I shall search the Continent; for on one thing I am determined, and that is to find Odette Rider," and, beckoning to his companion, he turned on his heel and left the obsequious Mr. Milburgh staring after him.
