Wallace Edgar
The Daffodil Mystery
CHAPTER X
THE WOMAN AT ASHFORD
Tarling went back to his lodgings that afternoon, a puzzled and baffled man. Ling Chu, his impassive Chinese servant, had observed those symptoms of perplexity before, but now there was something new in his master's demeanour—a kind of curt irritation, an anxiety which in the Hunter of Men had not been observed before.
The Chinaman went silently about the business of preparing his chief's tea and made no reference to the tragedy or to any of its details. He had set the table by the side of the bed, and was gliding from the room in that cat-like way of his when Tarling stopped him.
"Ling Chu," he said, speaking in the vernacular, "you remember in Shanghai when the 'Cheerful Hearts' committed a crime, how they used to leave behind their hong?"
"Yes, master, I remember it very well," said Ling Chu calmly. "They were certain words on red paper, and afterwards you could buy them from the shops, because people desired to have these signs to show to their friends."
"Many people carried these things," said Tarling slowly, "and the sign of the 'Cheerful Hearts' was found in the pocket of the murdered man."
Ling Chu met the other's eyes with imperturbable calmness.
"Master," he said, "may not the white-faced man who is now dead have brought such a thing from Shanghai? He was a tourist, and tourists buy these foolish souvenirs."
Tarling nodded again.
"That is possible," he said. "I have already thought that such might have been the case. Yet, why should he have this sign of the 'Cheerful Hearts' in his pocket on the night he was murdered?"
"Master," said the Chinaman, "why should he have been murdered?"
Tarling's lips curled in a half smile.
"By which I suppose you mean that one question is as difficult to answer as the other," he said. "All right, Ling Chu, that will do."
His principal anxiety for the moment was not this, or any other clue which had been offered, but the discovery of Odette Rider's present hiding-place. Again and again he turned the problem over in his mind. At every point he was baffled by the wild improbability of the facts that he had discovered. Why should Odette Rider be content to accept a servile position in Lyne's Stores when her mother was living in luxury at Hertford? Who was her father—that mysterious father who appeared and disappeared at Hertford, and what part did he play in the crime? And if she was innocent, why had she disappeared so completely and in circumstances so suspicious? And what did Sam Stay know? The man's hatred of the girl was uncanny. At the mention of her name a veritable fountain of venom had bubbled up, and Tarling had sensed the abysmal depths of this man's hate and something of his boundless love for the dead man.
He turned impatiently on the couch and reached out his hand for his tea, when there came a soft tap at the door and Ling Chu slipped into the room.
"The Bright Man is here," he said, and in these words announced Whiteside, who brought into the room something of his alert, fresh personality which had earned him the pseudonym which Ling Chu had affixed.
"Well, Mr. Tarling," said the Inspector, taking out a little notebook, "I'm afraid I haven't done very much in the way of discovering the movements of Miss Rider, but so far as I can find out by inquiries made at Charing Cross booking office, several young ladies unattended have left for the Continent in the past few days."
"You cannot identify any of these with Miss Rider?" asked Tarling in a tone of disappointment.
The detective shook his head. Despite his apparent unsuccess, he had evidently made some discovery which pleased him, for there was nothing gloomy in his admission of failure.
"You have found out something, though?" suggested Tarling quickly, and Whiteside nodded.
"Yes," he said, "by the greatest of luck I've got hold of a very curious story. I was chatting with some of the ticket collectors and trying to discover a man who might have seen the girl—I have a photograph of her taken in a group of Stores employees, and this I have had enlarged, as it may be very useful."
Tarling nodded.
"Whilst I was talking with the man on the gate," Whiteside proceeded, "a travelling ticket inspector came up and he brought rather an extraordinary story from Ashford. On the night of the murder there was an accident to the Continental Express."
"I remember seeing something about it," said Tarling, "but my mind has been occupied by this other matter. What happened?"
"A luggage truck which was standing on the platform fell between two of the carriages and derailed one of them," explained Whiteside. "The only passenger who was hurt was a Miss Stevens. Apparently it was a case of simple concussion, and when the train was brought to a standstill she was removed to the Cottage Hospital, where she is to-day. Apparently the daughter of the travelling ticket inspector is a nurse at the hospital, and she told her father that this Miss Stevens, before she recovered consciousness, made several references to a 'Mr. Lyne' and a 'Mr. Milburgh'!"
Tarling was sitting erect now, watching the other through narrowed lids.
"Go on," he said quietly.
"I could get very little from the travelling inspector, except that his daughter was under the impression that the lady had a grudge against Mr. Lyne, and that she spoke even more disparagingly of Mr. Milburgh."
Tarling had risen and slipped off his silk dressing-gown before the other could put away his notebook. He struck a gong with his knuckles, and when Ling Chu appeared, gave him an order in Chinese, which Whiteside could not follow.
"You're going to Ashford? I thought you would," said Whiteside. "Would you like me to come along?"
"No, thank you," said the other. "I'll go myself. I have an idea that Miss Stevens may be the missing witness in the case and may throw greater light upon the happenings of the night before last than any other witness we have yet interviewed."
He found he had to wait an hour before he could get a train for Ashford, and he passed that hour impatiently walking up and down the broad platform. Here was a new complication in the case. Who was Miss Stevens, and why should she be journeying to Dover on the night of the murder?
He reached Ashford, and with difficulty found a cab, for it was raining heavily, and he had come provided with neither mackintosh nor umbrella.
The matron of the Cottage Hospital reassured him on one point.
"Oh, yes, Miss Stevens is still in the hospital," she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was just a chance that she might have been discharged, and again the possibility that she would be difficult to trace.
The matron showed him the way through a long corridor, terminating in a big ward. Before reaching the door of the ward there was a smaller door on the right.
"We put her in this private ward, because we thought it might be necessary to operate," said the matron and opened the door.
Tarling walked in. Facing him was the foot of the bed, and in that bed lay a girl whose eyes met his. He stopped dead as though he were shot For "Miss Stevens" was Odette Rider!
CHAPTER XI
"THORNTON LYNE IS DEAD."
For a time neither spoke. Tarling walked slowly forward, pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, never once taking his eyes off the girl.
Odette Rider! The woman for whom the police of England were searching, against whom a warrant had been issued on a charge of wilful murder—and here, in a little country hospital. For a moment, and a moment only, Tarling was in doubt. Had he been standing outside the case and watching it as a disinterested spectator, or had this girl never come so closely into his life, bringing a new and a disturbing influence so that the very balance of his judgment was upset, he would have said that she was in hiding and had chosen this hospital for a safe retreat. The very name under which she was passing was fictitious—a suspicious circumstance in itself.
The girl's eyes did not leave his. He read in their clear depths a hint of terror and his heart fell. He had not realised before that the chief incentive he found in this case was not to discover the murderer of Thornton Lyne, but to prove that the girl was innocent.
"Mr. Tarling," she said with a queer little break in her voice, "I—I did not expect to see you."
It was a lame opening, and it seemed all the more feeble to her since she had so carefully rehearsed the statement she had intended making. For her waking moments, since the accident, had been filled with thoughts of this hard-faced man, what he would think, what he would say, and what, in certain eventualities, he would do.
"I suppose not," said Tarling gently. "I am sorry to hear you have had rather a shaking, Miss Rider."
She nodded, and a faint smile played about the corners of her mouth.
"It was nothing very much," she said. "Of course, it was very harried at first and—what do you want?"
The last words were blurted out. She could not keep up the farce of a polite conversation.
There was a moment's silence, and then Tarling spoke.
"I wanted to find you," he said, speaking slowly, and again he read her fear.
"Well," she hesitated, and then said desperately and just a little defiantly, "you have found me!"
Tarling nodded.
"And now that you have found me," she went on, speaking rapidly, "what do you want?"
She was resting on her elbow, her strained face turned towards him, her eyes slightly narrowed, watching him with an intensity of gaze which betrayed her agitation.
"I want to ask you a few questions," said Tarling, and slipped a little notebook from his pocket, balancing it upon his knee.
To his dismay the girl shook her head.
"I don't know that I am prepared to answer your questions," she said more calmly, "but there is no reason why you should not ask them."
Here was an attitude wholly unexpected. And Odette Rider panic-stricken he could understand. If she had burst into a fit of weeping, if she had grown incoherent in her terror, if she had been indignant or shame-faced—any of these displays would have fitted in with his conception of her innocence or apprehension of her guilt.
"In the first place," he asked bluntly, "why are you here under the name of Miss Stevens?"
She thought a moment, then shook her head.
"That is a question I am not prepared to answer," she said quietly.
"I won't press it for a moment," said Tarling, "because I realise that it is bound up in certain other extraordinary actions of yours, Miss Rider."
The girl flushed and dropped her eyes, and Tarling went on:
"Why did you leave London secretly, without giving your friends or your mother any inkling of your plans?"
She looked up sharply.
"Have you seen mother?" she asked quietly, and again her eyes were troubled.
"I've seen your mother," said Tarling. "I have also seen the telegram you sent to her. Come, Miss Rider, won't you let me help you? Believe me, a great deal more depends upon your answers than the satisfaction of my curiosity. You must realise how very serious your position is."
He saw her lips close tightly and she shook her head.
"I have nothing to say," she said with a catch of her breath. "If—if you think I have–"
She stopped dead.
"Finish your sentence," said Tarling sternly. "If I think you have committed this crime?"
She nodded.
He put away his notebook before he spoke again, and, leaning over the bed, took her hand.
"Miss Rider, I want to help you," he said earnestly, "and I can help you best if you're frank with me. I tell you I do not believe that you committed this act. I tell you now that though all the circumstances point to your guilt, I have absolute confidence that you can produce an answer to the charge."
For a moment her eyes filled with tears, but she bit her lip and smiled bravely into his face.
"That is good and sweet of you, Mr. Tarling, and I do appreciate your kindness. But I can't tell you anything—I can't, I can't!" She gripped his wrist in her vehemence, and he thought she was going to break down, but again, with an extraordinary effort of will which excited his secret admiration, she controlled herself.
"You're going to think very badly of me," she said, "and I hate the thought, Mr. Tarling—you don't know how I hate it. I want you to think that I am innocent, but I am going to make no effort to prove that I was not guilty."
"You're mad!" he interrupted her roughly "Stark, raving mad! You must do something, do you hear? You've got to do something."
She shook her head, and the little hand which rested on his closed gently about two of his fingers.
"I can't," she said simply. "I just can't."
Tarling pushed back the chair from the bed. He could have groaned at the hopelessness of the girl's case. If she had only given him one thread that would lead him to another clue, if she only protested her innocence! His heart sank within him, and he could only shake his head helplessly.
"Suppose," he said huskily, "that you are charged with this—crime. Do you mean to tell me that you will not produce evidence that could prove your innocence, that you will make no attempt to defend yourself?"
She nodded.
"I mean that," she said.
"My God! You don't know what you're saying," he cried, starting up. "You're mad, Odette, stark mad!"
She only smiled for the fraction of a second, and that at the unconscious employment of her Christian name.
"I'm not at all mad," she said. "I am very sane."
She looked at him thoughtfully, and then of a sudden seemed to shrink back, and her face went whiter. "You—you have a warrant for me!" she whispered.
He nodded.
"And you're going to arrest me?"
He shook his head.
"No," he said briefly. "I am leaving that to somebody else. I have sickened of the case, and I'm going out of it."
"He sent you here," she said slowly.
"He?"
"Yes—I remember. You were working with him, or he wanted you to work with him."
"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Tarling quickly.
"Thornton Lyne," said the girl.
Tarling leaped to his feet and stared down at her.
"Thornton Lyne?" he repeated. "Don't you know?"
"Know what?" asked the girl with a frown.
"That Thornton Lyne is dead," said Tarling, "and that it is for his murder that a warrant has been issued for your arrest?"
She looked at him for a moment with wide, staring eyes.
"Dead!" she gasped. "Dead! Thornton Lyne dead! You don't mean that, you don't mean that?" She clutched at Tarling's arm. "Tell me that isn't true! He did not do it, he dare not do it!"
She swayed forward, and Tarling, dropping on his knees beside the bed, caught her in his arms as she fainted.
CHAPTER XII
THE HOSPITAL BOOK
While the nurse was attending to the girl Tarling sought an interview with the medical officer in charge of the hospital.
"I don't think there's a great deal the matter with her," said the doctor. "In fact, she was fit for discharge from hospital two or three days ago, and it was only at her request that we let her stay. Do I understand that she is wanted in connection with the Daffodil Murder?"
"As a witness," said Tarling glibly. He realised that he was saying a ridiculous thing, because the fact that a warrant was out for Odette Rider must have been generally known to the local authorities. Her description had been carefully circulated, and that description must have come to the heads of hospitals and public institutions. The next words of the doctor confirmed his knowledge.
"As a witness, eh?" he said dryly. "Well, I don't want to pry into your secrets, or rather into the secrets of Scotland Yard, but she is fit to travel just as soon as you like."
There was a knock on the door, and the matron came into the doctor's office.
"Miss Rider wishes to see you, sir," she said, addressing Tarling, and the detective, taking up his hat, went back to the little ward.
He found the girl more composed but still deathly white. She was out of bed, sitting in a big arm chair, wrapped in a dressing-gown, and she motioned Tarling to pull up a chair to her side. She waited until after the door had closed behind the nurse, then she spoke.
"It was very silly of me to faint, Mr. Tarling but the news was so horrible and so unexpected. Won't you tell me all about it? You see, I have not read a newspaper since I have been in the hospital. I heard one of the nurses talk about the Daffodil Murder—that is not the–"
She hesitated, and Tarling nodded. He was lighter of heart now, almost cheerful. He had no doubt in his mind that the girl was innocent, and life had taken on a rosier aspect.
"Thornton Lyne," he began, "was murdered on the night of the 14th. He was last seen alive by his valet about half-past nine in the evening. Early next morning his body was found in Hyde Park. He had been shot dead, and an effort had been made to stanch the wound in his breast by binding a woman's silk night-dress round and round his body. On his breast somebody had laid a bunch of daffodils."
"Daffodils?" repeated the girl wonderingly. "But how–"
"His car was discovered a hundred yards from the place," Tarling continued, "and it was clear that he had been murdered elsewhere, brought to the Park in his car, and left on the sidewalk. At the time he was discovered he had on neither coat nor vest, and on his feet were a pair of list slippers."
"But I don't understand," said the bewildered girl. "What does it mean? Who had–" She stopped suddenly, and the detective saw her lips tighten together, as though to restrain her speech. Then suddenly she covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, it's terrible, terrible!" she whispered. "I never thought, I never dreamed—oh, it is terrible!"
Tarling laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
"Miss Rider," he said, "you suspect somebody of this crime. Won't you tell me?"
She shook her head without looking up.
"I can say nothing," she said.
"But don't you see that suspicion will attach to you?" urged Tarling. "A telegram was discovered amongst his belongings, asking him to call at your flat that evening."
She looked up quickly.
"A telegram from me?" she said. "I sent no telegram."
"Thank God for that!" cried Tarling fervently. "Thank God for that!"
"But I don't understand, Mr. Tarling. A telegram was sent to Mr. Lyne asking him to come to my flat? Did he go to my flat?"
Tarling nodded.
"I have reason to believe he did," he said gravely. "The murder was committed in your flat."
"My God!" she whispered. "You don't mean that! Oh, no, no, it is impossible!"
Briefly he recited all his discoveries. He knew that he was acting in a manner which, from the point of view of police ethics, was wholly wrong and disloyal. He was placing her in possession of all the clues and giving her an opportunity to meet and refute the evidence which had been collected against her. He told her of the bloodstains on the floor, and described the night-dress which had been found around Thornton Lyne's body.
"That was my night-dress," she said simply and without hesitation. "Go on, please, Mr. Tarling."
He told her of the bloody thumb-prints upon the door of the bureau.
"On your bed," he went on, "I found your dressing-case, half-packed."
She swayed forward, and threw out her hands, groping blindly.
"Oh, how wicked, how wicked!" she wailed "He did it, he did it!"
"Who?" demanded Tarling.
He took the girl by the shoulder and shook her.
"Who was the man? You must tell me. Your own life depends upon it. Don't you see, Odette, I want to help you? I want to clear your name of this terrible charge. You suspect somebody. I must have his name."
She shook her head and turned her pathetic face to his.
"I can't tell you," she said in a low voice. "I can say no more. I knew nothing of the murder until you told me. I had no idea, no thought.... I hated Thornton Lyne, I hated him, but I would not have hurt him … it is dreadful, dreadful!"
Presently she grew calmer.
"I must go to London at once," she said. "Will you please take me back?"
She saw his embarrassment and was quick to understand its cause.
"You—you have a warrant, haven't you?"
He nodded.
"On the charge of—murder?"
He nodded again. She looked at him in silence for some moments.
"I shall be ready in half an hour," she said, and without a word the detective left the room.
He made his way back to the doctor's sanctum, and found that gentleman awaiting him impatiently.
"I say," said the doctor, "that's all bunkum about this girl being wanted as a witness. I had my doubts and I looked up the Scotland Yard warning which I received a couple of days ago. She's Odette Rider, and she's wanted on a charge of murder."
"Got it first time," said Tarling, dropping wearily into a chair. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Not a bit," said the doctor cheerfully. "I suppose you're taking her with you?"
Tarling nodded.
"I can't imagine a girl like that committing a murder," said Dr. Saunders. "She doesn't seem to possess the physique necessary to have carried out all the etceteras of the crime. I read the particulars in the Morning Globe. The person who murdered Thornton Lyne must have carried him from his car and laid him on the grass, or wherever he was found—and that girl couldn't lift a large-sized baby."
Tarling jerked his head in agreement.
"Besides," Dr. Saunders went on, "she hasn't the face of a murderer. I don't mean to say that because she's pretty she couldn't commit a crime, but there are certain types of prettiness which have their origin in spiritual beauty, and Miss Stevens, or Rider, as I suppose I should call her, is one of that type."
"I'm one with you there," said Tarling. "I am satisfied in my own mind that she did not commit the crime, but the circumstances are all against her."
The telephone bell jingled, and the doctor took up the receiver and spoke a few words.
"A trunk call," he said, explaining the delay in receiving acknowledgment from the other end of the wire.
He spoke again into the receiver and then handed the instrument across the table to Tarling.
"It's for you," he said. "I think it is Scotland Yard."
Tarling put the receiver to his ear.
"It is Whiteside," said a voice. "Is that you, Mr. Tarling? We've found the revolver."
"Where?" asked Tarling quickly.
"In the girl's flat," came the reply.
Tarling's face fell. But after all, that was nothing unexpected. He had no doubt in his mind at all that the murder had been committed in Odette Rider's flat, and, if that theory were accepted, the details were unimportant, as there was no reason in the world why the pistol should not be also found near the scene of the crime. In fact, it would have been remarkable if the weapon had not been discovered on those premises.
"Where was it?" he asked.
"In the lady's work-basket," said Whiteside. "Pushed to the bottom and covered with a lot of wool and odds and ends of tape."
"What sort of a revolver is it?" asked Tarling after a pause.
"A Colt automatic," was the reply. "There were six live cartridges in the magazine and one in the breach. The pistol had evidently been fired, for the barrel was foul. We've also found the spent bullet in the fireplace. Have you found your Miss Stevens?"
"Yes," said Tarling quietly. "Miss Stevens is Odette Rider."
He heard the other's whistle of surprise.
"Have you arrested her?"
"Not yet," said Tarling. "Will you meet the next train in from Ashford? I shall be leaving here in half an hour."
He hung up the receiver and turned to the doctor.
"I gather they've found the weapon," said the interested medico.
"Yes," replied Tarling, "they have found the weapon."
"Humph!" said the doctor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "A pretty bad business." He looked at the other curiously. "What sort of a man was Thornton Lyne?" he asked.
Tarling shrugged his shoulders.
"Not the best of men, I'm afraid," he said; "but even the worst of men are protected by the law, and the punishment which will fall to the murderer–"
"Or murderess," smiled the doctor.
"Murderer," said Tarling shortly. "The punishment will not be affected by the character of the dead man."
Dr. Saunders puffed steadily at his pipe.
"It's rum a girl like that being mixed up in a case of this description," he said. "Most extraordinary."
There was a little tap at the door and the matron appeared.
"Miss Stevens is ready," she said, and Tarling rose.
Dr. Saunders rose with him, and, going to a shelf took down a large ledger, and placing it on his table, opened it and took up a pen.
"I shall have to mark her discharge," he said, turning over the leaves, and running his finger down the page. "Here she is—Miss Stevens, concussion and shock."
He looked at the writing under his hand and then lifted his eyes to the detective.
"When was this murder committed?" he asked.
"On the night of the fourteenth."
"On the night of the fourteenth?" repeated the doctor thoughtfully. "At what time?"
"The hour is uncertain," said Tarling, impatient and anxious to finish his conversation with this gossiping surgeon; "some time after eleven."
"Some time after eleven," repeated the doctor. "It couldn't have been committed before. When was the man last seen alive?"
"At half-past nine," said Tarling with a little smile. "You're not going in for criminal investigation, are you, doctor?"
"Not exactly," smiled Saunders. "Though I am naturally pleased to be in a position to prove the girl's innocence."
"Prove her innocence? What do you mean?" demanded Tarling quickly.
"The murder could not have been committed before eleven o'clock. The dead man was last seen alive at half-past nine."
"Well?" said Tarling.
"Well," repeated Dr. Saunders, "at nine o'clock the boat train left Charing Cross, and at half-past ten Miss Rider was admitted to this hospital suffering from shock and concussion."
For a moment Tarling said nothing and did nothing. He stood as though turned to stone, staring at the doctor with open mouth. Then he lurched forward, gripped the astonished medical man by the hand, and wrung it.
"That's the best bit of news I have had in my life," he said huskily.
