CHAPTER IV

Peter Daventry Is Mindful of Mr. Bathurst

To say that Goodall and his companions were dumbfounded is no exaggeration. Events were crowding upon them this morning with a vengeance. The announcement of this second murder took their breath away. It startled them and threw them off their balance much more effectively than the first calamity had done. Mason was a night-watchman! Stewart was a millionaire! The former could be very easily replaced—the latter’s death was a tragedy in more senses than one. Goodall knew perfectly well that any failure on his part to find the murderer of Mason would occasion no questions in Parliament and would cause the Home Secretary no loss of sleep. But now that Laurence P. Stewart was caught in the wheels of the murder-machinery he was painfully conscious that he must be “up and doing.” The case might be his, too!

“How did that news reach you, Mr. Linnell?” was his first question.

“From my partner, Mr. Daventry. He has just had a ’phone-call from Stewart’s home in Berkshire—from Stewart’s son, I understood him to say.”

“What made Stewart’s son telephone so quickly to your office?”

Linnell rubbed his cheek with his fingers. “He didn’t explain the reason to me just now—Daventry didn’t, I mean. I can only surmise that young Stewart knew that we had received instructions from his father concerning the sale of those antiques and wished possibly to countermand them—considering the fresh and tragic circumstances.”

“H’m,” muttered the Inspector. “I suppose that’s possible. When was Stewart murdered, did you say?”

“They believe—some time last night. Naturally, I wasn’t able to glean extensive details—even if my partner had been in a position to give them to me. But from what he did tell me, I imagine that the body was discovered early this morning.”

Goodall looked thoughtful. “Hardly looks like the same people! Assynton must be a matter of seventy miles from London—getting on for a couple of hours’ journey at least—that means they would have to leave there somewhere about nine-thirty, assuming Stewart to have been killed first, and accepting Druce’s evidence as reliable—h’m—possible but not probable—have to find out when Stewart was last seen alive.”

He turned to Linnell. “Extremely useful your turning up here, Mr. Linnell. There does seem to be a connection between the two affairs—difficult though it may be to discover it. I’ll come and see your Mr. Daventry later on.”

“I shall be delighted. There’s our address.” He handed his card to the Inspector.

Goodall fingered it, thinking carefully. “Mr. Forshaw!” he called. “Mr. Forshaw, Junior!”

“Yes, Inspector!”

“You stated just now that you interviewed Mr. Linnell’s partner yesterday.”

“That’s so, Inspector. Yesterday afternoon, to be precise.”

“What happened exactly—tell me?”

“Well, it was like this! This gentleman, Mr. Daventry, asked to be allowed to have a look at the Stuart stuff—the three articles that have been stolen. I showed them to him. He examined them rather carefully . . . that’s all I think . . . oh . . . he commented on the possibility of them being stolen . . . I remember that fact, because I took the trouble to explain the precautions that were always taken to safeguard our property.”

“You had a watch on the stuff then?” queried Goodall.

Day intervened and took up the thread from Forshaw. “Two of your people were here, Inspector. During the hours the Galleries were open to the public! In ‘plain-clothes’ of course, and armed! It’s our usual plan when we have sales of anything at all valuable. It’s been our practice for many years now.”

Goodall signified that he understood. Then he turned to young Forshaw again. “What else did this Daventry do?”

Forshaw passed his hands across his brow in an attempt at recollection.

“Nothing, I think! That is to say—oh, I remember—he asked how many other people had been to examine the three articles he was handling.”

“What was your answer? That question interests me too.”

“My answer was ‘nobody’ . . . It was true,” Forshaw replied simply.

Goodall looked across at Linnell.

“Now I wonder what made your partner——”

“Look here, Inspector,” broke in Linnell with a gesture of annoyance, “for goodness sake don’t start imagining things. Daventry was interested in Stuart articles purely from the standpoint of a competitive purchaser, about to act on behalf of a client—surely you don’t——”

Goodall patted him on the arm. “Don’t get a ‘peeve,’ Mr. Linnell. It’s my job to ask questions and very often a random sort of question hits a target quite unexpectedly. Don’t forget that the presence of both you and your partner in this affair is downright queer. Right from the beginning—to the point we’ve reached now—you admitted as much yourself when you came in.”

But Mr. Linnell’s professional dignity had been touched—he remained quite silent under the Inspector’s attempt at justification. He walked across to the others. “I think I’ll go, gentlemen. My partner will, no doubt, desire to discuss matters with me as soon as possible. You know where to find me if you should want me.”

He bowed to the company and made his exit.

Upon arrival at his offices in Cornhill he found Peter awaiting him with anxious impatience.

“I’m jolly glad to see you,” was his greeting. “There’s been a second message from Assynton—young Stewart was particularly anxious to talk to you—he seemed quite annoyed when I told him you were still away from the office.”

“Peter,” said Linnell, “we’ve been caught in a most curious set of circumstances. When you ’phoned me just now, at Day, Forshaw and Palmers’, what do you imagine I was doing?”

Peter looked at him blankly. “Doing? Why—having a look round of course—the same as I had. What are you driving at?”

“I’m not driving at anything, Peter. I’m just giving you some information. When I arrived at the show-rooms this morning I had rather a ‘jolt.’ The police were there—the Galleries had been robbed during the night—and what is even more dreadful than that, a night-watchman employed there had been brutally murdered.”

Peter gasped. “Good Lord! My telephone message to you must have been a shock.”

“It was! I could hardly believe my ears! I decided not to say anything to you over the ’phone but to come back here.”

Peter thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets. “Funny thing—we seem in it both ends—don’t we? The whole thing is very queer. Both here and in Berkshire.”

Linnell shook his head. “Not really. We just happened to be in at the Galleries end because Stewart sent us there—but I haven’t finished yet.”

Peter uttered a cry of amazement. “Don’t say there are any more——”

Linnell cut into his remarks. “I told you the Galleries had been robbed during the night. I didn’t tell you what had actually been stolen. As far as the police could tell when I left them, the only three things that had been taken were _the very three that Stewart commissioned us to buy_!”

He paused and walked to the window. Then turned and confronted Peter.

“What do you make of that? Extraordinary, isn’t it? To say the least!”

Peter whistled softly. “I said we seemed to be well in it. I feel sure now. And what’s more, Linnell, I’ve got a feeling we haven’t heard or seen the last of it either, by a long way. You mark my words.”

Linnell smiled. “I agree with you! As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Detective-Inspector Goodall hasn’t already got a certain Peter Daventry on his list of ‘suspects.’ I hope your alibi’s good.”

“What on earth are you gibbering about?” demanded Peter. “And who the hell’s Detective-Inspector Goodall?”

“I’m not gibbering, my dear fellow. Detective-Inspector Goodall is the gentleman from Scotland Yard that is investigating the Galleries murder, and he has, of course, been informed of your interest in the Stuart relics and of your call there yesterday. Young Forshaw told him. Then there was my call to-day—I got in ‘at the death’ as you might say—I could see he thought it was damned suspicious conduct—all of it—I explained our connection with the affair——”

“You told him of Stewart’s commission? Was that wise? Yet awhile?”

“I think so, Peter! My professional experience has taught me the value of frankness and truth—even as a solicitor—that is why I never entered Parliament.”

“But why suspect _me_?” reiterated Peter. “Is every intending purchaser on the——?”

“The police _must_ suspect _somebody_. Why not flatter yourself at their attention? But tell me all you’ve heard about the Berkshire end of the tangle.”

Peter swung his legs as he sat . . . somewhat petulantly. “The message came through about half-past ten—the first message, I mean—Stewart’s secretary put it through—I think he said his name was Morgan or Llewellyn—I’m not sure. He asked if you were in—I told him ‘no’—then he asked for me. I said it was all right and he told me that young Mr. Stewart wanted me. The poor chap seemed very agitated—his father had been found dead in the library that morning. Murdered—his head beaten in! Would we cancel our instructions about the sale to-morrow? As far as he was able he was getting into touch with all his father’s immediate business activities . . . in the case of a millionaire, he explained, it was of the utmost importance . . . affected the money market so. That was about all, I fancy. Then I ’phoned the news on to you—I knew I should find you there. By the way, did you run down to Assynton last night?”

“Didn’t have time. When was the second telephone message?”

“About twenty minutes before you returned,” said Peter.

“What did he want?”

“He asked for you, again. It seems he isn’t too satisfied with the quality of the local Police Force—he’s asking for Scotland Yard to send a man down—says he’s prepared to pay anything to get at the truth and arrest the murderer. Also he wanted your advice. Could you recommend an efficient, discreet, and trustworthy private detective? They were the three adjectives he used.”

“Why does he appeal to me, I wonder?”

“I asked him that. He says he hasn’t been in England more than a few months and it occurred to him that we might help him. He also wants one of us to go down—his father’s solicitors, I understand, are in New York.”

“H’m,” muttered Linnell. “I can appreciate his position. But I’m afraid I’m no use to him in the matter of the private detective. I don’t know anybody I should care to send down there—it isn’t as though it were a case of keeping a person under observation.” He shook his head doubtfully.

“Nor I, either,” supplemented Peter. “What about his idea of one of us going down there—shall I go? What do you think yourself?”

“I think you might go,” replied Linnell. “It should be more in your line than mine—you’re younger to begin with. Can’t you do a bit of ‘sleuthing’ on your own account? Sherlock Holmes has had many imitators!”

“I might. It will make quite an interesting and ‘piquant’ situation—a ‘suspect’ one moment—a ‘sleuth’ the next. I remember my brother Gerald—by Jove, Linnell, I’ve got it—Anthony Bathurst! Why on earth didn’t I think of him before?”

“Who’s that? What do you mean?”

“Why, if you want a man to act for young Stewart, you couldn’t possibly find a better!”

“What is he—a private inquiry agent?”

“Not on your life—he’s a sort of free lance—tinkers about at a good many things. He was up at Oxford about the same time as Gerald. That is to say, about three years after me. Can you remember the Considine Manor affair?”

“Considine Manor? Wasn’t it a murder down in Sussex somewhere?”

“You’ve got it. Well, old Gerald was actually stopping in the house at the time. He always regards Bathurst as an absolute marvel. Cleared up the case when it had got the Police absolutely ‘stone cold.’ He never tires of singing Bathurst’s praises!”

“Where is he now? Do you know?”

Peter stroked his chin. Hadn’t Gerald told him Bathurst was living in London somewhere?

“No, I don’t. There you’ve got me! Still—old Gerald may know. I’ll give him a ring.” He unhooked the receiver. “Give me ‘Wedderburn and Rathbone,’ will you—the Accountants—Devonshire Place—will you _please_—I’ve forgotten the number. Oh! Thank you!”

He waited for a moment or two. “Yes. Mr. Gerald Daventry, that’s it! Oh—hallo, Gerald—Peter speaking. Could you possibly put me into touch with Anthony Bathurst? Eh? . . . Yes, something after his own heart, where . . . Leyton . . . thanks very much.”

He turned to Linnell. “Gerald says we shall probably find him at Leyton this afternoon, on the members’ pavilion. Middlesex are playing Essex, and he rarely misses any of the Middlesex games. He’ll come down himself—Gerald, I mean—and if Bathurst is there—he’ll introduce us.”

“All right, then, Peter. You get along—and if it can be arranged satisfactorily, we’ll ’phone Stewart when you return.”

“Won’t you come along too? Come and see your adopted shire!”

“No. I’ll stay here. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Peter grinned! “You’re a superlative optimist,” he exclaimed, “I must introduce you to a friend of mine who’s a baseball ‘fan.’ He’d be tickled to death to hear you connect cricket with excitement.”

A step sounded in the corridor outside. Linnell and Peter glanced quickly in the direction of the door. Then Linnell heard a voice that he recognized only too well.

“Come in, Inspector,” he announced. “I was half expecting you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Linnell. I thought no harm would be done if I came along and dropped in on you as I suggested. This gentleman, I presume, is Mr. Daventry?” His keen eyes ran Peter up and down.

Peter bowed. “Quite right, Inspector. The man in whom you are interested, I believe.”

Goodall shot a quick glance at him—then laughed quietly. “Mr. Linnell’s been talking, I suppose! I certainly got a bit curious—but there—curiosity’s part of my job—and I can’t afford to take anything for granted.”

“Any more news, Inspector?” intervened Linnell affably.

“Up to the moment—no! I came straight on here. I want to have a look at one or two things! That letter from Stewart—may I see it?”

Linnell opened a drawer and handed the letter to him.

“H’m,” muttered Goodall. “Assynton postmark—June 7th.” He read it. “I fancy you gave me to understand that you knew nothing about Stewart, till you got this letter. Am I right?”

“That is so, Inspector. My only knowledge of him was just ordinary public knowledge.”

“I see. What did you do after you got the letter?”

“I thought it over and wired back. To get confirmation, as it were!”

“And you got a reply?”

“This!”

Linnell gave him the extravagant telegram—then waited for the smile to ripple over Goodall’s face.

“Seems to be a man who knew his own mind. Doesn’t seem possible the man’s dead.” His eyes narrowed as he stood thinking.

“Tell Inspector Goodall what you’ve just told me, Peter! About young Stewart ’phoning here.”

Goodall became all attention. “That interesting! Fire away, Mr. Daventry!”

Peter repeated the information he had previously given Linnell, taking care, however, to suppress any reference to the Berkshire police or the desire for a private detective.

Goodall listened carefully. “It doesn’t help me much,” he commented when Peter had finished. Then looked him straight between the eyes.

“Oh! Mr. Daventry!” Goodall spoke as though an afterthought had struck him. “After you visited the Galleries yesterday—where did you go?”

Peter’s cheeks went a dull red—it seemed to him he was being humiliated.

“Came back here! Mr. Linnell can confirm that—if you doubt my word.”

“Thank you! And after that?” He fingered his note-book.

“I dined at my club—then went to a show.”

“Thank—you—your club is—and the show was——?”

“The Isthmian—Piccadilly—and ‘On Approval’! Anything more, Mr. Inspector?”

“That will do for the present.” Goodall closed his note-book with a snap.

Peter’s eyes blazed at him angrily. “And if you’re interested in any more of my comings and goings—I may as well tell you that I’m just off down to Leyton to put in an hour or two at the Middlesex and Essex match.”

But Goodall remained imperturbable under the shaft of sarcasm. “Wish I could come with you! I like watching cricket—particularly Lancashire and Glamorganshire—they always seem to me to lack supporters so—it means such a terrible lot of traveling, you see, for their relations to go to watch them.” The Inspector grinned.

Peter’s ill-temper vanished instantaneously at Goodall’s sally. He held out his hand and shook the Inspector’s. Goodall took it—crossed to Linnell—and departed.

“I’ll bring Bathurst along, then, as arranged—if I’m lucky enough to find him.”

Linnell made a gesture of assent. “If he’ll come! Then we’ll get on to Assynton and tell them.”

Daventry soon motored down to the ground and quickly found his brother. Together they made their way onto the pavilion, Gerald being a member of the M.C.C. and of the three Metropolitan counties. But all attempts to unearth the man for whom they were searching proved unavailing.

Then Gerald met a kindred spirit. “Bathurst?” he said. “Yes—I can help you—he won’t be here to-day at all—he told me—now, why the devil was it?—I’ve a cursed rotten memory”—he assumed an air of painful mental effort—then suddenly his face cleared. “Oh, I know—he’s playing ‘Squash’ at ‘Princes’ this afternoon—you’ll see him if you pop along up there. Is it anything important?”

“It is rather,” replied Gerald. “And I’m awfully obliged to you.”

“Pleasure, old son. Shall we drift along and have one off the ice?”

They drifted and after the one had multiplied considerably the two Daventrys motored back up to Knightsbridge.

“The uninitiated would never dream of a club like ‘Princes’ hiding here, would they, Peter?” queried his brother as they entered. “I remember being very interested the first time I came.”

Bathurst was soon run to earth.

“Haven’t seen you for nearly a year, Daventry! Your brother? Delighted! Fit?”

“Very fit—thanks—and you?”

“Never better!” His words did not belie him. Anthony Bathurst, in whatever company of men he found himself, was usually the fittest of the lot. He excelled at nearly all ball games and took extraordinary pains to keep thoroughly “trained.” And his mental powers were equally outstanding. Peter Daventry speedily realized something of the admiration that he knew his brother felt for the man to whom he had just been introduced. He was aware of that atmosphere of “personality” that distinguishes a select company.

“What brings you along here?” queried Anthony. “Playing—are you?”

“No,” responded Gerald. “I’ve brought Peter here to see you! It’s his funeral.”

Anthony waved them into a couple of deck-chairs. “What about?”

“He’s got a story for you that you may possibly find interesting. Have a cigarette, lie back in your chair, and listen. Now, Peter—say your mouthful.”

Peter complied with his brother’s request. Bathurst lay listening—apparently lazily—but Peter quickly discovered that his faculties were acutely alert. When he reached the murder of Mason—the night-watchman, Anthony’s eyes betrayed understanding.

“I read a short account in the early editions to-day. Seemed just an interrupted robbery case to me then . . . of course . . . you say the identical _three_ things . . . go on.”

At the point when Peter told of the death of Stewart, Bathurst listened most attentively. “Extraordinary,” he commented at the finish of Peter’s narrative. “Quite a fascinating little problem. And you say Stewart’s son would like me to have a look at it for him—eh?”

“He wants me to bring somebody down with me and I suddenly thought of you—I had heard so much of you from Gerald.”

Anthony took a cigarette and lit up carefully. “I’ve nothing pressing at the moment. I’m your man if you’re sure you want me.”

“That’s great. When can you come along?”

Anthony looked at his watch.

“I should have liked to commence my little investigations at this end. But I suppose I can’t—I must get down to Assynton to see Stewart—that’s evident—there’s a train at Paddington at five minutes to seven. That will get us down before nine. I’ll meet you on the platform, Daventry.”

“Right!” declared Peter, “6:55 then.”

“Yes—and Daventry—I think you’d better bring a revolver.”