CHAPTER XVIII.

JOE LITT’S ENTERPRISE

Mr. Benson glanced across at Mr. Rushton Tring and said at once:

“Bring him in.” A moment later the butler announced with comic disapproval:

“Mr. Joseph Litt--and a person,” and Joe Litt entered the room accompanied by a strange mud-covered figure. Mr. Benson had thought at once, when he heard of a person accompanying Joe, that it could be only one person--Laidlaw. It was not, however, but a stiffly-built man stouter than Laidlaw, but about Laidlaw’s height.

“Who have we got here, Joe?” asked the lawyer, the while he gazed at the stranger.

“Well, sir, after you went, I made a search of the marshes, because even in daylight it is easy for a stranger to come to grief or get himself tangled up in a maze if he doesn’t know the marsh, and I thought it was just possible that I might find the little man somewhere. I looked all round, and I sent the others in opposite directions, but I had no success. I finished my search at Eggleham, on this side of the marsh, and I went into the Four-in-Hand for a glass of beer. When I came out I walked down the village on my way home, when suddenly I saw a motor car stop at the post office and a man get out. As he got out, although I was on the opposite side of the road, I thought I saw the funny little man’s face leaning forward speaking to him. Then I was sure, because he yelled out to his friend, who was just entering the post office:

“‘Say about three hours--not longer.’

“I rushed across the road, but even as I rushed, the little fellow saw me.

“‘On!’ he shrieked. ‘Quick! Get on!’ And the man that was driving set off with a jerk and I was flung into the road, for I had one foot on the step. I just caught the back number of the car before it disappeared, and it was RU 5667. Then I turned to look for the man that had gone into the post-office. When he heard the car starting he rushed out again and began to run up the road after it. I chased him--and here he is.”

“Wonderful,” said Mr. Rushton Tring, his eyes on the little man.

“I think you deserve a medal for this, Joe,” said Mr. Benson; then he turned to the stranger.

“What’s your name, my man? Who are you?”

“What’s your authority for pinching me?” countered the stranger. “You can’t pinch people for nothing in England, you know. It’s a free country.”

His little piggy eyes flashed wickedly, and he made his point about the irregularity of his detention in an indignant manner, through which, nevertheless, could be traced a certain uneasiness. He wanted to know really why he was being detained--he hoped, or seemed to hope, that bluff might see him through as he drew himself up to his full height of five feet two inches. Then, he threw his shoulders back and stared with scowling mien at the lawyer. His right sleeve was pulled back as he tried to slacken the rope which Joe Litt had round it, revealing an elaborate tattoo design.

“I’m not quite sure that it is a free country,” said the lawyer, with a little grimace. “Anyhow, since you want--and very reasonably want--some excuse for your detention, I will set your mind at rest. I am a lawyer, and I am also a Justice of the Peace for the county. I am prepared to sign a warrant for your detention now.”

“On what charge?” asked the man, the truculence leaving him.

“On the charge of conspiring with Dr. Laidlaw to murder the late Sir John Evenden,” said Mr. Benson. The man’s face blanched.

“Murder--conspiring to murder? S’help me, I don’t know anything about a murder, and I never heard of Sir John Evenden. I’ve done no murder, guv-nor, straight I ’aven’t.” The stranger’s agitation was very genuine, as also was his denial of association with the murder.

“Well,” said Benson, “if you are innocent of association with that murder, I can assure you that the man in whose company you were to-day is not. In this country there is such a thing as an offense called ‘wilfully seeking to defeat the ends of justice.’ In the case of a murder charge, that becomes very important--very serious. Now, if you wish to clear yourself, give us the doctor’s address.”

“Course I will,” said the man at once.

“What is it?” asked Mr. Benson.

“No. 246 Baker Street, London,” replied the man.

“What were you doing down here at all? How did you come to pick up Dr. Laidlaw to-day?” Mr. Benson asked, looking up from writing down the address.

“I was going along the road in a car, and I saw the doctor. I had expected to meet him yesterday, and I looked round and round the countryside for him, thinking that he might have meant another lane to meet in. When I got no message I just continued to look for him, in case he was taken ill on one of his walks. I saw him coming across a bog--and he shouted. I stopped the car and I took him in. Then he asked me to telephone for him at a post office, and I got out to do it. The next thing was--I heard the car set off, and ran out to see what had happened, and this great long fellow hit me and sent me into the mud.” He looked maliciously at Joe Litt, who grinned. “But I’ll have the law on him for it. Look here, you say you’re a J.P. I give this man in charge for assault.” He pointed dramatically to Joe, who grinned more broadly than ever.

Mr. Benson bowed gravely.

“We’ll consider that presently,” he said. “In the meantime, what is your business with Dr. Laidlaw?”

“Just what you’ve said--_my_ business,” replied the man at once.

“You refuse to state that?” Mr. Benson’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes--I do. It’s my business.” Defiance was written in the set of the stubborn jaw and in the light gleaming through the shifty little eyes.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us where you live?” The suave voice of Mr. Rushton Tring spoke the words. The little man turned to him.

“No, why should I?” he replied.

“Oh, I think you should--I think you will. What is your address? What is your address?” Mr. Tring never raised his voice, but even to his hearers to whom the questions were not addressed it was apparent that there was more than a repeated question. There seemed to be an indefinable, compelling power in Mr. Tring’s tones--suave, quiet, even gentle, but there was danger in the suavity. Mr. Benson was reminded of the gentle, gliding movements of a panther through jungle undergrowth which preceded a deadly spring. Evidently the little man felt it. He moved a step, rallied all the resisting power he could into an attempt at defiance, and said:

“I am not going to tell you my address.” Even as he spoke Mr. Tring took a step forward.

“Oh, yes, you will,” he said. “Not now, but later you will; you will tell us later.”

“I will tell--no, I won’t. I won’t.” The man almost shouted the last “I won’t.” “I know what this is,” he cried. “This is a bit of third degree business. It isn’t legal here. I’ve had it all right in New York and ’Frisco; but you can’t do it here. You won’t mesmerize me, nor hypnotize me, nor nothin’ like that. It took ’em three days knocking me about and starving me before I fell under their ‘suggestion’ bloke. I’ll give you a run.”

Mr. Benson stared at him in blank surprise; he thought the little man had taken leave of his senses. Mr. Tring nodded gravely.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I should have judged that your resistance would be probably something like three days--even longer. But, my dear fellow, why should you fear to be subjected to any ‘third degree’ treatment here? What have you done to lead you to anticipate it?”

“Well, I’ve been pinched, anyhow,” the man said. “The manner of my pinchin’ is not regular, and the ways you perform may not be regular either. Anyway, I know you are a ‘suggestion’ bloke; you don’t need to tell me anything about it--I know.”

“Why won’t you tell us anything about yourself?” asked Mr. Tring.

“’Cos I say nothing until I’m charged with something, and then only in court. I know somethin’ about making statements, I do.” There was sullen defiance on the man’s face and a certain curious apprehension and distrust, almost amounting to fear, as he looked at Mr. Rushton Tring.

“I think we’d better have a talk,” said Mr. Tring to the lawyer, and, with a word to Joe Litt to keep an eye on the prisoner, Mr. Benson led the way to the morning room nearby.

“He’s a particularly tough chap this,” said Mr. Tring. “I should say he’s a sailor, and it would certainly be interesting to know what is his business with Laidlaw. But it is simply impossible to get much from him at present. I suggest that you release him and follow him. Can you get that done efficiently?”

“Dr. Barlow is here, and might do?” said the lawyer questioningly.

“Yes,” agreed Tring. “Get him--the very man. He’s intelligent, and the man has not seen him so far as we know.”

Wilfred was sent for and the situation explained to him. He was exceedingly disappointed at the disappearance of Laidlaw, and welcomed the opportunity of shadowing the stranger. Wilfred decided to go just as he was, without carrying a bag, and went into the drive to be ready to follow the stranger when he appeared from the house.

First of all he had a word with Jill, and told her that he was going to London on business connected with Mr. Benson, and promised to wire from there.

Tring and the lawyer went back to the library, and there they saw the little man glowering more evilly than ever at Joe Litt, while the latter held up a crumpled paper in his hand.

“He tried to burn this,” Joe announced, and immediately Mr. Benson went over, took the paper, and read it. There were only three lines of writing on a piece of thick note paper, written by an obviously uneducated person. Great sprawling characters formed the letters. Mr. Benson thought they were written by a woman.

“Dear Mr. Laidlaw,” read the note, “she is goin on terrible i ave given er another powder which is to much as she is stil unconshus she give me a dot with the poker yesterday.”

With upraised brows Mr. Benson handed the note to Tring, who read it, nodded, and said:

“Let us search him.”

“Turn out his pockets, Joe,” ordered Mr. Benson, and Joe commenced to search the pockets of the captive.

He had just begun to search a side jacket pocket, however, when the man hit out maliciously. Joe dodged, but the blow just grazed his face. Instantly Mr. Rushton Tring sprang forward with a bound, which again reminded Mr. Benson of a panther. He made a couple of quick, flashing movements, far too quick for Mr. Benson to follow. But there followed a shrill scream of anguish from the man.

“Very well, my friend,” said Mr. Tring. “I’ll loosen the grip a bit if it’s too tight for you--but be careful. I could break your arms like sticks if I wanted to.”

Joe Litt and the lawyer then saw that Tring had both the arms of the man behind his back, the elbows pointing downwards and the forearms bent right up behind the shoulder blades. Beads of perspiration stood on the captive’s brow, and he gasped with pain.

Joe completed the search. There were six pounds in money, three stamps, a metal watch, a return ticket from Norwich to Annan, a tin of tobacco, and a pipe--nothing that bore a name, and nothing to indicate where the man lived, or whence he came, except the ticket, which evidently had been purchased three days previously in the border town.

“Let us make sure there is nothing more,” said Tring, as, with a deft movement, he opened the man’s waistcoat. Joe Litt completed a very careful search, but nothing more was found.

“Well, my man, in view of the fact that you have given us the doctor’s address, we are going to release you upon your giving us your address,” said Mr. Benson. “You will have to appear to give evidence at a trial presently. What is your address?”

“Same as the doctor,” said the man, with surprised relief.

“What is it though?” pressed Mr. Benson.

“I told you--246 Baker Street, London,” replied the man, after a moment’s hesitation. Mr. Benson glanced at Mr. Tring significantly, and the other nodded.

“Very well--you may go,” said the lawyer, holding open the door, after ringing for the butler.

“See him out,” he said, and the man went with a quick step in the wake of Evans.

“False address, of course,” said Tring. “By Jove! I hope to goodness that Barlow manages to follow him.”

“It would appear that there is a reference in the note to a woman being drugged,” said Mr. Benson; “evidently a lunatic, or something of the sort. At least I read that from the account of her having given some one ‘a dot with the poker.’”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Tring smiled. “On the other hand, she may be some one that he is detaining. In any case, I should very much like to know where the letter came from and why it was necessary to send it, personally, by hand. There is something very suspicious about the whole thing, Mr. Benson. You note the caution of the illiterate writer of the note. She neither puts the address on the paper nor does she sign it. Furthermore, if you will look at it again, you will notice that this is a piece of very good paper, and that the heading has been torn off. The man gives a London address--obviously false; he can hardly remember the number he gave the first time when asked to repeat it in half an hour, and is in possession of a return ticket to Annan. Do you know Annan, at all?”

“No,” replied Mr. Benson. “Except that I think I have been through it, on my way to Glasgow. It is a border town.”

“Exactly,” said the psychologist. “I happen to know the country round there, rather well. I have shot over the moors there for some years. It is a town on the Solway--a pretty little town--but the surrounding country adjoining the Solway Firth is bleak and lonely. The Solway itself stretches at low tide over miles, and miles, of black mud; there are houses there as isolated as your curiously named old farm which we visited in the marshes this morning.”

“You think that’s where the little man will make for?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes, I do,” replied the other, “but we’ll see what Barlow does.”

Meanwhile Wilfred saw his man leave the front door and walk down the drive towards him. He turned suspiciously, once or twice, then continued his way along the drive, to the lodge gates. Arrived there, he looked round again, hesitated, looked both ways along the road, then took the right and went along the main road, at a smart pace. Wilfred followed at a discreet distance. A cart was going slowly along the road, and Wilfred saw the man ask the driver a question.

Evidently he obtained the information he sought, for he nodded and kept straight on--evidently making for the station. Wilfred let the cart remain between him and the man, and followed just behind it for a mile. He saw the man gradually increasing the distance between them, so he decided to abandon the shelter of the cart, and he walked on in front of it, looking for suitable places in which to hide should the man turn round.

The hedgerow was high and thorny, but Wilfred kept close in, and presently, when the man turned quickly round, Wilfred threw himself backwards into the hedge and remained there for a second, in great discomfort. The man apparently was satisfied that he was not followed; for, he turned again and kept on in the direction of the station, which at last he reached.

A train was signaled, and a small crowd of people were gathered on the platform.

“Where is this train going?” asked Wilfred, and the clerk told him it was going to Dereham. Wilfred took a ticket and walked out upon the platform. The train arrived, and the man entered a third-class smoker. Wilfred got into the next compartment. At the first stop, Wilfred looked carefully out of the window, but the stranger did not alight. At every station subsequently, Wilfred looked out, but still the man remained. At last Dereham was reached, and the man got out, gave up his ticket, and left the station. Wilfred followed.

His man walked down the main street and approached a garage, where for some time he seemed to be arguing with the proprietor. At last an old touring car was brought out, and a young lad put an overcoat and cap over his brown overalls and took the driving seat. The man entered and sat beside him, and the car set off.

“Got another car--quick?” asked Wilfred, running up to the proprietor.

“No,” said the proprietor; “that’s the only one we have that you see just going there.”

“Have you a motor-bike? Quick, man. This is serious.” The man looked at him suspiciously.

“I always want a deposit----” he began.

“Look here, lend me a motor-bike at once--quick,” he said, “I must follow that car--this is a matter of justice. What deposit do you want?”

“Twenty pounds,” said the man. Wilfred produced it, and immediately the proprietor turned to a machine behind him.

“There you are,” he said. “My own. A Rudge five, and full of juice.” He stared wonderingly at Wilfred as he mounted the machine and tore off in pursuit of the car.