Drury Lane’s Last Case (23 page)

“What sort of package was it?” asked Lane sharply. Maxwell looked blank. “Why, a package. Flat I guess——”

“Could it have contained a book?”

“That's it! Just the right shape, sir. It must have been a book.”

“Let's clear up one thing at a time,” growled the Inspector. “When Ales got back that Monday night, was he alone? Did you notice anybody prowling around outside?”

“Oh, he was alone.”

“You didn't see a tough Irisher, middle-aged, ugly red map, hangin' around, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Funny. What the devil happened to the blasted Mick?”

“Don't forget, father,” said Patience, “that Maxwell was sent away shortly after Dr. Ales got home. It's possible that Donoghue was hiding outside behind a bush, saw Maxwell go away, and then——”

“Then what?”

Patience sighed. “I'd give a cookie to know.”

“Did you notice the address on the package?” asked young Rowe.

“Oh, yes, sir. This gentleman”—Maxwell inclined his grey thatch toward Lane—“mentioned the name a minute ago. Britannic Museum, it was. Fifth Avenue and Sixty-Fifth Street, it said, New York City.”

“Brown wrapping paper, and the address printed in blue ink?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” said Thumm, “it clears up a lot, anyway. No question now but that the man in the blue hat was Ales; he stole the book, put the 1606 in its place, and the next day returned the 1599 by messenger.”

“It's in the bag,” said Villa with a gloating grin.

“Yes, yes,” murmured Lane; his brow was corrugated. “By the way, Maxwell, do you recall mailing a similar package about two months ago?”

The remarks about theft had disturbed Maxwell; he fidgeted. “I—I hope,” he said nervously, “I've not done anything wrong. I didn't know—Dr. Ales always seemed such a gentleman.… Yes, sir. I did mail a package like that once before; it was addressed to a Mr. Crabbe, I think, in care of Saxon, on Fifth Avenue——”

“Nothing wrong with your eyesight, eh?” said the Inspector dryly. “Well, Joe, you've got the luck of the devil. It all checks.”

“Amazing thing,” muttered young Mr. Rowe. “It all seems to revolve about this Dr. Ales. Not only was he
Deus ex machina
of the events at the Britannic, but he seems also to have inspired that night-raid on the Saxon Library. What the deuce
was
in that book?”

Joe Villa hunched his thin shoulders, his beady black eyes shining. Then he saw the Inspector looking at him and he relaxed rather elaborately. “If you know what's good for you, Joe, you'll lay off,” said the Inspector mildly. “Now listen, Maxwell. How long have you been workin' for this Dr. Ales?”

Maxwell licked his shrivelled lips. “Why, just about three months. He came to Tarrytown at that time—it was the end of March—and advertised in the
Tarry-town Times
for a man to do general work. I applied for the job and got it. Reason I know when he came is because Jim Browning, the renting agent of this property in Tarrytown, is a sort of friend of mine, and he told me. Dr. Ales took this house and paid cash in advance for six months' rent, no lease, no questions asked, no references. The way things are these days, Jim said.… So we came out here and that's all. He—he was always very nice to me.”

“No questions asked, eh?” said Patience grimly. “How romantic! We'll be finding out next that he's Prince Fidelio of Zuringia, in the United States incognito on a lark—tra-la! Tell me, Maxwell, did this charming employer of yours have many visitors?”

“Oh, no, miss. Nobody——No, I'm wrong. There
was
one.”

“Ah,” said Lane softly. “When?”

Maxwell frowned. “It was a week before he went away—I don't recall the exact day. It was a man, but he was all bundled up and, seeing that it was at night, I couldn't see his face very well. He wouldn't give a name and insisted on seeing Dr. Ales. When I told him there was a gentleman in the parlour to see him, Dr. Ales got very excited and at first he wouldn't come out. But then he did, and he went into the parlour and was there for quite a time. Then he came out, leaving the gentleman in the parlour, and told me—he was nervous, I think—to take the night off. I did, and when I got back the next morning the other gentleman wasn't there.”

“Ales never referred to this man, Maxwell? He didn't say anything later to you about him?” demanded Rowe.

“Me, sir?” Maxwell giggled. “No, sir. Not a blessed word.”

“Now who the deuce could that have been?” muttered the Inspector. “It couldn't have been this mug here, could it, Maxwell?” and he clamped his meaty hand on Villa's shoulder.

Maxwell stared, and then broke into a long chuckle. “Oh, no, sir! This gentleman doesn't speak like—like
that
gentleman. The other talked like Dr. Ales. I mean—sort of like an actor.”

“An actor!” Mr. Drury Lane stared. Then he laughed heartily. “I dare say you would think that,” he chuckled. “You mean an Englishman, I take it?”

“Englishman—that's it, sir!” cried Maxwell excitedly. “They both did.”

“Strange,” murmured Patience. “Now who in the world could that have been?”

Mr. Gordon Rowe drew his brows forbiddingly together. “Look here, man, the afternoon of the twenty-seventh when Ales sent you packing, didn't he say anything about going away?”

“Not a word, sir.”

“And when you got back the next morning and found the package but Ales gone, wasn't there even a note from him to explain where he'd gone, or something?”

“No, sir. I didn't think much of it, sir, but when the days passed and he didn't come back——”

“That's why, Inspector,” remarked the old gentleman, “you drew a blank on that list of missing persons Captain Grayson supplied you. Had Maxwell reported the disappearance of Dr. Ales when it occurred, you would have got a line on him. Unfortunate!” He shrugged. “It may be too late now.”

“Dr. Ales is—missing?” faltered Maxwell.

“Apparently.”

“Then what shall I do?” The old man wrung his hands. “This house and all the furniture——”

“Oh, yes,” said Thumm. “The furniture. Was the house furnished when Ales rented it?”

“No, sir. He bought it second-hand in Tarrytown——”

“Doesn't go with a bird who throws hundred-dollar bills around,” mused Thumm. “Evidently he didn't mean to park permanently.” His grey eyes studied Maxwell shrewdly. “What did your man look like? Maybe we can get a good description of him now, anyway!”

“Why, he was tall, and rather thin——” Maxwell scratched his chin. “I've got a snapshot of him, sir; I'm sort of an amateur photographer and I took his picture one day when he wasn't looking——”

“Good glory!” shouted Rowe. “A photo!” He leaped out of the horsehair chair in which he had been restlessly sitting. “Produce it, old fellow, for heaven's sake!”

They stared at one another while Maxwell pattered off toward the rear. The musty odour seemed stronger; Villa with a quivering of his dark knife-like nostrils suddenly lighted a cigarette. Lane paced quietly up and down, hands loose behind his back.

“A snapshot,” murmured Patience. “Now—hear ye! once and for all time—we'll settle the tantalizing question of …”

The gaunt servant hurriedly re-entered, carrying a small photograph. Thumm snatched it and held it up to the light. One devouring glance, and he cursed in astonishment. The others crowded about.

“There!” shrilled Villa. “Wha'd I tell you?”

The photograph revealed a tall slender middle-aged man in a dark sack suit of unfamiliar cut. It was a clear, well-focused picture.

There seemed no doubt, despite the absence of a monocle, that the man in the photograph was Dr. Hamnet Sedlar.

“'At lets me out,” said Villa complacently, and he sucked at his cigarette with evil enjoyment.

“The dirty lying devil,” said Gordon Rowe in a passionate undertone; and his jaw hardened. “So he
was
lying! I'll pay that murdering scoundrel back for the bullet in my arm if it's the last——”

“Here, here,” murmured Lane. “Don't let your emotions carry you away, Gordon. We've proved nothing against Dr. Sedlar, remember.”

“But Mr. Lane,” cried Patience, “you can't get away from the evidence of this photograph!”

“Only one thing to do,” muttered the Inspector. “Clamp the bracelets on him and sweat the truth out of him.”

“Coerce an English citizen, Inspector?” asked the old gentleman dryly. “I ask you all again to keep your heads. There's too much here that completely baffles rational explanation. If my opinion carries any weight, you will proceed very slowly indeed.”

“But——”

“At any rate,” continued Lane quietly, “there is still work to be done. I suggest we examine the house very scrupulously. There's no telling what we may find.” Then he gave a little chuckle; Maxwell gaped from one to another of them, plainly confused. “As Bedford said in Orleans: ‘Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone.' Another pearl from our mutual oyster, Gordon.… So lead on, Maxwell, and we'll relieve you of our burdensome presence with the utmost expedition!”

20

A Beard and an Anagram

Old Maxwell shuffled before them into the odorous little hall, turned right a few paces and then left, crossing before the lowest step of a decrepit wooden staircase, badly carpeted, which led apparently to the sleeping quarters upstairs. He descended two stone steps to an alcove and stopped before a massive oak door. The door was closed. He opened it and stood aside. “Dr. Ales used to work in this room.”

It was a spacious study panelled from floor to ceiling in dark oak, and lined with built-in shelves for the most part empty. Only a few of the lower shelves held books, a sparse scattering of odd volumes.

“From the appearance of his library,” remarked Gordon Rowe, “he never did intend this house as anything but a temporary hideout.”

“It would seem so,” murmured Lane.

The ceiling was low and an ancient chandelier of hideous coloured glass hung above a battered desk in the centre of the study. On the far wall stood a fireplace with a sturdy oak mantel above it made out of a single thick slab of wood; in the blackish grate there was a residue of charred logs and ashes. On the desk lay an old quill, a bottle of indian ink, a powerful reading glass, and a clutter of odds and ends.

The Inspector and Patience both exclaimed at once and pounced upon the desk.

“What is it?” cried Rowe, darting forward.

There was an ashtray upon the desk, a poor chipped thing of coloured porcelain decorated with an impossibly buxom mermaid sporting among several grinning and ugly little dolphins. In the well of the tray lay five greyish-white fragments of clay; two of the largest were concave, and the in-curved surfaces presented a burnt appearance. Clots and scraps of dried dottle made a bed for the clay pieces.

“Looks like the remains of a cheap clay pipe,” said Rowe with a puzzled air. “What's all the
huzza
-ing and
banzai
-ing for?”

“Donoghue,” muttered the Inspector.

Patience's blue eyes shone. “There's evidence!” she cried. “Gordon, Donoghue always smoked a clay pipe. We know he must have followed Dr. Ales that day from the museum. This virtually proves he's been here!”

“Maxwell,” said Thumm harshly, “I thought you said a tough-lookin' Irishman hadn't been in this house recently. How'd the pipe get here?”

“I don't know, sir. I've not been in this room since the day after Dr. Ales went away. I saw the pieces on the floor in front of the desk that morning before I sent the package off and picked them up and put them in the ashtray with the little pieces of ash and tobacco.”

Lane sighed. “Did you notice the fragments the night before, when Dr. Ales sent you away?”

“They weren't there when I left, I'm positive.”

“Did Dr. Ales smoke a clay pipe?”

“Dr. Ales didn't smoke at all. We found the ashtray in some old rubbish in the woodshed when we got here.” Maxwell blinked. “I don't smoke, either,” he said rather tremulously.

“Then I think, Inspector,” remarked the old gentleman with a note of weariness, “that we can reconstruct events with a certain degree of assurance. After Ales sent Maxwell away the evening of the twenty-seventh, Donoghue, who had followed Ales from the city and was lurking in the bushes outside, entered the house. He was face to face with Ales in this room; of that we may be certain. What happened then is conjectural.”

“That's a swell word,” said Thumm with a scowl. “Let's look over the rest of this dump.”

They mounted the creaking staircase and found themselves in a narrow upper passage punctuated by doors. They investigated the rooms in order. Two were empty and festooned with spider-webs; apparently Maxwell was not the most conscientious of housekeepers. One was Maxwell's own room; and it contained nothing but an iron bedstead, an old-fashioned washstand, a chair, and a chest of drawers resurrected from the cellar of some second-hand dealer's establishment. The fourth was the bedroom of Dr. Ales—a small, not too clean room as poorly furnished as Maxwell's although here a braver effort had been made to banish dust. The ancient bed, a scratched but hardy walnut piece, was neatly made.

Patience examined the bedclothes with a feminine eye. “Did you make this?” she asked severely.

“Yes, miss. The last time,” Maxwell gulped, “the morning of the twenty-seventh——”

“Indeed?” murmured Lane. “How is that? When you returned on the morning of the twenty-eighth to find Dr. Ales gone and the package in the hall downstairs, didn't you also find this bed mussed?”