MRS3 The Velvet Hand (23 page)

"It is going to be rather awkward for me to testify in this matter," she remarked.

"At the preliminary hearing it won't be necessary," he hastened to say. "The fact that we found the notes on him will be sufficient to procure an indictment. But when he is brought to trial, of course..."

"Oh, by that time there will be no further necessity for me to conceal my presence in London," she said, relieved.

They shook hands. The inspector released her hand with manifest reluctance.

"Look here," said Mme Storey suddenly, "you have earned my confidence. I know you will not give me away to the newspapers. I am Rosika Storey of New York."

His eyes widened. "Madame Storey!" he cried.

"I see you have heard of me."

"Heard of you! You are at the head of my profession! ... I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

"I knew when I first saw you that I was in the presence of an extraordinary woman!"

"Flatterer! ... Come and have lunch with us."

He hesitated. "Well, I have caught my man, and I must eat somewhere. I accept with pleasure."

"Good! We will return to our hotel."

During the meal Inspector Battram said with pardonable pride: "I hope we have shown you that we're not such duffers at Scotland Yard as the fiction writers are fond of making out."

"A brilliant piece of work," said Mme Storey. "But you've hardly got to the bottom of the case yet."

"Oh, no," he said, "we must find out all about this fellow. But we have him fast."

"The pot of pansies," she began.

He interrupted her with a good-humoured laugh. "Still thinking about that?"

"As I have already described to you," said Mme Storey, "Mr. Hendrie entered the carriage carrying it under his arm. He put it in the rack, and it has never been seen since. It could not have been thrown out after the body, or the remains of it would have been found below. Neither was it found with the old gentleman's bag at Paddington."

"Possibly one of the train men at Paddington, realizing that it was of no particular value and would fade before it could be claimed, carried it home to his wife," suggested the inspector.

"Possibly. That must be looked into."

"But in any case," he said, "how could a pot of pansies possibly have contributed to Mr. Hendrie's death?"

"I don't know," said Mme Storey. "It's just an unexplained circumstance.... Let me have the pot of pansies," she suddenly added.

"Eh?" he said, not comprehending her drift.

"This case interests me," she said. "I shall be a busy woman during the next few days, but I'll save out a few hours for this. Let me have the pot of pansies for my clue."

"I should be honoured to have you working with me," said Inspector Battram, overjoyed.

When we were alone together Mme Storey said: "Bella, before I start constructive work upon this Hendrie case, it is necessary for me to know whether or not the pot of pansies remained in the luggage rack after the crime was committed. Think back and tell me: was it there when you awoke me at Brondesbury?"

I considered, anxious to make no mistake. "It was not there," I said finally.

"Could you swear to that?"

"I could swear to it. The last thing I remember seeing before I fell asleep was those beautiful pansies; and in the moment of waking my eyes involuntarily sought them again. They were not there."

"Good! Then we have a starting point.... Did you notice anything peculiar about the pot in which they were planted?"

"No," I said, "the pot was covered with a wrapping of manila paper, but from the shape of it I should say it was just a common pot."

"But pansies have shallow roots," she pointed out, "and it is customary to transplant them into shallow pots. Now, this pot, as I remember it, was at least nine inches deep—big enough to hold a hydrangea."

"That is so."

"A professional florist or gardener would never have wasted that big pot and all that good earth on a clump of pansies. So I think we are safe in assuming that these pansies were transplanted by an amateur at home."

I nodded.

"A pot of that size filled with earth is a heavy object," she went on; "yet the old gentleman carried it without any sign of strain and put it up in the rack without difficulty."

"What would you infer from that?" I asked.

"Nothing, yet. It is just a point to keep in mind.... Very fine pansies, you said."

"Yes. Immense in size and perfect in colour."

"But not phenomenal?"

"No. Not in England. I saw others as fine in the gardens at Banchester when we were walking around. They are just coming into bloom."

"And the old gentleman did not seem to attach any particular importance to them?"

"No. He put them up with a pettish gesture, as if he were glad to get rid of them—but, then, all his actions were pettish."

"Quite."

"The clump of flowers was not fully matured," I volunteered. "There were only a few blossoms and many buds. It is possible that the flowers had not reached perfection."

She nodded and, lighting a cigarette, smoked reflectively. I thought I perceived her drift. Those were very special pansies, the fruit of the old scientist's recent labours, perhaps. Well, I had heard of a murder being committed for tulip bulbs, why not for a pot of pansies?

On the following day matters so shaped themselves that we were able to steal the afternoon for a dash to Banchester. On the way to the train we called by appointment on Sir Egerton Pulford, the eminent scientist. He proved to be not at all an intimidating sort of person, but a nice old granny, who was thrown into quite a flutter by the visit of my mistress. After explaining her connection with the Hendrie case, Mme Storey said:

"I have just one question to ask you, Sir Egerton. What can you tell me about the nature of the communication that Mr. Hendrie expected to make at the meeting of the Royal Society?"

"Very little, Madame. Mr. Hendrie had written to the secretary asking to be put down on the agenda for a fifteen-minute talk and intimating that his subject was of considerable importance. This was a good deal from him, and all the members were on the
qui vive
to learn what he had up his sleeve."

"Could it have had anything to do with the propagation of plant life—flowers?" she asked.

"I should think not," Sir Egerton cautiously replied. "So far as I know, Hendrie had no interest whatever in that direction. Of late years his attention has been exclusively directed toward the use of chemicals in warfare."

"Oh," said Mme Storey, disappointed, "another of these scientists who are working to annihilate entire armies with a blast of gas!"

"No, no, Madame," said Sir Egerton earnestly. "Quite the contrary. My poor friend looked upon chemical warfare as an unmitigated evil. 'Man will destroy himself by it!' he said. 'But there is no use preaching against it, Pulford,' he said. 'As long as there are deadly chemicals to be had, the nations will use them. What we chemists have to do is to find something that will render nugatory the entire use of deadly gases."

"What do you suppose he meant?" asked my mistress.

"I cannot say, Madame. He was a very secretive man."

We proceeded to the train. Sir Egerton's communication was rather damaging to my theory about the pot of pansies, but I did not abandon it yet. After all, he had said he did not know.

Three hours later we were in Banchester. We engaged a motor car by the hour in order to get around quickly, and drove first to Lorne Lodge, the home of Sims Hendrie. His laboratory was in a different part of town. It was a quiet little house at the end of a quiet little street, beautiful with evergreens, shrubbery, and ivy. Strange what a passion the English have for privacy. Every house was almost invisible from the street; and each was separated from its neighbour on each side by a high wall, or an impenetrable evergreen screen. Even in March the grass was lush and green; in summer it must have been lovely.

The drawing room of the house was pure Victorian; simply crowded with ugly furniture and unnecessary knick-knacks. A tiny little old lady entered to us. She was very plainly dressed in black and wore her hair smoothly brushed down and wound in a tight little roll behind. Her face was the colour of a dead leaf, but little wrinkled; her sunken eyes large and wondering. She had the air more of a well-bred little girl than the mistress of the house. She sat on the edge of a chair, her feet scarcely touching the floor, and, folding her hands in her lap, waited to be questioned. There was something terrible in her calmness.

She had been apprised of our coming, and there was no need to enter into explanations. Mme Storey went direct to the point. "Mrs. Hendrie, was your husband interested in flowers?"

"Why, no, Madame," she said with a surprised look.

"I see you have pansies growing about the house."

"That is my province entirely. Mr. Hendrie was all for practical things."

"Have you noticed if any of your pansies are missing—dug up, I mean?"

"No, Madame," she answered, more and more surprised at this line of questioning.

"Did your husband ever use flowers in his experimental work?"

"Not that I ever heard of."

"I suppose you have intimate friends here in Banchester."

"Hardly intimate," she said with a reticent air. "We know pleasant people, of course, whom we visit and who visit us."

"Had your husband any confrères—men that he could discuss his work with?"

"Mr. Hendrie
never
discussed his work outside of the laboratory."

"Can you tell me the nature of his recent researches?"

"No, Madame. Never, since we have been married, have I ventured to discuss Mr. Hendrie's work with him."

Poor little soul! what a picture of her bleak life this called up!

Mme Storey returned to the pot of pansies. "Are any of your friends in Banchester especially interested in growing flowers?"

"They all grow flowers, Madame. Our mild, moist climate is especially suited to them."

"Pansies?"

"Banchester is noted for its early pansies."

"But I mean particularly interested in pansies."

"No, Madame," said Mrs. Hendrie with a scared look, as if she was beginning to suspect that my mistress was cracked on the subject.

"I ask these questions," Mme Storey explained, "because several witnesses have stated that your husband was carrying a pot of pansies when he got on the train."

"I think they must be mistaken," was the reply. "I never knew him to do such a thing."

"Did he not have it when he left the house?"

"No, Madame."

"Are you sure?"

"I came to the door with him. He had only his Gladstone bag."

"At what time did he leave the house?"

"At five and twenty minutes to eight, Madame. He caught the seven-forty tram at the corner of our road."

It appeared that Mrs. Hendrie knew most of the tram conductors, and she was able to state that the man on that particular car would be a certain Higgins. He passed every hour, she said, and we could catch him at the corner at four-forty. Obviously she wondered what we wanted of him, but did not greatly care. Mme Storey asked her other questions but elicited nothing material. We left the house in time to catch the car at the corner. The strange little old woman let us go as she had welcomed us, without a break in her apathetic air. Poor little soul! I wondered if she had a woman friend.

We boarded the car when it came along, bidding our chauffeur to follow. The conductor looked pleasantly self-important when Mme Storey began to question him. Evidently he was proud of his connection with the Hendrie case, slight as it was.

"Yes, ma'am, I knew the late Mr. Hendrie as well as I know my own brother. For ten years I carried him to and from his laboratory. Very regular in his habits, he was."

"Do you remember taking him to the station night before last?"

"That I do, ma'am. Had to give him a hand up, because his arms was full."

"What did he have in his hands?"

"A Gladstone bag and a pot of pansies, ma'am."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No, ma'am. Mr. Hendrie wasn't what you'd call a familiar gentleman. A nod, that's all you'd get."

"Was he alone when he got on the tram? I mean, was there anybody near to whom he spoke or said good-bye to?"

"No, ma'am. Nobody as I could see."

"Did he talk to any passengers on the tram?"

"No, ma'am. He wasn't exactly sociable."

That was all we got out of the conductor; all we expected to get. We alighted from the tram and hailed our chauffeur.

It was all very mysterious. Either the little old lady had lied, which seemed unthinkable, or else Mr. Hendrie had picked up the pansies somewhere along the quiet block between his house and the corner. If he had not left home until seven thirty-five, he certainly had not had time to stop at any house. The further we pursued that confounded pot of pansies, the more involved in contradictions it became. My first theory concerning it went a-glimmering.

We next drove to the laboratory, which was in a new quarter of the town. Mr. Woodley Bristed, Sims Hendrie's assistant, had been up to London the day before to consult with the police, and we had met him at Scotland Yard. He was expecting us. The laboratory was an atrocious little building of staring red brick roofed with corrugated iron. The Bristeds lived in an equally staring cottage next door. There was no agreeable shrubbery about these buildings; but the cottage had flower beds around it, gay with more of those beautiful pansies in red purples, blue purples, gold, brown, and white.

Bristed and his wife were waiting in the laboratory. They presented a striking contrast. He was a fat, blond young man, rather gross of feature but with intelligent blue eyes; very talkative; she, a tall, slim, dark girl, quite a beauty, but with rather a repellent coldness of manner. Both were extremely courteous; wished us to go to the cottage for tea before we set to work; but Mme Storey declined. We were much pressed for time, of course. Had to be back in London the following morning.

The laboratory was a plain, well-lighted rectangle divided into two unequal parts, a large outer room for the assistants and a sanctum for the master. It was filled with chemical apparatus perfectly mysterious to me, with many shelves of glass jars, big and little, filled with drugs labelled in Latin. Everything was in apple-pie order; no dust, no litter. All the tables had porcelain tops. In the inner room there was also a plain writing table where the scientist had made his calculations; but no papers were visible.