“Well, no!” he said. “Not that we know of. But might we ask if you are? And how you got in here? Because this place happens to be ours!”
“Yours!” exclaimed Robmore. “Your property?”
“Well, if buying it, paying for it, and taking a receipt and papers makes it so!” answered the man. “Bought it this morning—and settled up for it, too, anyway.”
Robmore produced and handed over a professional card, and the faces of the two men fell as they read it. The elder looked up quickly.
“I hope there’s nothing wrong?” he said anxiously. “Detectives, eh? We’ve laid out a nice bit on this—savings, too, and—”
“I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong that way,” replied Robmore reassuringly. “But there’s something uncommonly wrong in other ways. Now look here, who are you two, and from whom did you buy this place?”
“My name’s Marshall, his is Wilkinson,” answered the leader. “We’re just starting business for ourselves as electrical engineers. We advertised for a likely place hereabouts, and Mr. Andrews came to us about this—said he and his partner, Mr. Basing, were leaving, and wanted to sell it, just as it stood. We came to look at it, and as it’s just the place we need to start with, we agreed to buy it. They said it was their own property, and to save law expenses we carried out the purchase between ourselves. And we paid over the purchase money this morning, and got the papers and the key.”
“What time was that?” asked Robmore.
“Ten o’clock or thereabouts,” replied Marshall. “By appointment, here.”
“Did ye see both men—Basing and Andrews?”
“Both! In that little room to the right. We settled the business—paid them in cash—and settled all up. It was soon done, then they stood us a drink and a cigar, and we went.”
“Stood you a drink, eh?” said Robmore suddenly. “Where?”
“Here! Basing, he pulled out a big bottle of champagne and a cigar-box, and said we’d wet the bargain. We’d a glass apiece, Wilkinson and me, then we left ’em to finish the bottle: we were in a hurry. But—is anything wrong?”
“What is wrong, my lad, is that the man you know as Andrews is lying dead upstairs!” replied Robmore. “Poisoned, most likely, by his partner. But, as I said just now, I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong about your buying the property, providing you can show a title to it; you say you’ve got the necessary papers?”
Marshall clapped a hand on the pocket of his coat.
“Got ’em all here, now,” he said. “But—did you say Andrews was dead—poisoned? Why, he was as alive as I am when we left the two of ’em together. They were finishing the bottle—”
“Look here,” interrupted Robmore. “Wait awhile until we come back—we’ve some important work close by. There are people of ours upstairs—tell them I said you were to wait a bit. Now, Mr. Hetherwick.”
Outside the yard and in the crowded street, Robmore turned to his companion with a cynical laugh.
“Champagne—to wet the bargain!” he said. “Left them to finish it, eh? And no doubt what finished Ambrose was in that champagne—slipped in by Baseverie when his back was turned. I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick, that chap’s a thorough-paced ’un—he goes the whole hog! I only hope he won’t be too deep for Matherfield at Southampton! I shall be anxious till I hear.”
“Is it possible for him to escape Matherfield?” exclaimed Hetherwick. “How can he? I look on him as being as good as in custody already! He’s bound to call at the post office for that box.”
“Is he, though?” interrupted the detective, with another incredulous laugh. “I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Hetherwick. Baseverie is evidently an accomplished scoundrel, and full of all sorts of tricks! I’ll tell ye what I’m wondering—will that parcel ever get to Southampton post office, where it’s to be called for?”
“Whatever do you mean?” demanded Hetherwick. “It’s in the post! Posted this morning.”
“No doubt,” agreed Robmore dryly. “By special delivery, eh? And when it gets to Southampton Station, it’s got to be taken to the head post office, hasn’t it?”
“Well?” asked Hetherwick.
“There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip—so the old saying goes,” replied Robmore. “That parcel may slip. But isn’t this the number your clerk mentioned?”
The door of Mrs. Mallett’s house looked more closely barred than ever—if possible. And no answer came to several summonses by bell and knocker. But presently Robmore tried the handle—the door opened at his touch.
“Hallo!” he exclaimed. “Open! Um! That seems a bit queer. Well—inside!”
For the second time that afternoon, Hetherwick walked into a place that seemed to be wholly deserted.
XXVI
Waterloo
The detective, walking a little in advance of his companion, stepped forward to a hall-table and knocked loudly on its polished surface. No answer came. He went further along, to the head of a railed stair which evidently communicated with a cellar kitchen; again he knocked, more loudly than before, on an adjacent panel, and again got no reply. And at that, turning back along the hall, he opened the door of the room which faced upon the street, and he and Hetherwick looked in. A musty-smelling, close-curtained room that, a sort of Sunday parlour, little used, cold and comfortless in its formality. But the room behind it, to which Robmore turned next, showed signs of recent occupancy and life. There was a fire in the grate, with an easy chair drawn near to it; on the table close by lay women’s gear—a heap of linen, with needle and thread thrust in, a workbasket, scissors, thimble; it required no more than a glance to see that the owner of these innocent matters had laid them down suddenly, suddenly interrupted in her task.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick!” exclaimed Robmore abruptly. “This house is empty! Empty of people, anyway.”
“Silent enough, to be sure,” agreed Hetherwick. “The woman—”
“You’ve frightened her by calling here,” said Robmore. “Then she slipped round to Pencove Street. And there she found
