What, he asked himself, must have been the motive for such a crime? Certainly not merely to gratify a feeling of hate. The motive undoubtedly was to enable the survivor to claim Phyllis as his wife and to live with her in good social standing and without fear of his rival. But the crime, French reminded himself, had a peculiar feature. The staged accident on the moor involved the disappearance of both actors, the murderer as well as the victim. If, then, the murderer disappeared, he could not live with Phyllis. If either Berlyn or Pyke were guilty, therefore, he had carried out the crime in a way which robbed him of the very results for which he had committed it.
French saw that he was up against a puzzling dilemma. If Berlyn had murdered Pyke, it was unlikely that Mrs. Berlyn would have assisted. If, on the other hand, Pyke had murdered Berlyn, Mrs. Berlyn’s action was clear, but not Pyke’s, for Pyke could get nothing out of it.
French swore bitterly as he realised that in all probability his former view of the case was incorrect and that he was once again without any really satisfactory theory on which to work. Nor did some hours’ thought point the way to a solution of his problem.
At least, however, he saw his next step. Mrs. Berlyn was the accomplice of someone. That someone was doubtless alive and biding his time until he thought it safe to join the lady. If so, she was pretty sure to know his whereabouts. Could she be made to reveal it?
French thought that if in some way he could give her a thorough fright, she might try to get a warning through. It would then be up to him to intercept her message, which would give him the information he required.
This meant London. He slept the night in Plymouth, and next day, which was Saturday, travelled up to Paddington.
XVII
“Danger!”
Before leaving Plymouth French had wired to Mrs. Berlyn, asking for an interview for the following Monday morning. On reaching the Yard he found a reply. If he called round about the lady would see him. He rang his bell for Sergeant Carter.
“I shall want you with me today, Carter,” he explained. “Have a taxi ready at .”
As they were driving toward Chelsea he explained the business.
“It’s to help me to shadow a woman, a Mrs. Phyllis Berlyn. Lives at 70b Park Walk. There’s her photograph. When I go in, you keep this taxi and be ready to pick me up when I want you.”
If he were to tap a possible SOS, he must begin by finding out if his victim had a telephone. He therefore got out at the end of Park Walk, and passing the house, turned into an entry leading to the lane which ran along behind the row. The absence of wires front and rear showed that the house was not connected up. Then he went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Berlyn received him at once.
“I am very sorry, madame,” he began, gravely, “to have to come on serious and unpleasant business. In my enquiries into the death of Mr. Pyke certain facts have come out. These facts require an explanation, and they point to you as being perhaps the only person who can give it. I have, therefore, called to ask you some questions, but I have to warn you that you are not bound to answer them, as in certain eventualities anything you say might be used against you.”
Mrs. Berlyn looked startled.
“Whatever do you mean, Inspector?” she demanded. “You don’t mean against me personally, I suppose, but against my husband? I do not forget the terrible suggestion you made.”
“I mean against you personally, madam. As I say, I want an explanation of certain facts. If you care to give it I shall hear it with attention, but if you would prefer to consult a solicitor first, you can do so.”
“Good gracious! Inspector, you are terrifying me! You are surely not suggesting that you suspect me of complicity in this awful crime?”
“I make no accusations. All I want is answers to my questions.”
Mrs. Berlyn grew slowly dead white. She moistened her dry lips.
“This is terrible,” she said in low tones. French had some twinges of conscience, for, after all, he was only bluffing. He recognised, however, that the greater the effect he produced, the more likely he was to get what he wanted. He therefore continued his third degree.
“If you are innocent, madam, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear,” he encouraged her, thereby naturally increasing her perturbation. “Now would you like to answer my questions or not?”
She did not hesitate. “I have no option,” she exclaimed in somewhat shaky tones. “If I do not do so your suspicions will be confirmed. Ask what you like. I have nothing to hide and therefore cannot give myself away.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” French declared, grimly. “First I want you to give me a more detailed account of your relations with Colonel Domlio.”
“Why,” the lady explained, “I told you all about that on your last visit. Colonel Domlio was very friendly, exceedingly friendly, I might say. But we had no relations”—she stressed the word—“in the sense which your question seems to indicate.”
“How did your friendship begin?”
“Through my husband. He and Colonel Domlio were old friends and it was natural that we should see something of him. He visited at our house and we at his.”
“That was when you first went to Ashburton, was it not?”
“Not only then. It was so all the time I lived there.”
“But I don’t mean that. I understand that about four
