“Excuse me; Mr. Stott, I believe?”
“That is my name. I haven’t the pleasure—”
“My name is Carver—I am an Inspector of Police, and I want you to tell me something about what was seen outside of Mayfield, both before and after the murder.”
Mr. Stott’s face fell.
“That servant of mine has been talking,” he said annoyed. “I knew she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
“I know nothing about your servant, sir,” said Carver, sadly, “but I have been sitting in Toby’s for the past three days and I have heard quite a lot. It sounded to me almost as if you were the principal speaker on the subject, but maybe I was mistaken.”
“I shall say nothing,” said Mr. Stott firmly, and the detective sighed.
“I shouldn’t hurry to make up my mind on that subject if I were you,” he said, “it is certain to be a difficult business explaining to the Public Prosecutor why you have kept silence so long—it looks very suspicious, you know, Mr. Stott.”
Mr. Stott was aghast.
“Suspicious—me—Good heavens! Come to my office, Mr. Carver—suspicious! I knew I should be dragged into it! I’ll fire Eline tonight!”
When Tab in the course of duty, called that night at the station, he heard the story from Carver.
“If the poor nut had only had the pluck to telephone to the police when the girl first told him the story, we could have caught those birds. As it is, there’s no sense in keeping the house under observation any longer. Who was the woman? That puzzles me. Who was the woman who, night after night, garaged her car in Trasmere’s garden and let herself into the house carrying a square black bag?”
Tab did not answer. The identity of the woman was no mystery to him. She was Ursula Ardfern.
The fabric of supposition fitted piece to piece. He remembered how he had come upon her in the deserted streets at dawn surveying a burst tyre and the plainness of her dress. Inside the car was a square black case, but—
Ursula working hand in glove with Chinamen; Ursula privy to these stealthy coming and goings, these midnight burglaries at Mayfield? That was unthinkable.
“—their reason for breaking in after we had left the place is beyond me,” Carver was saying. “I can only suppose that they hoped that we had overlooked something of value.”
“In Mayfield?—there is nothing there now?”
“Only the furniture and one or two articles we took away but have since returned, such as the green lacquer box. As a matter of fact, they only went back yesterday. Mr. Lander thought of selling all the furniture and effects by auction, and I believe that before he left he put the matter in the hands of an agent. The Chinamen intrigue me,” he said, “though it is by no means certain that both Stott and his servant aren’t mistaken. I gather they were considerably panic stricken and even I wouldn’t undertake to distinguish a Chinaman from a European by the light of a match.”
Tab went up into Carver’s private office, and they sat talking until close on eleven o’clock, at which hour their conversation was violently interrupted by the ring of the telephone.
“Call through for you, sir,” said the voice of the sergeant on the desk, and a second later Carver recognised the agitated voice of Mr. Stott.
“They’re here now! They’ve just gone in! The woman has opened the door—they’ve just gone in!”
“Who? Is that Stott—do you mean into Mayfield?” asked Carver quickly.
“Yes! I saw them with my own eyes. The woman’s car is outside the door.”
“Go and get its number, quick,” said Carver sharply, “find a policeman and tell him, and if you can’t find one, detain the woman yourself.”
He heard Mr. Stott’s feeble expostulation, and jumped for his hat.
They boarded the first taxicab they could find, and raced through the town at a breakneck pace, turning into one end of the quiet avenue in which Mayfield was situated, just as the tail lights of a car turned the corner at the other end.
Mr. Stott was standing on the sidewalk, pointing dumbly, but with hysterical gestures, at the place where the car had been.
“They’ve gone,” he said hollowly. “—couldn’t find a policeman: they’ve gone!”
“So I notice,” said Carver. “Did you take the number of the car?”
Mr. Stott shook his head and made a choking noise in his throat. Presently he commanded his speech.
“Covered over with black paper,” he said.
“Who was it?”
“A Chinaman and a woman,” said the other.
“Why in hell didn’t you stop them?” snapped Carver.
“A Chinaman and a woman,” repeated Stott miserably.
“What was she like?”
“I didn’t get near enough to see,” Mr. Stott made the confession without shame. “There ought to have been police here—lots of police—. It is disgraceful. I am going to write to the—”
They left him quivering threats. Carver ran across the concrete garden, unlocked the door and switched on all the lights in the hall. Nothing, so far as he could see, had been disturbed. The door to the vault was locked, and had not been tampered with. Apparently the dining-room had. The fireplace of the house was a broad deep cavity lined with red brick, and pointed with a yellow cement. An electric radiator had replaced the stove, and Carter had made a very thorough examination both of the recess and of the wide chimney above. But he saw at a glance that his inspection had been short of perfect. One of the bricks had been taken out. It lay on the table, with its steel lid open, and Carver surveyed it thoughtfully.
“That is one on me,” he said. “It looks like the face of a brick, doesn’t it? Look at that artistic cement pointing all round the edge? It isn’t cement at all, but steel. In fact, this must be about the only secret drawer in the house. I ought to have made more thorough enquiries from the builders.”
The box was empty except for a tiny rubber
