He had a hot bath, made himself some chocolate and, before retiring, sat down to sum up his day’s experience. And in the light of recent happenings he was less confident that his first solution of the Headhunter mystery was the correct one. And the more he thought, the less satisfied he was, till at last, in sheer disgust at his own vacillation of mind, he turned out the light and went to bed.
He was sleeping peacefully and late the next morning when an unexpected visitor arrived, and Michael sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.
“I’ve either got nightmare or it’s Staines,” he said.
Major Staines smiled cheerfully.
“You’re awake and normal,” he said.
“Has anything happened?” asked Michael, springing out of bed.
“Nothing, only there was a late dance last night and an early train this morning, and I decided to atone for my frivolity by coming down and seeing how far you had got in the Elmer case.”
“Elmer case?” Michael frowned. “Good Lord! I’d almost forgotten poor Elmer!”
“Here’s something to remind you,” said Staines.
He fished from his pocket a newspaper cutting. Michael took it and read:
“Is your trouble of mind or body incurable? Do you hesitate on the brink of the abyss? Does courage fail you? Write to Benefactor, Box—”
“What is this?” asked Michael, frowning.
“It was found in the pocket of an old waistcoat that Elmer was wearing a few days before he disappeared. Mrs. Elmer was going through his clothes with the idea of selling them, when she found this. It appeared in the Morning Telegram of the fourteenth—that is to say, three or four days before Elmer vanished. The box number at the end, of course, is the box number of the newspaper to which replies were sent. There is a record that four letters reached the ‘Benefactor,’ who, so far as we have been able to discover, had these particular letters readdressed to a little shop in Stibbington Street, London. Here they were collected by a woman, evidently of the working class, and probably a charlady from the appearance which has been circulated. Beyond that, no further trace has been obtainable. Similar advertisements have been found by search in other newspapers, but in these cases the letters were sent to an accommodation address in South London, where apparently the same woman collected them. With every new advertisement the advertiser changes his address. She was a stranger to each neighbourhood, by the way; and from what shopkeepers have told Scotland Yard, she seemed to be a little off her head, for she was in the habit of mumbling and talking to herself. Her name is Stivins—at least, that is the name she always gave. And the notes she brought were usually signed ‘Mark’—that is to say, the notes authorizing the shopkeepers to hand the letters to her. That she is a native of London there is no doubt, but so far the police have not trailed her.”
“And suppose they do?” asked Michael. “Do you connect the advertisement with the murders?”
“We do and we do not,” replied the other. “I merely point out that this advertisement is a peculiar one, and in all the circumstances a little suspicious. Now what is the theory you wanted to give me?”
For an hour Michael spoke, interrupted at intervals by questions which Staines put to him.
“It is a queer idea, almost a fantastical one,” said Staines gravely, “but if you feel that you’ve got so much as one thread in your hands, go right ahead. To tell you the truth,” in a burst of confidence, “I had a horrible feeling that you had fallen down; and since I do not want our department to be a source of amusement to Scotland Yard, I thought I’d come along and give you the result of my own private investigations. I agree with you,” he said later, as they sat at breakfast, “that you want to go very, very carefully. It is a delicate business. You haven’t told the Scotland Yard men your suspicions?”
Michael shook his head.
“Then don’t,” said the other emphatically. “They’d be certain to go along and put the person you suspect under arrest, and probably that would destroy the evidence that would convict. You say you have made a search of the house?”
“Not a search: I’ve made a rough inspection.”
“Are there cellars?”
“I should imagine so,” said Michael. “That type of house usually has.”
“Outhouses where—?”
Michael shook his head.
“There are none, so far as I have been able to see.”
Michael walked down to the railway station with his chief, who told him he was leaving in a much more cheerful frame of mind than he had been in when he arrived.
“There’s one warning I’ll give to you, Mike,” said Staines as the train was about to pull out of the station, “and it is to watch out for yourself! You’re dealing with a ruthless and ingenious man. For heaven’s sake do not underrate his intelligence. I don’t want to wake up one morning to learn that you have vanished from the ken of man.”
XXI
The Erasure
Mike’s way back did not lead through the little street where Adele Leamington lived—at least, not his nearest road. Yet he found himself knocking at the door, and learnt, with a sense of disappointment, that the girl had been out since seven o’clock in the morning. Knebworth was shooting on the South Downs, and the studio, when he arrived, was empty, except for Knebworth’s secretary and the new scenario editor, who had arrived late on the previous evening.
“I don’t know the location, Mr. Brixan,” said Dicker, the secretary, “but it’s somewhere above Arundel. Miss Mendoza was
