She heard a whirr of electric starter and the purring of engines. The machine was following her, and she broke into a run. At the corner of the street she saw a man and flew toward him, as she made out the helmet of a policeman.
“What’s wrong, miss?”
As he spoke, the car flashed past, spun round the corner and was out of sight instantly.
“A man spoke to me—in that car,” she said breathlessly.
The stolid constable gazed vacantly at the place where the car had been.
“He didn’t have lights,” he said stupidly. “I ought to have taken his number. Did he insult you, miss?”
She shook her head, for she was already ashamed of her fears.
“I’m nervy, officer,” she said with a smile. “I don’t think I will go any farther.”
She turned back and hurried to her lodgings. There were disadvantages in starring—even on Jack Knebworth’s modest lot. It was nervous work, she thought.
She went to sleep that night and dreamt that the man in the car was Michael Brixan and he wanted her to come in to tea.
It was past midnight when Michael rang up Jack Knebworth with the news.
“Foss!” he gasped. “Good God! You don’t mean that, Brixan? Shall I come round and see you?”
“I’ll come to you,” said Michael. “There are one or two things I want to know about the man, and it will create less of a fuss than if I have to admit you to the hotel.”
Jack Knebworth rented a house on the Arundel Road, and he was waiting at the garden door to admit his visitor when Michael arrived.
Michael told the story of the discovery of the head, and felt that he might so far take the director into his confidence as to retail his visit to Sir Gregory Penne.
“That beats everything,” said Jack in a hushed tone. “Poor old Foss! You think that Penne did this? But why? You don’t cut up a man because he wants to borrow money.”
“My views have been switching round a little,” said Michael. “You remember a sheet of manuscript that was found amongst some of your script, and which I told you must have been written by the Headhunter?”
Jack nodded.
“I’m perfectly sure,” Michael went on, “and particularly after seeing the erasure in the scenario book, that Foss knew who was the author of that manuscript, and I’m equally certain that he resolved upon the desperate expedient of blackmailing the writer. If that is the case, and if Sir Gregory is the man—again I am very uncertain on this point—there is a good reason why he should be put out of the way. There is one person who can help us, and that is—”
“Mendoza,” said Jack, and the two men’s eyes met.
XXVI
The Hand
Jack looked at his watch.
“I guess she’ll be in bed by now, but it’s worth while trying. Would you like to see her?”
Michael hesitated. Stella Mendoza was a friend of Penne’s, and he was loath to commit himself irretrievably to the view that Penne was the murderer.
“Yes, I think we’ll see her,” he said. “After all, Penne knows that he is suspected.”
Jack Knebworth was ten minutes on the telephone before he succeeded in getting a reply from Stella’s cottage.
“It’s Knebworth speaking, Miss Mendoza,” he said. “Is it possible to see you tonight? Mr. Brixan wants to speak to you.”
“At this hour of the night?” she said in sleepy surprise. “I was in bed when the bell rang. Won’t it do in the morning?”
“No, he wants to see you particularly tonight. I’ll come along with him if you don’t mind.”
“What is wrong?” she asked quickly. “Is it about Gregory?”
Jack whispered a query to the man who stood at his side, and Michael nodded.
“Yes, it is about Gregory,” said Knebworth.
“Will you come along? I’ll have time to dress.”
Stella was dressed by the time they arrived, and too curious and too alarmed to make the hour of the call a matter of comment.
“What is the trouble?” she asked.
“Mr. Foss is dead.”
“Dead?” She opened her eyes wide. “Why, I only saw him yesterday. But how?”
“He has been murdered,” said Michael quietly. “His head has been found on Chobham Common.”
She would have fallen to the floor, had not Michael’s arm been there to support her, and it was some time before she recovered sufficiently to answer coherently the questions which were put to her.
“No, I didn’t see Mr. Foss again after he left the Towers, and then I only saw him for a few seconds.”
“Did he suggest he was coming back again?”
She shook her head.
“Did Sir Gregory tell you he was returning?”
“No.” She shook her head again. “He told me he was glad to see the last of him, and that he had borrowed fifty pounds until next week, when he expected to make a lot of money. Gregory is like that—he will tell you things about people, things which they ask him not to make public. He is rather proud of his wealth and what he calls his charity.”
“You had a luncheon engagement with him?” said Michael, watching her.
She bit her lip.
“You must have heard me talking when I left him,” she said. “No, I had no luncheon engagement. That was camouflage, intended for anybody who was hanging around, and we knew somebody had been in the house that night. Was it you?”
Michael nodded.
“Oh, I’m so relieved!” She heaved a deep sigh. “Those few minutes in that dark room were terrible to me. I thought it was—” She hesitated.
“Bhag?” suggested Michael, and she nodded.
“Yes. You don’t suspect Gregory of killing Foss?”
“I suspect everybody in general and nobody in particular,” said Michael. “Did you see Bhag?”
She shivered.
“No, not that time. I’ve seen him, of course. He gives me the creeps! I’ve never seen anything so human. Sometimes, when Gregory was a little—a little drunk, he used to bring Bhag out and make him do tricks. Do you know that Bhag could
