“You not want to tell me, you not tell me. But you help me get interview with Mr. Bernard Shaw. I help you. You help me. See?”
Ellery promised his good offices—for what they were worth.
“And Mr. H. G. Wells?”
Ellery again promised with rather more hesitation, to do what he could.
“And Mr. Bennett?”
This time Ellery, foreseeing further additions to the list, suggested that he should come back and have another talk with Mr. Pu in a day or two. He would certainly do anything possible to help him.
“And Mr. Bertrand Russell?” the Burmese was saying, as Ellery managed to talk himself out of the room.
Here at last, Ellery said to himself, as he left the hotel, was proof, proof positive, even all but certainty. Woodman had lied about his doings on Tuesday evening, and his alibi was a fake. At the time when he had said that he was writing letters in the small writing-room he was really somewhere else. He had left the writing-room at a few minutes before eleven, and he had only returned to it, by the stairs which led directly to the basement, about three-quarters of an hour later. The inference was obvious—to Ellery at least. But his new certainty that Woodman was the criminal was still of course very far from complete demonstration. A man might lie about his movements, and still not be a murderer. What should the next step be? He would see Joan, and convince her now that his suspicions had been rightly directed. She could hardly still doubt.
XXX
A Letter and Its Consequences
One of Joan’s duties, during these troublous days, was to deal with Sir Vernon’s private letters. The management of the Brooklyn Corporation had passed, for the time being, into the hands of a subordinate; but there were many private letters to be read and answered. Ill as he was, Sir Vernon liked to be consulted about some of these; and Joan always set aside a few to discuss with him each morning. On the day following Ellery’s successful investigation at the Cunningham Hotel, Joan sat opening the letters at breakfast. Most of them contained little of interest; but there was one, marked Private, which was clearly of importance. As Joan read it, she felt that yet another of the clues leading to the discovery of the murderer had come unexpectedly into her hands.
The letter was from Sir John Bunnery, the successful solicitor, well-known in the sporting world as “the bookmaker’s attorney,” a nickname which he had earned by his long association with legal cases connected with the Turf. Sir John had been a friend of Sir Vernon’s in earlier years; but the two men had quarrelled many years ago, and since then they had seen nothing of each other. Carter Woodman, however, was, as Joan knew, a friend of Sir John’s, and she was not surprised when, glancing down the letter, she read his name.
Sir John Bunnery began by offering his sympathy to an old friend in the misfortunes which had come upon him, adding that he hoped their drifting apart of late years would not make the sympathy less welcome. Then, having said the proper thing, he came to business. On the previous day, he explained, a somewhat curious request had come to him from Mr. Carter Woodman, who had asked for his help in securing a large loan, stating that there could be no doubt about the repayment of the money, as full security could be given that far more than the sum asked for would be available under the will of Sir Vernon Brooklyn. He, Carter Woodman, was one of the beneficiaries under the will, and he was also in a position to offer, in return for the loan, the joint guarantee of Mr. Walter Brooklyn, who had now, in tragic circumstances, become the principal beneficiary under the will. Woodman stated that he was Walter Brooklyn’s heir, and that he and Walter were prepared to make themselves jointly liable for the repayment of the sum asked for. Sir John said that he would, of course, be most pleased to assist Mr. Woodman, who was a personal friend; but although Woodman had approached him in confidence, and asked him not to mention the matter even to Sir Vernon, he had felt it necessary to write equally in confidence to Sir Vernon in order to ascertain whether Woodman and Walter Brooklyn were in fact the heirs. Sir Vernon would understand that he was asking for this information only in strict confidence, and he—Sir John—would quite accept the position if the answer was that Sir Vernon did not feel able to tell him how matters stood. In that case, however, he would feel compelled to decline to arrange the very large advance—£60,000—for which Woodman had asked. A hint would be enough to tell him how he ought to act. Sir John ended with a repetition of his condolences, and expressed the hope, that, when Sir Vernon was well enough, their old friendship might be renewed.
Joan read the letter right through with a feeling of bewilderment. What could it all mean? Were her stepfather and Carter Woodman really acting in collusion in an attempt to raise money in anticipation of Sir Vernon’s death? And, if they were, what light did their extraordinary proceeding throw on the murders?
The letter gave Joan a good deal to think about. The information which Woodman had given to Sir John Bunnery might, of course, be technically correct. She realised that, under the existing will, Walter Brooklyn was, now that the two persons who had stood in his way had been removed, the principal beneficiary. But he had become so entirely by an accident, which was certainly no part of the testator’s intention, and his chance of remaining so depended entirely on Sir Vernon’s not making a new will in someone else’s favour. Woodman, of course, might have a good reason for thinking that he would
