“If that is your position, I don’t quite see why you are telling me all this now.”
“I am telling you, young man, because I had no suspicion that he had committed murder as well. If that is the case, a man of that sort is too dangerous to be left loose. He might be murdering me next, or Sir Vernon. But now you are going to tell me all about your case against him.”
Ellery saw that it was best to tell the whole story, and he did tell most of it. Sir John listened, only interrupting every now and then with a pertinent question. At the end, his only comment was—
“H’m, not so bad for amateurs. And now, my fine young man, what are you going to do next? If I’m to be the family lawyer, that is a point which concerns me. Is it to be a first-class family scandal, eh?”
“Really, we have been so busy trying to discover the truth, that I don’t think we have ever considered what to do afterwards.”
“Humph, but you will have to consider it now. Do you think Sir Vernon is anxious to have another scandal in the family? If you do, I don’t.”
“I suppose the murderer will have to be brought to justice.”
“You do, do you? And doubtless you look forward to appearing in court and showing how clever you have been.”
“Really, Sir John, I look forward to nothing of the kind. If Carter Woodman could be put out of the way of further mischief without dragging the whole affair into court, I should ask for nothing better.”
“How much of what you have found out is known to the police?”
“Nothing at all, I believe. Of course, some other people—the manager at the Avenue, for example—know something of the story.”
“They can be dealt with. Well, young man, you think it over, and come back and talk to me before you say a word to the police. Bring your Miss Cowper, too, if you like. I’m told she’s a pretty girl.” And with those words the old lawyer held out his hand, and bustled his visitor out of the office.
Ellery left Sir John Bunnery’s presence feeling as if he had been bruised all over. He had found out what he wanted, but not at all in the way he had intended. And now this masterful old man apparently meant to take full command of the case. He must see Joan, and tell her what had happened.
XXXIII
On the Tiles
Inspector Blaikie had received very definite instructions from the superintendent as to the course of investigation which he was to follow up. He was to find out all he could about Woodman’s financial circumstances, and he was to seek for proof that Woodman had been in possession of Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick. Side by side with this line of investigation, he had intended to look further into his own private suspicions of Ellery; but these, which had been almost removed by his last talk with the superintendent, were finally dispelled by a further talk with William Gloucester. Ellery’s alibi was good enough: Carter Woodman was the man whose every concern he must scrutinize if he would find the murderer.
It did not take the inspector long to prove beyond doubt that Woodman was in a state of serious financial embarrassment. Discreet inquiries in the city showed that he had been speculating heavily in oil shares, and that he stood to lose a large sum on the falling prices of the shares which he had contracted to buy. There was nothing to show directly that he had staked his clients’, as well as his own, money on the fate of his dealings; but the inspector could make a shrewd guess at the state of his affairs. In all probability, he must either raise money at once, or else face ignominious collapse, and perhaps worse. It was definite that he had been putting off his creditors with promises to pay in the near future, and plunging meanwhile into more serious difficulties in the attempt to extricate himself.
So far, so good; but the other matter gave the inspector far more serious trouble. Try as he would, he could get no clue that would tell him whether Walter Brooklyn had really left his walking-stick in Carter Woodman’s office. His first thought had been to see Woodman’s confidential clerk, and to find out, if possible without putting Woodman on his guard, what the man might know. He had scraped an acquaintance with Moorman in the course of his investigations, and had several times talked to him about the case. Moorman, he was fairly well convinced, had not the least suspicion of his employer’s guilt, and the inspector was sure that he had said nothing to make him suspect. Indeed, he could hardly have done so; for only since he last saw the man had he himself begun to suspect Woodman.
Now, accordingly, Inspector Blaikie, watching for an opportunity when he was certain that Carter Woodman was not in his office, went to see Moorman. He asked for Woodman, and, receiving the answer that he was out, fell easily into conversation with the old clerk. It was quite casually that he asked after a while, “By the way, Walter Brooklyn was here on the day of the murders. You don’t happen to remember whether he had his walking-stick with him, do you?”
Moorman looked at him sharply, as if he realised that there
