Triumph For Inspector West

shoe.”

“Why, that is terrible,” Raeburn said, and it sounded like a song of triumph.

“Whether Melville got the cyanide to him, whether it was murder or suicide, I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Roger said, bleakly. “I do know that Raeburn’s story will stand up in court, now. We still can’t charge him.”

That afternoon, Joe volunteered a statement. In it War- render was shown as the man who had hired him to commit all his crimes—against Katie Brown and against Brown himself.

Their only remaining hopes were Tenby and Eve. Whatever Eve knew, she could not be forced into the witness box; so Tenby, still at Reading, was the one hope.

That afternoon, Tenby was rushed to the Royal Berkshire Hospital, but died before he got there—of morphine poisoning.

CHAPTER XXV

THE TRUTH ABOUT JOE

 

GET ME Reading Police Headquarters,” Roger ordered, soon after he heard of Tenby’s death, and put the receiver down. “I think I’ve got a line, sir,” he said to Chatworth, very quietly. “Tenby came out of Raeburn’s flat carrying a box of chocolates, and I always thought that was odd. I’ll ask Reading to find that box; it’s probably at the cottage. If the post-mortem shows chocolate and morphine in the stomach, we can act.”

“You’d still have to prove that Raeburn poisoned them.”

“Even proving he bought or could have touched them will be a help. He might have fingered the box, too; and one fragmentary print on one chocolate would do the trick. We know he’s our man; all we need is a break to push him over.”

The telephone bell rang.

“Excuse me, sir . . . Oh, yes, Turnbull.”

Roger listened to Turnbull, who was obviously in one of his rare moments of excitement.

“Now I’ve got something for you,” he said. “I’ve traced Ma Beesley’s eldest son.” There was a long pause and Roger could have shouted at him. “A gentleman named Joe,” he finished, gloatingly.

“Joe!”

“Joe,” Turnbull crowed. “He deserted from the Army, and has been dodging about the East End for years. And I’ve got something even better.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“Couldn’t I? This Joe’s been in touch with Ma Beesley—a landlady at the house he stayed at described her to a T. They’ve met within the last month.”

“I’m going to see Joe, right away,” said Roger, softly. “And pray for results from the p.m. on Tenby.”

The post-mortem report came through an hour later: Roger read it with increasing excitement. There was chocolate in Tenby’s stomach, with a strong concentration of morphine.

The box of chocolates had been found in his luggage, and each chocolate analysed; several contained morphine which had been injected into them.

“Get every chocolate tested for prints,” urged Roger. “Get every one photographed and blown up; we’ve got to get a fingerprint.”

Raeburn stayed in Reading until Eve was taken away from The King’s Arms by the police. On the return journey he looked very grave, and when he reached Park Lane, he found newspapermen and photographers waiting. After he had faced the battery of flashlights, and been asked for an interview, he shook his head slowly.

“I’m sorry, boys. This has been a gruelling time for me, and I’d rather not say anything just now.” He resisted all their pressure, waved his hat, gave rather a melancholy smile, and went up in the lift.

Ma Beesley opened the door of the flat.

“Welcome back, Paul,” she said, and stood aside for him to pass. She showed her ugly teeth in a grin as she closed the door. “Maud’s out,” she went on, “so we’re here on our own. Everything’s all right, then?”

The grave look had vanished from Raeburn’s face. He was grinning, and with almost boyish glee took her face between his hands, and kissed her soundly. “Everything’s fine, Ma! We’re going to get away with it, thanks to you and Abel.”

“Abel’s decided not to come and see us for a day or two,” Ma told him, and watched him very carefully. “There’s only one thing I don’t get, Paul. How did you manage to kill Tenby?”

“He was too fond of chocolates,” Raeburn gloated. “I gave him a big box before he left here, with doped ones in the bottom layer. I knew he wouldn’t eat them until he got to the cottage.”

Ma said: “Very smart, I agree, but supposing he’d eaten the doped ones too soon ?”

“Would it really have mattered?” asked Raeburn. “The police would have felt sure he was murdered; now they think it was suicide—that’s the only difference. I wanted him dead, and wanted Warrender to attack Eve. He was close on her heels, and even if she’d found Tenby dead, Warrender would have gone in to kill her; the police were bound to be at hand to catch him red-handed—as they did.”

“Supposing he had killed her, Paul?”

“As you’d telephoned West and warned him to watch Eve, I didn’t think there was much risk,” said Raeburn, carelessly. “If he had—” he shrugged. “Oh, forget it. You’ve done magnificently, Ma, a lot of credit’s due to you.”