A Mysterious Disappearance

Mensmore, of course, might in some way be bound up with the mystery surrounding Lady Dyke’s movements. His very utterance in Bruce’s room at the Hotel du Cercle implied as much. That was another matter. It would receive his (Bruce’s) most earnest attention. But the major hypothesis, so quickly jumped at by the police, needed much more substantiation than it had yet obtained.

That it was plausible was demonstrated by the barrister’s readiness to adopt it at the outset. Even now that his impulse to fasten the crime on Mensmore had weakened he wondered at his eagerness to defend him.

The detective was even more surprised.

“I don’t see how you can take that view,” he cried. “Corbett’s behavior is, to say the least, unaccountable. If he is an innocent man, then he must be a foolish one. Besides, why should he necessarily be innocent? This is the first gleam of light we have had in a very dark business, and I mean to follow it up.”

The vindictive emphasis of his tone showed that the detective was annoyed at the other’s impassive attitude. He even went so far as to dimly evolve a theory that the barrister wished to throw him off Corbett’s trail on account of his sympathy for Mrs. Hillmer, but Claude rapidly dispelled this notion.

“You are here, I suppose, to ask my advice in pursuance of our understanding that we are working together in the matter, as it were?” he said.

“Well, something of the kind, sir.”

“Then I recommend that we see the inside of that closed flat in Raleigh Mansions at the earliest moment.”

“Do you mean by a search warrant?”

“Certainly not. Do you want the whole neighborhood to know of it? You have probably heard of locks being picked before to-day. You and I, and none other, must have a quiet look around the place without anyone being the wiser.”

Mr. White hesitated, but the prospect was attractive. “I think I can manage it,” he said, smiling reflectively. “Will six this evening suit?”

“Admirably.”

“Then I will call for you.”

After a parting glance at Smith, who returned it, nose in air, the inspector ran down the stairs, murmuring, “Blest if I can understand Mr. Bruce. But this is a good move. We may learn something.”

CHAPTER XIV

NO 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS

When the door of Corbett’s or Mensmore’s flat swung open before the skilful application of a skeleton key, a gust of cold air swept from the interior blackness, and whirled an accumulation of dust down the stairs.

It is curious how a disused house seems to bottle up, as it were, an atmospheric accumulation which always seeks to escape at the first available moment. Emptiness is more than a mere word; it has life and the power of growth. A residence closed for a week is less depressing than if it has not been inhabited for a month. If the period of neglect be lengthened into a year, the sense of dreariness is magnified immeasurably.

In this instance, the mysterious abode might have been the abiding-place of disembodied spirits, so cold was its aspect, so uninviting the dim vista that sprung into uncertain vision under the flickering rays of a wax vesta struck by the detectives.

But neither the policeman nor his companion was a nervous subject.

They entered at once, closed the door by its latch, and, aided by other matches, found the switch of the electric light.

In this brighter radiance the indefinable vanished. The flat became a cosy, fairly well appointed bachelor’s “diggings,” neglected and untidy, yet not without a semblance of comfort, which only needed the presence of a sturdy housemaid and a fire to be converted into the ordinary chambers with which the locality abounds.

Their first care was to draw down all the blinds, the neglect of which housewifely proceeding argued the careless departure of a mere male when the place was vacated.

A rapid preliminary survey followed, and drew from Bruce the remark:

“Furnished by a woman, but occupied by a man.”

Mr. White agreed, but he didn’t know why, so he put a tentative question on the point.

“Don’t you see,” said Bruce, “that the carpets match the upholstery of the furniture, that the beds have valances, that the spare bedroom for a guest is even more elaborate than that used by the tenant, that care has been taken in fitting up the kitchen, and taste displayed in the selection of pieces of bric-a-brac? Only a woman attends to these things. On the other hand, a card tray has been used as a receptacle for a cigar ash, the pictures – no woman ever buys a picture – have been picked up promiscuously from shops where they sell sporting prints, and the sides of the mantelpieces are chipped by having feet propped against them. There are plenty of other signs, but these suffice.”

Thenceforth the two men devoted themselves to their task, each after his kind.

The representative of Scotland Yard hunted for documents, photographs, torn envelopes; he looked at the covers of books to see if they were inscribed; he opened every drawer, ransacked every corner, peered into the interior of jars, pots, and ovens; appraised the value of furniture, noted its age, and was specially zealous in studying the appearance of the only bedroom which had been occupied so far as he could judge.

Bruce, having given a casual glance around, entered the sitting-room, selected the most comfortable chair, and proceeded to envelope himself in smoke.

He had not spent two minutes in Mensmore’s flat before he made a striking discovery.

The dwelling consisted of a central passage, dividing two equal portions from the other. That on the right contained a drawing-room and a large bedroom, with dressing-room attached. On the left were another bedroom, a dining-room, a kitchen, and a store-room. At the end of the passage, which terminated in the transverse corridor, were the bathroom, a pantry, and a small room, empty now, but apparently designed for a servant’s bedroom.

The furniture, as has been stated, was good in quality and sufficient for its purposes. But the fact which immediately impressed this skilled observer was that the arrangement of the sitting-room differed essentially from the other details of the flat.

The same care had not been taken in the disposition of the articles. They had been dumped down anyhow, without taste or regard for suitable position. The carpet had not been bought for this special apartment like the carpets elsewhere. A handsome ebony cabinet stood in the wrong place. The blue china ornaments obviously intended to fill its shelves were littered about the mantelpiece or on small tables, while the Satsuma ware meant for the over-mantel was stiffly disposed on the cabinet.

Small matters these, but Bruce thought them more fruitful of accurate theory than the detective’s hunt for a written history of the crime!

So, as he smoked, he mused and examined.

“The drawing-room was the last place to be furnished,” he thought. “The usual course. It remained empty for some time probably. The rest of the flat was arranged by a woman – Mrs. Hillmer in all likelihood – before the arrival of her brother. Then he came and tackled the vacant room. The history of the place is as plain as though I were present. More than that, a woman – Mrs. Hillmer again, let us say – fixed upon these latter purchases, but without measurements. She did not personally see to their adaptability, and she certainly did not supervise their final arrangement. Now, why was that? Again, these things are more worn than those in the other rooms. Were they bought second-hand? If so, why? A woman thinks most of her drawing-room. It is the last place in which she would economize.”

Mr. White entered, anxious and puzzled.

“Found anything?” inquired Claude, without looking at him.

“Not a rag, not a piece of old newspaper with a date on it. A lot of papers were burned in the kitchen grate, but from the remnants I judge that they were mostly bills.”

“The place has been systematically cleared, eh?”

“It looks like it.”

“Going to hunt here?”

“Yes. You don’t seem to take much interest in the premises, Mr. Bruce, though you persuaded me to do a bit of house-breaking in order to get here.”

“I find the quietude good for thought, Mr. White. Be good enough not to make more noise than is absolutely necessary.”

The other sniffed. He was disappointed. He hoped for something tangible from this visit, and the outlook was far from promising.

“This room appears to have been lived in a good deal,” he growled.

“That is one way of looking at it.”

“Is there any other way?” His voice snapped out the question as if he held the barrister personally responsible for his failure to gain a clue.

“No, Mr. White, I should have guessed your point of view exactly.”

“My point of view, indeed! Do you want me to draw up another chair and light a pipe? Should we be enlightened by tobacco smoke?”

“I cannot trust your tobacco. Try a cigar.”

The detective angrily thumped a Chesterfield lounge to see if it betrayed aught suspicious.

At that instant Bruce’s glance rested on the fireplace. The grate contained the ashes of a fire, – a fire not long lighted. This, combined with the undrawn blinds, argued a departure early in the morning.

“He went to Monte Carlo by the day Channel service,” mused Bruce. “He may have departed a few hours after Lady Dyke’s death, as Mrs. Hillmer was not certain as to the exact date.”

Somehow the few cinders attracted him. They had, perchance, witnessed a tragedy.

Suddenly he stopped smoking. He was so startled by something he had seen that the policeman must have noticed his agitation were not the detective at that instant intently screwing his eyes to peer behind the back of the elaborate cabinet.

On the hearth was a handsome Venetian fender. Into each end was loosely socketed a beautifully moulded piece of ironwork to hold the fire-irons. That on the left was whole, but from that on the right a small spike had been broken off.

By comparison with its fellow the missing portion was identical with the bit of iron found imbedded in the skull of the murdered woman. Of this damning fact Bruce had no manner of doubt, though the incriminatory article itself was then locked in a drawer in his own residence.

He did not move. He sat as one transfixed.

What a weapon for such a deed! Was ever more outlandish instrument used with murderous intent? The entire bracket could easily be detached from the fender, and would, no doubt, inflict a terrible blow. But why seize this clumsy device when it actually supported a heavy brass poker?

The thing savored of madness, of the wild vagary of a homicidal maniac. It was incomprehensible, strange beyond belief.

Yet as Bruce pictured the final scene in that tragedy, as he saw the ill-fated lady stagger helplessly to the ground before a treacherous and crushing stroke, a fierce light leaped into his face, and his lips set tight with unflinching purpose.

Had Mensmore been within reach at that moment he would assuredly have been lodged in a felon’s cell forthwith. No excuse, no palliation, would be accepted. The man who could so foully slay a gentle, kindly, high-minded woman deserved the utmost rigor of the law, no matter what the circumstances that led to the commission of the crime.

It was not often that Bruce allowed impulse to master reason so utterly.

In strange altruistic mood he asked himself why he did not spring from his chair, and, tearing the bracket from its supports, exhibit it to his fellow-worker, while he gave, in a few passionate sentences, the information that would set the French police to scour the Mediterranean littoral until they found the White Heather. Of what matter to him was the suffering of a sister or sweetheart? Did the man who killed Lady Dyke reck of these things? Yes, he would do it —

But a cry of triumph from the detective arrested the fateful words even as they trembled on his lips. “Here’s a find!” was the shout. “Thinking is all very well, Mr. Bruce, but hard work is better. What do you make of that?”

“That” was a letter, which, in the manner known to many a puzzled householder, had slipped down behind a drawer in the cabinet, to be crushed against the wardrobe at the back, and lie there forgotten and unnoticed.

Even in his perturbed state the barrister could not help glancing at the crumpled document, first noting the date, October 15th of the year just closed, with the superscription, “Mountain Butts, Wyoming.” There was no envelope.

It was addressed to “Dear Bertie,” and ran as follows:

“Your welcome note and its draft for fifty dollars came to hand last week. My sisters and I can never forget your generosity. We know you are hard up, and that you can ill spare these frequent gifts, or loans, as you are pleased to call them. You and I have been in many a tight place, old chap, and I never knew you to fail either with hand or heart. And when we drifted into this ranch, on my advice, and nearly starved to death, it was you who were bold enough to cut yourself adrift so that you might make something to keep the pot boiling.

“But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this time I will try not to be too sanguine. There have been big gold discoveries in this country. It is now firmly believed that all our land is auriferous, and the scoundrel who sold us this beggarly ranch has tried to upset our title. Thanks to your foresight, he was knocked out at the first round. So I may soon have big news for you. By Jove, won’t it be a change if we both become rich! And won’t we all have a time in Paris! However, I must not promise too much. I have been taught caution by repeated failures. Write by return, and say if this reaches you all right.

“Your faithful friend,“Sydney H. Corbett.”

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, when Bruce had slowly mastered the contents of the letter.

“Think! I am too dazed to think.”

“We can now learn all about him from America.”

“About whom?”

“About Corbett, of course.”

“Then did Corbett travel by the same mail as this letter in order to murder Lady Dyke? It is dated October 15th, and she was killed November 6th. It takes twelve days, at the quickest, for a letter to come here from Wyoming. And Corbett, the writer of it, not the receiver, must have travelled in the same steamer, or its immediate successor.”

Mr. White’s face fell, but he stuck to his point:

“Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have seen the secretary to the company that owns these flats. Corbett took the rooms for six months from September first. When asked for references he gave his sister’s name, and as she banks with the National – and she has always paid her rent for five years – it was good enough. Still, I must confess that Corbett could hardly be in Wyoming in October if he lived here in September and in November.”

The barrister answered between his set teeth: “Yes, it is rather puzzling.”

“Perhaps the letter was left there as a plant.”

“An elaborate one. It must have been conceived a month before the murder.”

“But suppose it never came from Wyoming. We have no proof that it was written in America.”

“We have proof of nothing at present.”

“Well, Mr. Bruce, have you a theory? This is the place where you ought to shine, you know.”

“I have no theory. I must think for hours, for days, before I see my way clear.”

“Clear to what, sir.”

“To telling you how, when, and where to arrest the murderer of Lady Dyke.”

“So this find of mine is of great importance?”

“Undoubtedly. I remember its contents sufficiently, but you will let me see it again if necessary?”

“With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You never returned that small bit of iron to me. You recollect I lent it to you some time since.”

“Perfectly. Come with me. I will model it in wax and give it to you.”

“All right, sir; but as we are here I may as well continue my search. I may drop on something else of value.”

Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the detective had completely rummaged the cabinet. The reading of that queer epistle from Corbett to “Bertie” – from the real Simon Pure to the sham one – from one man to his double – had stopped him at the very threshold of disclosure.

The document impressed him as being genuine. If so, who on earth was Corbett, and why had Mensmore taken his name, if that was the solution of the tangle?

Whatever the explanation, he would not jump to a conclusion. The web had closed too securely round Mensmore to allow of escape. Hence, Bruce could bide his time. Another week might solve many elements in the case now indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.

The detective finally satisfied himself there was nothing else in the cabinet. He approached the fireplace, peered into every vase on the over-mantel, picked with his penknife at the back of the frame to feel for other letters, and in doing so several times kicked the fender.

The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of method would note the missing portion of the iron “dog.”

“Surely,” he thought, “he will see it now,” as Mr. White bent to examine the ashes, and actually took the poker from the very support itself in order to rake among the cinders.

The other even scrutinized the fire-irons, but the too obvious fact that, so to speak, stared him in the face, escaped notice. He was quite wrapped up in his theory that Lady Dyke had been killed at Putney, and not in Sloane Square.

At last he quitted the room, and walked off to the small apartments at the end of the main corridor.

Instantly Bruce sprang forward, fell on his knees, and intently examined the iron rest with a strong lens. It bore no unusual signs in the locality of the break. Taking some wax from his pocket, he took a slight impression of the fracture.

When Mr. White returned, he found the barrister sitting in his chair, still smoking, and with set face and fixed eyes.

Soon afterwards they quitted the flat, carefully leaving all things as they found them. They said little on their way to Victoria Street, for Bruce was trying to explain Mensmore’s attitude at Monte Carlo, and the detective was considering the best use to which he could put that all-important letter.

Besides, Mr. White attributed his companion’s silence to annoyance. Had not he, White, laid hands on the only direct piece of evidence yet discovered as to Corbett’s identity, and this in defiance of Bruce’s spoken philosophy? He could afford to be generous and not to worry his amateur colleague with questions.

Thus they reached the barrister’s chambers. Bruce asked the other to sit down for a moment while he obtained a model of the small lump of iron. He took it into his bedroom, fitted in into the wax impression obtained at Raleigh Mansions, and noted that the two coincided perfectly.

He handed the bit of iron to White without comment.

The latter said: “It had better remain in my keeping now, sir, but if you want to see it again, of course I will be glad – ”

“I shall never want it again,” said Bruce, and his voice was harsh and cold, for he had seldom experienced such a strain as the last hours had given him. “It is an accursed thing. It has caused one death already, and may cause others.”

“I sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged,” cried the detective, “for this affair is the warmest I have ever tackled. However, I’ll get him, as sure as his name’s Corbett, if he has forty aliases and as many addresses.”

Smith let Mr. White out. The latter, halting for a moment at the door, said quietly, “Is your name Corbett?”

“No, it ain’t, any more than yours is Black. See?”

Each man thought he had had his joke, so they were better friends thenceforth, but Mr. White was thoughtful as he passed into the street.

“This is a funny business,” he communed. “There isn’t enough evidence against Corbett to hang a cat, yet I think he’s the man. And Bruce is a queer chap. Was he cut up about me finding the letter, or has he got some notion in his head. He’s as close as an oyster. I wonder if he did dine at Hampstead on the evening of the murder, as he said at the inquest? I must inquire into it.”

CHAPTER XV

MRS. HILLMER HESITATES

“I wonder if I shall have such exciting times to-day as I had yesterday,” said Bruce to himself, as he unfolded his Times next morning at breakfast.

Affairs had so jumbled themselves together in his brain the previous evening that he had abandoned all effort to elucidate them. He retired to rest earlier than usual, to sleep soundly, save for a vivid dream in which he was being tried for his life, the chief witnesses against him being Mrs. Hillmer, Phyllis Browne, and Jane Harding, the latter varying her evidence by entertaining the Court with a song and dance.

The weather, too, had improved. It was clear, frosty, and sunlit – one of those delightful days of winter that serve as cheerful remembrances during periods of seemingly interminable fog overhead and slush beneath.

During a quiet meal he read the news, and, with the invaluable morning smoke, settled himself cosily into an armchair to consider procedure.

In the first place he carefully weighed those utterances of Mensmore at Monte Carlo, which he could recall, and which seemed by the light of later knowledge, to bear upon the case.

Mensmore had alluded to “family troubles,” to “worries,” and “anxieties,” that practically drove him from England.

Some of these, no doubt, referred to the Springbok speculation. Others, again, might have meant Mrs. Hillmer or some other presently unknown relative. But in Mensmore’s manner there was nothing that savored of a greater secrecy than the natural reticence of a gentleman in discussing domestic affairs with a stranger.

This man had practically been snatched from death. At such a moment it was inconceivable that he could cloak the remorse of a murderer by the simulation of more honorable motives, in themselves sufficiently distressing to cause him deliberately to choose suicide as the best way of ending his difficulties.

The policeman had summarized the testimony against Corbett as insufficient to curtail the remarkable powers of endurance of a cat. But to Bruce the case against Mensmore, alias Corbett, stood in clearer perspective. Now that he calmly reasoned the matter he felt that the balance of probabilities swung away from the hypothesis that Mensmore was the actual slayer of Lady Dyke, and towards the theory that he was in some way bound up with her death, whether knowingly or unknowingly it was at present impossible to say.

The new terror to Bruce was Mr. White.

“Why, if that animated truncheon knew what I know of this business he would arrest Mensmore forthwith. If he did, what would result? A scandal, a thorough exposure, possibly the ruin of Mensmore’s love-making if he be an innocent man. That must be stopped. But how, without forewarning Mensmore himself? – and he may be guilty. Chance may favor White, as it favored me, in disclosing the identity of the missing Corbett. And what of the real Corbett? What on earth has he got to do with it, and why has Mensmore taken his name? If ever I get to the bottom of this business I may well congratulate myself. The sole result of all my labor thus far may be summed up in a sentence – I have not yet come face to face with the man whom I can honestly suspect as Lady Dyke’s murderer. Not much, my boy!”

Claude uttered the last sentence aloud, startling Smith, who was clearing the table.

“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Smith.

“Oh, nothing. I was only expressing an opinion.”

“I thought, perhaps, sir, you was thinkin’ of Mr. White.”

“What of him?”

“Your remark, sir, hexactly hexpresses my hopinion of ’im.”

Smith was not a badly educated man, but the least excitement produced an appalling derangement of the letter “h” in his vocabulary.

“Mr. White is a sharp fellow in his own way, Smith.”

“Maybe, but why should ’e come pokin’ round ’ere pryin’ into your little affairs-deecur?”

“My what?”

“Sorry, sir, but that’s what a French maid I once knew called ’em. Flirtations, sir. Mashes.”

“Smith, have you been drinking?”

“Me, sir?”

“Well, explain yourself. I never flirted with a woman in my life.”

“That’s what I told ’im, sir. ‘My master’s a regular saint,’ says I, ‘a sort of middle-aged ankyrite.’ But Mr. White ’e wouldn’t ’ave it at no price. ‘Come now, Smith,’ says ’e, ‘your guv’nor’s pretty deep. ’E’s a toff, ’e is, an’ knows lots of lydies – titled lydies.’ ‘Very like,’ says I, ‘but ’e doesn’t mash ’em.’ ‘Then what price that lydy who called for ’im in a keb afore ’e went away? An’ who’s ’e gone to Monte Carlo with?’ This was durin’ your absence, sir.”