The Case of the Black Twenty-Two

by

Brian Flynn

Grosset & Dunlap

New York

First published in the United States, January, 1929

Second printing, February, 1929

Copyright, 1929, by Macrae Smith Company

Contents

CHAPTER I.
Mr. Daventry Receives a Commission

The fact that it was an unusually sunny morning for an English summer day had not put Peter Daventry in the mood that it undoubtedly should have done. A riotous evening—during which he had dined not wisely but too well with a number of men who had been at Oxford with him—is not perhaps the best preparation for work on the following day, and Peter heartily cursed the relentless and inexorable fate that had made him junior partner of “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Solicitors.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window of his room, gazing disconsolately at the street below.

“Cornhill!” he muttered. “And it might be anywhere else for all it means to me, or for all I care. It’s a dull old world nowadays and devilish difficult to get thrills out of a business like this. After a night with the lads it gets me ‘on the raw’ more than ever.”

He looked down at London scurrying and hurrying. Men, women, young and old, treading their way quickly, decisively and imperturbably on the various errands and ventures that Life had chosen for them. “Poor devils!” he thought. “Day in and day out the same old grind! I sometimes wonder how they stand it. I certainly don’t know how I do.” He walked back to the chair by his desk, carefully selected a cigarette and pressed the bell.

A middle-aged, black-coated clerk appeared in the doorway.

“You rang, Mr. Daventry? You want me?”

“Oh, no, Plunkett! Not for a moment! What on earth gave you that extraordinary idea?”

“The bell——” He indicated the table with a sort of hopeless resignation.

“Merely a matter of ‘physical jerks’ on my part, Plunkett. I’ve been standing on my head on the desk, and in the process I inadvertently butted the bell and caused you——”

Plunkett smiled feebly. He was the kind of man that always did—thirty-five years’ service for the firm had made him afraid to do anything too vigorously—even to a smile. But he knew Peter Daventry and knew his little whims and ways—“he will have his little joke,” he would inform his friends and acquaintances, “and till he’s had it, it’s best to lie low and keep quiet.” It will be observed, therefore, that he had not encountered “Brer Rabbit.”

“You wanted——?”

“This morning’s post, Plunkett! Neither more nor less! Stay though—when you bring it in, you might also bring me all the papers and correspondence relating to the Langley Case.” He drew at his cigarette and watched the smoke rising. Then smiled. “Breach of promise is a God-send, Plunkett! Manna from the heights of Heaven.”

Plunkett stared at him it might be said, sorrowfully—and withdrew unobtrusively. At his second appearance he placed the unopened letters and the required papers on Peter’s desk.

“Thank you, Plunkett!”

“Thank you, Mr. Daventry. Mr. Linnell asked me to tell you he would like to see you in his room as soon as possible, sir. At your convenience that is to say, sir.”

Peter ran the paper-knife along the back of an envelope and nodded acquiescence. “All right, Plunkett. Tell Mr. Linnell I’ll blow along to him shortly.”

Mr. Merryweather, the founder of the firm, had been gathered to his fathers seven years before the date of the opening of this history; but his name had been retained. As Peter remarked to his more intimate friends, “the name of ‘Merryweather’ had a cheerful ring about it and therefore was worth keeping!”

David Linnell was a medium-sized, clean-shaven, spare man of fifty-eight years. He had been born in Lancashire and was a firm believer in the men of the Red Rose. He fully subscribed to the theory that “what Manchester thinks to-day—the rest of the world thinks to-morrow.” In conjunction with the departed Merryweather, he had built up an eminently satisfactory business in London, had attracted to it a sound and rapidly-growing “clientèle,” and when the question arose of Peter Daventry coming in as a partner, he had seen with all a Northerner’s shrewdness and acumen that this young Oxonian would bring to the firm new business and new clients from a hitherto unexplored source.

“Good morning, Peter!” he said as Daventry entered his room.

“Good morning! Plunkett tells me you want to see me.”

Mr. Linnell looked up from his seat and motioned Peter to a chair beside him.

“Sit down, Peter! And listen attentively! Ever heard of Laurence P. Stewart?” Peter had, and said so immediately.

“Naturally! The American millionaire you mean, I presume?”

“The same. Know anything about him—anything special?”

Peter thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I do—beyond what all the world knows. Made his money first in Chicago and afterwards on Wall Street—I fancy he’s a widower.”

“Quite right. With one son—about two and twenty. I’ll tell you more! About three months ago Stewart came to England. At the time Assynton Lodge was in the market. He bought it and, I believe, paid a pretty stiff figure for it. It’s a very fine place—not very far from Wantage—and right in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. I understand that he intends spending the remainder of his days in this country.”

“Don’t think I should, if I had his money,” contributed Peter. “Still—there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. What’s his pet ambition—to win the Derby or become an O. B. E.?”

“Neither,” replied Linnell a trifle testily. “But your question, flippant though it may have been, brings me to his association with this conversation of ours this morning.” He leaned forward to pick up a letter from the desk in front of him. Then turned again towards his partner. “He has one overpowering interest in life. He is a collector——”

“Horrible word,” interrupted Peter. “Makes me think of Rates and Income Tax.”

“He is a collector,” repeated the elder man, ignoring the interruption. “For many years now, his one hobby has been his priceless and almost unique collection of articles of what may be termed, paramount historical interest and association.”

Peter began to show signs of increased attention. This sounded better! Linnell continued. “I am informed, from a source that is certainly above reproach, that Stewart is the proud possessor of over two thousand articles of great historical significance. He claims to include in his—er Museum—if I may so describe it—a Musk-Ball used by Henry VIII for instance. He has a peculiar passion it seems for objects that are supposed to have Royal associations! Which last fact brings me to the Mary, Queen of Scots business!”

Peter raised his eyebrows—then helped himself to his third cigarette. “We’re apparently moving in exalted circles,” he ventured.

“And a great compliment to us, as a firm—Peter. But I will proceed. If he may be said to have a passion for collecting these objects that I have mentioned of Royal association—then I can tell you that he has a perfect mania—an overwhelming obsession would be perhaps a happier phrase—for anything connected with Mary, Queen of Scots.” He paused. Then looked at Peter. “Laurence P. Stewart, Peter! Note the name—he has got it into his head—or had it put there possibly—that he is a legitimate descendant of that ill-fated lady. Every relic of hers at all possible of acquisition—he acquires. Now look at this letter.”

He pushed the letter that he had picked up from his table, across to Peter.

“Read it!” he said authoritatively.

Peter obeyed the instruction with more than ordinary alacrity.

Assynton Lodge,

Assynton, Berkshire,

June 7th, 192–.

Sir,

I am a man of few words. Your firm has been highly recommended to me by Colonel Leach-Fletcher, for whom you have acted many times in the past in matters of extreme discretion. He speaks in the highest possible terms of your integrity and efficiency. For reasons of my own I wish you to act for me at the Sale taking place on the 10th inst. at “Day, Forshaw and Palmers’.” You will purchase for me the articles scheduled in their catalogue as follows:

(No. 37) “Collar of Pearls.”

(No. 38) “Antique Tapestry Fire-screen.”

(No. 39) “Rosary of Amber Beads.”

“all having been indisputably the property of Mary, Queen of Scots.”

The purchases completed, you will bring them or cause them to be brought to the above address at your earliest convenience, when your own account will be settled by

Yours faithfully,

Laurence P. Stewart.

David Linnell, Esq.,

Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.

Peter looked up at his companion. “H’m,” he remarked, “seems to know what he wants. No limit I suppose, as to price?”

“None! As far as I can see! He simply says, ‘You will purchase——’ ” Peter glanced at the letter again.

“And we charge him what we like!”

“Money’s no object to Stewart, Peter,” replied Linnell. “If he’s set his mind upon getting the three articles in question—nothing short of a miracle will stop him.”

“Why is he employing a firm of solicitors for a job of this kind?” asked Peter.

“Can’t say! But I suggest Colonel Leach-Fletcher has impressed him that we are thoroughly ‘safe and sound’—and he’s out taking no risks.”

“Very possibly you’re right,” Peter commented. “I certainly can’t think of any other reason. Have you seen a catalogue of the sale?”

“I’ve sent for one. Immediately upon receipt of this letter! Collins has gone round to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ offices. He should be back very shortly!”

Peter walked to the window and looked out.

“Here is Collins,” he said, turning to his senior, “with catalogue complete.”

In a few minutes they were examining it. It was headed as follows:

“At Messrs. Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ Rooms,

The Hanover Galleries, W.1.

On Friday, June 10th, 192–, at one o’clock

precisely.

Sale of Old English and French Furniture,

Pictures, Porcelain, Jewelry, and

Objects of Art,

Formerly the property of Lord Clavering,

deceased, late of Clavering Court,

Warwickshire.”

Linnell and Peter ran their eyes down its contents. They were many and varied. Linnell read them quickly. “A William and Mary Marqueterie Walnut Cabinet, a Chippendale Wine-Cooler, a pair of Boulle Cabinets of Regency Design, Portraits by Hoppner, Paintings by De Ribera, Romney, Van Der Velde and Sir Peter Lely, Derby and Nantgarw Porcelain, Chinese Porcelain of the Sung and Ming periods, Jewelry, a Cromwellian chalice with the Hull hall-mark, a George II octofoil salver, a Georgian Epergne, an unusually large King’s Pattern service, several Sèvres vases—here we are, Peter, 37, 38 and 39 . . . h’m—h’m . . . exactly as described by our client in his letter.” He looked up from the catalogue.

Peter pointed to a sentence at the end of the list. “May be viewed the two days preceding the Sale from 10 to 5 o’clock. That’s to-day and to-morrow. What do you say to me running along and having a glance at the particular stuff Stewart wants?”

“Just what I was on the point of suggesting, Peter. You’ve taken the very words from my mouth.”

“To-day or to-morrow?”

“Please yourself—but it’s a nice morning—why not take advantage of it—have an early lunch and pop up West afterwards?”

“A pleasing prospect,” exclaimed Peter. “Life seems a little brighter.”

Linnell smiled—then waved him away. “That’s settled then.”

He strolled back to his own room and looked at his watch. “Don’t see any just cause or impediment why I shouldn’t get along at once and see about that lunch,” he said to himself. “Plunkett!” He went to his door and called down the corridor.

“Yes, Mr. Daventry.” Plunkett appeared in the distance and laboriously made his way to answer to the call.

“I’m going out, Plunkett. Mr. Linnell will be here if anything should be wanted. That’s all. You needn’t trouble to come in.”

Plunkett bowed his understanding and reëntered his daily cell.

Once outside, Peter hailed a passing taxi. “Oxford Street,” he announced curtly. “The Violette.” It was where he habitually lunched whenever he happened to be in its vicinity. He made for his customary table and beamed upon the waiter who came forward solicitously.

Now Peter prided himself upon the quality of his gastronomic inclinations. He scanned the menu with a fine and fitting discrimination.

“A Dry Martini, Gustave.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Thick white soup, Sole au Colbert—and Roast Duck—that will do nicely to be getting on with.” He smiled in anticipatory relish. Gustave did likewise before disappearing. To appear again very quickly with the Dry Martini!

Peter raised it to his lips—after all Life wasn’t so very unsatisfactory when there was good food and welcome drink to be had. He sipped his cocktail appraisingly. The place was comparatively empty—it was early. At the next table sat a man and woman. They were talking eagerly and with much animation. The man was doing most of it, with the woman listening attentively and punctuating his remarks at rapid and regular intervals with a curious little vigorous inclination of her head. Peter fell to wondering about them—“a lower middle-class couple on a shopping expedition” was his verdict—arrived at simultaneously with the advent of Gustave and the soup. The fish quickly followed, and he was awaiting the coming of the “appetizing Aylesbury” as he termed it to himself when a familiar voice broke on his ears.

“Hullo, Daventry! What’s brought you up this end so early in the morning?”

Peter looked up. Then he grinned cheerfully.

“Sit down, Marriott! An unexpected pleasure!”

The newcomer sank into the proffered seat, and languidly stretched out a hand for the menu. Peter had met him several times in the Law Courts and had dined with him two or three times recently.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Marriott. “What brings you up here at this time of day?”

“Business, my boy, purely business. Give Gustave your order.”

Marriott smiled, rattled off his desires, and turned again to Peter.

“Glad to see an improvement in you. The other day you were talking about ‘chucking’ it all and going out to ‘God’s own Country’ or somewhere.”

“Wish I could, Marriott, but I can’t. I’m afraid the improvement about which you are babbling so delightfully will be short-lived. These peas are really excellent—you’ll enjoy them!”

“Good! Any news of importance?”

“Only that the next Coal Strike is expected to last twenty-two years or thereabouts.”

“Really,” grinned Marriott. “Tell me something fresh. Say Queen Anne’s dead!”

Peter pushed back his plate with an air of complete satisfaction and made a reply that seemed to leap to his tongue without his brain having undergone any preliminary process of thinking. It seemed to be entirely spontaneous and at the same time to him as he sat there, peculiarly appropriate. It fitted in with the morning so happily.

“So’s Mary, Queen of Scots!” He blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling. As he spoke, there happened to be a lull pervading the whole room. A lull that was violently and almost instantaneously shattered! The man at the next table turned sharply as the words tingled through the air, and as he turned, with his body for the brief moment excitedly uncontrolled, his arm abruptly swept the cruet from the table to the floor.

Two waiters dashed heroically to the work of rescue and salvage. The culprit muttered a few words of apology. The lady was heard to remark something about the bad luck attendant upon spilling the salt, smiled upon the two diligent waiters, but flashed a quick look at her companion. It was a look that possessed more than one quality. It contained a suggestion of warning, a hint of rebuke and a touch of fierce annoyance. The man sat sullenly in his seat, and Peter’s eyes never left his face. For exactly what reason he didn’t quite know—he felt almost compelled to it. His senses seemed to be jingling a refrain to him. It rang repeatedly through his brain and its purpose was, “Well—I’m damned.” At the same time he tried to persuade himself that it was just an ordinary case of carelessness and that he had drawn liberally upon his imagination to connect the incident with the words he had used.

“What’s amiss, Daventry?” broke in Marriott, cutting his reverie abruptly short. “You look as though you have seen a ghost!”

Peter jerked himself back to the normal with a tremendous effort.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “That little incident surprised me—that was all.”

But his eyes strayed back to the other table, and as they did so the eyes of the man there met his and held them for a brief moment truculently and challengingly. The woman appeared to be urging her companion to do something that he apparently did not favor. He shook his head doubtfully, as though he were questioning the wisdom of what she said. Peter turned to Marriott. “I’ll be getting along now, if you don’t mind. Gustave! Bring me my bill! What’s the damage?”

“I’m nearly through myself,” responded Marriott. “I’m coming along too! Which way are you going?”

“Up West. And you aren’t, probably! Thank you, Gustave!”

“No! I’m bound in the other direction—you’ve said it! Cheerio!”

Peter waved a hand to his retreating figure and collected his change. As he did so, the couple from the other table made their way past his table on their journey out. The man was in front—the woman followed closely on his heels. As they passed, for some reason almost unknown to himself, Peter strained his ears to catch, if at all possible, any stray fragment of their conversation. He was successful. The woman was speaking in a low-toned voice, but it was not too low to carry to his ears.

“Take my advice,” Peter heard her say—“let’s go to-morrow—not to-day.”

“Can’t see it makes much difference”—her companion’s reply floated back to him. They passed down the restaurant—out of sight!

Peter rose to his feet and crammed his hat on his head.

“I’m a silly ass,” he said to himself. “Letting my imagination run riot—magnifying trivial incidents—giving way to distorted ideas.”

He hailed his second taxi-cab that day, and settled down comfortably. “Best thing I can do,” he thought, “is to go and have that look at those antiquities I’m going to buy on Friday.”

Wherein he erred—for he never bought them after all.

CHAPTER II.
Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39

When Peter entered the Galleries there were comparatively few people present. A knot of interested art-enthusiasts had gathered in front of a superb “Reynolds” dated 1765. It was described as the “Portrait of a Lady.” She held a lute in her hand and wore a satin dress cut low and edged with pearls. Although Peter was no expert in these matters, it did not take him long to realize that he was gazing at a masterpiece. But he passed on. The Galleries held other attractions that interested him more. Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39 were easily to be found. The three objects that had brought him to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ almost jostled each other on the left of the room as you entered. The screen stood on the floor, the Pearl Collar and Rosary lay on a small Sheraton Inlaid Mahogany side table right against it. Their only visible protection from covetous hands was a rail that barriered them from the public, about four feet high. But as Peter looked at the three things for which he had been commissioned by Mr. Laurence P. Stewart, he became acutely aware and very definitely conscious, that he in his turn was being watched. Two men of medium height were lounging near . . . their profession was obvious to him. He had come into contact with their kind too many times before in the course of his own business not to recognize them when he saw them. “Plain-clothes,” he told himself. He walked across to the barrier and took a close inspection of the objects in which he was interested. As he did so he fancied the two men edged a little more closely to him. But he realized, upon looking round, that with the exception of the men to whom reference has been made, he was the only person in that particular part of the room; hence their keener interest in his movements. “Hang it all,” he said to himself—“this shadowing business gets on my nerves—I’ll establish my ‘bona-fides.’ ”

He walked back to the entrance to the Galleries. A middle-aged man was superintending the transportation of what was evidently a valuable picture. He paused in his directions as Peter came up. “Anything I can do for you, sir?” Peter caught him by the arm.

“Yes. Look here! Here’s my card! I’m Daventry—of ‘Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.’ I want to examine items Nos. 37, 38 and 39 in the published catalogue of your sale on Friday.”

The man scratched his chin—thoughtfully. Then looked again at the proffered card.

“Young Mr. Forshaw’s here, sir. You’re Mr. Daventry, I think you said, sir.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll tell the young governor, sir! Can I say you’ve a mind to purchase?”

“Oh yes!” cut in Peter impetuously. “I’m representing my firm on behalf of a very——”

He checked himself—suddenly. It occurred to him that there was absolutely no need to mention Stewart’s name at this juncture and perhaps more than one excellent reason for withholding it. He thought of Stewart’s phrase concerning discretion.

“Very good, sir,” said the man. “I’ll bring young Mr. Forshaw along to you in half a minute.”

He was as good as his word. A young man bustled up, wiping his hands upon a duster.

“Mr. Daventry?” queried Forshaw. Peter bowed!

“You wished to have a look at something included in to-morrow’s sale? What is it exactly?”

“It’s not an ‘it,’ ” responded Peter jocularly. And then with scant regard for the inclination of the verb “to be”—“it’s a ‘them.’ ”

“More than one, sir?”

“To be precise—three—the numbers are 37, 38 and 39 in your catalogue.”

“Come this way.” He escorted Peter to the handrail from which he had so recently come. Then slipped underneath with ease and handed him the Collar and the Rosary. It was impossible for Peter to form any adequate idea of the value of either. His experience of jewels was very limited, and the Rosary appeared to him to possess little value apart from its historical association. However, for the sake of appearances he feigned to make a very careful study of each.

“Aren’t your people afraid of having some of these things stolen?” he ventured to Forshaw.

“We take certain precautions, Mr. Daventry,” was the answer. “Close watch is maintained all day and all night. Anybody attempting any ‘jiggery-pokery’ would get the surprise of his life.”

Peter glanced at the two representatives of the Law. They lounged in a corner. Forshaw followed the direction of his eyes and smiled. “Exactly! And well armed too!” He replaced the Pearl Collar and the Rosary as Peter handed them across to him. Then lifted up the screen and handed it over.

“I see that you advertise these three articles as having belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots,” remarked Peter.

“That is so!” replied Forshaw. “They formed part of the late Lord Clavering’s collection. Had been in his family, I believe, for over two hundred years. No doubt whatever on that point,” he concluded decisively.

Peter looked at the screen with some interest. It stood approximately from three and a half to four feet high he estimated—on a carved-wood pedestal. Upon the tapestry, which was covered with thick glass, he could see a number of brightly colored beads. They were, to all appearances, arranged in the form of letters. Peter inspected them carefully. Then quickly grasped their meaning. The beads formed words and the words were—

“JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND SAVIOUR.”

In the top left-hand corner of the tapestry was worked the Scots Queen’s Royal Lion and in the right could be discerned the “fleur-de-lis.” The corners at the bottom showed the Leopards and Lilies of England.

“Of more ornament than use, I’m afraid, Mr. Daventry,” said Forshaw with a smile.

“I agree.” He bent down to examine it more closely.

“I expect some pretty brisk bidding for that on Friday! Just the kind of thing to appeal to a collector of antiques.”

“I suppose so,” replied Peter. He handed it back to its temporary guardian.

“Thank you—Mr. Forshaw. I’m very much obliged to you, I’m sure, for showing me round as you have. I’ll be getting along now.”

Then he was suddenly impelled to ask a question. “I suppose a good many people have had a good look at these three articles already?”

“On the contrary—you’re the first, Mr. Daventry. That is, of course, up to the moment. They haven’t been on show very long.”

Peter shook hands and laughed. “My remarks seem to miss fire every time.”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon.” He passed by the middle-aged man at the entrance and pushed something into his hand. The man looked at it and smiled—then put his finger to his forehead in salute.

“Thank you, sir. You’re a gentleman. Still—there was no necessity——”

Peter waved a sympathetic hand and departed.

Half an hour later saw him back at the office in Cornhill.

“Well?” said Linnell as he entered the room, “everything satisfactory?”

Peter sat on the corner of the table and swung his leg.

“I went up there, as we arranged, and I had a look at the stuff we’ve been asked to get.” He paused.

“Yes?” interrogated Linnell. “What did you think of it?”

“Hard to say. The Pearl Collar is really magnificent, and the screen I should say will prove a tremendous attraction for the ‘genus’ collector—the species that we are deputed to represent—the Rosary, in my opinion, won’t fetch anything like so much.”

“H’m,” said Linnell reflectively. He traced a pattern on his blotting-paper with his pen. Then he looked up at his companion.

“Has it struck you, Daventry—that we may possibly be running a big risk over this business?”

Peter looked startled. “How do you mean?”

Linnell opened a drawer and handed over a letter. “Supposing that letter hadn’t come from Stewart; supposing that signature—purporting to be Stewart’s——was a forgery?”

Peter’s eyes opened even wider. “That’s interesting. Go on!”

Linnell from Lancashire went on. And emphasized his points with quick jerks of the head. “We are instructed to purchase! That is to say Stewart in no way restricts us. He mentions no limit. Supposing we pay, for argument’s sake, £25,000—thinking we’re acting for Stewart—and then Stewart repudiates ever having commissioned us! And then, after that, we find our £25,000 worth of stuff is worth say—only £15,000. Where are we then, Daventry? I’ve inflated the figures purposely.”

“Down the mine, Daddy,” declared Peter. “But what’s the Big Idea—who would ever——?”

“Who would? Seems to me Day, Forshaw and Palmers might find it a very healthy proposition,” replied Linnell.

“And that’s what you really think?” asked Peter incredulously.

“No—I don’t!” said Linnell grimly. “But I’m damned well going to find out.”

“How? Go and see Stewart?” Peter was all alertness now.

“No! I’ve telegraphed to him—this morning. The answer should be here at any moment! That should be sufficient.”

He looked at his watch.

Peter selected a cigarette—then handed his case to Linnell.

“Thanks! I don’t mind if I do.”

Before Peter had had time to take his eyes from the match with which he lit his companion’s cigarette——there was a tap at the door—Plunkett entered. Linnell tore open the telegram that was handed to him. Then he smiled. Peter looked over his shoulder. Then he smiled in his turn, and read aloud what he saw.

“Say! What the hell’s biting you—when I say Buy—then Buy. Got that? Stewart.”

That was the intelligent rendering of the message. A message which looked and sounded even cruder and terser in the unpunctuated word-arrangement of telegrams.

Linnell’s smile developed into a ringing laugh. “I’ve been barking up the wrong tree, after all, Peter. Still—one can’t be too careful. You’ll go along then on Friday and——”

Plunkett reappeared in the doorway. “Another telegram, sir.” Linnell looked surprised. Then read the second message.

“Say—you don’t look before you leap—you take a magnifying glass. Same name as before.”

“Mr. Stewart has a decided sense of humor,” commented David Linnell. “But I’d sooner he took liberties with my ‘amour propre’ than with my pocket.”

Peter laughed.

“Some people wouldn’t,” continued Linnell, determined to justify himself, “but I would. And even if he is a millionaire—to put four words where he could have used one—should have used one in fact, is just a piece of reckless and shameless waste—and that’s all there is to it.”

He turned to Daventry, proudly conscious that he was safeguarding an important principle.

“I think I’ll go myself and have a glance at the stuff to-morrow, Peter—after all he’s a millionaire—and business is business. Where did you lunch?”

“At the ‘Violette,’ ” was the reply. “And, by the by, whatever you do—don’t upset the cruet.”

“What do you mean?” Linnell looked at him curiously.

Peter recounted the incident that had occurred earlier in the day.

“Probably quite an accident,” he concluded, “and a coincidence—still it took my breath away, as it were, for just the moment.”

Linnell thought for a moment or two. “Probably nothing in it, Peter. You had the thing on your mind and were over-imaginative. What are you doing to-night? Anything special?”

“I’m dining at the Club. And I may have a rubber or two afterwards.”

“Good. I sha’n’t be in, in the morning. I may run down to Berkshire this evening, and in any case I’ll go straight on to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ first thing to-morrow. I’m really very anxious to see the actual objects of this extraordinary commission of ours!”

But just as Peter was destined never to buy them, so Linnell was fated not to see them on the morrow.

For when he arrived at Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ next morning he found a condition of extreme excitement and agitation. Detective-Inspector Goodall was in charge of the case—a case that had cost Day, Forshaw and Palmers Schedule Nos. 37, 38 and 39 in their sale catalogue, and their night-watchman his life. Linnell’s hand shook when he heard what had happened. The conviction came to him that he was connected with the affair. Acting upon a sudden impulse, he went in.

CHAPTER III.
The Hanover Galleries Murder

Just inside the room he was stopped. Two six-feet members of the Metropolitan Police barred his further entrance.

“Sorry, sir,” said one of them, “but our orders are to admit nobody.”

Linnell paused—then under the influence of a sudden idea—he produced his card.

“Give that to the Inspector who has the case in hand, will you?” he said; “it’s just possible I may be able to help him.” He looked straight at the officer.

“Very well, sir,” rejoined the latter. “I’ll see what I can do for you.” He spoke to his colleague. “You stay here—I’ll go and have a word with the Chief about this gentleman.”

He was soon back. “Detective-Inspector Goodall will see you, sir! This way, if you please!”

He piloted Linnell down the lengthy room. A group of men were standing at the far end. Goodall was in the center of the group. Linnell saw a clean-shaven man of medium height and stoutish build—dressed in a double-breasted blue serge suit. He awaited Linnell’s approach with uplifted eyebrows.

“Mr. Linnell?” he interrogated—quickly and decisively. “Of——?”

“Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Cornhill,” replied Linnell—to the point as always. “I am the senior partner of the firm.”

“You have important information for me, I understand,” cut in Goodall.

“Information,” corrected Linnell. “You must be the judge of its importance.”

“Well, I’m listening, Mr. Linnell. Go ahead!”

“Before I tell you what I know—would you, in your turn, be good enough to tell me if the rumors that are traveling round outside—are correct? Are you investigating a case of murder and robbery?”

“I am! A robbery has taken place here since shutting-up hours last evening—and a poor devil of a watchman been bashed on the head—he’s as dead as mutton. Where do you come in?”

“Maybe not at all, Inspector. But my firm had a rather peculiar commission entrusted to it yesterday in relation to the sale that was to have taken place here to-morrow. And it struck me when I heard——”

“Aren’t you a bit imaginative, Mr. Linnell?” demanded Goodall. “How could anything you—still—let’s hear all about it.”

“I was going to,” remonstrated Linnell mildly. “We were commissioned to buy three articles that were advertised as having belonged to Mary, Queen of——”

“What?” blazed Goodall. “The devil you were. They’re the only three articles we can trace to have been stolen. Who commissioned you?”

Although Linnell was really surprised at this announcement—yet in one way he was not. His mind seemed prepared for it—some sixth and subtle sense had been pounding at his brain ever since his arrival at this place that Stewart’s instructions and the tragedy that confronted him were in some manner connected with each other. It was the shadowy belief in this that had prompted him to try to interview the Inspector.

“Mr. Laurence P. Stewart of Assynton, Berkshire,” he replied quietly.

“The millionaire?” exclaimed a tall man from the group.

“Yes,” said Linnell.

“You know this man Stewart, Mr. Day?” asked Goodall, turning to the speaker.

“Only by reputation,” rejoined Day. “It’s the American millionaire—you must have heard of him, Inspector! Forshaw here, met him once or twice over in the States—I never have.”

“That’s so,” intervened Forshaw with a positive movement of the head. “I met him in New York a year or two after the War.”

“Go on, Mr. Linnell,” said the Inspector. “You said his instructions to your firm were ‘peculiar’—that was the adjective you used. I reckon you’ve some more to tell us.”

Here young Forshaw broke in. “The gentleman who called here yesterday—a Mr. Daventry—he was a representative of your firm, I think?”

“Quite correct,” affirmed Linnell. “My partner! My only partner, I should have said.”

Goodall swung round on to Forshaw Junior. “Called here yesterday? What about?” he grumbled in his deep voice.

“The Mary, Queen of Scots’ stuff.” Goodall looked a trifle annoyed.

“You didn’t tell me,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you?”

“I simply haven’t had a chance yet,” came the reply with just a hint of rebellious obstinacy, “you’ve been doing best part of the talking. I should have told you though before you’d finished.” Forshaw shrugged his shoulders.

Goodall glared—then reverted to Linnell. “Fire away, Mr. Linnell. What exactly were your instructions?”

“Yesterday morning I received a letter from the gentleman I just mentioned—Laurence P. Stewart—authorizing me to buy the three articles that you have just informed me have been stolen—er—numbers 37, 38 and 39 in the sale catalogue.”

“Well?” rapped Goodall—“I can’t see anything . . .”

Linnell went on. “The whole thing was peculiar in this respect. I was entirely unacquainted with the gentleman—the commission was right out of our usual type of business—no price was mentioned—I was given carte blanche—I know absolutely nothing about this particular species of—er—antiques—and what is more”—here he paused and looked Goodall straight in the eyes—“I had no absolute proof that the affair was genuine.”

Goodall nodded approvingly. “You took steps, of course, to——”

“I wired to Berkshire and the reply was satisfactory—at all events——”

“What reply did you get?” Goodall was showing signs of impatience.

“It came by telegram—you shall see it. It’s at my office.”

“You were satisfied?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“One little point, Mr. Linnell, before you proceed any farther. Why did Mr. Stewart select your firm to carry out this commission? Any idea?”

“He explained that in his letter. He said he had been told of us by a very respected and esteemed client of ours—a Colonel Leach-Fletcher.”

“Was that true?” demanded Goodall.

“Colonel Leach-Fletcher is a client of ours—certainly—I can say nothing as to the alleged recommendation. You can see the letter with the telegram.”

“I will. Anything else?”

“Not very much. The telegram reassured me—Mr. Daventry, my partner, came and had a look over here yesterday—and I had come with similar purpose this morning—only to find this trouble.”

“How did you know, Mr. Linnell?”—Goodall’s voice sounded very distinctly, almost as though he were launching an accusation—“that these three particular objects had been stolen? It seems to me——”

“I didn’t,” replied Linnell in an almost aggrieved manner. “I thought you understood that when I entered. I had no knowledge of it whatever. I only obeyed my instincts.”

“H’m,” grunted the Inspector. “Yes, Doctor?” This last remark was addressed to a gentleman who had come authoritatively down the room.

“The poor fellow’s quite dead, of course. Been dead, I should say, about eight hours when I examined him. Four particularly savage blows on the skull I think—part of the brain actually protruding—whoever did it—meant doing it.”

“Struck from behind, do you think, Doctor?” queried Goodall.

“Very probably—the parietal bone is badly smashed.”

Goodall turned to Day. “What time did this night-watchman come on duty, Mr. Day?”

“At midnight, Inspector! The first watchman is on duty from six o’clock—when we close—till twelve, when poor Mason relieved him. I’ve sent for Druce—that’s the other watchman—he should be along here in a few moments.”

“Well, this poor fellow in the other room can’t tell us anything—so we shall have to rely on Druce. I hope he will be of some help.”

“Was he found dead in this room, Inspector?” asked Linnell—“or——”

“Just over there”—pointed Goodall to a spot about a dozen yards away—“right in front of the handrail. Doctor Archer examined him first down there—then we had him taken into Mr. Day’s private office.”

“Where the rug is?” interrogated Linnell. He looked at the rug on the floor.

“That’s it,” answered Goodall. “There’s a nasty mess underneath—that’s why the rug’s there!”

“How did they get in and out?”

“Well, Mr. Linnell—as to that—they got out with the night-watchman’s keys—we can’t find them anywhere—how they got in is a matter of conjecture—that’s what I want to see this other watchman, Druce, about.”

“But I presume you’ve formed some conclusions? There must be some——”

“There’s very little,” replied Goodall. “Very little indeed. No forced entrance at all. Not even a foot mark or finger-print. Three articles stolen—a night-watchman dead on the floor. Motive—burglary! Which makes the murder a subordinate factor in the crime. Which makes the murdered man almost impersonal! And I’m supposed to put my hands on this murderer in less than twenty-four hours—and that out of a little matter of six millions of people.”

“You’re supposed——”

Goodall shrugged his shoulders. “If I don’t—my wife or some other damned good-natured friend will confront me with an article in the London press shrieking ‘the decadence of Scotland Yard.’ ”

Linnell looked at him curiously. To say the least he was impressed. That this sturdy and efficient police-representative would prove no mean antagonist he felt sure.

Mr. Day came bustling forward. “Druce is here, Inspector,” he announced.

“Bring him along here, Mr. Day.” Goodall’s eyes brightened perceptibly.

Druce came slowly forward—nervously plucking with his fingers at the cap he held in his hand. He was a wizened-faced man—of about sixty years of age. He had had no encounters with the Police before—all his life he had “kept honest”—and this new experience, therefore, had had a somewhat unsettling effect upon him.

“You are Edward Druce—one of the night-watchmen here?” commenced Goodall.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you worked here?”

Druce hesitated and half-turned towards Mr. Day. “Is it five or——?”

“Six years, Druce, you’ve been with us,” supplemented his employer, “six years last Easter.”

Druce nodded. “That’s it, sir. And I hope I’ve always given satisfaction.”

A glint of humor shot through Goodall’s eyes.

“What time were you relieved last night?” he asked.

“About five to twelve, sir, or thereabouts.”

“Mason came on then? Was that about his usual time?”

“It were, sir,” replied Druce. “He never varied much, sir, did Mason—steady and reliable he were—always. What’s come to him, sir?”

“He’s dead, Druce,” came the relentless reply, “murdered in the night.”

Druce went ashen pale. He licked his lips as the horror of the news struck home to him. “Murdered?” he managed to gasp.

“Now tell me, Druce,” proceeded Goodall, “did anything about Mason last night strike you as peculiar or—extraordinary?”

Druce shook his head. “No, sir—nothing.” This decisively! “He ’ad a joke on his lips, sir, when he came up the stairs with me—just as he usually had. Told me I could go ’ome and do some gardenin’—before I went to ‘Kip.’ Twelve o’clock at night, sir, that was.”

“You went downstairs to open the doors to let him in?”

“Yes, sir. He always give three loud sharp knocks.”

“And you noticed nothing then—or at any other time during the evening that you regarded as unusual or abnormal? Think carefully!”

Druce pondered over the question. “No—I can’t say as how”—then a sudden reminiscence seemed to awake in him—“well, sir—now you mention it, there was an incident, so to speak, when Jim Mason come to the—nothing at all important, sir——” he spoke deprecatingly.

“Let’s hear it,” rapped Goodall. “Every word of it!”

Every vestige of blood went from the night-watchman’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before, sir,” he muttered, “I hope there’s no harm done——”

“Let’s have it,” bellowed Goodall, “every second’s of importance!”

“Well, sir,” said Druce—“it was like this. When I ’eard Jim Mason knock—he give his three knocks just as usual—I went downstairs to let ’im in. When I opened the door he was standin’ there just in the ordinary way—when a female comes up to us. Wanted to know what time the Galleries opened the next morning—that was all she enquired, sir! I told her ‘ten o’clock.’ Then she pointed down the street and asked if that way was the right direction for the Marble Arch.”

“And was it?” snapped Goodall eagerly.

“Yes,” said Druce with some surprise. “That’s so, sir!”

“What did Mason do while this conversation was taking place?”

“Mason, sir? He showed ’er the way the same as wot I did.”

“Of course he did,” cut in Goodall with decision. “And I expect she wanted a deal of showing, didn’t she?”

“She did seem a bit mazed-like,” murmured Druce.

“I’ll warrant she did,” said the Inspector. “Just long enough for the murderer to slip in behind your backs and up the stairs in front of Mason.”

Druce went goggle-eyed. “Gosh! Who’d ’ave thought of that?”

“Not you, evidently,” returned Goodall. “If you had have done, your mate might still be alive. It’s no use, though, wasting time on regrets or recriminations.”

He stepped into the private room used by Day as his office.

“Is this door locked of an evening when the place closes?” he asked.

“Always,” responded Day. “Or, at least, it should be!”

“Who was in charge here yesterday evening?” queried the Inspector swiftly.

“I was.” Young Forshaw stepped forward.

“Did you lock this door when you left?”

“To the best of my memory—yes. But it’s a mechanical sort of job—you know, Inspector—the kind of thing you do so often from mere force of habit—that the doing it leaves no very clear impression on your mind.”

Goodall nodded in acceptance. He knew exactly what the speaker meant.

“Still,” went on Forshaw, “I’m fairly certain I did it.” He thought it over carefully.

“How many keys are there?” broke in the Inspector.

Day took it upon himself to answer. “Four. Each of the partners has one—and Ronald Forshaw here also. He’s more often in charge here of an evening than anybody—he has to have a key.”

“Now tell me again,” interjected Goodall, “who gave the alarm? The cleaner, you said, didn’t you?”