第 12 页

That evening, looking from his window, Betcher saw the banker walking up and down the side lawn immediately beneath the detective, and he was in earnest conversation with Henry and Crayley. For half an hour they paced to and fro, and obviously the subject of their talk was a serious one. Once, Monkford looked up and saw him, but did not wave the friendly greeting which Betcher anticipated.

They must have gone into the hotel soon after, for five minutes later he heard the three men talking in the saloon, which was next to his own room. They were together for about a quarter of an hour, at the end of which time the detective heard the outer door close and went in. The banker was alone, and obviously something had happened which had upset him.

"Anything wrong?" asked Long.

"Nothing— nothing!" Mr. Monkford almost snapped the words. And then:

"I want to see you after dinner, Long."

"Why not see me now?"

"It can wait," said the banker.

"Does it concern you?"

"In a sense, yes," said the other shortly. "But it concerns a— a young friend of mine more. But, really, I do not wish to speak about the matter at the moment. If you will see me immediately after dinner, we can discuss something which has rather distressed me. Yes, it has distressed me."

No more would he say, and Betcher went out of the room more than a little puzzled.

He buttonholed Crayley in the hall.

"What have you been telling Monkford to make him so infernally depressed?" he asked.

Jackson Crayley looked at him open-mouthed.

"We were talking about a purely personal and private matter. If he didn't tell you, I'm afraid I can't. I'm on my honour."

Betcher looked at him closely. There was something about him that was unusual and difficult to define. His voice was a little sharper; he gave the impression that he was labouring under some extraordinary strain— there was an unusual tenseness even in his attitude. Betcher was puzzled. He did not know Henry— at any rate, well enough to discover from the lawyer what had been the subject of that lawn conference— and it was the more baffling because, all that day, Joshua Monkford had been in his gayest mood, and had even suggested a visit to the links to follow two popular players.

As a rule, he dined with Monkford, but, just as he was dressing for dinner, the banker's valet came with a note.

Do you mind dining at another table to-night? I have one or two things that I wish to discuss with Crayley and young Henry.

He was not so much annoyed as worried. What could be Monkford's new preoccupation? He searched round in his mind, trying to find a clue, but he could remember nothing that the banker had said which would explain this sudden business of his.

He saw him at dinner that night, but, more to the point, was placed at a table next to that occupied by Miss Revelstoke and her secretary. For one fleeting second the girl's eyes met his, and he remembered, with a start of guilt, that he had yet to explain to her (and probably would never be in a position to explain) the lies he had told about the ring.

Miss Revelstoke's little bow was graciousness itself. There was in her eyes a look of malicious triumph which made Betcher Long grin inwardly. Dinner was over and he was taking his coffee in the lounge when Joshua Monkford pushed through the press toward him.

"Come upstairs to my room in five minutes, Long, will you, please?"

There was a cold menace in the tone which left Long speechless. He watched the clock till five minutes had passed; then, rising, he made his way to the elevator.

The saloon was empty when he strolled in, but he heard Monkford's voice speaking from his own room, and he was evidently at the telephone.

"Hullo— hullo!... Who has―"

Then Betcher heard an explosion and the sound of a body falling, and strove to force the door. It was locked and bolted on the inside, as he remembered now, and, flying through the saloon into the corridor, he tried the outer door. That also was locked.

He threw himself against the door but it was of stout oak and resisted his efforts. And then, looking round, he saw Cravel running up the stairs, and on the man's white face was an expression of consternation.

"Was that a shot?" he asked in a horrified whisper. Betcher nodded.

"Open this door," he said.

The manager felt in his pockets.

"I haven't a pass-key— wait," he said, and ran down the stairs.

He was back in a minute and, inserting the pass-key with a trembling hand, the lock snapped and the door flew open.

Joshua Monkford lay huddled on the floor, face downward, his hands gripping the receiver of the telephone, and in the room was the acrid smell of cordite.

Chapter 17

HE WAS dead. One glance told the detective that. "Get a doctor," he said over his shoulder.

"Is he killed?" whispered the manager.

"Get a doctor!" snarled Long. "Do as I tell you."

Left alone, Arnold Long closed the door. There was no key in the lock except the manager's pass-key, which still protruded on the outside. He crossed the floor to the bathroom; it was bolted and locked, as also was the door to the saloon, as he knew. The windows were dosed, for the night was chilly, and, moreover, fastened with a latch. Above the three windows were little fanlights, and these alone were opened. He flung back the window and looked down. The glass roof of the restaurant annex glowed with light; sign of ladder there was none.

A long wardrobe near the end of the bed was empty, and the bed itself concealed nothing. Taking up a hairbrush from the dressing table, he tapped the panelled walls on the side of the room opposite to that which divided the apartment from the saloon. And as he sounded the wall he knew that his work was futile. The weapon that killed Joshua Monkford had been held within an inch of the man's head, and from the position where he lay, it was clear that, even if there were a secret panel, it must open into the saloon where he himself had been a second before the shot was fired.

Making a rough measurement with Monkford's umbrella, which happened to be in the room, he was satisfied that, even were there an opening into the saloon, it was impossible that the murderer could have shot at so close a range.

The opposite wall marked the boundary between the Monkford suite and a room occupied by two girls, the daughters of a Member of Parliament who were staying at Heartsease for the week.

Betcher Long breathed heavily. Here was a man done to death in a room that could not be entered— that was, in fact, impossible to enter except by the door through which the manager's key had admitted him.

As he walked out into the corridor, Cravel nearly ran into him. His face wore an expression of fear, and he was talking excitedly to the servant girl who accompanied him.

"Mr. Long," he said urgently, "something has happened in Miss Sanders's room."

Betcher glared at him.

"Happened? What has happened?" he almost shouted.

Behind the manager was a quavering servant maid. "I don't know, sir; I heard something explode—"

Before she could finish the sentence he was halfway down the stairs. The girl's room he knew. It was locked, and, looking through the keyhole, he saw a thin film of smoke suspended in the atmosphere, and his heart turned faint. And then: "Whatever do you want, Mr. Long?"

He leapt round. It was Nora Sanders.

"Have you got the key?" He could hardly recognize the sound of his own voice.

He almost snatched the key from her hand, and, flinging open the door, strode in. There had been some sort of an explosion here: he could smell it. And then he saw a white, smouldering paper on the hearthstone, and picked it up, dipping it without ceremony in a jug of water which stood on the washstand.

"What has happened?" asked the bewildered girl.

"Nothing very much. Will you stay here?"

In a second he was out of the room and going up the stairs two at a time. He had left the manager in Monkford's room, and now he found him outside in the passage, the door closed.

"I thought I'd better lock it while you were away."

Betcher nodded his thanks, and together they entered the room. In the relaxation of death the telephone receiver had fallen to the floor and lay stained with the blood of the man. Monkford had been shot through the head at close quarters, almost as Harry the Lancer had been shot, and as the unfortunate ex-soldier at Bourne End had been shot.

Betcher looked round. By this time one of the detectives on duty in the hotel had either sensed or heard of the occurrence and had arrived. They turned the manager out of the room, locked the door, and began a careful examination.

The room had been empty when Betcher had opened the door: of that he was certain. There was no place where a man could be concealed. Then, inch by inch, he began another examination of the wall, tapping each panel, whilst his assistant tested the other. The ceiling was of plaster. There was no fireplace except a vent to carry off the hot air generated by an electric stove. He picked up the telephone, wiped it clean on a towel, and called up the office. It was Miss Cravel who answered him, and evidently from her tone she knew that something terrible had happened.

"Is that you, Mr. Long?" she asked. "Is it true—"

She was speaking in a low voice, evidently from that part of the building which was more or less public.

"Who called Mr. Monkford five minutes ago?" asked Betcher.

"Nobody— he called here. I had his signal and answered it, and then I thought I heard a shot."

He put down the instrument as somebody tapped on the door. It was a doctor, one of the guests, who had been hastily summoned. He looked at the still figure and shook his head.

"You don't want me to tell you he's dead, do you?" he asked, as he stooped and made a cursory examination. "Shot through the brain. I should say death was instantaneous. And at close quarters, too— you see the burning?"

Betcher nodded. The wound had been inflicted by something that had the appearance of a bullet from an automatic pistol.

"Have you got your man?"

Evidently the doctor had been told of Arnold Long's identity.

"No, we have no man, because there was no man here when we came into the room. It was empty."

"Suicide?" asked the doctor, in surprise.

That possibility had been the first to occur to the detective. But there was no sign of any weapon. Mr. Monkford had carried a Browning pistol for protection, but this the detective had found in a drawer of his bureau, and it was clean, and, what was more, unloaded. How had the murder been committed? For murder it was, undoubtedly.

He finished his inspection and went in search of Crayley. He had no need to be a psychologist to realize that the story of the tragedy had already reached Monkford's neighbour.

"This is terrible, terrible! Why should he shoot himself? He was in the most cheerful mood this afternoon when I spoke to him"

"Now, listen, Crayley. I'm going to ask you a few questions. That young lawyer and you were with Monkford this afternoon. You told him something that depressed him—"

"He told me something that depressed me!" said Crayley loudly. "And don't bully me, Long, because I'll not stand for it! I'm all rattled and upset by this poor chap's death, and my nerves can't endure any bullying. I tell you, I won't even discuss the subject of our conversation."

"Maybe you'll discuss it with the coroner to-morrow," said Betcher, and the man's eyes narrowed.

"Threatening me, are you, by gad! Threatening me! And I saved your infernal life at Chelmsford!"

"Now, see here, Crayley, let's get this matter right. I'm not threatening you; I am asking you questions that any police officer would ask any honest man. And, what is more, any honest man would answer. What was the subject of your conversation with 'Monkford this afternoon?"

Crayley shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not at liberty to say. You had better ask Henry: it concerned him more than me. And I feel, Long, that I ought to see my lawyers before I make any statement after this terrible tragedy."

Betcher Long went in search of the lawyer, only to learn that Mr. Henry had left the hotel immediately after dinner and was well on his way to London.

Chapter 18

MISS REVELSTOKE brought the news to Nora, and the girl was speechless with horror. "Dead?" she whispered. "Oh, no, Miss Revelstoke, that can't possibly be! Did he—"

"I don't know. The doctor seems to think it's a case of suicide," she said. "But why poor Monkford should commit suicide I can't imagine."

She was visibly agitated. Usually a very phlegmatic person, she paced the room restlessly.

"He has been threatened with death for a long time. Crayley told me, but of course I didn't believe him. That is why the detective is here— your Mr. Long. A pretty detective!"

"I thought you said it was suicide, Miss Revelstoke."

"It was not suicide. Simpkins says no weapon has been found. He is a foolish kind of man, even for a doctor."

"But who could have killed him?"

"Don't ask fool questions, child," said the yellow-faced woman savagely. "He's dead, that's sufficient! I can only hope that his bank is not insolvent or something equally dreadful. As to Mr. Long— well, he doesn't enjoy any too enviable reputation at Scotland Yard, according to Henry, and this ought to be his finish."

There was a note of cold malignity in her voice that made the girl sit bolt upright and stare at her.

"Don't you— don't you like Mr. Long?" she faltered.

It seemed incredible that there was anybody in the world to whom Betcher Long was not an attractive personality.

"He'll blame the Terrible People, of course. The Terrible People are probably an invention of his to account for his failures. Like him? Herr Gott!"

She said something in German, and checked herself.

"Nora," she said, "every woman has got something in her past which she does not wish should be raked into public view. By some extraordinary accident your Mr. Long has unearthed an old folly of mine that I thought was dead and buried. I won't tell you what it was. You would probably be bored and think I was mad. It happened in Copenhagen when I was a very young girl—"