The Postmaster's Daughter Part 44

But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art deal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky packages with string!

He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever in attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at full length on Winter's bed.

"Been up all night," he explained. "Chemical a.n.a.lysis is fascinating but slow work--like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful job, too, to get an a.n.a.lyst to chuck a theater and attend to business. The blighter talked of office hours. _Cre nom_! Ten till four, and an hour and a half for lunch! Why can't we run _our_ show on those lines, James!"

Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face.

"You came down by the mail, I suppose?" he said casually.

"What a genius you are!" sighed Furneaux. "If _I_ were trembling with expectation I could no more put a ba.n.a.l question like that than swallow the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich."

Winter sc.r.a.ped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip.

"Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?" he inquired.

"Ah, well, I'm tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve, so I'll give you a condensed version," snapped Furneaux. "Elkin 's illness, begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed into steady poisoning by Siddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too--pure nicotine--easy, in a sense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable explanations when revealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn't to be killed outright, I gather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till he was half crazy.

As you can read print when it's before your eyes, I needn't go into the matter of motive; Elkin's behavior supplies all details."

"How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my skin."

"One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package."

"Good! Charles, we're going to pull off a real twister."

"_We!_ Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off with the fluffy transformation pinned to it."

Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed.

Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a suitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely, Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman--the little man with the French name--might be invited. This important point settled, Mr. Franklin caught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact, closeted with Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor.

Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o'clock, and swore at Tomlin in French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin went downstairs scratching his head.

"Least said soonest mended," he communed, "but we may all be murdered in our beds if them's the sort of 'tecs we 'ave to look arter us."

However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin's party.

The sc.r.a.ps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than the prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards' Cup. Peters had the tip straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in hand.

After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and tapped him professionally on the shoulder.

"A word with you outside," he said.

Ingerman was irritated--perhaps slightly alarmed.

"Can't we talk here?" he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his.

"Better not, but I shan't detain you more than five minutes."

"Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?"

"Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like."

In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with his companion. Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale quiver run through Ingerman's lanky frame.

"You've brought down Norris, I see?" he began.

"Yes."

"Meaning to make things hot for Grant tomorrow?"

"Meaning to give justice the materials--"

"Cut the cackle, Isidor. I know you, and it's high time you knew me.

Grant has retained Belcher. Ah! that gets you, does it? You haven't forgotten Belcher. Now, be reasonable! Or, rather, don't run your head into a noose. Grant had no more to do with the murder of your wife than you had. Call off Norris, and Grant withdraws Belcher. Twig? It's dead easy, because the Treasury solicitor will simply ask for another week's adjournment, as the police are not ready to go on. In the meantime, you pay off Norris, and save your face. Is it a deal?"

"Am I to understand--"

"Don't wriggle! The key of the situation is held by Belcher. Name of a pipe! What prompting does Belcher need from me or anybody else after the Bokfontein Lands case?"

"But--"

"Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Sat.u.r.day, and met your wife's mother and sister. They do love you, don't they?"

Ingerman died game.

"If I have your a.s.surance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of Adelaide's death, that is sufficient," he said slowly.

"Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I'm agreeable. Which is your road? Back to the hotel? I'm for a short stroll. Mind you, no wobbling!

Go straight, and I'll attend to Belcher. But, good Lord! How his eyes will sparkle when they light on you to-morrow!"

Neither the redoubtable Belcher, nor the Bokfontein Lands, nor poor Adelaide Melhuish's mother and sister may figure further in this chronicle. The inquest opened at the appointed hour next day, and was closed down again for a week with a celerity that was most disappointing both to the jury and the general public. Of three legal luminaries present only one, the Treasury man, uttered a few bald words. Belcher and Norris did not even announce the names of their clients. Norris noticed that Belcher surveyed Ingerman with a grim smile, but thought nothing of it until he received a check later in the week. Then he made some inquiries, and smiled himself.

The foreman of the jury looked a trifle pinched, though his cheeks bore two spots of hectic color. Mr. Franklin, drawn to the court by curiosity, happened to glance at him once, and found him gazing at Furneaux in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.

Elkin, thriving on a diet of tea and eggs, was also interested in the representative of Scotland Yard. He seemed to ignore Grant entirely.

Doris Martin was not in court. Superintendent Fowler had called about half, past nine to tell her she would not be asked to attend that day.

Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had not the remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have been left hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their comments.

"As usual, the police are utterly at sea," said one.

"Yes, 'following up important clews,' the newspapers say," scoffed another.

"It's a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected and unpunished."

"Which is the Scotland Yard man!"

"The small chap, in the blue suit."