A. Fielding

“ Carter and the Chief Inspector walked away in silence. At last the Canadian spoke.
“So it wasn't Beale after all, and Rob was murdered by that she-devil who passed as his mother because he would have given the show away! I'm glad you got her! God! I never thought I should like to see a woman arrested for murder, but I'm glad you got her! And, see here, Inspector, I do see why you weren't keen on my helping, nor Christine either: it did take a mighty keen eye—a trained one—to pick out the king-log from that jumble.”
“Largely a matter of routine,” muttered Pointer, lighting his pipe. ”

“ Erskine, who is there who could have done so wicked, so cruel a thing?”
Mrs. Erskine suddenly got up, as though she found the room stifling. She looked ghastly, and to Christine she looked frightened as well.
“I must be alone—this shock—this blow—I want time”—she held out a cold, shaking hand—“will you come back—it's now five. Will you come back at seven without fail? Without fail? I—promise me you won't speak of this to anyone in the meanwhile. I know a French detective, not so far from here, before whom I want to lay the case. He is the only man who can solve this riddle. ”

“ Russell nodded his head. “Just so. Just as I thought. Mrs. Erskine is a quiet, still woman. You might think her hard if you didn't know what lies behind her manner. My father could tell you of case after case of charity and goodness which he found out, after she had left Perth, of which she never spoke. She's not one to wear her heart on her sleeve, like all her family now dead and gone, but it's a heart of gold.”
Christine bade Mr. Russell good-bye, and picked up a telegram from London in which Carter sent her word that any distance within a week's journey of London would serve him perfectly. ”

“ That man who called himself Green is one of our cleverest crooks. He certainly doesn't live up to his name! I was after him in London when I stumbled into that queer story of Eames. Oh, I'm on my vacation all right, but there's no holiday that would do me the good that getting my hands on Green would. Personal reasons—always the toughest, eh, Chief?”
Evidently Mr. Beale had not yet had time to read the London news, for the “Eames Case” had now become the “Erskine Murder.” ”

“ Excuse me, sir, you're standing on a piece of paper.”
The manager jumped away as though his companion had spoken of a live coal. Pointer carelessly ran the little wisp of green and white striped paper through his fingers as he looked at the sill, and out on the pavement, which was on a level with the floor. Provided there was the will, there certainly was an easy enough way. But why the will? Why should the editor of an important newspaper leave by the window rather than by the door, even though he were an American?
He looked Mr. Beale's bag over. Nothing had been taken. ”

“ There was only one man in Europe who could help him. In Barcelona, at the foot of Tibidabo, lives a Catalan, a Senor Foch, who works in a simple little shop with his son for the police of seven countries; and lucky it was for the police that honesty had been the motto of the two men, for there is nothing that can be done to lock or key that they cannot do. Only a Foch could copy the key of this safe, supposing Pointer could lay his hands on it for a moment. The Catalans worked only on their own terms. ”

“ O'Connor demanded rhetorically one night, after enduring his friend's silence as long as he could.
“The manager—humph! Mr. Beale?—He certainly must have a very strong feeling against Carter. Yet he looks the last man to let his feelings alone carry him very far. And why is he so keen on seeing Carter? He makes every sort of an effort to get an order. I think he was amazed when he found out that even a letter from his ambassador wouldn't be of any use if Carter refused to see him, and refuse he does. You know, O'Connor, I'd give a good deal to place Mr. Beale in all this.” ”

“ There was nothing Pointer enjoyed more than talking his cases over with his friend, whose discretion was as much to be trusted as his own. Not that he often got an opinion out of the Irishman, but the mere reciting aloud of the various phases of a problem in itself helped to clear his mind.
“They are the very devil all the same. You never know where you are. Take a private house—and the servants, the furniture, the rooms, the very walls can give you points, but a hotel! How can you follow up a hundred or so possible criminals? ”

“ On the corner of the table lay a wax vesta, the counterpart of the ones already reposing in the Detective Inspector's black bag.
The linoleum in front of the French window showed where muddy boots had walked up and down. Both the length of the stride and the size of the marks spoke for a tall man. On the balcony outside, the rain had washed away all chance of tracks on the stone, but on the waist-high grating, which was all that separated the rooms of the Marvel from those of the Enterprise, were a few small mud-clots close in by the wall, and under the shelter of the iron roof. ”

“ Pointer had barely pushed open the gate of the drive when the doctor met him, swinging along, golf sticks under his arm. Too late he tried to dodge behind a clump of laurels, the law was upon him.
“Just a moment, doctor. It's only for a second, sir,” begged the police officer, with a firm grip on the clubs. “It really won't take you more than one glance. All I want to know is whether a spot on a label is morphia solution or not. That's all.” ”

“ Beale's small, piercing eyes, which gleamed like mica behind the circles of his horn pince-nez, went dull.
“No, Chief, no. I'm a stranger to this wicked little village of yours. I was just wondering what it is that makes young men throw away their lives so easily for the first pretty face that comes along. I suppose there'll be a girl at the bottom of this case, too.” He turned away. “Any objection to a cigar all round?”
“Not unless they're lit,” and the Chief Inspector accepted one, too. The manager came out of his abstraction. ”

“ Erskine's window, which stood open, for the night was warm. The door safely bolted, the Chief Inspector approached the safe and disconnected the alarums. Even his heart beat faster as he inserted the Foch key. It turned easily, the door swung open, and with a deep breath the police-officer took off his hat mentally to Foch as he looked inside.
Three hours later he touched Watts on the shoulder, and leaving him to taxi back to the Negresco, where Mr. Crane was among the “not-invited,” Pointer sent off a pile of telegrams to all the air-stations near London. ”

“ At dinner, which was of a quality and served with a luxury Christine found a revelation, she met the other inmates of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Clark were a cheery, rather noisy couple, who seemed to consider all life a great joke. Christine decided that the lady had once been on the stage, from her partiality to paint and powder and richly tinted locks, but there was a breezy good nature about her which offset Mrs. Erskine's chilly manner. To Major Vaughan she took an instant aversion. ”

“ Pointer said to O'Connor on his return to his rooms, “or all the signs deceive me.”
“D'ye mean to tell me that the criminal is still at large after all this time—close on twenty-four hours! Let me have the facts, Watson; sure Sherlock Holmes will give you a leg-up with pleasure,” and “Sherlock Holmes” assumed a judicial attitude.
Pointer carefully went over the knotty points unearthed during the day. “There's Cox . . .” the Scotland Yard man was evidently telling over his pieces, “who takes a room at the Marvel and uses it for a couple of hours . . . he's in the centre of the puzzle. ”

“ Some man, now old, now young, now middle-aged, was sure to be already there, or come in with them, or enter before they were more than seated. It never occurred to Christine that the faithful Watts was on duty, and that a great deal more than she would have cared for was absorbed by his attentive ears.
One day, when the Chief Inspector had been close on a fortnight away, Carter watched Christine get down from the tram and pass in through the doors of the Galeries Lafayette. ”

“ I shall open it wider when you are to hand the papers to the American. You understand?”
The frightened man said that he did and would do his best.
“It may make all the difference in your life how good your best is,” M. Meunier warned him grimly.
Christine took an impulsive step forward.
“Oh, Mr. Pointer, what have you found out? Will it free John? Will it free him?”
“As to freeing him, that depends on himself, as you know, Miss West. If a man won't speak, won't give an alibi——”
“Ah, but he will now,” put in M. Meunier; “the brave Carter! He can speak now. ”

“ I have nothing left to live for. I only regret on your behalf that chance has made your hotel my stepping-off plank. For both our sakes do your best to keep the matter quiet.
Faithfully yours,
Reginald Eames.”
“Suicide!” The manager's voice sounded almost triumphant.
Mr. Beale said nothing. With his hands in his pockets he stood staring down at the quiet figure.
“You recognise him too, sir?” Pointer appeared to have eyes in the back of his head, for he stood with his face turned away from the American, still scrutinising the dead man's letter. ”

“ Meanwhile the Amalgamated had learnt something of the new discovery. Some tracing of a part must have fallen into their hands. They decided to kill it, for it is a revolution, this idea of Mr. Carter's. Mr. Carter met me secretly in Brussels and worked at a loom I built to his instructions. At first there were hitches, now here, now there, but at last has come absolute success. That was when Mr. Beale stepped in, and had him arrested for robbery. Diamond rings—pendants—bah! A huge fortune was already all but assured Mr. Carter. ”

“ To a practised ear, there is only one thing which makes that sound. A safe-door was being closed in the wall adjoining. A few minutes later he heard Mrs. Erskine speaking from the room beside him. She told Marie to be on hand to let out the gentleman—she had referred to the Chief Inspector as connected with her firm of lawyers—as soon as he should be finished. She did not mention refreshments, he noted, though the day was hot, and the work dry and dusty. Like Christine, Pointer saw that the good lady did not encourage unnecessary expenditure. ”

“ Another half-hour passed and she heard M. Beauregard's door again opened. This time it closed with a bang, and firm steps echoed down the stairs—no conspirator this apparently.
The minutes dragged by, till at exactly a quarter to twelve the front door was again unlocked, someone with an electric torch was coming up. A tall man, well muffled up, for the night was fresh. Christine slipped down to the door of the third floor flat, but keeping out of the ray of his steady light. The stranger come on, evidently making for the same goal. ”

“ Pointer stood motionless. Carter started to speak, but a glance from the police-officer's eyes stopped him. Every mental nerve of Pointer's was strung taut to the call he was making on it. Where had Christine gone or been taken? He wasted no time on speculating on the why. He looked at the tyre-tracks from the garage to the house, which showed fairly clearly in the dust.
“Those wheels wouldn't do for any hill climbing. Who generally drove the car?” he asked in French.
“Generally M. Clark. Sometimes, though rarely, M. le Majeur. Neither would try to climb with those tyres.” ”