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<h2>Chapter XI. P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line</h2> About the time Furneaux was whisked past The Hollies in Superintendent Fowler’s dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning a long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have liked to secure Doris’s company, but good taste forbade that he should even invite her to share the ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with whom he had not exchanged a word during three years had already set up a barrier between Doris and himself. Though impalpable, it was effective. It could neither be climbed nor avoided. Quiet little Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor of morals and etiquette. Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow process of law, Doris and he might meet only by chance and never remain long together. When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his South American sombrero. “I am sensitive to ridicule,” he professed. “The village urchins will christen me ‘Owd Ben,’ and the old gentleman’s character was such that I would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I’ll join the no hat brigade.” “I wonder if we’ll meet Furneaux,” said Grant, selecting a walking-stick. “It’s odd that we should have seen nothing of him this morning.” “It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he took not to be observed coming here last night.” “Well, that’s so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I suppose.” “Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He’s wasted on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador.” “Quaint alternatives, those.” “Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in coining cute phrases. I’ve met scores of both tribes, and they’re like as peas in a pod.” A bell rang. “That’s the front door,” said Grant. “It’s Furneaux himself, I hope.” But the visitor was P. C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted. “Glad I’ve caught you before you went out, sir,” he said. “Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also to mention that he had got the whiskers.” “What whiskers? Whose whiskers?” “That’s all he said, sir—he’d got the whiskers.” “Why, Owd Ben’s whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!” put in Hart. Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connection with the crime. He remembered Elkin’s make-up as Svengali, of course, and could have kicked himself for not associating earlier a set of sable whiskers with the black wig and the bullet-torn hat. But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the mystery? “There are certain lacunae in your otherwise vigorous and thrilling story, constable,” went on Hart. “Very likely, sir,” agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a lacuna, or its plural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux’s advice, and trying to be civil. “Ah, you see that, do you?” said Hart. “Well, fill ’em in. When, where, and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter’s hairy adornments?” The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that he had scored a point, though he knew not how. “He did not tell me, sir,” he answered. “It’s a rum business, that’s what it is, no matter what way you look at it.” Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable’s change of front, accepted the olive branch readily. “We’re just going for a walk,” he said. “If you have ten minutes to spare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no doubt.” “Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this,” admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues would surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by the master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates family dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to favor with “the force.” Before Robinson departed, he was full of information and good food. What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive to meet Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old pony he had been “lungeing” on a strip of common opposite his house? Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire. “Anything fresh?” he cried. “You have a fair course now, Robinson. That little London ’tec has bunked home.” “Has he?” In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar for an opening. “Oh, none of your kiddin’,” said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt’s neck. “You know he has. You don’t miss much that’s going on. Bet you half a thick ’un you’d have put someone in clink before this if the murder at The Hollies had been left in your hands.” “That’s as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin’ badly?” “Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night.” “You shouldn’t be out so late. Why, on’y a week ago you were in bed regular at 10.15.” “That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at Knoleworth.” “What time did you reach home?” “Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what’s this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic Society? That silly josser of a detective—What’s his name?” “Furneaux,” said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the very topic he wanted to discuss. “Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and I, and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as Furneaux left to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked, though I locked it myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and whiskers I wore when we played a skit on ‘Trilby’ were missing. If that isn’t a clew, what is?” “A clew!” repeated the bewildered Robinson. “Yes. I’m telling you, though I kept dark before the other fellows. Didn’t you say Grant’s cheek was bleeding on Tuesday morning?” “I did.” “Well, the whiskers were held on by wires that slip over the ears. One wire was sharp as a needle. I know, because it stuck into a finger more than once. Why shouldn’t it scratch a man’s cheek, and the cut open again next morning?” “By jing, you’ve got your knife into Mr. Grant, an’ no mistake,” commented Robinson. “You yourself gave him a nasty jab at the inquest,” sneered Elkin. “I was just tellin’ the facts.” “So am I. I think you ought to know about that hat and the other things. I would recognize them anywhere. Furneaux had something up his sleeve, too, or he wouldn’t have pumped Tomlin... Woa, boy! So long, Robinson! I must put this youngster into his stall.” “I’ll wait, Mr. Elkin,” said Robinson solemnly. “I want to have a word with you.” The policeman was glad of the respite. He needed time to collect his thoughts. The story of the dinner-party and its excitement disposed completely of Elkin’s malicious theory with regard to Grant, but, since the horse-dealer was minded to be communicative, it would be well to encourage him. “Come in, and have a drink,” said Elkin, when the colt had been stabled. “No, thanks—not when I’m on duty.” Elkin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He could not possibly guess that Robinson was adopting Furneaux’s pose of never accepting hospitality from a man whom he might have to arrest. “Well, blaze away. I’m ready.” The younger man leaned against a gate. He looked ill and physically worn. “Your business has kept you out late of a night recently, you say, Mr. Elkin,” began the other, speaking as casually as he could contrive. “Now, it might help a lot if you can call to mind anyone you met on the roads at ten or eleven o’clock. For instance, last night—” Elkin laughed in a queer, croaking way. “Last night my mare brought me home. I was decidedly sprung, Robinson. Glad you didn’t spot me, or there might have been trouble. What between the inquest, an’ no food, an’ more than a few drinks at Knoleworth, I’d have passed Owd Ben himself without seeing him, though I believe I did squint in at The Hollies as I went by.” “What time would that be?” “Oh, soon after eleven.” “Sure.” “I can’t be certain to ten minutes or so. The pubs hadn’t closed when I left Knoleworth. What the devil does it matter, anyhow?” It mattered a great deal. Robinson could testify that Elkin did not cross Steynholme bridge “soon after eleven.” “Nothing much,” was the answer. “You see, I’m anxious to find out who might be stirring at that hour, an’ you know everybody for miles around. I’d like to fix your journey by the clock, if I could.” “Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it straight.” “Were you out on Monday night?” “The night of the murder?” “Yes.” “I left the Hare and Hounds at ten, and came straight home.” “Who was there with you?” “The usual crowd—Hobbs, and Siddle, and Bob Smith, and a commercial traveler. Siddle went at half past nine, but he generally does.” “You met no one on the road?” “No.” The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin’s usual confidence. It sounded as if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the last moment. Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven o’clock on that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking homeward. He was well aware that the licensing hours were not strictly observed by the Hare and Hounds when “commercial gentlemen” were in residence. Closing time was ten o’clock, but the “commercials,” being cheery souls, became nominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests were in no hurry to depart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to a conclusion, an acrobatic feat of reasoning which Furneaux had specifically warned him against. At any rate, he resolved now to leave well enough alone. “Well, we don’t seem to get any forrarder,” he said. “You ought to take more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You’re a changed man these days.” “I’ll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. You won’t have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!” Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he halted near the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the river to Bush Walk. He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown. Then, there being no one about, he made some notes of the chat with Elkin. The man’s candor and his misstatements were equally puzzling. None knew better than the policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully an hour and a half on the Monday night would be difficult to clear up. Tomlin, of course, would have no recollection of events after ten o’clock, but the commercial traveler, who could be traced, might be induced to tell the truth if assured that the police needed the information solely for purposes in connection with their inquiry into the murder. That man must be found. His testimony should have an immense significance. That evening, shortly before seven o’clock, a stalwart, prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds “descended” from the London express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on the opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for it when he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner, bespectacled, who hailed him with delight. “You, too? Good egg!” was the cry. The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality. “Where the deuce are you off to?” he demanded. “To Steynholme—same as you, of course.” “Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next few days, you’ll never know me again. I suppose you’ll be staying at the local inn—there’s only one of any repute in the place?” “That’s so. I’ve got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when the time comes?” “Have I ever failed you?” “No. We meet as strangers.” Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest “writer up” in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested both him and a shrewd news-editor. The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each other. The big man registered as “Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Peters ordered a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman. Mr. Franklin took more pains over the prospective meal. “Have you a nice chicken?” he inquired. Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that moment. “And do you think your cook could provide a tourne-dos?” “A what-a, sir?” wheezed Tomlin. The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken might be deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled potatoes and French beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he dared not try Tomlin’s excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had put him on the water-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the landlord as a man of taste and ample means. Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent his carryin’s on in Knoleworth the previous night. Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués had the place to themselves. Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist. “I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this sensational murder?” he said. Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger, and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely: “The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three days gone, and nothing done!” “What murder are you discussing, may I ask?” put in Franklin. Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly mobile face. “Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven’t heard of the Steynholme murder?” he gasped. “I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though abyssmal, is pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more interested in pedigree horses than in vulgar criminals.” Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and popular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country was already deeply stirred by the story. Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke in. “Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir,” he said, his rancor against Grant being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own business. “What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?” “All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an ever-open door to good horseflesh.” “Are you having a look round?” “Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance of Steynholme. Isn’t that so, landlord?” “Lots, sir,” said Tomlin. “An’ the very man you’re talkin’ to has some stuff not to be sneezed at.” “Is that so?” Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly manner. “May I ask your name, sir?” Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated in value forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear to rush matters. “Call any day you like, sir,” he said. “Glad to see you. But give me notice. I generally have an appetizer here of a morning about eleven.” “An’ you want it, too, Fred,” said Hobbs. “Dash me, you’re as thin as a herrin’. Stop whiskey an’ drink beer, like me.” “And you might also follow that gentleman’s example,” interposed Siddle quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin. “What’s that?” snapped Elkin. “Don’t worry about murders.” “That’s a nice thing to say. Why should I worry about the d—d mix-up?” The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly. “Keep yer ’air on, Fred,” he vociferated. “Siddle means no ’arm. But wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin’, noon, an’ night?” Elkin laughed, with his queer croak. “If you stay here a day or two, you’ll soon get to know what they’re driving at, sir,” he said to Franklin. “The fact is that this chap, Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was committed, has been making eyes at the girl I’m as good as engaged to. That would make anybody wild—now, wouldn’t it?” “Possibly,” smiled Franklin. “Of course there is always the lady’s point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. ‘Woman, thy vows are traced in sand,’ Lord Byron has it.” “Ay, an’ some men’s, too,” guffawed Hobbs. “Wot about Peggy Smith, Fred?” Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher. “What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?” he retorted. Hobbs’s face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin. “Ask these gentlemen what they’ll have,” he said gently. The landlord made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed. “You’ve aroused my curiosity,” remarked Franklin to Peters, but taking the company at large into the conversation. “This does certainly strike one as a remarkable case. Is there no suspicion yet as to the actual murderer?” “None whatever,” said Peters. “That’s what you may call the police opinion,” broke in Elkin. “We Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you.” “The matter is still sub judice, and may remain so a long time,” said Siddle. “It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to the man who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have no patience with that sort of reasoning.” Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him. “That’s all very well,” he rumbled. “But the hevidence you an’ me ’eard, Siddle, an’ the hevidence we know we’re goin’ to ’ear, is a lot stronger than that.” “I’m sure you’ll pardon me, friends,” said Siddle, rising with an apologetic smile, “but I happen to be foreman of the coroner’s jury, and I feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, to discuss publicly.” Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin’s appeal to drink the ginger-ale he had just ordered. “Just like ’im,” sighed Hobbs. “Good-’earted fellow! Would find hexcuses for a black rat.” Elkin talked more freely now that the chemist’s disapproving eye was off him. Ultimately, Mr. Franklin elected to smoke a cigar in the open air, and strolled forth. He sauntered down the hill, stood on the bridge, and admired the soft blue tones of the landscape in the half light of a summer evening. Shortly before closing time, Robinson appeared, it being part of his routine duty to see that no noisy revelers disturbed the peace of the village. He noticed the stranger at once, and elected to walk past him. Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressed him by name. “Good evening, Robinson,” said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. “I’ve been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the door open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of Scotland Yard.” “You don’t say so, sir!” stammered Robinson. “But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I’ll be with you in a minute or two. There’s someone coming. You and I must not be seen together.” Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met Bates, going to the post with letters. Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kept a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walked quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished. Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrust his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weight on his mind. “Beg pardon,” he said, “but I thought you’d like to know. The place is just swarmin’ with ’em.” “Bees?” inquired Hart. Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two. “No, sir, ’tecs,” he said. “There’s a big ’un now—just the opposite to the little ’un, Hawkshaw. I ’ope I ’aven’t to tackle this customer, though. He’d gimme a doin’, by the looks of ’im.” Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press photographer had mentioned the Big ’Un and the Little ’Un of the Yard. “Now, I wonder,” he said. His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter’s had he heard the gardener’s words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex, though it was founded solely on the assumption that all comers now, unless Bates was personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the law. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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