The Human Chase E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The six stories in Part I of this book trace the early career of Peter Benskin. He is a public school graduate with a small private income who joins the police force in London. After an early success he transfers to Scotland Yard where he becomes a detective. He is successful in solving several difficult cases but is hampered at times by his ethical feelings towards criminals who have been coerced or forced to commit crimes. He allows the „innocent” to escape, while he pursues the „truly” guilty. Part II of the book, which also consists of six stories, chronicles Benskin’s pursuit of and ultimate victory over a self-conceited master-criminal known only by the sobriquet „Matthew”.

Leseprobe

Contents

PART I

INTRODUCTION

I. THE VOLUME UPSIDE-DOWN

II. THE MAN WITH THE GREY MUFFLER

III. THE SAD END OF MR. WILLIAM STARR

IV. THE HILL STREET MURDER

V. THE MOMENTOUS BLEMISH

VI. THE INCOMPLETE CAPTURE

PART II

VII. THE SUB-COMMISSIONER’S PARLOUR

VIII. THE GREAT WEST RAID

IX. MADAME DE GRIGNOLLES ENTERTAINS

X. THE LITTLE YELLOW BIRDS

XI. THE AMAZING ABDUCTION

XII. THE STUBBORN END

PART I

INTRODUCTION

THE mise en scène was a fitting one for the coming drama, the neighbourhood grimly suburban, one of those thickly-populated districts stretching eastward, but which never, even with the aid of tram and omnibus, seem to escape from the gloom and pall of the City. The street, however, in which the last desperate struggle was to take place between the police and Crawley Martin’s infamous band of criminals, was situated well away from the main artery of traffic, and had undoubtedly seen better days. The houses were of the ten-roomed variety, straight-fronted, dark with smoke and weather-stains, but approached by steps and a short stretch of dreary garden. It was at the corner of this thoroughfare, out of sight of anyone who might have been watching from the windows, that Inspector Henslow marshalled his men. He listened to the striking of a distant clock and compared the hour with his watch.

“A quarter past eleven,” he announced softly. “Martin should have been there an hour by now–time enough for him to have settled down. You are sure you saw him enter the house, Brooks?”

“It’s a dead cert, sir,” a shadowy form, in plain clothes, from the outside of the circle, replied. “We got on to him in the Three Crowns in the Mile End Road, and marked him to the door. Saunders was with him and Rastall–the man we want for the Highgate burglary. Eddie Joseph we know to be in the house too. He’s got a bad arm and hasn’t been out for days.”

“And how many more, I wonder?” the Inspector mused.

“I can’t exactly say, sir,” the detective admitted. “It’s a pretty sensitive neighbourhood here–too many enquiries, however carefully they’re made, and the bird’s flown.”

The Inspector nodded.

“That’s right,” he agreed, “it’s a bunch we want very badly, but it’s got to be a surprise job or it doesn’t come off at all. We’ll see. How many arc we? Seven. That ought to be enough. You three,” he went on, pointing to the motionless trio in the background, “with Sergeant Pryce, get round to the yard gate. When you hear me ring at the front door, stand to attention by the lower windows and the rear entrance. Directly you are sure I am inside the place, come in, but leave one man on guard. You understand?”

There was a muttered chorus of assent. The men drifted away and disappeared up a passage. The Inspector patted his hip pocket, tightened his belt, and motioned to the other two.

“We’ll go round to the front.” he announced. “Now the question is, which of you shall I take in with me?”

He looked thoughtfully at the two guardians of the peace, keeping step with him through the misty twilight which had already begun to savour of fog. Police Constable Druce on his left was a well set-up man with a hard, resolute face and broad shoulders, Police Constable Benskin on his right-hand, however, was of a weedier type, with much narrower shoulders, more sensitive, and less forceful face, and a couple of inches shorter than his comrade Nevertheless, he was the first to volunteer.

“I’m not afraid of a scrap, sir,” he declared.

“Handle your gun, all right, eh? Not scared of it, like some of these beginners?”

“I won the prize at last week’s shooting competition,” Benskin confided–“good score too–ninety-five out of a possible ninety-nine.

“H’m! It isn’t target practice that’s wanted,” the Inspector pointed out. “It’s nerve and quickness.”

“There isn’t a man in the Force can draw quicker than I can, sir.”

Druce, however, had a trump card up his sleeve, and he promptly played it.

“I took Billy Drew, single-handed, sir,” he reminded his superior, with his eye upon another stripe.

“So you did,” the Inspector admitted. “A fine piece of work, that! I’ll take you, Druce. Give you a chance next time, Benskin. You’ve got to watch the gate. Something might come your way.”

Benskin did his best to conceal his disappointment. “I’ll look after it, sir,” he promised.

The Inspector stepped out into the open, pushed back a rusty iron gate, and trampled up a weed-grown path. A moment later he was ringing the bell, Druce by his side–two stalwart, menacing figures. There was a delay of not unreasonable length, and then the door was opened a few inches by some unseen person. The visitors passed into the dark passage and the door was shut behind them.

Whatever tragic events were transpiring in that closed house, they were conducted, so far as the world outside was concerned, in silence. Police Constable Benskin, after his first sigh of disappointment, and a wistful glance at the disappearing backs of his superior and favoured colleague, concentrated upon his task. He watched the door fixedly, he kept an eye, too, upon the exit from the empty house beyond. At the same time, he maintained an air of casual loitering intended to dispel any suspicion on the part of passers-by that he was engaged upon a very important and particular errand. Ten minutes passed–twenty–half an hour. Every moment now he expected to see the door thrown open, the captured men hauled out, and to hear the Inspector’s shrill whistle blowing for the patrol wagon. When at last the door opened, however–which it did with a quick, nervous jerk–the Inspector appeared alone. He descended the steps and walked swiftly to the gate.

“Come with me as far as the corner,” he enjoined quickly. “We’ve got ‘em all right, but there’s been some ugly work, I’m off to Newly Street Police Station.”

Police Constable Benskin kept pace with his superior for half a dozen strides, and then there was more “ugly work.” The Inspector suddenly felt his arm gripped and the boring of something unpleasant into the middle of his back.

“Stay exactly as you are,” Benskin ordered tensely, “or I pull the trigger. The slightest movement, mind, and you’ll have six bullets through your body.”

The Inspector seemed unwilling to run the risk. He stood quite mill.

“Now put ‘em up!”

There was just a shiver of hesitation, the slightest added pressure of the muzzle of that gun against his back, and the hands came together. There was a click. Benskin reached for his whistle and blew loudly for the patrol wagon. His captive turned slowly and looked at him. In the venom of his expression, all likeness to the Inspector had now disappeared.

“An ordinary cop!” he muttered, in a tone of intense disgust. “Serves me right if I’m lagged for life.”

“What’s happened to the Inspector?” Benskin demanded.

“He got his,” was the curt reply, “as I hope you will before long.”

The patrol wagon rattled up. Benskin escorted his charge inside and seated himself in a position of security. They made a brief call at the nearest police station and sent reinforcements to the silent house in case they were required. Benskin, resisting his passionate desire to return with them, did what he conceived lo be his duty and conducted his prisoner to headquarters. The sergeant in charge looked up in amazement at the entrance of the two men.

“What’s the meaning of this, Benskin?” he enquired. “Why, good God, it’s Inspector Henslow!”

Police Constable Benskin smiled the smile of justifiable pride,

“Not on your life, sir,” he rejoined. “That’s the bluff he tried to work on me. This is Crawley Martin, the chief of the bunch we were after to-night.”

The sergeant’s eyes glittered. He motioned two of the policemen who were seated upon a bench to guard the door.

“If you’ve got this right, Benskin.” he observed, “it will be the biggest day’s work you ever did. Come along,” he added, dipping his pen in the ink. “Let’s have the charge and get him down lo the cells.”

BENSKIN beard the whole story at Inspector Henslow’s bedside, the following afternoon.

“It was Brooks let us down a bit,” he confided. “They were as thick there as rats in a sewer. They rushed the back entrance and half a dozen of them got away. Whilst some of our chaps were after them, I went for Martin, chased him into a room, only to find five of them waiting there. One of them got me right over the head from behind, and when I woke up it was here, last night.”

“Well, we got Martin anyway, you know,” Benskin observed, with a little pardonable exultation.

“You got him,” the Inspector said weakly. “A real fine show, that. He passed two of our men on the stairs and they never dreamed of stopping him. What made you suspicious?”

“Several little things. He took longer strides than you, for one. He hadn’t stopped to change his boots, for another, and he started walking on the right of me, whereas you always walk on the left.”

“A damned fine piece of work, Benskin,” the Inspector approved, as the nurse came forward with a warning shake of the finger. “Get you promotion, sure!”

Benskin was hurried away and returned to Scotland Yard with a deep sense of satisfaction in his heart. Arrived there, he found on the call board a summons which brooked of no delay. Within ten minutes he was standing respectfully before the desk of Major Houlden, the Deputy Chief Commissioner. The latter leaned back in his chair and looked curiously at the young man before him.

“A very creditable performance, Benskin,” he declared. “How did you tumble to it?”

“Well, what started my suspicions, sir,” Benskin explained, “was the Inspector coming out alone, which seemed to me queer. Then we didn’t keep pace very well. He walked on the wrong side of me and, though his voice was a very good imitation, it was thicker and throatier than Henslow’s.”

“A useful habit that, taking note of trifles,” Major Houlden observed. “Now, we want to do something for you, Benskin. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven, sir.”

“I have your record here,” the Sub-Commissioner continued, glancing at a paper by his side. “Seems you were the son of a clergyman and went to a Public School. What made you start as a policeman?”

“Couldn’t find another job, sir, and I liked it better than indoor work. I hoped it might lead to something else.”

“Well, you’re one of those lucky men who’ve had their chance offered and taken if,” Major Houlden said kindly. “You’ll get your stripe at once. Benskin, there’ll be a money gratuity of course, and you’ll be on the ‘Watched’ list. How does that suit?”

“Most flattering, sir,” was the prompt reply, “but if I might be permitted, without seeming ungrateful, I had a request of my own to make.”

“Make it by all means,” Major Houlden assented. “I should like to exchange into the Detective Force, sir,” Benskin confided.

The Sub-Commissioner nodded and looked momentarily thoughtful.

“Well,” he admitted, “that isn’t an unreasonable idea. It may not mean quite as rapid promotion, you know, Benskin. I can’t put you over the heads of a lot of good men all at once.”

“I quite understand that, sir,” was the cheerful reply, “but if you’ll allow me to be frank with you, I should like to say that I only joined the Constabulary in the hope of being able to exchange some day into the Detective Force. I’ve had a fancy for it ever since I was a lad.”

The Sub-Commissioner studied his vis-à-vis keenly. Benskin’s frame was not exactly an athletic one, but be was wiry and not ungraceful. His keen blue eyes and a certain boyishness of expression made him look younger than he was, but his mouth was the mouth of a man.

“You must have a nerve,” he reflected, “to have tackled that murderous villain Martin in the fashion you did.”

Benskin smiled.

“I’ve had private lessons in jiu-jitsu and boxing, sir, besides the police instruction,” he confided, “and, though I may not have a great deal of muscular strength, I am quick with my hands and on my feet.”

Major Houlden nodded.

“Well, Benskin,” he announced, “you’re enrolled on the detective staff from to-day on. If you were a novice, I should feel it my duty to warn you against being led away by the glamour of what so many people seem to think is a life of perpetual excitement and adventure. Of course you know it’s nothing of the sort. Three-quarters of the work you’ll have to tackle will be as dull and humdrum, perhaps more so, than your present job.”

“I quite understand that, sir,” Benskin replied. “It’s the other quarter I’m looking forward to.”

I. THE VOLUME UPSIDE-DOWN

DETECTIVE BENSKIN glanced around the small second-hand bookshop with the keen, practised eyes of a man who has schooled himself to search for hidden values even in the most trifling phases of life. After a year of tedious routine work, this was the first big assignment which had come his way, and this had come to him by chance. Burton, his senior, had had the case in hand until he had been stricken down by ‘flu, and Burton, upon handing it over, frankly admitted that he could make little of it.

“This much I can tell you, Benskin,” he had confided, after explaining the simple facts of the case, “there isn’t a hope outside. I’ve done that part of the job thoroughly. If there’s anything remaining in the shape of a clue to be picked up, it’s in the bookshop itself.”

So Burton had betaken himself home and to bed, and Benskin, after collecting all the information he could, made his way down to the bookshop. The young lady whom, through the medium of a diminutive errand boy, he summoned from the inside premises, in due course made her appearance. She was dark, good-looking, but somewhat sullen of expression. She frowned questioningly at the newcomer.

“My name is Benskin,” he announced, raising his hat–“Detective Benskin.”

“What, another of you!” she exclaimed. “There’s been a Mr. Burton messing about the place for more than a week, asking all sorts of questions.”

“Mr. Burton, I am sorry to say, is down with influenza,” Benskin told her. “I have had to take over his work.”

She looked at him with somewhat supercilious curiosity.

“Well, he didn’t seem to do much good,” she remarked. “Took up hours of everybody’s time and never got a step forwarder.”

“These things can’t be rushed,” Benskin ventured. “As a rule, we don’t like to say much about a case until we have, at any rate, a definite theory. I expect he would have stumbled across a clue of some sort but for his illness. I hope I may be more fortunate.”

“I should hope you will,” the girl said emphatically. “It seems a rum thing to me that a harmless old gentleman like Uncle Sam should have been done to death here, not fifty yards from Holborn, and you Scotland Yard men who think so much of yourselves haven’t been able to do anything about it.”

“The case is not given up yet,” Benskin reminded her. “You should appreciate the fact that there are special difficulties to contend with. Although, as you say, you are so close to Holborn, this street itself is a very quiet one, and, according to Burton’s report, although everyone in the neighbourhood has been questioned and cross-questioned, not a soul was seen to enter or leave the shop within even half an hour of the time of the murder. That doesn’t give us much to start on, does it?”

“I suppose not,” she admitted indifferently.

“Do you mind showing me exactly where your uncle’s body was found?” he asked.

She lifted a flap of the counter and came reluctantly out to him. The shop was lined with bookshelves, with two wings projecting at right angles into the room at the further end. She pointed to the space in front of one of these.

“That is exactly where he was found,” she said. “He was lying flat upon his face with his skull beaten in. I hope I don’t have to tell any more of you about it. It gives me the shivers every time I look at the place.”

“I am sure you won’t be troubled again,” he told her sympathetically. “If I have to pass the case on to some one else, I shall be able to tell him all that is necessary. I have a little plan of the way your uncle was lying. The suggestion seems to be that he was struck down from the left-hand side. It must have been from somewhere about here.”

He placed himself between the two shelves and nodded thoughtfully. The girl stood by his side, patient but gloomy.

“It is true, is it not,” he asked, “that your uncle must have been called into the shop whilst he was putting the shutters up–that they were half up, in fact, when he was found, murdered?”

“I’ve told Mr. Burton all this,” she nodded, discontentedly.

“Please be patient with me,” Benskin begged. “I like to hear these thing sometimes at first hand. This is how I see the matter then: your uncle was putting up the shutters when some one entered the shop–perhaps without his seeing them at the time–and strolled around the shelves, looking at the books. Your uncle suddenly became aware that a probable customer was there–he may have attracted his attention by some means–and left the shutters to go and serve him. He came this way, and as soon as he had passed the corner of the wing of the bookcase which hid the murderer from sight, he received the blow that killed him.”

“That’s all right,” the girl agreed, “but who did it?”

“The person must have been standing,” Benskin went on, without taking any notice of the interruption, “just about where I am now. Presuming he knew what he was going to do, he would probably have been looking at some of these books to account for his presence here. Let’s see if any of them have been disturbed.”

He examined the shelves within arm’s length of him. Suddenly he stretched out his hand.

“Here’s one put in upside down–looks as though it had been returned to its place in a hurry too–no dust on it, evidently been looked at lately. The History of the Rosicrucians,” he went on, reading out the title. “That’s a valuable book, isn’t it, Miss Mason?”

“I know nothing about the prices,” she replied, “I expect you’ll find it on the flyleaf.”

He glanced at the title page and nodded.

“Forty shillings,” he murmured. “That’s quite a lot of money! Still, it’s a unique book. Had you noticed, Miss Mason, that the volume was in upside down?”

“I haven’t been near the shelves, I’ve had other things to think about,” was the curt rejoinder,

“You haven’t shown the book, then, to any one who’s been in since?”

“I haven’t been near this end of the shop at all.”

Benskin handled the volume gingerly.

“It’s interesting in a way, you know,” he observed, “because it was probably taken down by the murderer. You won’t mind if I keep it for a time, Miss Mason? I don’t think it’s much use looking for finger-prints, but you never can tell.”

“You can have it if you want to,” she answered. “If it’s worth two pounds, though, I hope you’ll bring it hack again.”

“Of course I will,” he promised,

He asked a few more questions and presently prepared to take his leave. The girl smiled at him sardonically.

“Well?” she asked. “Any theory?”

He shook his head.

“I can’t even go so far as that, for the moment.” he admitted. “By the by, can you tell me whether the whole contents of the till were taken?”

“Every penny.”

“Not a treasury note left, for instance?”

“Not one. We had to send to the bank to get money enough to keep the house going. There were over seventy pounds in treasury notes and cash. Uncle used to go to sales and always had to have money handy.”

Benskin shut up his pocketbook and sighed.

“The facts so far,” he acknowledged, “arc not very helpful. Still, we must do what we can.”

“Oh, you’ll hang some one, all right, no doubt.” the girl remarked sourly. “Be careful it’s the right one, though–that’s all!”

BENSKIN admitted to himself, as he mounted the steps of the Free Library in the next street, that if the single clue he had unearthed failed him, it was extremely unlikely that anyone would ever hang for the Dunster Street murder. He looked about the place curiously, as he crossed the tesselated stone floor. There was a sprinkling of men, old and young, seated poring over books in the railed-off reading department, a dozen or so more at the counter, and a space reserved for ladies, well patronised by a respectable-looking crowd of young women. Benskin enquired for the librarian, introduced himself, and drew him to one side.

“I’ve come to ask you a question, if I may, Mr. Broadbent,” he said, “with reference to this Dunster Street murder.”

The librarian was startled.

“A beastly affair,” he remarked. “I knew the old man well. He used to come in here often for reference books and to compare editions. I don’t quite see what help I can be to you, though.”

“It isn’t exactly obvious,” Benskin confessed, “but if you can answer me a question, it might turn out to be of some assistance. Can you recall any subscriber to the library particularly interested in works on alchemy and magic?”

“We could only tell, of course, by the books they ask for,” the librarian answered, “and I’m afraid it would take the best part of a day to go through the records. One of our young fellows at the counter, though, has a marvellous memory. We’ll try him, if you like.”

“I should be very grateful.”

They found the young man, a shock-headed, horn-rimmed bespectacled product of the modern Board School. He listened to what the librarian had to say and nodded understandingly.

“There’s one young fellow,” he confided, “takes out nothing but books on alchemy and occultism–comes here now and then and reads in the reference department too.”

“Can you give me his name and address?”

“I can find you his ticket, I expect. He hasn’t been in for a few days.”

The young man disappeared for a moment or two and returned with a long, oblong strip of cardboard.

“The name is Richard Monk,” he announced; “address, Ballater Buildings, just behind here.”

“That likely to help you in any way?” the librarian enquired curiously, as he took leave of his visitor.

“It might,” Benskin admitted. “By the by, if the young man comes in, will you take care that he isn’t told about these enquiries?”

“Certainly,” the other promised.

Benskin glanced at his watch as he left the library. It was just nine o’clock–not too late for a call at Ballater Buildings. Here, a stroke of good fortune befell him. The man seated behind the desk in the plain stone hall was an ex-policeman who had once been upon his own beat. The two shook hands.

“Have you left the Force then?” the porter asked, looking at Benskin’s mufti.

“Not entirely,” was the latter’s reply. “I’m working in another department. Fact is, I looked in to make an enquiry about one of your lodgers here.”

“They’re a quaint lot. I keep my eye on ‘em as well as I can, and I shouldn’t say but they were pretty well on the straight. They’re small clerks and tradesmen’s assistants, most of them. Whom did you want to ask about?”

“A young fellow named Monk–Richard Monk.”

The porter scratched his chin.

“Not much wrong with him, I should think, except that he’s been pretty well starved lately. Writing a book, he always says he is, but it don’t seem to bring him in much. He got hold of a bit of brass somehow last week and paid up the rent, or out from here he’d have had to go.”

If, for a moment, there was a gleam of pleasure in Benskin’s eyes, it was, after all, purely professional, and this was his first case of any moment.

“I don’t suppose you’d be able to remember,” he enquired, “what Monk’s movements were last Thursday evening?”

The man considered for a moment.

“He most often stays in at night,” he ruminated. “Let me see. Last Thursday, it was, be had to go out for an hour or so in the evening–somewhere about eight or nine, I think it was. I didn’t see him come back, but I know it wasn’t late because his key had gone again when I went up at ten o’clock. I know that was the night because it was the same night that the old bookseller in Dunster Street, round the corner here, got done in.”

Benskin made a little note in his pocketbook.

“I don’t know whether anything will come of this,” he said, “but keep what you have told me in your mind, will you?–it might be important. The young man, Richard Monk, went out, somewhat contrary to his custom, between eight and nine o’clock last Thursday evening, and returned, you’re not sure when, but it must have been before ten,”

“That’s gospel,” the man confirmed. “Is it worth a pint?”

“It is worth a pint,” Benskin assented readily. “Come along!”

The porter took his hat from a cupboard, and the two men sought the hospitality of a neighbouring public house.

ABOUT an hour and a half later, Benskin climbed five flights of stone steps and knocked at a door upon which was gummed an envelope addressed to Richard Monk. There was a brief delay, then the sound of a chair being pushed back and the door was thrown open. A slim, scowling young man, in shirt and trousers, a pipe at the corner of his mouth, looked out at his visitor suspiciously.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“A word with you, Mr. Monk,” Benskin answered. “It had better be spoken inside your room, if you don’t mind.”

The young man stood grudgingly on one side, and Benskin entered, closing the door behind him, The apartment was barely furnished, and a small iron bedstead stood in one corner without shelter or subterfuge. In the middle of the room was a table covered with sheets of manuscript, and a parcel of typewritten matter, which had evidently recently arrived by post, was piled upon a chair.

“I don’t know you, do I?” the young man enquired ungraciously. “What is it that you want?”

“I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Samuel Rudd, bookseller, of Dunster Street, last Thursday,” Benskin announced. “If you take my advice, you will make no reply whatever to the charge. In any case, you will have to come with me to Bow Street.”

The young man was obviously incapable of speech. He tottered to the chair upon which he had been seated and, leaning over the back of it, glared at his visitor.

“Murder! Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Detective Benskin from Scotland Yard. You had better make your preparations and come along with me at once. The sooner it’s over, the better. I have a taxicab outside.”

Richard Monk stood away from the chair, leaned over the table, and began to sort the manuscript with trembling fingers.

“Just three minutes,” he begged. “This must be done. My book. I’ve just finished it.”

“I will wait,” Benskin assented.

In less than the time stated, the loose pages were all in order and heaped side by side with the typewritten script. The young man tied a piece of tape around both. Then, turning away, lie produced a coat and waistcoat.

“Better put on a collar and tie,” Benskin advised him, not unkindly. “The more respectable an appearance you present, the better.”

The accused youth shivered in every limb. He went to a drawer, however, selected the articles mentioned, and dressed slowly. Then he reached for a hat and stole a furtive glance towards the window, which stood a few inches open. Benskin, with an adroit movement, slipped handcuffs upon his wrists.

“You mustn’t mind,” he explained. “You see, this is a serious charge.”

Richard Monk looked down at his fetters with a strange expression in his eyes.

“You’ll have to turn out the gas yourself then,” he said. “Do you mind locking the door too and giving the key to the man downstairs?”

“I shall have to keep the key.” Benskin told him. “Your rooms will be searched later on.”

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

“There are only my manuscripts here,” he declared. “All the material–you mightn’t think it to look at me–for a great book. It might pay for my defence, unless I do the Eugene Aram trick and defend myself.”

“It may not be necessary,” Benskin observed. “The magistrates may decide that we have not a sufficient case against you.”

Upon the first landing. Monk paused for a moment,

“There is one question,” he said, “I should like to ask you.”

“I have already told you in your own interests that I should advise you not to speak at all,” was the stern reminder.

“Nevertheless,” the other proceeded, clutching at the banisters, “I want to ask you this. I can’t go on for a moment, anyway. My knees feel funny, What made you single me out as being the man who might have killed Samuel Rudd? Did anyone think that they saw me enter or leave the shop?” Benskin shook his head.

“You must not ask me to explain. We’re not allowed to discuss these things at all. I will tell you this, though: I got on your track because there was a volume in Rudd’s bookshop put in upside down.”

“The Rosicrucians! God!” the young man muttered.

A MONTH or so later, curiosity tempted Benskin to loiter once more outside the bookshop in Dunster Street. The girl came out to the shop entrance, more sullen than ever, more untidy, thin, and hollow-eyed. She motioned to him and he crossed the threshold.

“You are sure you hung the right man, Mr. Detective?” she asked, a terrible bitterness in her tone.

“As sure as it is possible to be of anything in this world,” he answered.

She considered the matter for a moment, her eyes like pools of sombre fire in their pallid setting.

“By rights,” she acknowledged slowly, “I should have stood in the dock, not he.”

Then a terrible fear came to Benskin, who was a brave man. He was no sentimentalist, and he had heard the death sentence passed on Richard Monk with no other feeling save one of natural and professional satisfaction that justice had been done. In those few seconds, however, a torturing thought racked him. His first case! What if, after all, he had sent an innocent man to the gallows!… He steadied his voice as well as he could.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Richard was my lover,” she confided. “We should have been married as soon as that book had been published. I told him I couldn’t wait any longer; I told him that there were seventy pounds in the till. It was true that I was out that night, but I left the side door in the passage, which he used when he came to visit me, open so that he could come and go unseen.”

“You were out?” Benskin repeated, with an immense relief.

“Yes, I was out. I didn’t kill him with my own hands, although I’ve done it in my mind many a time. Richard did that, all right. But do you think I shall be able to forget that it was I who put the idea into his head? He didn’t want to do it. He hated the thought. It was I who nagged him into it. What do you think of that, Mr. Detective–or don’t you ever think at all except to get your poor prisoner under lock and key and chuckle when he swings? What do you think about it now, I wonder? Richard struck the blow, but there was never murder in his brain. I put it there. Here I am. Richard is hanged. Is that justice?”

“You could have given evidence,” Benskin told her. “It might not have altered the sentence, but one never knows.”

“He wouldn’t let me. I went to see him. He swore that if I did he would contradict me flatly, and say that I was lying to shield him. He’d have done it too! Richard was like that. He was chock-full of horror with himself for the thing he had done and he wanted to die.”

“I believe he did,” Benskin groaned. “And now?”

The girl chuckled morbidly. There was a terrible light in her eyes.

“I’ve got half the money,” she said. “He left it under the mat in the parlour. Do you know how I spend my nights? I light the gas and I go round every shelf in the place to see if there’s a book upside down. That’s because I’m going mad, you see! I’m mad enough now to kill you if I’d anything to do it with.”

She turned away, disappearing through the inner door, slamming and locking it after her. Benskin slowly left the place. From that moment he felt that he should never think again, without a nauseating thrill, of the commencement of his career, of those suave compliments which had fallen to his lot for having tracked down the murderer of Samuel Rudd.

II. THE MAN WITH THE GREY MUFFLER

IT was a villainous night, and Benskin, abandoning his dripping mackintosh and umbrella, let himself into his cosy sitting room, turned on the electric light, and sank into an easy-chair with a little sigh of relief. He rang the bell for the caretaker, who was able, upon occasions, to prepare a modest meal.

“Mrs. Adams,” he said, as soon as she had obeyed the summons, “I don’t want to stir out again to-night. Can you cook me a chop or a fried sole?”

“I dare say I could manage it, sir,” the woman replied, with a certain aloofness in her manner. “There’s a young person been here to see you. She wanted to wait, but I sent her away.”

“Who was she?” Benskin enquired. “And why send her away on a night like this?”

Mrs. Adams’ lips were tightly pursed; her features denoted disapproval.

“It is far from me to be hard on one of my own sex, sir,” she said, “but there was no mistaking the character of the young woman, and I don’t hold with that way of living. We’re all respectable folk here and while I’m caretaker none of that truck shall come hanging about.”

Benskin wheeled around in his chair.

“Did the young person leave any message?”

“She did not. There’s a chop in the house, sir, and a couple of haddock. I’ll cook whatever you say.”

Benskin made his choice and Mrs. Adams took her departure. A few minutes afterwards, however, came a ring at the bell, and, after a slight delay, she made her reluctant reappearance.

“It’s the young person, sir,” she announced. “If you’ll take my advice, you’ll speak to her on the doorstep.”

“You will show the young person in, Mrs. Adams,” Benskin directed.

The woman hesitated, but obeyed. Under his meek exterior, her tenant could at times be convincing. A moment later, she threw open the door, and, having ushered in the unwelcome visitor, closed it again without a word.

“You wished to see me?” Benskin enquired, rising to his feet.

The newcomer looked at him for a moment in silence. She was either out of breath or overcome with some emotion. As to her place in the world, without a doubt Mrs. Adams’s suspicions were justified. Such measure of good looks as she had ever possessed seemed to have been washed away with the rain. A small and insufficient umbrella had left her partially wet through. There were streaks of rouge upon her cheeks, two roses drooped sadly from the side of her small hat, her shoes of some light fancy colour, sodden with rain, were a pathetic sight.

“You wished to see me?” Benskin repeated.