At least, the detective was going to visit the house, and Sir Arnold, with the excuse that he was wanting to see how the fisherman’s hand was getting on, was driving him there.
Larose was still weak, and the pallor of his countenance5 was evidence of the sickness he had passed through, but mentally he was very much on the alert, and considered himself now quite well enough to start upon the trail of the abductors of Lady Ardane.
According to his usual custom, he was going to try to pick it up where the kidnappers7 had last lived, for it was one of his most profound convictions that no one could reside anywhere, if only for a few weeks, without imposing8 something of his individuality upon his habitation, and by the evidence of his habits and mode of life that he had left behind him, suggest to a reasoning observer something of where he might have gone, if he had been forced to suddenly fly away.
At his request, Sir Arnold dropped him at the dip in the road about a hundred and fifty yards distant from the back of the house, and reminding him that he would be waiting for him upon the sands, whenever he was ready to return, drove off in the direction of Henrik’s hut.
With an unpleasant beating of his heart, Larose walked over to the exact spot by the hedge where he had been struck down that night.
“Yes,” he reflected ruefully, “it almost seems as if that charming Sir Parry had informed them where, if I followed his directions, I should be pushing through, and I walked into a regular booby trap in consequence.” He shook his head sadly. “Really, Gilbert, you are a great ass6 sometimes.”
He had brought some tools with him to force the lock of the door, but to his surprise upon approaching it, found that the door was not only unlocked, but was actually standing10 ajar.
He pushed it wide open and at once stepped into the room that held such dreadful memories for him.
Then, to his annoyance11, he saw that it was not unoccupied, for a man was seated there in an armchair. The man was quite motionless, and except that his attitude was one of profound meditation12, it might almost have been thought he was asleep. Coming out of the bright sunlight, for the moment, the detective could not form any idea of his face.
Hearing the footsteps of the detective, the man looked up sharply and uttered a phlegmatic13 “Ah!” Then a deep voice came from the depths of the armchair. “So, you’ve come, have you, a week late?”— and Larose almost jumped out of his skin, for the voice was that of the great investigator14, Naughton Jones.
“Yes,” went on Jones coldly, “like myself”— his voice took a mournful tone —“you are a week too late.”
Larose repressed the astonishment15 that he felt, and seating himself down in another chair, replied quietly and as if it were quite the natural thing that they should meet. “Yes, unhappily, if you have only just come, Mr. Jones, we are both a week late, but I have been ill, too, and this is the first day I have been allowed out.” Then, perceiving that Jones himself looked pale and thin, he added quickly —“But ought you to have come here, Mr. Jones! Ought you to have left the nursing home so soon?”
The great, investigator looked scornful. “Mr. Larose,” he replied in icy tones, “such men as I do not go into nursing homes, except as a prelude16 to their immediate17 decease, and I have paid no visit to any such place in all my life.”
“But you said you were going into one,” exclaimed Larose looking very mystified, “and ——”
“Never mind what I said,” broke in Jones sharply, “I have never been near one.” His voice became almost angry. “When I told you twelve days ago that I was intending to seek the seclusion18 of a nursing institute, as a man of intelligence, you should have regarded it as a polite way of my informing you that I did not desire to be cross-examined about my future movements.” He looked very stern. “I wished it to appear to everyone that I had retired19 from the case, so that with me out of the way, the rascals20 we were after would be less upon their guard than if they knew I was upon the spot.” He spoke21 hurriedly, as if he were quite aware that he was skating upon thin ice. “But I may tell you now, sir, that I have never left the case, and the whole time have never been three miles distant from the Abbey.”
A wave of furious resentment22 that he had been so deceived surged through Larose, and he was upon the point of giving speech to his anger when something in the wan4 and drawn23 face of Jones made him pause. The man had been ill, he was sure, and deserved pity as much as blame. Besides, he told himself, there was nothing to be gained by quarrelling, for Jones was a most efficient colleague, and with all his pompous24 manners, was always worth listening to.
So he just choked down his indignation and said very quietly. “Then you know everything that has happened?”
“Everything,” replied Jones majestically25. “There were two persons in the secret at the Abbey who kept me well informed. Lady Ardane and Polkinghorne.”
“Lady Ardane!” exclaimed Larose, “then it was you she went to meet that night, when I caught her by the fence?”
“Exactly!” replied Jones carelessly. He frowned. “And I was a spectator of the scene when you laid hands upon her. I caught sight of you just before you seized her, and it was fortunate for you that I recognised you.” He spoke very sternly. “I may tell you, young man, that with all your escapes, you have never been nearer death than you were at that moment. I had covered you with my revolver and was steadying my finger upon the trigger, when you moved and the moon shone upon your face, between the trees. It was a near thing and — ah!” He seemed suddenly to remember something and went on dryly. “Yes, and in my opinion you retained her in your arms much longer than was necessary. You must have seen who she was directly you looked under her cap, and, besides, that scent26 she uses is always unmistakable.”
Larose turned the subject at once. “But where have you been, Mr. Jones,” he asked quickly, “and what has made you look so ill?”
“What has made me look so ill?” snorted Jones angrily. “Why association with a drunken sot who leaves broken bottles about, all round his hut, and who, when I fell over some oars27 that he had left in the doorway28 and stunned29 myself and almost bled to death from a gash30 that involved the radial artery31, was too intoxicated32 to be able to go for help for more than twelve hours!” His voice vibrated angrily. “That, sir, is why, today, I am weak and ill, notwithstanding the skill and care of a gentleman who in his time has incised the cuticles33 of kings and princes.” But then suddenly his whole expression changed, and stretching out his hands he gave a hoarse34 chuckle35 and croaked36, “Bacco, bacco, me not mooch Inglish.”
Larose gasped37 incredulously. “Mr. Jones!” he exclaimed, “then you have been Henrik! and all along ——”
“Not at all, not at all,” replied Jones testily38. “Thank heaven, I am not that beast. There have been two Henriks, I may inform you, and I have passed as the real Henrik only when it was necessary. My suspicions were aroused about these men here and I started to watch them. Fortunately, I happen to speak Danish, and continual and copious39 supplies of rum succeeded in buying Henrik, body and soul.” He shrugged40 his shoulders resignedly. “So, for an unpleasant period of time, I shared with him, his hut, his vermin, and in order that our effluvias might not differ too greatly, a certain portion of his rum.”
“Then it was you who saved my life here!” said Larose breathlessly.
“Of course, of course,” snapped Jones, looking intensely disagreeable, “and I may tell you, sir, that I was not too pleased to have to do it, for it upset all my plans.”
His icy tones and haughty41 air completely cut short the expressions of gratitude42 that were rising to the detective’s lips, and for the moment he felt like a child who had been slapped in the face.
“Yes,” went on Jones carelessly, and as if the matter were of small account, “when I saw that they had got you and gathered, from my position under the window, something of what their intentions were, I went and kindled43 some straw under the breakwater yonder, feeling sure that the light would bring them out.” He lit a cigarette. “It might interest you — they must have thought you had somehow managed to effect your own deliverance, for they searched over a wide area of ground around the house, before they became really apprehensive44 and finally bolted with great haste away.”
“But why didn’t you shoot them, Mr. Jones?” asked Larose sharply. “You have just mentioned that you possess a revolver.”
Naughton Jones smiled sarcastically46. “Because, Mr. Larose,” he replied, “I have a greater regard for the sanctity of human life than you have and do not shoot indiscriminately. Also,” he added as an afterthought, “that drunken brute47 had been playing with my revolver and emptied the cartridges48 out of it, where I could not find them in the dark.” He shook his head. “It was a near shave for me, too, and I had to hide under the heaps of sacks that constitute Henrik’s bed for longer than an hour.” He sighed. “In consequence I am still inconvenienced by the insect bites that I received during my sojourn49 there.”
Larose looked very puzzled. “But it was Henrik who sold the fish to Lady Ardane that afternoon,” he said, “and whose hand Sir Arnold bound up!”
“Certainly!” replied Jones.
“Henrik sold the fish and went into his hut to get the bag to put them in, but it was I who brought them out.”
“And you warned me against the airman,” frowned Larose. “How do you know he had been smuggling50 dope?”
“Because Henrik recognised him,” replied Jones. “Daller was flying over here one night a couple of months or so ago, and had trouble with his engines and had to come down upon these sands. Then before he attempted to find out what was wrong with them, he rushed into the sandhills and buried a number of packets beneath the sands. Then, having very quickly rectified51 whatever was wrong with his engine, he retrieved52 the packets in great haste and dumped them back into his plane and flew away.” The great investigator put up his hand to suppress a yawn. “It was therefore obvious to me that, being forced down and unaware53 if he would be able to get up again, his first thought had been to dispose of whatever he was carrying, so that in the event of any prolonged stay, and the authorities appearing to make enquiries about his landing in an unauthorised place, nothing of an incriminating nature would have been found upon him.”
“And Henrik watched all this?” asked Larose.
“Yes, it happened to be one of the rare occasions upon which he was sober,” replied Jones, “and he was quite close among the sand-grass all the time. He avers54 he saw Daller’s face distinctly, and it even struck him as peculiar55 that the airman should devote quite half an hour to burying his parcels, before attempting to remedy the trouble in his plane, which, later, occupied only a very few minutes.” Jones nodded emphatically. “This Henrik is quite an intelligent man when sober and not half the fool people imagine him to be.”
“But why, Mr. Jones,” asked Larose sharply, “have you kept me in the dark about your movements all this time? You could have been of great service, if I had only been aware that you were here.”
Naughton Jones flicked56 the ashes from his cigarette. “We are rivals, Mr. Larose,” he said coldly, “and it is always my preference, as you are well aware, to work alone. Besides”— and his eyes glinted sternly —“you do many things of which I do not approve. Why, for instance, did you kill that man they called Luke? You had disabled him already and we might have got some information out of him if you had inflicted57 no further punishment.”
For the second time that morning Larose was inclined to tell Jones what was in his mind, but for the second time he thought better of it. After all, he told himself, Jones was still a sick man, with all the irritability58 of a peevish59 sufferer. So he patiently related all that had happened that night after Jones had carried him away from the stone house.
Then he asked, “But how is it, if you have been laid up all this time, that you knew I had shot the man?”
Jones elevated his eyebrows60. “I had been seeing Sir Arnold,” he replied, “at least once every day, and he, mentioning to me where the body had been found, I was at once certain it was your handiwork, for it was in that direction that I had started you upon your return home.” He frowned angrily. “But you know, Mr. Larose, I am not pleased with you. You have muddled61 up everything.”
“Well, Mr. Jones,” said Larose slowly, “I have been unfortunate and ——”
“You have been more than unfortunate,” broke in Jones quickly. “You have shown poor judgment62 as well. Firstly, you seriously inconvenienced me, when that afternoon you were out here in the sandhills when that car arrived. I had been waiting for it for a week, and you took so long over it in the shed, that a bare five minutes was left for me, and I had no time to see all I wanted.” He nodded. “Of course, it was you who took off those valve-cap covers! I thought so. Well, it was most unwise, for, from the absence of mud upon the valve-caps, if he had happened to look, the man would have seen that the covers had only just been taken off and then naturally”— he scowled63 —“he would at once have suspected me.”
“But I did not know you were here, Mr. Jones,” began Larose, “and you did wrong in not telling me. If I had known ——”
“Then the second occasion,” broke in Jones rudely, “when your actions were those of a raw country policeman was when you allowed yourself to get caught here that night. I was an eye witness of the whole happening, and you just pushed through the hedge, taking no thought as to who might be waiting for you on the other side.” He scoffed64. “‘I’m Gilbert Larose,’ I suppose you told yourself, ‘and I’m quite safe, because no one can plot or plan to do anything, except me.’”
The insolence65 of the great investigator was so studied that Larose could hardly suppress his rage, but he had always been so furious with himself about his carelessness that night that he did not now trouble to argue in defence.
Jones went on. “And what was the result?” He shook one long forefinger66 angrily. “You stampeded these men just at the very moment when I wanted them most, for I had learned they were keeping up a close personal contact with someone inside the Abbey, and upon the next occasion when either of them went out at night, I was intending to follow him and learn who the traitor68 was.”
“But how do you know they were in touch with someone in the Abbey?” asked Larose, his curiosity now quite over-mastering his anger.
Jones punctuated69 every word with his finger. “On the day that you arrived, Sir Arnold advised Admiral Charters to use Ferrier’s snuff to clear up a cold in the head. Two days later the man, Luke, was employing the identical remedy here. On the Saturday the Abbey party had its first pheasant shoot of the season, and the same night they were plucking pheasants in the kitchen of this house.” He snapped his fingers contemptuously. “As Henrik I have often been in here with my fish, for, sufficiently70 filthy71 in my person and attire72, and with my artificial teeth in my pocket, I am not unlike him in appearance.”
“Then can it be the Admiral they have been meeting,” asked Larose incredulously, “and it was he who gave them the snuff?” He nodded. “I caught him once, about to signal to someone with his handkerchief, from the belfry tower.”
“Tut! tut!” scoffed Jones irritably73. “It’s a woman he’s after, a farmer’s wife not half a mile from here. He’s continually calling at her farm for glasses of milk, and he takes her expensive boxes of chocolates. The old fool! It’s the joke of the village, and the woman only tolerates him because of his chocolates.”
Larose bit his lip in disgust. This Jones was like a child in his vanity, and yet he had so often, in a few quiet words, made him, Larose, feel as if he were a baby in arms.
Jones sat up straight in his chair and regarded the detective intently. “Well, although I prefer, as I have told you, to work alone, up to a certain point you are welcome to the benefit of any discoveries I have made. I am quite aware that your stay at the Abbey has not been of much profit”— he laughed disagreeably —“except that you have learnt something of the troubles of a breeder of Persian cats.”
Larose made no comment and Jones went on sharply. “Now I have learnt something about these two men who were here and you can make of it what you will.” He spoke with the assurance of a man who never made mistakes. “Luke was a seaman74, evidently, by trade. No, no, he didn’t drink rum or walk bandy-legged, and he wasn’t tattooed75 and he didn’t smoke plug tobacco. No, nothing like that, but I noticed that whenever he stepped out of the door, his first thought was to look up at the sky. Seafaring men invariably do that, even if they have been half a lifetime off the sea. It’s a habit with them, and they look up automatically to see which way the wind is blowing. I have always noticed it. Apart from that, too, he was always interested in ships, and a sailing barque would keep him looking through his glasses as long as she was in sight. The other man, he was called Prince, was of quite a different class. He was a gentleman.”
“Every inch of him,” commented Larose sarcastically, “and you would need no convincing of that if you had heard him discussing the best way of putting you to death without making a mess.”
“He had served in the war, too,” continued Jones, ignoring the interruption, “for I saw three scars, once when he was coming out after a dip in the sea. Bullet wounds in his arm and shoulder and a bayonet one through his thigh76.”
“More likely he was a gangster,” said Larose, determined77 now to disagree with Jones as much as possible, “and acquired those injuries in a get-away after a hold-up.”
Jones shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “He was particular about his person, he carried himself well and he shaved every day. Besides, that was a bayonet wound in his thigh, for it had gone right through and the scar was evidence of a wide cut.” His voice took on a sneering78 tone. “And I know of no policeman in any country of the world who employs bayonets in hindering get-aways after a hold-up.” He screwed up his face. “This man, Prince, too, at one time of his life had probably had something to do with farming, for some sheep one day straying upon the marshes79, I heard him tell his companion that they were of the Lincoln breed, big animals with long wool.”
For the second time then within a few minutes, Larose paid a silent tribute of admiration80 to the acumen81 of the great investigator, for, remembering the questions that had been asked him that night in the lane, he realised how sound the latter’s deductions82 now were.
“Well, Mr. Larose.” said Jones, and he smiled now for the first time, “I will admit that from the moment they were informed that Lady Ardane had been taken, the county police have shown themselves to be most energetic and capable, for I have had concrete evidence from the enquiries that I made from a sick bed, that within ten minutes of the call getting through to Norwich, they had blocked not only every road in Norfolk, but also in the adjoining counties as well.”
“Yes,” nodded Larose, his good humor now coming back, “the Norwich Superintendent83 came to see me yesterday, and even now, although a week has passed, no car can proceed very far upon any main road without being bailed84 up and searched.”
“And they are of opinion,” suggested Jones, “that she is still held prisoner somewhere in this neighborhood?” He screwed up his face and asked sharply, “Is that your opinion, too, Mr. Larose?”
The detective hesitated. “I am not certain,” he replied. “On the one hand, a swift car may have met that delivery van just outside the Abbey fence and, it is possible, have got forty or fifty miles away with the prisoners before the cordon85 was set — yet on the other hand, the under-chauffeur, who bicycled into Burnham Market, said he was speaking on the phone there within nine minutes of the delivery van having got away, and in Norwich, the Superintendent swears the news was being put over the air four minutes after he received it. So thousands and thousands of people must have been on the look out, yet no one, in any direction, has come forward to say that he or she saw a car passing at undue86 speed at that time of the day.”
“Yes,” nodded Jones, after a minute. “I’ll admit there is something in that. You mean, of course, that to have escaped being caught in the meshes87 of the cordon when it was set, the car must have travelled at such excessive speed that it would have been remarked upon in many quarters.”
He drew in a deep breath. “Well, we’ll drop that side of the problem for the moment, and discuss these gentlemen who were up at the Abbey, and the puzzle to me at once is, that having obtained possession of the child, they made no demand upon Lady Ardane, but, instead, waited to get her, too.” He smiled dryly. “Now I think we can both honorably exchange confidences, and if you have indeed made any discoveries at all during your five days’ sojourn at the Abbey, then you can tell me and I will comment upon them.” He nodded in great condescension88. “But you must certainly have found out something, to have come to this house and got knocked out as you did. You had some reason for being curious about these men.”
Yet a third time was Larose upon the verge89 of a downright quarrel with the half-sneering and wholly sarcastic45 Jones and he thought deliciously with what interest he could pay back the latter’s rudeness, by throwing into his vanity the bomb that the little baronet was not now a prisoner on the kidnappers’ hands.
But he reflected that Jones had been much longer upon the scene than he had, and by reticence90 and tact67 he might pick up some useful information. So he told him most of what he had discovered at the Abbey, keeping back, however, all reference to his visit to Sir Parry’s house, the latter’s housekeeper91, and the recovery of the child.
Jones puckered92 up his brows when he told him of the straight-out talk with the Abbey guests in the morning-room, and frowned heavily when he learnt of the listening box behind the radiator93.
“Tut! tut!” he exclaimed when the detective had finished, “then I admit I have to a great extent misjudged you. That discovery of how the scoundrel had been learning of Lady Ardane’s intentions was a very valuable one and really”— he smiled quite genially94 now —“I ought to have thought of it myself.” He nodded. “Yes it was bad luck that you got nothing by it.” He thought for a moment. “Now tell me candidly95, whom do you suspect?”
The detective’s reply was prompt and instant. “Sir Parry, the Senator, Clive Huntington, and the American Rankin,” he said. “I suspect them all and cannot separate them.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Jones gleefully “so you are rehabilitating96 yourself in my estimation.” His eyes glowed. “I suspect them all, too, and, as with you, I cannot separate them. Sir Parry and the Senator, I believe, are the master minds, and Huntington and Rankin are their jackals.” He held up one warning finger. “But wait. I would add Daller to the list.”
Larose spoke very quietly. “Daller doesn’t enter into it now,” he said, “for last night he was found murdered in his rooms in Wickham Chambers98, Albury street. Stabbed to the heart and no trace of his murderer to be found. The Superintendent phoned me from Norwich this morning.”
Jones almost jumped from his chair, and then, sinking back, gave a long whistle. “Wheels within wheels,” he muttered, “and now we have another line of investigation99 to follow up. Dear me! dear me!” he went on, “and from the moment you told me you were of opinion Huntington and Daller were no strangers to each other, it came to me in a lightning flash that we might get at the whole gang through the airman. I have been making enquiries of a friend of mine in the Customs and have learnt they have been curious about Daller for some time. Dear me!” he repeated again, “what a piece of bad luck.”
“Yes,” said Larose, “the Superintendent told me this morning that for a long time they had been suspecting a great deal more about Daller than any one thought.”
“And your work being nearly all homicidal cases,” commented Jones sadly, “you, of course, knew nothing about it. What a pity! What a pity!” He sighed. “But now to return to that lot who were at the Abbey.” He shook his head vexatiously. “I never did like Sir Parry, for, with all his outward charm of manner, he looked to me like a man who was always drugging his mind with unnatural100 thoughts, and he has been by no means, too, the upright business man of cold and severe probity101 that people think.” He thumped102 upon the side of the chair. “He was a rum-runner for one thing, and certain vessels103 of the Bardell line had a most evil reputation on the American coast. I’ve no doubt young Huntington picked up his villainy there, and was hand in glove with him in the trade.”
The great investigator regarded Larose very shrewdly. “Now, did you never notice anything in Sir Parry’s attitude toward Lady Ardane?” he asked.
“He was most devoted104 to her, if that’s what you mean,” replied Larose.
“Yes,” snapped Jones, “with would-be lover-like devotion, certainly not a paternal105 one.” He laughed scornfully. “The old reprobate106! Why, he’s most likely to have been the very one to make a nightly pilgrimage and stand upon that box to watch”— he scowled —“but there, there —” He looked interrogatively at Larose. “Now, you must have noticed how he used to follow her about with his eyes.”
Larose was annoyed at the trend the conversation was taking. “Of course I saw it,” he replied quickly, “and it is inconceivable that with this devotion to her, he could have been deliberately107 torturing her during all these weeks with the thought that at any moment she might lose her child.”
“That’s nothing,” argued Jones “for nearly everything about this case is inconceivable, and my opinion is that both Sir Parry and the Senator are bad eggs — but bad in a different way. Now about the Senator. I have had enquiries made about him by my agents in America and this is what I have found out. He is a gambler and a reckless one at that. Last year he lost huge sums over the failure of the Argentine wheat crop, and it was confidently predicted he was bankrupt. But he came hurriedly over here to see his step-daughter and huge credits were cabled at once, and he was saved. Then his affairs at the present time are not too good, and he has again been worrying her for money, but this time I think he has been refused, because some weeks back he sulked for a whole day.”
“But how on earth do you know all this?” asked Larose. “I’m sure Lady Ardane never told you.”
Jones laughed. “Ah! then I have had an advantage over you,” he replied, “for Polkinghorne has been informing me of quite a lot of things I should not otherwise of learnt. No, no,” he went on, noting the disgusted expression upon Larose’s face, “don’t run away with the idea that Polkinghorne is a traitor, for he is not. He would do anything in the world for his mistress, and on that account he thought it his duty to tell me. I may add that I have known Polkinghorne for some years. He is an old client of mine, and came to me once in great trouble when one of his cats had been stolen. I was the means of restoring the animal to him, for I found the thief among the domestic staff. But to return to the Senator. A month back he tried to borrow from Sir Parry, but met with a rebuff, there, too, for Polkinghorne heard Sir Parry saying he was sorry, but all his money was tied up. Then he took to chaffing Sir Parry about his age, before Lady Ardane, and their relations were strained until a couple of weeks ago, when all at once they became quite friendly again, and the Senator has been almost deferential108 to Sir Parry ever since.” He drew in a deep breath. “Now, what do you think of it all?”
The detective was silent for a moment. “But where does this man Rankin come in,” he asked, “for if the Senator is in it, Rankin is in it too, for they are thick as thieves together, and it was the Senator who prevented my searching his room.”
“Bah!” scoffed Jones, “he is a crook109 for sure, and Rankin is not his name.” He frowned and carved the air again with his long forefinger. “I can’t place that man, and yet I am sure I have seen his face in an American newspaper somewhere, in connection with a prosecution110 of certain members of a gang.” He rose from his chair and began pacing up and down the room. “But the chief thing that puzzles me is, why they wanted Lady Ardane as well as the child? Either would have answered their purpose equally well for demanding ransom111!”
“When did you last see Lady Ardane?” asked Larose evading112 the question.
“The night after the day they tried to shoot you,” replied Jones, “Ah!” he nodded quickly, “and that precious Rankin did that. Polkinghorne says he ran up to the Senator and whispered something directly he came in, and old Harvey looked as glum113 as if he were going to be shot himself. Polkinghorne, too, heard him distinctly mention the word ‘macintosh.’”
He sank down into his chair again. “Well, to sum the whole matter up, Sir Parry and the Senator are under strong suspicion, and they are probably working in collaboration114 with the idea, perhaps, that Harvey is to receive a huge sum of money if her ladyship can be induced by threats or otherwise to marry Sir Parry. That’s all I can make out of it, at any rate.” A thought struck him and he asked sharply. “What’s Senator Harvey doing now?”
“Making a house-to-house search of every likely habitation within a radius115 of twenty miles,” replied Larose grimly. “Rankin is helping116 him, and two plain-clothes men from Norwich have been detailed117 to accompany them.”
“Really! Really!” scoffed Jones, “and it will be a nice little picnic for them all together.” He nodded solemnly. “I have myself two very capable helpers coming down to meet me here today. Both old hands. One’s just out, after seven years, and the other is referred to in police circles as an habitual118 offender119. He is a shining light in the underworld, this chap, but was a prize-fighter in old days, and well known as The Limehouse Bruiser. His name is Bloggs. I saw him once give Stammering120 Jack97, the Yorkshire champion, a glorious knock-out in the tenth round.” He rubbed his hands together. “A very useful man, I assure you, to have in a tight corner.”
“Ah! one thing more,” he exclaimed as Larose was getting up to go round the house, “I don’t understand this.” He spoke very slowly. “If Sir Parry is in it up to the neck, as we both believe, why did they go through the farce121 of kidnapping him as well? The riding away of two persons, instead of one, would certainly not make it easier for them!”
“It looks to me as if Sir Parry acted as a decoy,” replied Larose, “and drew Lady Ardane far enough away from the house so that they could get hold of her before help could arrive.”
“I thought of that,” said Jones instantly, “but that doesn’t explain why they took him. I understand, too, that he received rough usage from them and was actually knocked down.”
“He didn’t actually fall,” said Larose, “for another man caught him just as he was going down.” He shook his head. “It’s quite possible it may have been all play-acting, but still with you I understand why he was taken.” He turned to the door. “Well, now I think we’ve talked over everything, and so I’ll just be casting an eye round and see what I can pick up.”
“You won’t learn much,” remarked Jones with a cold smile, “for I’ve been everywhere and drawn almost blank. Second-hand122 furniture, every bit; mattresses123 and pillow, new, but tags of place of origin all torn off. Cooking utensils124 new, likewise the few knives and forks. Lived a lot on tinned stuff, but all of quite good quality. Plenty of newspapers about, but every one a London one. A few books that are moderately suggestive and an expensive fountain pen, practically new. They left in a great hurry and burnt three or four newspapers in the fire, but can pick out no bits, the burning having been carefully done. Apparently125 had everything ready for quick flight at any time, and, to my thinking, they were anticipating going off very closely about when they did.”
“What do you mean?” asked Larose. “They couldn’t have foreseen what was going to happen here, that I should be coming that night.”
“Perhaps not,” said Jones, “but you remember I told you they were plucking the pheasant upon the same night of the shoot, when it had only been killed a few hours! Well, would a man like this Prince, who is most particular about his food, have been intending to cook the bird straightaway if he knew he could have hung it for a few days? Certainly not. Therefore, he was expecting to clear off any time, and intended to enjoy the pheasant as best he could.” He waved his arm round the room. “But get on with your investigations126, please, for I want to be left alone to think.”
The detective suppressed a smile, and, leaving Jones to his meditations127, proceeded to go minutely over the house, soon, however, coming to the conclusion that Jones’ terse128 epitome129 of its contents was quite correct. The soiled and scanty130 furniture was impressed with many personalities131 and nothing was to be learned there. As Jones had said, too, the men certainly lived well, for the emptied tins in the rubbish tip had all contained food of good quality, the best salmon132 and most expensive sardines133. Also he had noticed some empty bottles of vintage burgundy, all half ones, however, with the labels, ‘Chambertin, 1904.’
“And only one wineglass among those tumblers on the chimney-piece,” he murmured. “Yes, the two men were of quite different class and entirely134 different in their tastes, too. One apparently drank beer and smoked the filthy pipe that he left on the floor by his bed, and the other smoked Abdullah cigarettes and enjoyed a vintage wine.”
Returning to the living room he thoughtfully regarded the books and magazines upon the table, that he had already once gone through, noting out of the tail of his eye that Jones was now regarding him intently. A number of cheap paper novels of the detective and adventurous135 kind, some current monthly magazines, a copy of the British Medical Journal, dated September 4th, and two historical and scientific works. H. G. Wells’s ‘The Outline of History’ and Haldane’s ‘The Inequality of Man,’ both evidently quite recent purchases, and each showing upon their covers where the bookseller’s label had been torn off.
He picked up the British Medical Journal. There was a big oily-looking smear136 upon the cover and he gave it a hard sniff137. Then, reseating himself, he began turning over the pages, to try and make out what possible interest it could have been to the two men who had been living there. The titles of the papers and articles, he thought, did not certainly seem too interesting. ‘Duodenal Ulcer,’ he read, ‘The Deficiency Anaemias of Childhood,’ ‘Measles,’ ‘Anuerism of the Aorta,’ and then he came to a well-thumbed page with a heading upon it, ‘Basal Narcotics138.’
“Ah! that’s it,” he thought instantly. “I told Sir Arnold that the criminal of today was scientific.”
He read quickly through the article, and came upon the names of many drugs that he had never heard of, Avertin, Nembutal, Sodium139 Amytal, etc., and finally Sodium Evipan, faintly underlined in pencil. He turned over the other pages and paused for a few seconds when upon one of them he came to an erasure140 in ink. Under the title of a short article, ‘An Unusual Case of Hay-fever,’ was the name of E B. Smith, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., and the letter B, in the initials had been run through and over it had been put the letter D.
He was turning to the following page when suddenly the hum of a car was heard outside, and Jones jumped quickly to his feet and peered out of the window.
“Hullo! hullo!” he exclaimed “someone’s pulling up here, and by Jupiter, I do believe it’s that Huntington. Yes, it is. Quick, back to our seats and he’ll be inside before he knows that we are here. But what the deuce can he want?”
Satisfying himself with one quick look that it was indeed Sir Parry’s friend, Larose dropped back into his chair, and the two waited in silence for Huntington to come in.
But he did not come in at once.
They heard his footsteps right up to the door, and they stopped abruptly141 and quite half a minute passed, as if, finding the door ajar, he was uncertain what to do. Then, apparently realising that if anyone were in the house, he must have heard him outside, he tapped sharply with his knuckles142 upon the door.
“Come in,” called out Jones, making a quick sign to the detective not to speak, “Come in.”
The door was at once pushed wide open, and Clive Huntington, with his hat in his hand and a most pleasant smile upon his lips, stepped into the room. For the moment he did not see Naughton Jones, but his eyes falling at once upon Larose, who was sitting directly in the light, his face dropped sharply. But it was only for an instant, and then he was all smiles again.
“Now, I do hope you have got over your illness, Mr. Larose,” he said with the utmost politeness. “We were all very concerned when we heard you were laid up.”
“Yes, thank you,” replied the detective, smiling back and determined to keep up the farce. “I’m quite all right again, but I got a nice crack over the head here, about a week ago, and now I’m well enough, I’ve come back to see if the gentleman who gave it me has left his name and address.”
He thought suddenly of a way of getting a rise out of Naughton Jones, and made a motion of his hand in the latter’s direction. “But let me introduce you to my friend, Dr. Wisefellow, of Saint Bartholomew’s, London. Doctor, this is Mr. Clive Huntington, who was staying with us in the Abbey, up to a few days ago.”
Jones bowed gravely, and the imp9 of mischief143 stirring in Larose, he went on, “But it’s no good, I am afraid, Mr. Huntington, asking my friend for a prescription144, because, although he’s in mufti, he’s a doctor of divinity and not one of medicine.”
“Just so, just so,” commented Jones solemnly, and at the same time looking rather annoyed. “A minister of the soul and not of the body, and as my parish includes the Newgate Prison, I have plenty of work to do.” He nodded in the direction of Larose. “But it is pleasing sometimes to be off duty and able to advise my young friend here in his work.” He shook his head sadly. “He makes bad mistakes sometimes.”
Young Huntington looked highly delighted. “Yes, he does, sir,” he exclaimed, “for only a few days ago he was accusing me, among some others, happily, of having made an attempt upon his life.”
“Pooh, pooh!” commented Jones. “That’s nothing. He’s always thinking people must be coming after him now he’s such a famous man.”
Larose smiled a sickly smile, at the same time making a mental note that he would not again attempt to make fun of Jones in public, for the fellow had a nasty way of hitting back.
Jones was now looking in a most friendly fashion at their visitor. “Sit down, sir,” he said pointing to a chair near the chimney-piece, “don’t stand on ceremony,” and Huntington, after a moment’s hesitation145, complied.
Then Larose, some of his pleasantness having passed, looked intently at Huntington and demanded rather sharply, “And what are you wanting here, if I may ask?”
The young man looked unhappy, and shrugged his shoulders. “What we are all wanting, Mr. Larose,” he replied gravely, “some news of my benefactor146 and Lady Ardane.” He raised his voice dramatically. “The Abbey draws me like a magnet and I cannot keep away. I am not rejoining my ship for a little time, and so I came down here again. Then, passing along the high road, I thought I would get a glimpse of the sea, and imagine my surprise then, when I saw Sir Arnold’s car upon the sands. Then, seeing the door open, I half thought he might be in here, so came to have a little chat with him.” He smiled his pleasant smile again. “So very simple and yet such a marvelous coincidence that I should meet you again!”
Then suddenly Naughton Jones plucked a little spirit flask147 from his pocket and put his hand over his heart.
“I feel faint,” he said weakly. He pointed148 to a glass upon the chimney piece, just above where Huntington was sitting. “Be so kind, will you, sir,” he went on shakily, “and hand me that glass there. Ah, thank you so much. I’m getting old and liable to these attacks.”
He tipped a generous tablespoonful of the spirit into the tumbler that had been handed him and sipped149 at it with evident benefit, for at once his voice grew stronger. “Yes, Sir Arnold is down here, and I expect you’ll find him in Henrik’s hut. I know he was coming to see the fellow this morning.” He put his hand upon his heart again. “But, if you don’t mind, I think you had better leave me, for I’m always better when left alone.”
Huntington rose up with alacrity150, as if he were pleased to escape any further questioning. “Well, I hope you’ll soon be better, sir,” he said. “I am sorry to leave you, but I’m rather in a hurry too,” and then, waving his hand to Larose as if they were on the best of terms, he passed out of the room, and they heard his steps upon the garden path and then the starting up of his car.
Jones, with all signs of his sudden indisposition having disappeared, sprang to the window, still, however, retaining the tumbler in his hand.
“Yes, he’s gone,” he exclaimed gleefully, “and I’ve got his fingerprints151 here.” His breath came in quick gasps152. “Do you know, Mr. Larose, a sudden inspiration has come into my head. I won’t tell you all now, but one part of it is that that young fellow who has just gone out is a blood relation of the man Prince, who has those pleasant manners, too. They have both that pretty curling hair, their foreheads are of the same shape, and when they smile, they arch their eyebrows in exactly the same way. Also, their voices are not dissimilar.” His eyes twinkled in amusement. “I feel much, much better now, and whilst he’s having that little chat with Sir Arnold, we’ll go over and have a good look at his car.”
But they got no chance of looking at his car, for, passing out of the house, they saw, to their disgust, that, making no attempt to find Sir Arnold, Huntington had turned his car round and now, at a lightning pace, was shooting back along the road he had come.
“No good! no good!” exclaimed Jones ruefully. “We frightened him and he made sure to give us no chance. Still one thing, we are certain now that he is in with them.” He smiled sourly at the detective. “I enjoyed your little pleasantry, but, in other circumstances, it might have been unwise.” He drew himself up proudly. “Still, upon this occasion, it doesn’t matter, for directly he gives them my description, they’ll all know at once to whom he has been talking.”
Larose felt altogether too disgusted to make any comment, for he saw, now that Jones had mentioned it, the resemblance between Huntington and the man Prince. He was furious with himself, too, in the remembrance that several times whilst at the Abbey, he had been thinking that there was something familiar in Huntington’s voice, and yet, putting it all down to imagination, he had never troubled to harass153 his mind as to where he had heard the tones before. Yet another thing — it was unpardonable that he had not himself obtained Huntington’s finger-prints when the latter had been at the Abbey. He had thought about it once, but he had not considered it necessary, for there was nothing of the jail-bird about young Huntington, and his youth and bearing were all against his having served any time in a prison. Yes, he ought to have obtained them, although even now he was certain there would be no record of them with the authorities.
They returned disconsolately154 to the house, and then Jones said quickly, “Now, he came here to fetch something; that’s certain. Something they left behind, probably of no value, but something that, after all these days, they suddenly came to think might put us on the trail if we found it.” He looked round the room. “Now what can it be? You have been through everything and so have I.” He shook his head frowningly. “Never mind, I shall think of it presently. I am an old dog for the trail, and for me the scent is never cold. Come on, we’ll go through everything again.”
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收听单词发音
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1
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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kidnappers
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| n.拐子，绑匪( kidnapper的名词复数 ) | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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18
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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27
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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31
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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cuticles
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| n.（手指甲或脚趾甲根部的）外皮( cuticle的名词复数 ) | |
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34
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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36
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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37
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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38
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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40
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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42
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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43
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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44
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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45
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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47
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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48
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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49
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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50
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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51
rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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52
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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53
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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54
avers
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| v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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55
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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56
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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57
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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59
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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60
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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61
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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62
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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63
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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67
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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68
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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69
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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70
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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71
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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72
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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73
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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74
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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75
tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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76
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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77
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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79
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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80
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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81
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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82
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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83
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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84
bailed
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| 保释，帮助脱离困境( bail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
cordon
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| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
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86
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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87
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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88
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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89
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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90
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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91
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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92
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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94
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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95
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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96
rehabilitating
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| 改造（罪犯等）( rehabilitate的现在分词 )； 使恢复正常生活； 使恢复原状； 修复 | |
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97
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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98
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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99
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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100
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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101
probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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102
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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104
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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105
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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106
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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107
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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108
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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109
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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110
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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111
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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112
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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113
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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114
collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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115
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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116
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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117
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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118
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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119
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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120
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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121
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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122
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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123
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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124
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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125
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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126
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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127
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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128
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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129
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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130
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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131
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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132
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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133
sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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134
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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135
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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136
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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137
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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138
narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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139
sodium
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| n.（化）钠 | |
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140
erasure
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| n.擦掉，删去；删掉的词；消音；抹音 | |
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141
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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142
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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143
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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144
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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145
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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146
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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147
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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148
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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149
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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151
fingerprints
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| n.指纹( fingerprint的名词复数 )v.指纹( fingerprint的第三人称单数 ) | |
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152
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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153
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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154
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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