Where had their bodies been hidden? These were the two questions which were to agitate1 England for the traditional space of nine days. For one day, at any rate, they formed the sole topic of speculation2 amongst the intelligent section of fifty million people.
The first question was easier to answer than the second. It was obvious to the newsmen that the murderer was Cartwright, whose threats of vengeance3 were recalled and whose appearance at Bournemouth had been described at second-hand4 by the detective in charge of the case. First-hand information was for the moment denied the pressmen, for Timothy, fully5 dressed, lay on his bed in a sound sleep. Happily for him, neither then nor later did any of the enterprising newspaper men associate the “A. C.” in his name with the wanted criminal. He was at least spared that embarrassment6.
But the story of his vigil as “a friend of Sir John’s” was in print long before he woke up to find a small and impatient army of reporters waiting to interview him. He answered the reporters’ interrogations as briefly7 as possible, bathed and changed and made his way to the hotel where the girl was. She was leaving as he arrived, and the warmth of her greeting almost banished8 the depression which lay upon him. She put her arm through his so naturally that he did not realise his wonderful fortune.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, “unless you know already. All my money has gone.”
“You don’t mean that?” he said seriously.
“It is true,” she replied. “I believe it was very little and my loss is so insignificant10 compared with the other awful affair that I am not worrying about it.”
“But Sir John had money?”
She shook her head.
“I have just seen his lawyers,” she said, “they have been to the bank and there is not a hundred pounds to his credit, and that amount will be absorbed by the cheques he has drawn11. He drew a very, very large sum, including my money, from the bank two days ago. You know,” she went on, “I think that Sir John contemplated12 leaving for America? He had already given me a hint, asking me how long it would take me to pack my belongings13, and I fancy that had something to do with the telegram he received——”
“Announcing Cartwright’s escape,” nodded Timothy.
“He was so kind and so gentle,” said the girl, her eyes filling with tears, “that to me he was more like a father. Oh, it is awful, awful!”
“I shall have to work,” said the girl practically and with a little smile. “I do not think that will kill me. Hundreds of thousands of girls have to work for their living, Timothy, and I shall have to work for mine.”
Timothy drew a long breath.
“Not if I can help it, you won’t,” he said. “I am sure I shall make a lot of money. I can feel it in my bones. If a man takes a job——”
“You mustn’t talk like that,” she said, pressing his arm, “and anyway, how could I let you help me or keep me? That sort of thing isn’t done—not by nice girls.”
She laughed, but became sober again.
“Do you know that Sir John was very much interested in you?”
“In me?” said Timothy.
She nodded.
“I told you so the other day. I think he liked you, because he was saying how uncomfortable you must be at Vermont House, living in that queer little room of yours.”
Timothy was startled.
“How did he know I was living at Vermont House?” he said.
She smiled.
“Vermont House happens to be Sir John’s property,” she said. “In fact, I think it is the only realisable piece of property he has, now that the money has gone.”
“What shall you do immediately?” asked Timothy.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I think the first step is to get out of this hotel, which is much too expensive for me. I have a few pounds in the bank, but that won’t last very long.”
At his earnest entreaty15 she agreed to see a solicitor16 and appoint him to save whatever was possible from the wreckage17 of Sir John’s estate. Two hours passed like as many minutes, until Timothy remembered that he had an appointment with a London reporter—one Brennan. Brennan he had known in his cinema days, and Timothy literally18 fell upon his neck.
“I’ve nothing to tell the boys that hasn’t already been told,” he said, putting down the newspaper which Brennan handed to him. “I am as anxious for news as you are. Have there been any developments?”
“None,” said the reporter, “except that Sir John had no money at the bank and no money could be found in the house.”
Timothy nodded.
“That I know,” he said, “all his securities were drawn out two days ago. That was the stuff that Cartwright was after.”
“Does Miss Maxell know——” Brennan began.
“She does know and she took it like a brick.”
“It was about twenty thousand pounds,” Brennan went on. “The only other clue the police have is that the safe was opened by Maxell’s duplicate key. The old man had two sets made, one of which he used to keep in his combination safe in his bedroom and the other he carried around with him. Miss Maxell told a story that the night before the murder Lady Maxell asked her to secure possession of the keys in order to open a bureau.”
Timothy nodded.
“I see. Is it suggested that Lady Maxell detached the key of the safe and that it was she who opened it?”
“That is one theory,” said the other, “the police have miles of ’em! They’ve got everything except the bodies and the murderer. Now come out with that story, Anderson! You must know a great deal more than you’ve told, and I’m simply without a new fact that these evening papers haven’t got, to hang my story on. Why did Cartwright come to your room, anyway? Do you know him?”
“He was an acquaintance of my father’s,” said Timothy diplomatically, “and perhaps he thought I knew Maxell better than I did.”
“That sounds pretty thin,” said the reporter. “Why should he come to you?”
“Suppose I am the only person he knew or knew about,” said Timothy patiently. “Suppose he’d been all round Bournemouth trying to find a familiar name.”
“There’s something in that,” admitted the reporter.
“Anyway,” said Timothy, “I was a kid when he went to gaol19. You don’t imagine I knew him at all, do you?”
He had gone out to meet the girl, forgetting to take his watch, and now he was looking round for it.
“Here is a theory,” said Brennan suddenly. “Suppose Lady Maxell isn’t dead at all.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other.
“Suppose Cartwright killed Maxell and Lady Maxell witnessed the murder. Suppose this fellow had to decide whether he would kill the witness or whether he would go away with her? You said the motor-car which came to the house in the middle of the night was the same as that in which Lady Maxell came home. Isn’t it likely that she should have told the murderer, for some reason or other, that the car was coming, because evidently she had arranged for it to come, and that they went away together? Isn’t it likely, too, that she was in the plot, and that, so far from being a victim, she was one of the criminals? We know her antecedents. There was some trouble over her stabbing a young American, Reggie van Rhyn. In fact, most of the evidence seems to incriminate her. There is the key, for example. Who else but she could have taken the duplicate key? Doesn’t it look as though she planned the whole thing, and that her accomplice20 came in at the last moment to help her get away and possibly to settle Sir John?
“Take the incident of the two locked bedrooms. Obviously somebody who lived in the house and who knew the family routine must have done that. Both Sir John and Lady Maxell were in the habit of fastening their doors at night, and the servants did not go into the bedrooms unless they were rung for. It seems to me fairly clear that Lady Maxell locked the doors so that the suspicions of the servants should not be aroused in the morning.”
“If I had your powers of deduction,” said the admiring Timothy, “I should never miss a winner. Where the blazes is my watch?”
“Try under the pillow,” said Brennan.
“I never put it there,” replied Timothy, but nevertheless turned the pillow over and stood gaping21.
“For heaven’s sake!” breathed Timothy, and took up the package.
It bore no address and was sealed.
“What on earth is this?” he asked.
“I can tell you what those stains are,” said the practical Brennan. “Is there any name on it?”
Timothy shook his head.
“Open it,” suggested the reporter, and the other obeyed.
The contents were even more astonishing, for they consisted of a thick pad of money. They were new Bank of England notes and were bound about by a tight band of paper. On the band was written in Sir John’s handwriting:
“Proceeds of the sale of stocks held in trust for Miss Mary Maxell. ￡21,300.”
The detective in charge of the case was a man of many theories. But his new theory was an uncomfortable one for Timothy Anderson.
“This puts a new light upon the case,” said the detective, “and I’m being perfectly23 frank with you, Mr. Anderson, that the new light isn’t very favourable24 to you. Here you are, outside the building when the crime is committed. You are seen by a policeman a few minutes after the shots are fired, and a portion of the money stolen from the house is discovered under your pillow.”
“Discovered by me,” said Timothy, “in the presence of a witness. And are you suggesting that, whilst I was with your policeman, I was also driving the car, or that I was wearing Cartwright’s cap which was found in the grounds? Anyway, you’ve the finger-print of your man and you’re at liberty to compare it with mine.”
“It isn’t a finger-print anyway,” said the detective, “it is the print of a knuckle25 and we do not keep a record of knuckles26. No, I admit that the motor-car conflicts a little bit with my theory. Have you any suggestion to offer?”
Timothy shook his head.
“The only suggestion I can make,” he said, “is that Cartwright, in a hurry to get away and knowing the position of my room, hid the money there for fear he should be caught with the goods. At any rate, if I were the criminal I would not hide a bloodstained envelope under my pillow. I should at least have the intelligence to burn the envelope and put the money where the servants of this house could not find it. Why, don’t you see,” he said vigorously, “that any of the servants at this boarding-house would have found the envelope if I hadn’t?”
The detective scratched his head.
“There’s something in that,” he said. “It is a very queer case.”
A little further investigation28, however, relieved Timothy of all suspicion. He had not returned to the house until ten o’clock that morning. The maid, who had taken him a cup of tea at eight, noticing that he had been out all night, thought it was an excellent opportunity to straighten the room to “get it off her mind,” as she said. She did not remake the bed, but had tidied it. Whilst sweeping29 she had seen the envelope lying on the floor near the open window and had picked it up and, for want of a better place, thinking “it was private” had slipped it under Timothy’s pillow.
As Timothy had not been out of sight of the police since the tragedy until his return to his lodgings30, there could be no suggestion that he had any part in hiding the envelope. Whatever irritation31 he felt was dispelled32 by his large and generous satisfaction when the poverty which threatened Mary was averted33. But why should Cartwright hide the money there? Why should he stop in his headlong flight to come to the window, as evidently he did, and throw the package into the room? There were a hundred places where he might have left it.
“That cousin stuff doesn’t work,” thought Timothy, “and if you think he’s going to rely upon his relationship with me and can use me to look after his money, he’s made one large mistake.”
He saw the girl again at the official inquiry34, and met her on the day after. She was going to Bath where she had some distant relations, and they had met to say good-bye.
It was a gloomy occasion—less gloomy for Timothy than for the girl, because he was already planning a move to the town in which she was taking up her quarters. This cheerful view was banished, however, when she explained that her stay in Bath was merely a temporary expedient35.
“Mrs. Renfrew has wired asking me to come—and it seems as good a place as any for a few months. I don’t think I shall stay here any longer,” she said. “I want a change of air and a change of scene. Timothy, I feel that I shall never get over Sir John’s death.”
“Never is a very long time, my dear,” said Timothy gently, and she could only wonder at the tender kindness in his voice.
She had little time to wonder, however, for she had a proposition to make to him and she hardly knew how to reduce it to words.
“Are you—are you—working?” she asked.
Timothy’s broad smile answered her plainly that he was not.
“The fact is,” he said airily, “I haven’t quite decided36 what I am going to do. If you were going down to Bath for good, I was going down to Bath also. Maybe I could start a druggist’s or buy a store, or run errands for somebody. I am the most accommodating worker.”
“Well——” she began and stopped.
“Well?” he repeated.
“I had an idea that maybe you would like to go on and conduct an independent search—independent of the police, I mean—and find something about the man who killed Sir John, and perhaps bring him to justice. You know, I think you are clever enough,” she went on hurriedly, “and it would be work after your own heart.”
“Quite right, Mary,” he said quietly, “but that involves spending a whole lot of money. What misguided person do you suggest would send me out on that kind of job?”
“Well, I thought——” She hesitated, and then a little incoherently, “You see, I have the money—mainly through you—my own money, I mean. I feel I have a duty to my poor uncle and I could trust you to do your very best. I could afford it, Timothy”—she laid her hand on his arm and looked up at him almost beseechingly—“indeed I can afford it. I have more money than I shall ever spend.”
He patted her hand softly.
“Mary,” he said, “it is just the kind of job I should like, and with anybody’s money but yours, why, I’d be out of the country in two shakes, looking for Mr. Cartwright in the most expensive cities of the world. But, my dear, I cannot accept your commission, because I know just what lies behind it. You think I’m a restless, rather shiftless sort of fellow, and you want to give me a good time—with your money.”
He stopped and shook his head.
“No, my dear,” he said, “thank you, but, no!”
She was disappointed and for a moment a little hurt.
“Would two hundred pounds——” she suggested timidly.
“Not your two hundred,” he said. “That lawyer of yours should take better care of your money, Mary. He shouldn’t allow you to make these tempting38 offers to young men,” he was smiling now. “Will you go abroad?”
“Perhaps—some day,” she said vaguely39. “Sir John wanted me to go—and I feel that I should be pleasing him. Some day, yes, Timothy.”
He nodded.
“Maybe I’ll go over at the same time as you,” he said. “I thought of taking a chance in Paris for a while—you can make big money in Paris.”
“In—a while?” she smiled.
“In a minute,” said Timothy grimly, “if the horse and the jockey are of the same way of thinking. I know a fellow who races pretty extensively in France. He has a horse called Flirt——”
She held out her hand for the second time.
“Timothy, you’re incorrigible,” she said.
She did not see him again for twelve months, not indeed until, after a winter spent in Madeira, she put her foot over the gangway of the s.s. Tigilanes and met the quizzical smile of the youth who was waiting to receive her.
For Timothy had been in Funchal a month, seeing but unseen, since Mary was generally in bed before the Casino woke up and play reached any exciting level.
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收听单词发音
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1
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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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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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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19
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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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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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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29
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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