Max Carrados by Ernest Bramah (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

of any villainy.”

“And all were out on Tuesday evening?”

“Yes. Mullins gone home. Beta left early as there was no dinner, and I told Fraser to take the evening after she had dressed me so that Teddy could make up and get out without being seen.”

Carrados turned to his other witness.

“The papers and the glove have been with you ever since?”

“Yes, in my desk.”

“Locked?”

“Yes.”

“And this glove, Mrs Straithwaite? There is no doubt that it is yours?”

“I suppose not,” she replied. “I never thought. I know that when I came to leave the theatre one had vanished and Teddy had it here.”

“That was the first time you missed it?”

“Yes.”

“But it might have gone earlier in the evening—mislaid or lost or stolen?”

“I remember taking them off in the box. I sat in the corner farthest from the stage—the front row, of course—and I placed them on the support.”

“Where anyone in the next box could abstract one without much difficulty at a favourable moment.”

“That is quite likely. But we didn’t see anyone in the next box.”

“I have half an idea that I caught sight of someone hanging back,” volunteered Straithwaite.

“Thank you,” said Carrados, turning towards him almost gratefully. “That is most important—that you think you saw someone hanging back. Now the other glove, Mrs Straithwaite; what became of that?”

“An odd glove is not very much good, is it?” said Stephanie. “Certainly I wore it coming back. I think I threw it down somewhere in here. Probably it is still about. We are in a frantic muddle and nothing is being done.”

The second glove was found on the floor in a corner. Carrados received it and laid it with the other.

“You use a very faint and characteristic scent, I notice, Mrs Straithwaite,” he observed.

“Yes; it is rather sweet, isn’t it? I don’t know the name because it is in Russian. A friend in the Embassy sent me some bottles from Petersburg.”

“But on Tuesday you supplemented it with something stronger,” he continued, raising the gloves delicately one after the other to his face.

“Oh, eucalyptus; rather,” she admitted. “I simply drenched my handkerchief with it.”

“You have other gloves of the same pattern?”

“Have I? Now let me think! Did you give them to me, Teddy?”

“No,” replied Straithwaite from the other end of the room. He had lounged across to the window and his attitude detached him from the discussion. “Didn’t Whitstable?” he added shortly.

“Of course. Then there are three pairs, Mr Carrados, because I never let Bimbi lose more than that to me at once, poor boy.”

“I think you are rather tiring yourself out, Stephanie,” warned her husband.

Carrados’s attention seemed to leap to the voice; then he turned courteously to his hostess.

“I appreciate that you have had a trying time lately, Mrs Straithwaite,” he said. “Every moment I have been hoping to let you out of the witness-box——”

“Perhaps to-morrow——” began Straithwaite, recrossing the room.

“Impossible; I leave town to-night,” replied Carrados firmly. “You have three pairs of these gloves, Mrs Straithwaite. Here is one. The other two——?”

“One pair I have not worn yet. The other—good gracious, I haven’t been out since Tuesday! I suppose it is in my glove-box.”

“I must see it, please.”

Straithwaite opened his mouth, but as his wife obediently rose to her feet to comply he turned sharply away with the word unspoken.

“These are they,” she said, returning.

“Mr Carrados and I will finish our investigation in my room,” interposed Straithwaite, with quiet assertiveness. “I should advise you to lie down for half-an-hour, Stephanie, if you don’t want to be a nervous wreck to-morrow.”

“You must allow the culprit to endorse that good advice, Mrs Straithwaite,” added Carrados. He had been examining the second pair of gloves as they spoke and he now handed them back again. “They are undoubtedly of the same set,” he admitted, with extinguished interest, “and so our clue runs out.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” apologized Straithwaite, as he led his guest to his own smoking-room. “Stephanie,” he confided, becoming more cordial as two doors separated them from the lady, “is a creature of nerves and indiscretions. She forgets. To-night she will not sleep. To-morrow she will suffer.” Carrados divined the grin. “So shall I!”

“On the contrary, pray accept my regrets,” said the visitor. “Besides,” he continued, “there is nothing more for me to do here, I suppose....”

“It is a mystery,” admitted Straithwaite, with polite agreement. “Will you try a cigarette?”

“Thanks. Can you see if my car is below?” They exchanged cigarettes and stood at the window lighting them.

“There is one point, by the way, that may have some significance.” Carrados had begun to recross the room and stopped to pick up the two fictitious messages. “You will have noticed that this is the outside sheet of a programme. It is not the most suitable for the purpose; the first inner sheet is more convenient to write on, but there the date appears. You see the inference? The programme was obtained before——”

“Perhaps. Well——?” for Carrados had broken off abruptly and was listening.

“You hear someone coming up the steps?”

“It is the general stairway.”

“Mr Straithwaite, I don’t know how far this has gone in other quarters. We may only have a few seconds before we are interrupted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the man who is now on the stairs is a policeman or has worn the uniform. If he stops at your door——”

The heavy tread ceased. Then came the authoritative knock.

“Wait,” muttered Carrados, laying his hand impressively on Straithwaite’s tremulous arm. “I may recognize the voice.”

They heard the servant pass along the hall and the door unlatched; then caught the jumble of a gruff inquiry.

“Inspector Beedel of Scotland Yard!” The servant repassed their door on her way to the drawing-room. “It is no good disguising the fact from you, Mr Straithwaite, that you may no longer be at liberty. But I am. Is there anything you wish done?”

There was no time for deliberation. Straithwaite was indeed between the unenviable alternatives of the familiar proverb, but, to do him justice, his voice had lost scarcely a ripple of its usual sang-froid.

“Thanks,” he replied, taking a small stamped and addressed parcel from his pocket, “you might drop this into some obscure pillar-box, if you will.”

“The Markham necklace?”

“Exactly. I was going out to post it when you came.”

“I am sure you were.”

“And if you could spare five minutes later—if I am here——”

Carrados slid his cigarette-case under some papers on the desk.

“I will call for that,” he assented. “Let us say about half-past eight.”

“I am still at large, you see, Mr Carrados; though after reflecting on the studied formality of the inspector’s business here, I imagine that you will scarcely be surprised.”

“I have made it a habit,” admitted Carrados, “never to be surprised.”

“However, I still want to cut a rather different figure in your eyes. You regard me, Mr Carrados, either as a detected rogue or a repentant ass?”

“Another excellent rule is never to form deductions from uncertainties.”

Straithwaite made a gesture of mild impatience.

“You only give me ten minutes. If I am to put my case before you, Mr Carrados, we cannot fence with phrases.... To-day you have had an exceptional opportunity of penetrating into our mode of life. You will, I do not doubt, have summed up our perpetual indebtedness and the easy credit that our connexion procures; Stephanie’s social ambitions and expensive popularity; her utterly extravagant incapacity to see any other possible existence; and my tacit acquiescence. You will, I know, have correctly gauged her irresponsible, neurotic temperament, and judged the result of it in conflict with my own. What possibly has escaped you, for in society one has to disguise these things, is that I still love my wife.

“When you dare not trust the soundness of your reins you do not try to pull up a bolting horse. For three years I have endeavoured to guide Stephanie round awkward comers with as little visible restraint as possible. When we differ over any project upon which she has set her heart Stephanie has one strong argument.”

“That you no longer love her?”

“Well, perhaps; but more forcibly expressed. She rushes to the top of the building—there are six floors, Mr Carrados, and we are on the second—and climbing on to the banister she announces her intention of throwing herself down into the basement. In the meanwhile I have followed her and drag her back again. One day I shall stay where I am and let her do as she intends.”

“I hope not,” said Carrados gravely.

“Oh, don’t be concerned. She will then climb back herself. But it will mark an epoch. It was by that threat that she obtained my acquiescence to this scheme—that and the certainty that she would otherwise go on without me. But I had no intention of allowing her to land herself—to say nothing of us both—behind the bars of a prison if I could help it. And, above all, I wished to cure her of her fatuous delusion that she is clever, in the hope that she may then give up being foolish.

“To fail her on the occasion was merely to postpone the attempt. I conceived the idea of seeming to cooperate and at the same time involving us in what appeared to be a clever counter-fraud. The thought of the real loss will perhaps have a good effect; the publicity will certainly prevent her from daring a second ‘theft.’ A sordid story, Mr Carrados,” he concluded. “Do not forget your cigarette-case in reality.”

The paternal shake of Carrados’s head over the recital was neutralized by his benevolent smile.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I think we can classify you, Mr Straithwaite. One point—the glove?”

“That was an afterthought. I had arranged the whole story and the first note was to be brought to me by an attendant. Then, on my way, in my overcoat pocket I discovered a pair of Stephanie’s gloves which she had asked me to carry the day before. The suggestion flashed—how much more convincing if I could arrange for her to seem to drop the writing in that way. As she said, the next box was empty; I merely took possession of it for a few minutes and quietly drew across one of her gloves. And that reminds me—of course there was nothing in it, but your interest in them made me rather nervous.”

Carrados laughed outright. Then he stood up and held out his hand.

“Good-night, Mr Straithwaite,” he said, with real friendliness. “Let me give you the quaker’s advice: Don’t attempt another conspiracy—but if you do, don’t produce a ‘pair’ of gloves of which one is still suggestive of scent, and the other identifiable with eucalyptus!”

“Oh——!” said Straithwaite.

“Quite so. But at all hazard suppress a second pair that has the same peculiarity. Think over what it must mean. Good-bye.”

Twelve minutes later Mr Carlyle was called to the telephone.

“It is eight-fifty-five and I am at Charing Cross,” said a voice he knew. “If you want local colour contrive an excuse to be with Markham when the first post arrives to-morrow.” A few more words followed, and an affectionate valediction.

“One moment, my dear Max, one moment. Do I understand you to say that you will post me on the report of the case from Dover?”

“No, Louis,” replied Carrados, with cryptic discrimination. “I only said that I will post you on a report of the case from Dover.”

THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR

The one insignificant fact upon which turned the following incident in the joint experiences of Mr Carlyle and Max Carrados was merely this: that having called upon his friend just at the moment when the private detective was on the point of leaving his office to go to the safe deposit in Lucas Street, Piccadilly, the blind amateur accompanied him, and for ten minutes amused himself by sitting quite quietly among the palms in the centre of the circular hall while Mr Carlyle was occupied with his deed-box in one of the little compartments provided for the purpose.

The Lucas Street depository was then (it has since been converted into a picture palace) generally accepted as being one of the strongest places in London. The front of the building was constructed to represent a gigantic safe door, and under the colloquial designation of “The Safe” the place had passed into a synonym for all that was secure and impregnable. Half of the marketable securities in the west of London were popularly reported to have seen the inside of its coffers at one time or another, together with the same generous proportion of family jewels. However exaggerated an estimate this might be, the substratum of truth was solid and auriferous enough to dazzle the imagination. When ordinary safes were being carried bodily away with impunity or ingeniously fused open by the scientifically equipped cracksman, nervous bond-holders turned with relief to the attractions of an establishment whose modest claim was summed up in its telegraphic address: “Impregnable.” To it went also the jewel-case between the lady’s social engagements, and when in due course “the family” journeyed north—or south, east or west—whenever, in short, the London house was closed, its capacious storerooms received the plate-chest as an established custom.