Tales of Chinatown by Sax Rohmer (good books to read for 12 year olds TXT) 📕

“What do you make of it, Inspector?” asked my friend. Detective-Inspector Wessex smiled, and scratched his chin.

“There was no need for me to come down!” he replied. “And certainly no need for you, Mr. Harley!”

Harley bowed, smiling, at the implied compliment.

“It's a common or garden elopement!” continued the detective. “Vane's reputation is absolutely rotten, and the girl was clearly infatuated. He must have cared a good bit, too. He'll be cashiered, as sure as a gun!”

Leaving Sir Howard at the Manor, we had joined Inspector Wessex at a spot where the baronet's preserves bordered a narrow lane. Here the ground was soft, and the detective drew Harley's attention to a number of footprints by a stile.

“I've got evidence that he was seen here with the girl on other occasions. Now, Mr. Harley, I'll ask you to look over these footprints.”

Harley dropped to his knees and made a brief but close examination of the ground round about. One particularly clear imprint of a pointed toe he noticed especially; and Wessex, diving into the pocket of his light overcoat, produced a patent-leather shoe, such as is used for evening wear.

“He had a spare pair in his bag,” he explained nonchalantly, “and his man did not prove incorruptible!”

Harley took the shoe and placed it in the impression. It fitted perfectly!

“This is Molly Clayton, I take it?” he said, indicating the prints of a woman's foot.

“Yes,” assented Wessex. “You'll notice that they stood for some little time and then walked off, very close together.”

Harley nodded absently.

“We lose them along here,” continued Wessex, leading up the lane; “but at the corner by the big haystack they join up with the tracks of a motor-car! I ask for nothing clearer! There was rain that afternoon, but there's been none since.”

“What does the Captain's man think?”

“The same as I do! He's not surprised at any madness on Vane's part, with a pretty woman in the case!”

“The girl left nothing behind—no note?”

“Nothing.”

“Traced the car?”

“No. It must have been hired or borrowed from a long distance off.”

Where the tracks of the tires were visible we stopped, and Harley made a careful examination of the marks.

“Seems to have had a struggle with her,” he said, dryly.

“Very likely!” agreed Wessex, without interest.

Harley crawled about on the ground for some time, to the great detriment of his Harris tweeds, but finally arose, a curious expression on his face—which, however, the detective evidently failed to observe.

We returned to the Manor House where Sir Howard was awaiting us, his good-humoured red face more red than usual; and in the library, with its sporting prints and its works for the most part dealing with riding, hunting, racing, and golf (except for a sprinkling of Nat Gould's novels and some examples of the older workmanship of Whyte-Melville), we were presently comfortably ensconced. On a side table were placed a generous supply of liquid refreshments, cigars and cigarettes; so that we made ourselves quite comfortable, and Sir Howard restrained his indignation, until each had a glass before him and all were smoking.

“Now,” he began, “what have you got to report, gentlemen? You, Inspector,” he pointed with his cigar toward Wessex, “have seen Vane's man and all of you have been down to look at these damned tracks. I only want to hear one thing; that you expect to trace the disgraceful couple. I'll see to it”—his voice rose almost to a shout—“that Vane is kicked out of the service, and as to that shameless brat of Bramber's, I wish her no worse than the blackguard's company!”

“One moment, Sir Howard, one moment,” said Harley quietly; “there are always two sides to a case.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Harley? There's only one side that interests me—the outrage inflicted upon my hospitality by this dirty guest of mine. For the girl I don't give twopence; she was bound to come to a bad end.”

“Well,” said Harley, “before we pronounce the final verdict upon either of them I should like to interview Bramber. Perhaps,” he added, turning to Wessex, “it would be as well if Mr. Knox and I went alone. The presence of an official detective sometimes awes this class of witness.”

“Quite right, quite right!” agreed Sir Howard, waving his cigar vigorously. “Go and see Bramber, Mr. Harley; tell him that no blame attaches to himself whatever; also, tell him with my compliments that his stepdaughter is———”

“Quite so, quite so,” interrupted Harley, endeavouring to hide a smile. “I understand your feelings, Sir Howard, but again I ask you to reserve your verdict until all the facts are before us.”

As a result, Harley and I presently set out for the gamekeeper's cottage, and as the man had been warned that we should visit him, he was on the porch smoking his pipe. A big, dark, ugly fellow he proved to be, of a very forbidding cast of countenance. Having introduced ourselves:

“I always knowed she'd come to a bad end!” declared Gamekeeper Bramber, almost echoing Sir Howard's words. “One o' these gentlemen o' hers was sure to be the finish of her!”

“She had other admirers—before Captain Vane?”

“Aye! the hussy! There was a black-faced villain not six months since! He got t' vain cat to go to London an' have her photograph done in a dress any decent woman would 'a' blushed to look at! Like one o' these Venuses up at t' Manor! Good riddance! She took after her mother!”

The violent old ruffian was awkward to examine, but Harley persevered.

“This previous admirer caused her to be photographed in that way, did he? Have you a copy?”

“No!” blazed Bramber. “What I found I burnt! He ran off, like I told her he would—an' her cryin' her eyes out! But the pretty soger dried her tears quick enough!”

“Do you know this man's name?”