Room 13 (12 page)

“He’s not dead, you poor fish,” said Craig impatiently. “I might be congratulating you if he was. No, he’s got a bit of a wound.”

“Who shot him?”

“That’s just what I want to know,” said Craig. “Was it you?”

“Me!” Her look of horror supplied a satisfactory answer to his question. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know he was here, or coming here. I thought he was at the hotel, till I saw him. Yet I had a feeling that he was coming here tonight, and I’ve been waiting about all evening. I saw Peter and dodged him.”

“Peter? Has he been near the club?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. He was on his way. I thought he was going to the Highlow. There’s nowhere else he’d go in this street – I saw him twice.”

Craig turned his bright, suspicious eyes upon the porter.

“Peter been here? I didn’t see anything about Mr Brown of Montreal?” he asked sarcastically.

“No, he hasn’t. I haven’t seen Peter since the Lord knows when,” said the porter emphatically. “That’s the truth. You can give the elevator boy permission to tell you all he knows, and if Peter was here tonight you can hang me.”

Craig considered for a long time.

“Does Peter know his way in by the easy route?” he asked.

“You mean the fire-escape? Yes, Peter knows that way, but members never come in by the back nowadays. They’ve got nothing to hide.”

Craig went out of the room and walked down the passage, stopping at No. 13. Immediately opposite the door was a window, and it was wide open. Beyond was the grille of the fire-escape landing. He stepped out through the window and peered down into the dark yard where the escape ended. By the light of a street lamp he saw a stout gate, in turn pierced by a door, and this led to the street. The door was open, a fact which might be accounted for by the presence in the yard of two uniformed policemen, the flash of whose lanterns he saw. He came back into the corridor and to Stevens.

“Somebody may have used the fire-escape tonight, and they may not,” he said. “What time did Gray come in? Who came in first?”

“Jeff came first, about five minutes before Gray.”

“Then what happened?”

“I had a chat with Captain Gray,” said the porter, after a second’s hesitation. “He went round into the side passage–”

“The same way that Jeff had gone?” The porter nodded.

“About a minute later – in fact, it was shorter than a minute – I heard what I thought was a door slammed. I remarked upon the fact to the elevator-man.”

“And then?”

“I suppose four or five minutes passed after that, and Captain Gray came out. Said he might look in later.”

“There was no sign of a struggle in Captain Gray’s clothes?”

“No, sir. I’m sure there was no struggle.”

“I should think not,” agreed Craig. “Jeff Legge never had a chance of showing fight.”

The girl was lying on the sofa, her head buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking, and the sound of her weeping drew the detective’s attention to her.

“Has she been here before tonight?”

“Yes, she came, and I had to throw her out – Emanuel told me she was not to be admitted.”

Craig made a few notes in his book, closed it with a snap and put it in his pocket.

“You understand, Stevens, that, if you’re not under arrest, you’re under open arrest. You’ll close the club for tonight and admit no more people. I shall leave a couple of men on the premises.”

“I’ll lock up the beer,” said Stevens facetiously.

“And you needn’t be funny,” was the sharp retort. “If we close this club you’ll lose your job – and if they don’t close it now they never will.”

He took aside his assistant.

“I’m afraid Johnny’s got to go through the hoop tonight,” he said. “Send a couple of men to pull him in. He lives at Albert Mansions. I’ll go along and break the news to the girl, and somebody’ll have to tell Peter – I hope there’s need for Peter to be told,” he added grimly.

A surprise awaited him when he came to the Charlton. Mrs Floyd had gone – nobody knew whither. Her husband had followed her some time afterwards, and neither had returned. Somebody had called her on the telephone, but had left no name.

“I know all about her husband not returning,” said Craig. “But haven’t you the slightest idea where the lady is?”

The negative reply was uncompromising.

“Her father hasn’t been here?” His informant hesitated.

“Yes, sir; he was on Mrs Floyd’s floor when she was missing – in fact, when Major Floyd was down here making inquiries. The floor waiter recognised him, but did not see him come or go.”

Calling up the house at Horsham he learnt, what he already knew, that Peter was away from home. Barney, who answered him, had heard nothing of the girl; indeed, this was the first intimation he had had that all was not well. And a further disappointment lay in store for him. The detective he had sent to find Johnny returned with the news that the quarry had gone. According to the valet, his master had returned and changed in a hurry, and, taking a small suitcase, had gone off to an unknown destination.

An enquiry late that night elicited the fact that Jeff was still living, but unconscious. The bullet had been extracted, and a hopeful view was taken of the future. His father had arrived early in the evening, and was half mad with anxiety and rage.

“And if he isn’t quite mad by the morning, I shall be surprised,” said the surgeon. “I’m going to keep him here and give him a little bromide to ease him down.”

“Poison him,” suggested Craig.

When the old detective was on the point of going home, there arrived a telephone message from the Horsham police, whom he had enlisted to watch Peter’s house.

“Mr Kane and his daughter arrived in separate motor-cars at a quarter past twelve,” was the report. “They came within a few minutes of one another.”

Craig was on the point of getting through to the house, but thought better of it. A fast police car got him to Horsham under the hour, the road being clear and the night a bright one. Lights were burning in Peter’s snuggery, and it was he himself who, at the sound of the motor wheels, came to the door.

“Who’s that?” he asked, as Craig came up the dark drive, and, at the sound of the detective’s voice, he came half-way down the drive to meet him. “What’s wrong, Craig? Anything special?”

“Jeff’s shot. I suppose you know who Jeff is?”

“I know, to my sorrow,” said Peter Kane promptly. “Shot? How? Where?”

“He was shot this evening between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock, at the Highlow Club.”

“Come in. You’d better not tell my girl – she’s had as much as she can bear tonight. Not that I’m worrying a damn about Jeff Legge. He’d better die, and die quick, for if I get him–”

He did not finish his sentence, and the detective drew the man’s arm through his.

“Now, listen, Peter, you’ve got to go very slow on this case, and not talk such a darned lot. You’re under suspicion too, old man. You were seen in the vicinity of the club.”

“Yes, I was seen in the vicinity of the club,” repeated Peter, nodding. “I was waiting there – well, I was waiting there for a purpose. I went to the Charlton, but my girl had gone – I suppose they told you – and then I went on to the Highlow, and saw that infernal Lila – by the way, she’s one of Jeff’s women, isn’t she?”

“To be exact,” said the other quietly, “she’s his wife.”

Peter Kane stopped dead.

“His wife?” he whispered. “Thank God for that! Thank God for that! I forgive her everything. Though she is a brute – how a woman could allow – but I can’t judge her. That graft has always been dirty to me. It is hateful and loathsome. But, thank God she’s his wife, Craig!” Then “Who shot this fellow?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to pull Johnny for it.”

They were in the hall, and Peter Kane spun round, open-mouthed, terror in his eyes.

“You’re going to pull Johnny?” he said. “Do you know what you’re saying, Craig? You’re mad! Johnny didn’t do it. Johnny was nowhere near–”

“Johnny was there. And, what is more, Johnny was in the room, either at the moment of the shooting or immediately after. The elevator-boy has spoken what’s in his mind, which isn’t much, but enough to convict Johnny if this fellow dies.”

“Johnny there!” Peter’s voice did not rise above a whisper.

“I tell you frankly, Peter, I thought it was you.”

Craig was facing him squarely, his keen eyes searching the man’s pallid face. “When I heard you were around, and that you had got to know that this fellow was a fake. Why were you waiting?”

“I can’t tell you that – not now,” said the other, after turning the matter over in his mind. “I should have seen Johnny if he was there. I saw this girl, Lila, and I was afraid she’d recognise me. I think she did, too. I went straight on into Shaftesbury Avenue, to a bar I know. I was feeling queer over this – this discovery of mine. I can prove I was there from a quarter to ten till ten, if you want any proof. Oh, Johnny, Johnny!”

All this went on in the hall. Then came a quick patter of footsteps and Marney appeared in the doorway.

“Who is it – Johnny? Oh, it is you, Mr Craig? Has anything happened?” She looked in alarm from face to face. “Nothing has happened to Johnny?”

“No, nothing has happened to Johnny,” said Craig soothingly. He glanced at Peter. “You ought to know this, Marney,” he said. “I can call you Marney – I’ve known you since you were five. Jeff Legge has been shot.”

He thought she was going to faint, and sprang to catch her, but with an effort of will she recovered.

“Jeff shot?” she asked shakily. “Who shot him?”

“I don’t know. That’s just what we are trying to discover. Perhaps you can help us. Why did you leave the hotel. Was Johnny with you?”

She shook her head.

“I haven’t seen Johnny,” she said, “but I owe him – everything. There was a woman in the hotel.” She glanced timidly at her father. “I think she was an hotel thief or something of the sort. She was there to – to steal. A big Welsh woman.”

“A Welshwoman?” said Craig quickly. “What is her name?”

“Mrs Gwenda Jones. Johnny knew about her, and telephoned her to tell her to take care of me until he could get to me. She got me out of the hotel, and then we walked down the Duke of York Steps into the Mall. And then a curious thing happened – I was just telling daddy when you came. Mrs Jones – she’s such a big woman–”

“I know the lady,” said Craig.

“Well, she disappeared. She wasn’t exactly swallowed up by the earth,” she said with a faint smile, “and she didn’t go without warning. Suddenly she said to me: ‘I must leave you now, my dear. I don’t want that man to see me.’ I looked round to find who it was that she was so terribly afraid of and there seemed to be the most harmless lot of people about. When I turned, Mrs Jones was running up the steps. I didn’t wish to call her back, I felt so ridiculous. And then a man came up to me, a middle-aged man with the saddest face you could imagine. I told you that, daddy?”

He nodded.

“He took his hat off – his hair was almost white – and asked me if my name was Kane. I didn’t tell him the other name,” she said with a shiver. “‘May I take you to a place of safety, Miss Kane?’ he said. ‘I don’t think you ought to be seen with that raw-boned female.’ I didn’t know what to do, I was so frightened, and I was glad of the company and protection of any man, and, when he called a cab, I got in without the slightest hesitation. He was such a gentle soul, Mr Craig. He talked of nothing but the weather and chickens! I think we talked about chickens all the way to Lewisham.”

“Are you sure it was Lewisham?”

“It was somewhere in that neighbourhood. What other places are there there?”

“New Cross, Brockley–” began Craig.

“That’s the place – Brockley. It was the Brockley Road. I saw it printed on the corner of the street. He took me into his house. There was a nice, motherly old woman whom he introduced to me as his housekeeper.”

“And what did he talk about?” asked the fascinated Craig.

“Chickens,” she said solemnly. “Do you know what chickens lay the best eggs? I’m sure you don’t. Do you know the best breed for England and the best for America? Do you know the most economical chickens to keep? I do! I wondered what he was going to do with me – I tried to ask him, but he invariably turned me back to the question of incubators and patent feeds, and the cubic space that a sitting hen requires as compared with an ordinary hen. It was the quaintest, most fantastic experience. It seems now almost like one of Alice’s dreams! Then, at ten o’clock, I found a motor-car had come for me. ‘I’m sending you home, young lady,’ he said.”

“Were you with him all the time, by the way?” asked Craig.

She shook her head.

“No, some part of the time I was with his housekeeper, who didn’t even talk about chickens, but knitted large and shapeless jumpers, and sniffed. That was when he was telephoning; I knew he was telephoning because I could hear the drone of his voice.”

“He didn’t bring you back?”

“No, he just put me into the car and told me that I should be perfectly safe. I arrived just a few minutes ahead of daddy.”

The detective scratched his chin, irritated and baffled.

“That’s certainly got me,” he said. “The raw-boned lady I know, but the chicken gentleman is mysterious. You didn’t hear his name, by any chance?”

She shook her head.

“Do you know the number of the house?”

“Yes,” she said frankly, “but he particularly asked me to forget it, and I’ve forgotten it.” Then, in a more serious tone:

“Is my – my–”

“Your nothing,” interrupted Peter. “The blackguard was married – married to Lila. I think I must have gone daft, but I didn’t realise this woman was planted in my house for a purpose. That type of girl wouldn’t come at the wages if she had been genuine. Barney was always suspicious of her, by the way.”

“Have you seen Johnny?” the girl asked Craig.

“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Craig carefully. “I thought of calling on him pretty soon.”

Then it came to her in a flash, and she gasped.

“You don’t think Johnny shot this man? You can’t think that?”