A Bout with the Mildew Gang

by Sydney Fowler

Eyre & Spottiswoode
1941

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CONTENTS

I.	CONCERNING MURDER AT THE OLD JERSEY
II.	WHAT JANET SAID
III.	MISS BINGHAM DESIRES REVENGE
IV.	MR. HOUGHTON MAY NOT BE FAR
V.	THE ARREST
VI.	EVIDENCE OF CHARLOTTE BINGHAM
VII.	A QUEER BARGAIN WITH MR. LIMBROOK
VIII.	INSPECTOR CAULDRON REPORTS
IX.	MISS BINGHAM WAS NOT THERE
X.	CONCERNING THE MISSING BULLET
XI.	A CHANCE FOR INSPECTOR CAULDRON
XII.	AT THE ENVOY HOTEL
XIII.	UNPLEASANT EXPERIENCE OF MR. LIMBROOK
XIV.	TEA FOR TWO AT THE READER GRILL
XV.	FEMININE WEAKNESS OF BILLIE WINGROVE
XVI.	BILLIE WINGROVE AT SCOTLAND YARD
XVII.	INTERVIEW IN THE CELLS
XVIII.	AGAIN AT THE READER GRILL
XIX.	MR. MILDEW UPON THE SCENE
XX.	ANOTHER WAY TO THE READER GRILL
XXI.	MR. MILDEW HAS A BAD NIGHT
XXII.	THE REAL HOUGHTON IS FOUND
XXIII.	MR MILDEW IS WILLING TO HELP
XXIV.	HOUGHTON GIVES HIS ACCOUNT
XXV.	WHAT IS TO BE DONE NOW?
XXVI.	DINNER FOR ONE
XXVI.	AN INTERVIEW OF SOME DIFFICULTY
XXVII.	COMPENSATION FOR MR. LIMBROOK
XXVIII.	MR. MILDEW HAS A MORNING CALL
XXIX.	AMAZING PENALTY OF SUCCESS
XXX.	EXPERIENCES OF MISS CHARLOTTE BINGHAM
XXXI.	INTERVIEW WITH MR. CATSGILL
XXXII.	EVENTS OF THE NIGHT HOURS
XXXIII.	THOSE WHO GO QUICKLY MAY SOON RETURN

CHAPTER I

CONCERNING MURDER AT THE OLD JERSEY

THE reception-clerk of the Old Jersey did not like detectives. He thought that anything beyond the most distant contacts with the police derogated from the dignity of a first-class hotel where wealthy citizens of the United States were accustomed to stay. The pavement, not the lounge, was the place for them.

        He recognized that when guests murder one another (as those of sufficiently good social standing to put up at the Old Jersey should not be expected to do) the intrusion of the police becomes an unavoidable evil, but it is still not one to be freely encouraged, nor to be allowed to continue indefinitely. Mrs. Houghton had now been dead for three days. Her husband, after shooting her, had had sufficient good breeding to leave the hotel immediately. The body of the dead woman had been removed. The police had been allowed to poke about the room as it was their nature to do. After that, it had been put into order, and was now eligible to be let to less violent guests. It had become time to let the past die.

        When he saw Inspector Cauldron enter the revolving door, and give a word of friendly greeting to the head-porter, though he had not seen him before he recognized him for what he was, with the acumen which reception clerks are expected to have, but he did not look pleased. His "good-evening," as the inspector approached the counter, was cold, and his voice had no more than a minimum of civility as he stated that Miss Bingham was not in.

        "Then I must wait she returns."

        "I don't think I should do that, if I were you. I don't know when she'll be back."

        Inspector Cauldron was conscious of the hostility with which he was met. It was an attitude to which officers of the C.I.D. become accustomed as their years pass. It is not one to rouse their suspicions beyond the normal temperature of those who are in constant contact with violent or cunning crime. An uneasy conscience may be more anxious to please.

        Had he said frankly: "I am a young officer, only recently promoted, to whom this first chance of handling an important case has unexpectedly come, and I am concealing a good deal of nervous anxiety lest I make some blunder of inexperience, such as might damn my prospects for many years," he might have met a more friendly reception. But official dignity and his own character were double barriers against such a confession as that. He said only: "You don't mean that she's left the hotel?"

        The clerk glanced at the key-board. "She's taken her key with her, if she has."

        Inspector Cauldron knew it to be one of the first lessons of his profession to maintain such conversational exchanges so long as there be possibility, however remote, of learning something which might prove useful at last, and his mission was to reap in a field from which an experienced senior officer had already gathered all the harvest he could. "I suppose," he said, "they sometimes do that."

        "Sometimes isn't the word! But that's mostly when we know they're leaving, and they overlook handing them in. . . . As a matter of fact, the lady said she rather hoped you'd call - the other officer, I suppose, she meant. I don't think I've seen you before."

        "Chief Inspector Barnes has been taken suddenly ill. I'm handling the case now."

        "Well, Miss Bingham said I could tell him, if he came any more, that she wasn't going to spend the rest of her life answering the same questions put backwards and sideways and upside down."

        "You mean she went out to avoid being questioned further?"

        "I daresay she'd had enough. But I believe there was something about arranging for Mrs. Houghton's funeral. I understand she'd had permission from you."

        "From the superintendent? Yes, that's right. She's got an order to take the body. Only she mustn't cremate. . . . Was she sober when she said that about being questioned sideways and upside down?"

        By the look the clerk gave in response to this question it seemed that his resentment had been freshly aroused - possibly by the suggestion that the amount of liquor consumed by any guest of the Old Jersey should be the occasion of comment by the police. But he only answered: "Yes. Quite," and Inspector Cauldron, rightly judging that, for the moment at least, there would be nothing more to be got from him, said: "There's a maid, Janet, I should like to see, if I may. I suppose she's on duty now."

        "You can see her down here if you like."

        "I'd rather see her upstairs, if I may. I should like to see the room where it occurred."

        "You're not going to start it all over again?"

        "No. I hope to be less trouble than that; but there are one or two points I've got to be a bit clearer about an I am now."

        The reception-clerk turned to the telephone. A moment later he said: "Janet's at dinner, but she can with you in about three minutes. I'll tell the liftman to show you up."

        Janet was the head chambermaid on the floor on which the murder had occurred. She had been in personal attendance both upon Miss Bingham and the murdered woman, and she had been the first of the hotel staff to reach the scene of the tragedy. Her statement was already filed among the dossier of the crime.

        Inspector Cauldron said that he would go up; and as he waited in the softly carpeted corridor of the third floor, his mind went back to reconstruct the event as he had studied it that morning in Chief Inspector Barnes' concise and lucid report, upon which it may be convenient to turn a backward glance more comprehensively than he had yet been able to do.

        The two Bingham sisters, prominent members of the social aristocracy of New York, had inherited so large a fortune from a millionaire father that their money had, for them, no practical limit. Its manipulation was in the hands of legal gentlemen of equal caution and integrity, and they had never found it to be inadequate to the demands which they had made upon it, which had not been light, for they belonged to that much-advertised but numerically inconsiderable proportion of the aristocracy of the United States who live wildly upon their wealth.

        James Cadell Houghton, an Englishman, born in Preston, had begun his business career as a patent broker in the depressing atmosphere of that northern town. A single fortunate transaction, such as is the dream of all who enter his precarious profession, had made him a comparatively affluent man, and transferred the centre of his business interests to New York, where he had opened offices in 43rd Street, and rented a Fifth Avenue apartment, on a scale which showed that he did not intend to rebuff the smile which Fortune had turned towards him.

        Money which had come easily was allowed to go with equal readiness, as will most frequently be. Whether he made further successful business deals during the short hours that he spent in his comfortable offices was a matter best known to himself at the time when he met the Bingham sisters, and proposed to, was accepted by, and married the younger, with a celerity more characteristic of their own country than the slower-moving methods of his native land.

        Isabel Bingham had no reason to ask or care what his financial status might be, having ample dollars for both. It was enough that he attracted, and professed to be attracted by her, and that he had fallen into their affluent, indolent, wasteful, pleasure-seeking ways. If she had had a further and subtler motive in at she did, it was something that Chief Inspector Barnes had had no means of guessing.

        All he knew was that they had come to England - the elder sister, who had remained with the married pair, still making the third of a trio such as might be congenial or the reverse, according to the relations and temperaments of the three. But he had no evidence whatever to suggest that there was any connection between this triangular position and its supervening tragedy. He had only met one of the three alive, and she had professed a natural wish that there should be retribution for her sister's death.

        Of the tragedy itself, the known facts were simple and few, and might not have been beyond the ability of a clever advocate to mitigate, if not to explain away, with some ingenious theory of misunderstanding or self-defence, if James Houghton had not condemned himself by his instant flight.

        Four shots, almost as one, had sounded - not loudly, for the walls and doors of the Old Jersey are solid, and I carpets are soft and thick - in the suite opposite the staircase on the third floor; and a few moments after Mr. Houghton had stopped, and entered, a descending lift, hurried to the outer hall, said in a voice of agitation to a lady-clerk who was in temporary charge of the counter: "Send someone up to my rooms at once. There's been an accident," and disappeared through the revolving door into the street so rapidly that the porter had scarcely had time to rotate it for him, as it was his duty to do.

        Naturally, he had not been stayed. It is not customary in good-class hotels to detain visitors by force if they mention that there has been an accident in their rooms, on the assumption that their meaning is that they have just murdered their wives.

        He went through the revolving door, and had not been seen or heard of again. He had been fully dressed at the time, which was not surprising, it being 10.30 a.m., but the dead woman had been unclothed, except for a bathrobe which she could merely have been holding round her with one hand, for it had spread open when she fell, shot twice through the body, as she had apparently been coming out through the bathroom door.

        But she had not died, it seemed, without attempting her own defence. A small silver-plated revolver lay by her dying hand, and it had two chambers empty.

        Mr. Houghton's heavier weapon, with his name engraved upon it, had been thrown down on the other side of the room, after its deadly work was done. It also had two empty chambers, and there was no doubt where their bullets had gone. One had splintered a lower rib on the right side of Isabel Houghton's body, and then followed its course in an inner curve, stopping when almost touching the spinal cord. The second had pierced the aorta with a resulting haemorrhage which must have proved almost immediately fatal.

        Of the two bullets that she had fired, one had been found imbedded in the opposite wall, but the other had not been discovered, even by the most diligent and intensive search of the whole apartment.

        There were features about the affair which were not easy to understand, and which might be variously interpreted, but when a man takes to instant flight, having shot his wife two minutes before, it is not the first duty of the police to propound ingenious theories reduce the seriousness of the crime. The task of explanation may be left to him and his legal advisers, when he has been placed in the dock, where he must surely expect to be.

        Yet, in view of the superintendent's words, when he had instructed him to take over the case, Inspector Cauldron thought that it might not be unprofitable to consider these facts with a freshly open mind. "I don't know what Barnes had in mind, but I got an idea that he wasn't quite satisfied that everything had been just as it appeared. But you'll remember that the murdered lady and her sister are - or were - both American citizens, of some importance in their own country. We don't want them to think on the other side that we can't handle a case like this neatly, or get justice done when we catch the man - as we're sure to do unless he does for himself, and I don't say it mightn't save a bit of trouble all round, if he has that much sense. . . ."

        There was nothing unusual in the fact that Mrs. Houghton had not been dressed at that period of the morning. Indeed, the telephone call for breakfast to be served had not been made, as was quite frequently the case at that hour. But it did seem strange that a lady clothed in nothing but a bathrobe should have a revolver so near her hand that she could return her husband's fire, even though she had not used her weapon with equal coolness, nor to such deadly effect.

        It seemed strange also that - - But at this point Inspector Cauldron's reflections were interrupted by the appearance of Janet, with the keys of the room he sought.

CHAPTER II

WHAT JANET SAID

THE citizen of God's own country lives in centrally-heated buildings, the atmospheres of which are both hot and dry, so that he is in constant need of moisture. He takes this inwardly in the form of iced water, of which he has copious supplies beside him at every meal. Outwardly, he comforts his dry skin with continual baths.

        The hotel proprietors of his own land are so conscious of these vital necessities that they supply the iced water free of charge; and, so that there may be no delay, even to cross a passage, when the desire for bodily immersion becomes urgent, they provide a bath for every. bedroom. There are simple-minded Americans who take pride in the existence of these numerous baths, as indicating a superior standard of cleanliness, which is an error of diagnosis. The bath which is a pleasant luxury to the Englishman is a continual and urgent necessity to his Transatlantic cousin. Habits, however acquired, are not easily modified, and the American visitor to the older world, being introduced to an hotel bedroom, looks round with plaintive, bewildered eyes for the bathroom which may be anything from five to fifteen yards away.

        Mr. Monro, the present proprietor, having purchased the lease of the Old Jersey, and knowing that American citizens (in 1922) were London's most affluent visitors, had determined to adapt the hotel to their requirements, without troubling his mind concerning pathological explanations of their condition. He had therefore added about fifty baths to the fourteen which had been previously installed, and their introduction involved some structural alterations, and many minor adjustments of the accommodation of the hotel.

        The suite which the Houghtons had rented consisted of a lounge, a dining-room, a double bedroom (Isabel Houghton objected to the idea of married people having separate rooms), and a bathroom which was so placed that while it could be entered from the bedroom, it had another door, normally kept locked, which led to the dining-room, that being the central room of the suite. Both the dining-room and the lounge had doors which opened on to the corridor, but the bedroom could be entered from the dining-room only.

        Miss Bingham's separate suite, consisting of bedroom, bathroom, and a small boudoir, was on the opposite side of the corridor, and a short distance away from the Houghton suite, which faced the lift and a broad flight of stairs; but they had been in the habit of taking their meals together, the dining-room and lounge being used equally by the three.

        It was at the bathroom door which opened into the dining-room, and which was normally locked, that Isabel Houghton had fallen. The key had been, and still was, on the inside of the door, so that it appeared probable that, unless it had been unlocked previously, she must have opened it herself. She had been coming to her husband, rather than he seeking her, and he, when the shots were exchanged, by the evidence of the weapon that he had dropped and the bullet in the wall, had been almost opposite to her on the further side of the dining-room, and therefore close to the door of the corridor through which it appeared that he might have retreated, had he wanted to do so.

        Janet had already made a statement of how she had heard the dull sound of the shots in the linen-room at the end of the corridor, but not loudly enough for her to be alarmed, or to guess what they were - she was a practical woman, indisposed to curiosity in regard to what was not her direct concern - and almost immediately after there had been a shrill scream from Charlotte Bingham, on hearing which, but still not expecting serious tragedy, she had put down the washing-book, told the girl who was with her to go on checking it till her return, and gone to see what was happening.

        She had come upon Miss Bingham standing near the top of the stairs in a distracted condition, and her words, which Janet professed to remember with exactness, had been: "Oh, get a doctor! Do something! He's shot Isabel. Oh, the blood!"

        Miss Bingham's own statement had been that she had heard the shots as she was completing her toilet, and - being much nearer than Janet - she had recognized what they were. She had run at once, scantily dressed as she was, to the dining-room, at the door of which she had met James coming out. He had said to her - so she said - "Well, it's done now," and she had pushed past him, and seen next moment how her sister lay. It was then that she had screamed and run out of the room.

        Before Janet, with more leisurely movements, had arrived on the scene, James Houghton had disappeared.

        Such were the facts as the first enquiry had disclosed them, and Miss Bingham's further evidence had been that the couple were on normally affectionate terms, and that she could offer no explanation of what had occurred. She said that James had obtained a licence to carry a pistol from the New York police, on the ground that he was liable, in his business dealings, to have large sums of money or valuable documents upon him, and that he had once been the subject of an attempted hold-up while on his way to the bank. Her sister had had such a permit for a much longer time, having represented herself as a lonely woman, afraid of burglars, and having many valuables in her flat; and she had practised with her tiny weapon until she had become of moderate proficiency. She herself (she said) disliked firearms, which she never handled.

        She could not account in any way for the fact that Isabel appeared to be coming out of the bathroom with the loaded revolver in her hand, as though anticipating attack, nor why that locked door should have been open at all. She had never known it to be opened previously, nor even that it had a key on the inner side.

        In fact, she had represented the tragedy as being an inexplicable mystery to her, both in its circumstances and itself. It was an attitude difficult to disprove, particularly as James Houghton had disappeared and his wife was dead. If it were a false pose, it was far less vulnerable than would have been any invented explanations, such as could have been tested with the patient skill that the C.I.D. know so well how to apply.

        Only if James Houghton should be arrested, and give a different account of his relations with his wife, or of how the tragedy had occurred, would it become necessary - or perhaps possible - to examine how far Miss Bingham s evidence might be coloured either by a natural desire to protect the dead woman's reputation, or - perhaps equally naturally - to bring to justice the man who had taken her sister's life. . . .

        Janet, a sandy-haired, pleasant-mannered, efficient Scotswoman, may have shown no more than the native caution of her race when she had previously declined to express opinions upon the three guests, or to enlarge her statement beyond the actual facts of the tragedy, as they had come under her own eyes. But Chief Inspector Barnes had recorded the opinion that she was too shrewd not to have observed more than she had allowed herself to say, and that she had restrained herself from abstract caution, sympathy with one or more of those concerned, or a feeling that loyalty to the hotel guests was an obligation that took precedence over the "duty of every citizen" as it is interpreted        by the police.

        Inspector Cauldron risked how she might respond to a direct appeal. "Janet," he said, "I want to ask you seriously to give us any help that you can. We're hunting for James Houghton now, and before long he may be on trial for the murder of his wife - well, you see how we stand! We want to get a conviction if he did murder her, but not otherwise. We just want the truth, and we shall need everyone's help if we're to get that now."

        "What is it you want to know? . . . I didn't see it happen, if you mean that."

        "I never thought that you did. I think you've told us all you can about that. What we want to know is more about the people themselves, what their relations were with each other, and anything which could supply a motive for them to be letting off at one another in the way that two of them certainly must have done."

        "You want guesses or facts?"

        "I shouldn't be ungrateful for a good guess."

        The woman's answer came with a downright energy for which there had been nothing to prepare him in the tone of her previous question. "And that, Inspector, is where I should say you go wrong! Years ago I saw a poor boy sentenced for something that I knew that he hadn't done; and that was brought off by some of the cleverest guessing you ever heard. But there s such a thing as being too clever, and forgetting what's said in a better book than the English law. At the mouths of two or three witnesses shall every word be established. You can't have better justice than that.

        "It doesn't tell the jury to make a good guess, such as they might think well enough in their own business affairs - that's a judge's phrase we often read in the papers today - and I'll give you any fact that I know, but you'll get no guesses from me."

        Inspector Barnes saw that her mind was biased by the sharpness of some past experience of an unforgettable kind.

        He avoided argument, and held to his own course with diplomatic adroitness. "Well, Janet, we won't differ about that. I'm not sure that there isn't a good deal of reason in what you say. Only, when we make a good guess, it mayn't do no more than let someone in. It may let someone out. But I won't ask you to guess anything. If you'll give me facts, I won't ask for anything more."

        "I don't know that I've got any facts to give you. Not about the poor woman's death."

        "Well, you won't mind me asking a few questions. And if the answers aren't any use, I shall be no worse off than I am now. . . . Did they get on well together, or did they quarrel among themselves?"

        "Mrs. Houghton did. I mean she sometimes quarrelled with her sister, and sometimes with Mr. Hough ton. Mr. Houghton and Miss Bingham didn't. Not that we ever heard."

        Inspector Cauldron observed, without appearing to do so, the plural pronoun. He concluded that, if Janet had not discussed the murder freely with other members of the staff, there had been reports taken to her.

        "You don't know," he went on, "what they quarrelled about?"

        "No. . . . I wouldn't like to say that."

        "Was it generally when Houghton had had rather too much? . . . I'm not guessing about that. We've seen the hotel bills."

        "You mustn't put all that to him. The ladies drank as much, if not more."

        "Well, if we divide by three, they didn't suffer from lack of moisture. Did you ever see any of them the worse for drink?"

        "That depends upon what you mean. Mrs. Houghton was excited at times."

        "So it wouldn't be far wrong to say that it was Mrs. Houghton who sometimes drank rather too freely, and at those times she got quarrelsome, either with her husband or sister?"

        "No. Not far wrong. James, the waiter, might tell you more about that."

        "Did you ever hear any of them threaten one another?"

        "No. . . . I didn't see as much of them as you may think."

        "Very well. I'll ask James. . . . Do you know whether the bathroom door leading into the dining-room was usually locked?"

        "It was locked when they took the suite. I can't say for sure beyond that. I used to do the Houghton suite myself, and when I cleaned the bathroom I never used that door. I reckoned that it was kept locked. It might have saved time sometimes to come out that way, but I couldn't have locked it again - not on the inside - when I'd come through."

        "I see. And do you know where Mrs. Houghton kept her pistol?"

        "No. I didn't know that she had such a thing at all."

        "And there's nothing more you can tell me that might be helpful?"

        "No. I don't think there is."

        The denial was definite, but Inspector Cauldron waited patiently, with an instinctive perception that she was hesitating over some further statement. The reward of his patience came when she said doubtfully: "You might have a few words with Doris. It may be nothing to do with it; but it may be right you should know."

        Doris was a younger girl, normally brisk and pert, who worked under Janet, and whose duty it had been to attend to Miss Bingham's apartment.

        "When Doris was questioned before, she said she had been in the linen-room all the time, and knew nothing about it whatever."

        "So she was. But I wasn't thinking about that. I'd better have a few words with her first."

        Janet went off to find the girl, leaving Inspector Cauldron in some hope that he had not been wasting his time. She came back in a few minutes, leading a sulky, obviously reluctant girl.

        "You'd better tell the inspector just what you saw," she said, with uncompromising severity, "or else say that it's made-up lies. You've told enough other people whom it doesn't concern."

        "I'm not going to be dragged into any court," the girl said sullenly, "I didn't see nothing wrong."

        "The question of giving evidence may not arise, the inspector answered. "But if you've seen things that you won't tell us, you may get called and treated as a hostile witness, and you wouldn't like that, would you?"

        This vague assurance, and still vaguer threat, appeared to have some effect on the girl. She answered, in a more subdued tone: "I didn't want to tell tales to do any harm."

        "We don't want you to do any harm. We just want the truth, so that no one will get misjudged."

        There was a moment of sullen silence, and then the girl said:

        "It was about half-past eight. I saw Mr. Houghton go into Miss Bingham's room."

        "You mean at night, or on the morning that Mrs. Houghton was shot?"

        "In the morning?"

        "Did he know that you saw him?"

        "No. I'm sure he didn't."

        "Which room do you mean? The bedroom?"

        "No. The boudoir."

        "Was he fully dressed?"

        "Yes."

        "At half-past eight! There doesn't seem to be overmuch in that. Did you see him come out?"

        "He hadn't come out at nine; and after that, when I went in to change the flowers, I heard someone speak, and then the key turned in the bedroom door.

        "Did you recognize the voice, or hear what was said?"

        "No. It was too low. It was only a word. And then someone turned the key very quick."

        "Would Miss Bingham expect you to be going in at that time?"

        "No. The orders were that she wasn't ever to be disturbed till she rang."

        "But you usually changed her flowers in the morning?"

        No. Not till I did the room. I hadn't done it at that time before."

        "I suppose it was really an invented reason for going in to see or hear what you could?"

        "I didn't see what business he had staying there."

        "And you didn't see him come out?"

        "No. I went off duty at nine-fifteen."

        "Shouldn't you naturally expect Miss Bingham to be up at half-past eight?"

        "Not when she never was. Besides that, it was after two when they came in the night before."

        "How do you know that?"

        "I was on duty during the night."

        "Were they all sober when they came in?"

        "Nothing to notice. Mrs. Houghton was talking a bit loud.

        "Had you known Mr. Houghton go into Miss Bingham's bedroom before?"

        "We thought he'd been there once or twice."

        "Why did you think that?"

        "Oh, there are things you can see."

        "What things?"

        "Oh, things. "

        Thank you, Doris. I think that will be all now."

        Having finished with her, Inspector Cauldron descended to interview James, the waiter, who had served breakfast regularly, and sometimes other meals, in the Houghtons' dining-room. He added little of definite fact to that which had become evident already, but, unlike Janet, he had no objection to guessing. He expressed a confident opinion that Charlotte Bingham had killed her sister. He said that the two women hated one another, and were jealous concerning James Houghton. It was a case, to his mind, of a woman trying to seduce her sister's husband, and the two women having a shooting-match in consequence. Inspector Cauldron pointed out that it was James Houghton who had bolted the moment that the tragedy had occurred, that it was his weapon from which the fatal bullets had come, and one or two other facts somewhat difficult to reconcile with this theory, but James remained unshaken in his belief. The inspector formed a correct opinion that Miss Bingham had not made herself popular with the dining-room staff.

CHAPTER III

MISS BINGHAM DESIRES REVENGE

INSPECTOR CAULDRON felt that he had not done badly. He expected that the widespread net which had been cast for the snaring of James Cadell Houghton would be drawn in before many days were over, having the desired fish in its meshes. When that should happen he must be ready with a plausible construction of the crime, and such information concerning the characters and relations of the murderer and sisters as would be potent in cross-examination to break down any lying tale that he might put up in his own defence. How many criminals, he thought, have fallen to rope or jail because they lacked the kind of courage which will risk the implications of stubborn silence, and so have been led on a path of lies which has supplied the evidence against themselves, which could have been obtained, in legal form, in no other way!

        He knew what he had to do, and he felt that he had already made substantial advance toward understanding of the tragedy - perhaps more than Chief Inspector Barnes, so inopportunely afflicted with that acute attack of appendicitis (or should "opportune" be the word?) had succeeded in doing.

        But, he told himself, he must not indulge too early in such self-gratulations. There was still much to be done. When he had interviewed Charlotte Bingham, complacency might have more solid grounds.

        Next morning he was at the Old Jersey at too early an hour for it to be likely that she would have left the hotel He would rather wait till she should be up then miss her agin. Wait he did - for nearly three hours.

        It appeared that the lady had come in late the night before (there was nothing unusual in that), and her orders were that she should not be disturbed until she should ring for breakfast.

        She did this at nine-thirty, and said she would have it in bed. After that she took long to dress.

        Inspector Cauldron, sustaining this long delay with difficult patience, not unaffected by the atmosphere of latent hostility by which he was surrounded, and the grudging permission he had received to remain in the hall, concluded that if she could telephone down from her room he could telephone up to her, which, overcoming some expostulations from the reception clerk, he succeeded in doing.

        "I am Inspector Cauldron of Scotland Yard," he said, when the connection was made. "I am anxious to have a few words with you in reference to Mrs. Houghton's death."

        There was a rather long pause before a woman's voice with a strong American accent answered him: "You can't today. I've got things more important to do."

        "I'm afraid I can't agree that anything can be more important than this."

        "Then we've just got to differ. My sister's funeral's at two-thirty this afternoon."

        "I beg your pardon. I wasn't thinking of that. But I shan't keep you long."

        "I don't see what use it would be. I've told Chief Inspector Barnes all I know, and he's got it signed. You'd better talk it over with him."

        "Chief Inspector Barnes is in hospital with appendicitis."

        "That's just too bad! But I don't see why I should begin all over again because of that. I've made a written statement of all I know. I suppose you haven't got James?"

        "No. Not yet. Though we soon shall. But there's one point that your statement doesn't cover, that I'm bound to clear up. I needn't keep you many minutes for that."

        He saw that the time might be inopportune. He might have left his call till the next day, had he given more thought to a thing he knew; but the ladies apparent reluctance to see him - natural as its explanation might be - had stirred him to an obstinacy which would not yield. Now he must listen to an impatient and unexpected reply:

        "Then why don't you say what you want to know?"

        He was not instantly prepared for that. He had no intention of being cut off with a curt reply to a telephone question. He wished to see the lady; and his one question might well lead to a dozen more. He replied, with some truth: "I'd rather not speak from here. It's not quite as private as I should like it to be."

        "Then you'd better come up now."

        Satisfied with this abrupt surrender, Inspector Cauldron took the lift to the third floor, knocked at Miss Bingham's bedroom door, and heard her reply: "If that's the policeman, come right in, and come through."

        He entered an empty room, and, seeing an open door on its farther side, supposed correctly that he was invited to the bedroom beyond.

        Miss Charlotte Bingham lay in bed, with her empty breakfast tray on a table at the farther side. Inspector Cauldron, an observant man, as detective-inspectors are likely to be, saw evidences in the empty dishes that her appetite had not been impaired either by the fact that her brother-in-law was in flight from a capital charge, or that she was to attend her murdered sister's funeral that afternoon.

        He saw a woman still in the early thirties, with auburn hair, rather fine eyes, cheek-bones of some prominence in a face too highly coloured for the beauty to which she could otherwise lay some claim in a florid style. She concealed an opulent figure in a dressing gown of crimson silk, which he observed, as the interview progressed, that she was excessively careful to keep not only tightly closed at her throat, but with the sleeves drawn down her wrists. It seemed incongruous to her manner in other ways. Was it habit or pose? He had a moment of puzzled wonder, and passed it by for more obvious questions.

        The hands that drew the sleeves so carefully down were not only well groomed, they were well shaped. On the left one he saw two over-large, very splendid rings.

        He summed her up rapidly. Rich. Vulgar. Pleasure-loving. Selfish. Good-humoured, if all went well. Not to be disturbed from her habits of physical indulgence by any calamity that left herself and her fortune free.

        That she had no colour sense was obvious from the crimson silk she wore, which had no mercy on the high colouring with which she paid for the pleasures the table gave. But wealth, if not culture, was evident in the litter of the untidy room.

        He did not think her a fool. He thought there should be things she could tell him - if she would - which might be helpful to hear. But he must seek first to learn what her feelings were toward the dead woman and fugitive man, for their value might hang on that.

        He saw signs that she had been dressing when he rang, and had got back into bed to receive him. Well, that would be the natural thing for her to do. These speculations would not take him far! He must see what she had to say.

        He had promised to be brief. He went to his point at once. "I believe," he said, "that you told Chief Inspector Barnes that you had not seen either your sister or her husband on the morning of her death, until you heard the shots and rushed across the passage to find out what had happened."

        "You don't believe," she answered bluntly though with a voice and manner pleasanter than the words. "You know I said that. It isn't what I told anyone. You've got it on the statement in black and white."

        "And you are sure, on further consideration, that that was true?"

        "You bet it was! We'd been out rather too late the night before, and I don't say we hadn't done ourselves well. There's no sense in getting up too soon on the morning after. And Isabel wouldn't have been in the best of tempers to meet. No, I wasn't in any hurry £or that."

        "You mean they'd been quarrelling?"

        "No, I don't. I mean what I said, as I mostly do. After what they'd taken the night before, they'd both wake up with a bad head."

        "I see. . . . And if anyone says that Mr. Houghton had been in here with you an hour before the shooting occurred, he'd be saying something that wasn't true. "Oh, that! You said he? You've been talking to that little slut Doris. But yes, James did come here for a moment, I didn't think it was worth mentioning. It couldn't have had anything to do with what followed. He only came for a book."

        "I was told he was here some time. I haven't suggested that it had anything to do with what followed, but I wish you'd be as accurate as you can."

        "You might pass me that book. Yes, the red one on the table there."

        Curious as to what the coming explanation could be, and with some admiration for the frank coolness with which Miss Bingham met the evidence of her previous inaccuracy, Inspector Cauldron passed the book. As he did so he observed the title: Three Murders at Blackmire Grange. He knew it's hero to be one of those detectives of fiction who turn in their murderers as regularly as the milkman delivers the morning milk. And that in spite of complications a thousand times greater than he was likely to meet in this simple case! We'll, if the occasion should come, must hope he would do as much.

        Miss Bingham turned the pages with a deliberate scrutiny. "There," she said, "you'd better judge for yourself. Page 260 to the end - that's page 282. That's twenty-two pages. How long would it take to read those while someone stood fussing at the foot of the bed?"

        Inspector Cauldron saw it to be a question to which there would be no certain reply. The care with which the pages were read - the interruptions which might be made. "You mean," he said, "that Mr. Houghton came in for that book and waited for you to finish it before he took it away?"

        "Yes. I mean just that. He wanted this book, and I said he'd have to wait, as I hadn't got much to read."

        "I suppose he'd expect that you'd have been up at that hour?"

        "No, he would't. He'd expect just the other way. If I'd been dressing, I should have put the bolt on the door. After we'd come in late, James used to up a lot earlier than Isabel or I, and he'd mooch about like a lost dog. Isabel wouldn't let him have breakfast. He had to have it with her when she was dressed. So did I, if I wanted the day to have a good start."

        "Could you tell me about what time it was that Houghton came for the book?"

        "No. You'd better ask Doris that. I wasn't watching the clock."

        There was temper in the tone as well as the wording of this reply, and the inspector was too discreet to press further a question the answer to which he already knew. He said: "Wanting to borrow a book to read isn't quite what you'd expect from a man on the point of shooting his wife. Wasn't anything said at all that gives you any clue to what happened afterwards?"

        "Not a word he just wanted a book he was half through, and hung about till I let it go. He might have been a bit on the sulky side. But not more than he often was at that time of day."

        "And you thought this wasn't worth mentioning?"

        "I don't see that it is now. I don't see that it helps you at all."

        "But when you were asked directly whether you had seen anything of him that morning, wouldn't it have been more natural - - ?"

        "I thought Inspector Barnes meant whether I'd been up and with them before it happened. I told him what I thought wanted to know."

        "But it's surely better to give a true answer, even if you don't think it important. I gather that Mrs. Houghton was rather difficult to get on with?

        "What makes you think that?"

        "For one thing, what you said about breakfast."

        "She certainly liked having her own way. Most people do."

        "But some are more considerate than others."

        "She liked James to toe the line, if you mean that."

        "So that they were not very happy together?"

        "I wish you wouldn't put words into my mouth! It was just the opposite way. You might say she was never happy apart."

        "Do you mean she was jealous?"

        "I daresay she was. You might say all women are.

        "Not equally. Do you think she had given him any cause to be jealous of her?"

        "I know she hadn't. It was about the last thing she d be likely to do."

        "And you can't suggest any motive for what happened?"

        "I've said that already. I've no more idea than you."

        "And you would naturally wish that the man who killed your sister should be brought to justice?"

        "I'd say I should! But that's your business, not mine. And I don't suppose you'd take any advice from me."

        "On the contrary, I should he very grateful for any hint you can give."

        "Inspector Barnes asked a lot of questions about where he'd lived in Lancashire, before he came to New York. He seemed to think he'd make for there, more likely than not."

        "It does seem probable."

        "Well, you ought to know! But I should have said that James wasn't quite such a fool as that."

        "Perhaps not. But we find that most criminals are. . . . Was there any other direction in which he could obtain money?"

        That's a bit more than I'd say. I don't even know he could get it there."

        "And you don't think he had any on him when he left?"

        "He might have had a few pounds, more or less. I shouldn't say he stopped to pick anything up."

        Miss Bingham paused, and the inspector waited in patient silence, thinking that there was something further to come. Her eyes had fallen. Her hands moved restlessly, pulling down the sleeves of her dressing-gown in the manner which he had noticed before. Then she asked: "If I told you something, you wouldn't let anyone know that it came from me?"

        "I can't promise that till I know what it is."

        "It isn't the kind of thing you'd want to use in evidence. It's what might help you to know where to look."

        "If it's no more than that, it would be confidential with me."

        "It's only that he once said, when there was some-thing in the papers about a murderer being caught, that he deserved it for bolting the way he did. He said that if the man had taken lodgings in the next street he'd have been a lot harder to find."

        "Thank you, Miss Bingham. That may be very useful indeed. I won't hinder you longer now. If there's any point I haven't got thoroughly clear I'll come and see you again."

        Inspector Cauldron rose and went, with the feeling that he had not wasted his time. He was sure that he had not been told all the truth, and dubious of that which had been said with much appearance of frankness. But even that might be true. Servants' gossip and inventions might have put a too-evil construction upon what had been no worse than loosely unconventional ways.

        It had been clear before that the dead woman had been violent and uncertain in temper and of frequent insobriety. By implication Miss Bingham had admitted this, though it was natural that she should desire to shield her sister s reputation.

        But he was convinced that she could say more, if she would. Those two people would not have started shooting at each other without some prefacing quarrel. And with guns in the hands of both!

        If Mrs. Houghton had come out of the bathroom, threatening her husband with a revolver, which seemed, in some respects, the most probable construction of the event, what had led to that sudden out-break?

        How had his own weapon been so ready to his hand? The woman must almost certainly have fired first, though it might be by no more than an instant of time. For she must have been incapable after those better-aimed bullets which were directed against her had found their mark. She must have collapsed at the first, and the second struck before she had sunk to the ground.

        There was something - if not much - in the man's favour there. But if he had been in fear of his wife's violence, why had he not retreated through the door at his side, instead of reaching - where? for his own gun.

        And whatever her condition might have been, he had been sober and cool. That was, if Miss Bingham's evidence were not entirely untrue. Sober enough to be looking for a book with which to pass the hours till his wife should rise, and they could order the morning meal.

        Well, when they had him, and heard the account of the event which he would be certain to offer, it would be strange if there were no material for questioning Miss Bingham further to be abstracted therefrom. He knew how often truth will emerge from two sets of discordant lies.

        And the hint which Miss Bingham had given him, apart from any value it might prove to have (of which he had a sanguine hope) was important as indicating her real feeling toward the missing man. To bring him to justice while keeping her sister's reputation unslurred, appeared to be her not unnatural aim.

CHAPTER IV

MR. HOUGHTON MAY NOT BE FAR

INSPECTOR CAULDRON started the next day in a less confident mood. He had discussed the case with his senior officers, and they had endorsed the wisdom of the course which James Houghton was said to have approved. If all those who commit murder in London should simply move to a new lodging anywhere within a ten or fifteen mile radius, taking a new name, they would be much harder to catch than they now are. If they should take such a lodging, and establish a separate identity before committing the crime, so that there would be nothing to arouse the suspicions of those immediately around them, their immunity would be further increased. Fortunately for the community, few murderers calculate so coolly, or plan in anticipation of what they do. In the case of James Houghton, it approximated to certainty that he would not have anticipated the crime. When he hurried out into the street through the rotating door of the New Jersey Hotel he would have been acting on the elementary instinct of flight, but with no settled refuge to which to flee. But if, as Miss Bingham said, he had been already of a settled opinion as to the course of safety, under such an emergency as had suddenly become his, it was extremely likely that he would have acted upon it.

        It was, at least, a theory well worth an intensive test. As it was, Inspector Cauldron knew that, while there might be no corner of the British Isles where both the detective and uniformed officers of the law were not watchful for the appearance of anyone similar to the photograph or description of James Houghton which had been circulated to them, there might be nowhere in the whole of that wide area where the search would be more perfunctory than in the immediate vicinity of the old Jersey Hotel. It was a lesson of experience, if not a verdict of common sense, that their quarry would not be there.

        But now the inspector proceeded to alter that. He saw a possibility, in addition to his general charge of the case, that he might become the actual discoverer of the fugitive, which he had not thought that opportunity would allow.

        He not only roused every officer in the Metropolitan area to a new alertness by circulating an instruction that the man was believed not to have left London, he devoted his own time to a systematic search, particularly of the smaller hotels and boarding-houses to which a man in such extremity would be likely to go.

        He considered, with some acumen, that an intelligent man so placed would be likely to consult the advertisement columns of the daily papers. It would be some introduction, if not much, to say: "I noticed your advertisement in the Daily Telegraph this morning." Better, at least, than ringing at a bell with no better reason for having selected it than a window-notice that there was accommodation to let.

        Pursuing the idea, he procured a comprehensive file of the London daily papers of the date on which the murder had occurred, and made systematic enquiry during the next three days at many hundred addresses - a proceeding rendered less onerous than it may sound by a previous tabulation which enabled him particularly in the Bloomsbury and Bayswater districts, to go almost from door to door. In a very great majority of cases a brief question would obtain a conclusively negative answer, and he would leave a closing door to proceed on his monotonous quest.

        It was one of those patient, persistent efforts characteristic of the methods of the C.I.D. which may be said to have deserved success, but, as so often happens, the first hopeful news - leaving aside various false reports which collapsed on closer enquiry - came in a more casual way.

        P. C. Wrexter, a young and inexperienced member of the uniformed branch of the service, telephoned that the cashier of the South Street branch of Atlas Restaurants, Ltd., had called him in from his beat and reported that a man whom she felt sure to be James Houghton had been coming in regularly about 3.30 p.m. every day from about that on which the murder had occurred.

        By a fortunate chance, Inspector Cauldron was in when this message came through, and it was no more than fifteen minutes later that he entered the restaurant, and presented his card to a middle-aged lady, of plain features but pleasant manners, whose tale, reasonably and intelligently told, gave him solid ground for hope that this most important part of his work was done.

        "I daresay," she said, "you'll think that I ought to have communicated with you before, when I tell you that I've had some suspicions for the last three or four days, but I didn't want to put you to trouble for nothing - I've heard that you get hundreds of dud clues every day of the week - and I hesitated till I felt sure.

        "I noticed the man first because he comes in regularly at about half-past three, and always sits in that far corner over on the right. It's a time when we're nearly empty, and that's the darkest corner of the shop, as you can see for yourself. He always has a pretty good meal, without taking too long about it, and when he pays me as he goes out he scarcely looks at me. I don't mean he avoids it exactly; it wouldn't be fair to say that. But it's as though he's got something on his mind that he can't forget, so that he's hardly conscious of what he does.

        "I tried yesterday giving him his change a shilling short. I'd thought before that he never looked to see what it was. Well, he took it without noticing, and of course I called him back, and said I'd made a mistake."

        "You say he started coming here the day of the murder?"

        "I couldn't say to a day or so either way. Not for sure. Of course, I wasn't noticing particularly. But it was just about then."

        "And you say he looks like Houghton?"

        "Well, that's for you to judge. He's so like that he reminded me of the picture I'd seen in the Record. That was what put the first suspicion into my mind. And I didn't trust to memory. I turned up the paper and brought it with me yesterday. I had it under the shelf here while he was having his meal, and when he paid me I felt sure enough to call in the policeman, and tell him what I suspected."

        Inspector Cauldron considered this, and saw some probability that he wasn't wasting his time. Even murderers must eat. What more likely than that the hiding man should go to a class of restaurant which his acquaintances would not probably enter, and at an hour when it would be comparatively empty? What more natural than that he should select a retired corner, and that his thoughts should be on other things than the amount of his change when he paid his check?

        All the same, there was nothing tangible in this beyond the resemblance to the wanted man which the cashier professed to have noticed. If he should be accosted and simply deny that he was Houghton, giving another name - which, whether Houghton or not, he would be likely to do - the grounds for detaining him would not be strong.

        Such risks have to be taken, and some mistakes are unavoidably made, but they are not liked at the Yard and a young inspector will not improve his reputation by perpetrating them. Inspector Cauldron preferred to be sure.

        From the restaurant he went straight to the Old Jersey, with the intention of securing a witness who would make identification positive.

        But here he met difficulty. The manager was out. The reception-clerk, who professed authority in his absence, did not refuse to allow any eligible witness to be released, but he suggested that it was improbable that much assistance would be rendered. He pointed out that Mr. Houghton had only been there for a short time, and that the Old Jersey had many guests.

        He said this in the hearing of the hotel porters, who may have passed the words to others. Anyway, that was the position taken generally by the hotel staff on the ground floor. It only varied from a definite assertion that they would not be able to identify Houghton, to a non-committal attitude, which neither promised nor denied. Inspector Cauldron wanted something better than that.

        He tried the liftman, and was rebuffed again, this time by what he felt to be an honest reply: "Not to swear to, I couldn't. There's too many as comes and goes.

        "Very well," he said, "then I'll go up to the third floor." He felt that either Janet or Doris would be quite capable of the identification he required. They had been in close contact with the Houghton party, and they had sharp feminine eyes. Janet might be difficult to persuade, but he thought there might be more than one way in which any reluctance on the part of Doris could be overcome.

        But when he reached the third floor, it was neither of these, but Miss Bingham whom he first saw.

        She was leaving her room, dressed to go out, as Inspector Cauldron stepped from the lift, and she hurried forward to check its descent. But the inspector stood his ground, blocking her way. It had occurred to him that, if she could be persuaded to make the identification, her evidence would be more conclusive even than that of one of the maids.

        She looked younger and more attractive than when he had seen her in the bedroom before, being more completely groomed; and a skilful tailor had cut her costume to give the impression of a symmetry of form which was not hers. Inspector Cauldron did not think that she was grieving overmuch for her sister's death, but such hardness was quite consistent with willingness or even desire that the man who had killed her should pay the legal penalty of his crime.

        However that might be, it was clear that she did not welcome further conversations with the police. Her cheekbones reddened beyond their normal floridity, as she observed who it was who now blocked her way to the lift.

        "May I speak to you a moment, Miss Bingham?"

        "Yes, if you must. I suppose here will do?"

        "I wondered whether you would be free to spare me an hour tomorrow afternoon?"

        "What do you want me to do?"

        "We want you to identify a man whom we believe to be Mr. Houghton."

        "You mean that you've arrested James?" There was no doubt that the lady's interest was now fully aroused. She had ceased to look toward the descending lift.

        "No. Not exactly. We are watching a man whom we believe to be he. It is your identification on which the arrest will depend."

        "You mean he's in London?"

        "Yes. The hint you gave us appears to have been well-founded."

        "I think I'd rather you got someone else to do that."

        "I thought you might prefer to do it yourself, rather than have others mixed up in your - family affairs."

        "They're scarcely that now."

        Inspector Cauldron was conscious that he had not struck the right note. "Of course," he went on, "we want to be sure that we're not arresting the wrong man. I thought I might get Janet or Doris to have a look at him; and then I thought you might prefer to make the identification yourself."

        "Does he say that he isn't James?"

        "He hasn't been asked anything yet. We wanted you to have a look at him first."

        Miss Bingham remained silent for a moment. Inspector Cauldron could have no knowledge of what she thought, but he had a feeling that the atmosphere changed. With a view to drawing her finally over the bridge of hesitation, he added: "Of course, if it should be Houghton, we're bound to find out; even if he shouldn't admit it, as he most likely may, your identification wouldn't make any real difference. But if it isn't, you'll be doing a good turn to an innocent man, and save him from even knowing how near he's been to an unpleasant experience."

        With an expression that still left the inspector slightly puzzled, feeling that there was something he could not read, she asked abruptly: "Just what is it you want me to do?"

        "I want you to come with me tomorrow afternoon to a restaurant not more than half a mile away, and take a look at the man, if he should be there, as there is reason to think he will. I can put you where you'll get a good look at him without much chance of being seen. He needn't even know that you've been there, if you'd rather not."

        "And, if I refuse, you'd get Janet or Doris to go?"

        "I shall do my best to get one of them."

        Miss Bingham still showed indecision, but Inspector Cauldron was right in thinking that the game was won.

        "I don't see," she said at last, "why I shouldn't do that. But of course it may not be he. What time do you want me to go?"

        "I'll have a car here for you at two-thirty."

        "Very well. I'll be ready."

        With more affability than she had shown previously, Miss Bingham wished the inspector good-afternoon.

        Inspector Cauldron reported what he had done when he got back to the Yard, and received only qualified praise."

        "You'd have done better," Superintendent Backwash said, "to have got one of the maids. If Miss Bingham's got any reason for not wanting the case to come into court - and, if the chambermaid's suspicions had any truth in them (which they quite likely didn't, you needn't trouble to tell me that) she's probably got one very good one, if not more - she'll be quite likely to stare at her brother-in-law and say she never saw him before, and where will you be then?"

        "I haven't overlooked that possibility," the inspector replied with the patience due to the criticism of a superior officer, however unreasonable it may be, "even if she should refuse to identify him, I meant to have him followed, and kept under observation, till we've made quite sure who he is. But after the trouble I'd had, I didn't mean to lose a chance by letting the lady walk past me. And I think Janet would have refused, though I'd got a good hope of the younger girl."

        Superintendent Backwash made no comment on this, which was as near to approving the actions of his subordinate officers as he was accustomed to go; and the reasonable doubt which had entered both their minds proved to be groundless, for, next afternoon, the suspected man took his usual seat, and ordered his meal in ignorance of the fact that Miss Bingham (who had been introduced to the kitchen quarters through the West Street entrance) had him in clear, view for twenty or thirty seconds through the service hatch, and identified him with an ease and decision consistent with the close acquaintance of previous days.

CHAPTER V

THE ARREST

INSPECTOR CAULDRON put Miss Bingham hack in the car, for her part was done. He walked round to the front entrance of the restaurant. His previous experiences had not included the arrest o£ a man who was accused of a capital crime, and he was not entirely free from anxiety as to how he should acquit himself if any position of difficulty or delicacy should arise.

        But he was outwardly cool and self-possessed as he walked in.

        So far James Cadell Houghton had been little more to him than a name, without objective reality, except as one who had killed his wife, and then taken to abortive though troublesome flight. Now he saw a man who was young, and well-enough though rather carelessly dressed. His face was thin, and might have been described as of an intellectual type, though without imputing lack of courage or of capacity for prompt decision.

        He appeared worried and preoccupied, but showed no sign of alarm or interest as Inspector Cauldron came to his table. He gave him one unseeing glance, and turned his eyes indifferently elsewhere.

        Inspector Cauldron knew that it is the etiquette of the Yard that such arrests shall be quietly and politely made. The man who murders his wife through some unendurable matrimonial difference is not usually a habitual criminal. Beyond that, there is most often a tale which he is anxious to tell in his own defence. It is seldom, indeed, that such a man will make violent resistance if he be circumspectly approached. But, for all that, each case has its individual differences. There is no certain rule.

        Now Inspector Cauldron leaned slightly forward. "Excuse me," he said, in a low and toneless voice, his glance fixed watchfully upon the one who seemed so indifferent to him, "you are Mr. J. C. Houghton?"

        As it was said it sounded less a query than a statement of fact, but the man who was thus addressed looked up with a surprise which, if it were not genuine, was remarkably simulated. "Am I?" he asked. And then: "May I ask how my name concerns you?"

        "I'm afraid I have an unpleasant duty to perform, Mr. Houghton. I am Inspector Cauldron, of the Criminal Investigation Department. I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Isabel Houghton. It is my duty to warn you - - "

        The other man interrupted him. "Never mind that patter," he said. "You are making a mistake. That is not my name."

        The inspector smiled slightly. "I'm afraid that won't do," he replied. "You admitted it a moment ago.

        "Oh, no, I didn't. I asked you what business it was of yours." The voice was curt now, and slightly irritated.

        But the inspector was unimpressed. "Well," he said, "you know now. I suppose you'll come quietly. . . . I've got a taxi outside."

        Mr. Houghton (if such he really were) appeared to repress an angry answer. He became silent, as though considering an unprecedented position. "I'm not going to knock you down, if you mean that. And I am not going to resist arrest, if you assure me that you have proper authority for what you do. . . . I suppose it's no use telling you again that my name's not Houghton?"

        The detective smiled. "Not the least. We know quite well who you are. You were positively identified less than five minutes ago."

        "Perhaps you have my fingerprints?"

        "I daresay they could be found."

        "I wonder. . . . Well, I suppose that would settle it, one way or other. . . . I must hope you haven't."

        "We've no need to depend on them in a case like this."

        "No? I suppose not. And anything I say will be put in as evidence? Do you mind if I write it down?"

        "There's no need to do that now. If you want to make a statement there'll be lots of time after you've been properly charged."

        But the accused man had already drawn out a pocket diary, and was writing rapidly on an empty page. Inspector Cauldron thought that there could be no harm in letting this performance proceed. His aim was to secure his prisoner as quietly as possible. There was no reason for haste. But he remained alert for any sudden movement, either of aggression or flight. If the man were foolish enough to make a statement, it could scarcely fail to simplify the work of the police, as such documents always do.

        The present one was unusual in at least one particular. It was brief. The accused man had not had occasion to turn the page, which he tore out, and passed across the table.

        Inspector Cauldron looked at it with a wary eye. Was it intended to divert his attention while his prisoner would bolt suddenly for the door? But he made no movement, and the words could be quickly read.

        "I say three things:

        (1)        I am extremely surprised.

        (2)        I have not murdered anyone.

        (3)        My name is not Houghton."

        The inspector read these assertions with an expressionless face, though he smiled inwardly. His thought was that Houghton had helped himself a long way on the road to the hangman's shed. Innocent men, when they are arrested, do not deny their identity. But he said only: "This will be put in evidence, of course. We'd better be going now."

        The man who denied being Houghton made no motion to rise. Actually, he was playing for time while he endeaoured to remember everything that his pockets held. He said: "I'm very inexperienced in these matters. What is the procedure?"

        "You can't have bail, if you mean that. Not in a case like this."

        "I wasn't thinking about bail. I only wondered whether you propose to take any further steps to identify me with your friend Houghton, and whether it would be etiquette to enquire for any details about the murder which I am expected to prove that I didn't do."

        "I don't think we shall worry much about the identity," was the cheerful answer. "The charge will be read over to you at the station. You don't really think it's worth while to go on saying you're not Houghton, do you?"

        But behind the confident, almost derisive tone Inspector Cauldron was aware of a puzzled doubt, which he would not show. He had the best of reasons for confidence that he had not made any mistake. But that did not prevent him observing the unusual behaviour of the man he was arresting. It was not quite the attitude - not quite any of the attitude with which he was familiar on the part of those whom it became his duty to accost in this manner. But still less was it one likely to be adopted by an innocent man.

        His opponent appeared to be faintly amused by the repeated question. "I told you," he replied, as though wearied of repeating that which was of no great moment to him, "that my name is not Houghton. I see no occasion to go on saying the same thing."

        "If you were not the man I want, you would say whom you are, and you would have every opportunity of proving it."

        "Can you tell me any reason why I should do your business for you?"

        "Most people would think it to he very much their business. If you seriously want to prove to me that you are not the man I am after, you will give your name and address, and no doubt you could get others to identify you. If you won't do that, you can blame no one but yourself that your assertion is not taken seriously."

        "Really? . . . It sounds illogical. Shall we go?" He added as he rose: "I suppose I may pay my bill? Or do you undertake such little responsibilities for me?"

        The inspector had no objection to his paying his own bill. He had put it in his waistcoat pocket when the waitress had given it to him a few minutes earlier. He drew it out now, and walked to the pay-desk, the inspector keeping closely to his right hand. There was an open fireplace on his left. A fire burned brightly, with a centre of glowing heat. As he passed he threw a small folded paper into the red heart of the coals.

        It was quickly done, but Inspector Cauldron's eyes were quick, too. With an exclamation of annoyance he sprang at the grate. He looked for fire-irons. There was only a short poker. He seized this, and jabbed the paper clear of the coals. But it was already tinder.

        Meanwhile his prisoner, neither slackening nor hastening his pace, was walking toward the door. He had no choice but to follow. He said hurriedly to the two young women - the cashier and waitress - who had watched the performance with wide-open eyes: "Save that ash for me. I'll give a pound for it if it isn't crushed."

        "Houghton," he said angrily, as he regained his side, "you'll find that sort of thing does you no good."

        The arrested man smiled almost genially. He answered with his usual query. "Really? . . . You didn't mention that you had a warrant for my correspondents' envelopes."

        The inspector did not reply. He took his prisoner's arm in a grip which was too firm to be comfortable. But the victim showed no resentment. They passed the swing-doors together and entered the waiting taxi.

        At the police station there was a more detailed interrogation, and, a diminished politeness. The prisoner was formally charged. He was generally warned once again. He was unceremoniously searched and relieved of some loose money, a pocket-knife, a set of keys, a wallet containing seventeen pounds in notes, a pocket diary in which little was entered, and some figures on loose sheets of paper of no apparent significance.

        He was invited to state the nature of the paper that he had burned, but his assurance that it had borne nothing but his own name and address was received coldly.

        Having declined to have his finger-prints taken, he was told that he was free to summon legal aid, if he wished to do so, and locked up for the night.

CHAPTER VI

EVIDENCE OF CHARLOTTE BINGHAM

THE stipendiary magistrate looked at the memorandum which, at the prisoner's request, Inspector Cauldron had produced in the witness-box. He raised puzzled eyes to the man in the dock as he asked: "Do you persist in this?"

        "Will you believe me if I assure you that I wrote no more than the truth?"

        "It would, of course, be necessary for you to bring evidence - very strong evidence - in its support."

        "Then it seems useless to say it again."

        "Do you mean that you withdraw a useless denial?"

        "On the contrary, it was because I did not intend that there should be any possible ambiguity on that point that I did not rely upon a verbal statement, but wrote it down"

        "Very well. It will be recorded that you have denied that you are James Cadell Houghton. Who do you claim to be?"

        "Is not that more than you have a right to ask me to say?

        The magistrate paused. He knew it to be highly unlikely that the police would have arrested the wrong man in connection with such a crime. The man whom they arrested might, of course, he able to show that he was innocent of the charge. But when they set out to arrest the husband of the murdered woman it was very improbable that they would put a stranger into the dock.

        But if James Cadell Houghton, having lost his head on being arrested, had uselessly denied his own identity, and were now persisting in that futility, he was acting with extreme folly, and gravely prejudicing whatever defence might be his of a better kind He had understood that nothing, would be done to day beyond a formal remand, and it had been a reasonable presumption that the accused man would obtain legal aid before the case should come into court again. Now he said: "I think it to be very desirable that you should he legally advised."

        "If I feel that I require legal aid I will make any application that may be necessary."

        "Very well. . . . The answer to your question is that we have a right to ask, and you may be within your own rights if you decline to reply; but there will be a natural inference from your silence that you have made an assertion which you know that it would be hopeless to attempt to prove."

        "I should have supposed it to be the duty of the police to prove I am whom they say."

        Mr. Otbury, the prosecuting solicitor, rose. "My instructions are that there is no shadow of doubt on this point, and that Houghton is merely wasting the time of the court. I submit that his refusal to state whom else he professes to be substantially disposes of that defence. But, with your permission, I will call evidence at once to refute it."

        "I think, Mr. Othury, it might be a wise course to adopt."

        "I call Charlotte Bingham."

        Inspector Cauldron stepped down, and a moment later Miss Bingham entered the court and mounted the witness-box. Having been sworn, her examination proceeded: "You are the sister - the only sister, I believe - of Isabel Houghton, who w as fatally wounded at the Old Jersey Hotel in Cranbrook Road on Tuesday last?"

        "Yes."

        "She was living with you, was she not, up to the time of her marriage to James Cadell Houghton in New York about six months ago?"

        "Yes."

        "And you became well acquainted with her husband, both before and after the marriage?"

        "Yes."

        "You actually came to England with Mr. and Mrs. Houghton on the Britannic about three weeks ago?"

        "Yes."

        "And stayed together at the Old Jersey Hotel?"

        "Yes."

        "Now, Miss Bingham, I want you to look carefully at the man who is in the dock."

        The solicitor paused for a moment, as though to give her leisure for a careful inspection and a considered reply, before putting the vital question. The silent, almost breathless spectators saw her gaze straightly at the prisoner, who stood not more than five yards from her in the dock of the little court, and he looked back at her, not as being afraid of her identification, but with a mocking, challenging, even derisive expression, almost inexplicable considering the position in which he stood, unless he were confident that she was about to speak the words that would set him free.

        "And now, Miss Houghton, will you tell the court whether you know him, and, if so, who he is?"

        "He is James Houghton, of course "

        "The man who married your sister?"

        "Yes."

        "You are absolutely certain of that?"

        "Yes, of course I've known him for years."

        The magistrate interposed: "Miss Bingham, I think you should know that the prisoner denies absolutely that he is your brother-in-law, or that his name is Houghton at all. Bearing that in mind, are you able to identify him absolutely, or is there any possibility that you may be misled by a resemblance perhaps an exceptionally strong resemblance to the man you think him to be?"

        Being thus admonished, the lady gazed at the prisoner for a further instant, but rather as one who obeyed the order of the court than as feeling any necessity to do so.

        He's wearing different clothes, of course," she said, "but I know James too well to make a mistake." She added: "It's just the sort of thing he would say, more likely than not."

        The magistrate turned his eyes to the prisoner, who was now looking openly amused. "Do you wish to ask the witness any questions?" he enquired, with a cold severity in his voice which told what his own opinion was.

        "I might if I thought she would answer truthfully. I should want to know what the game is."

        "You are doing yourself no good by this attitude. . . . That will be all, Miss Bingham. . . . The remand will be till 10.30 a.m. on Wednesday next. You will be prepared to go on then, Mr. Otbury? . . . Very well." The magistrate's glance turned again to the occupant of the dock. "You will be wise to obtain legal assistance," he said, "as promptly as possible; for which you will receive every facility, and any necessary assistance, from the police."

        The reporters, leaving the court with better copy than they had expected to get, would have been additionally gratified had they been able to overhear a conversation between Mr. Otbury and Inspector Cauldron which followed immediately.

        "I suppose," the solicitor asked, "there's no danger of coming a cropper over this question of identity?"

        "It doesn't seem likely, after what you heard Charlotte Bingham say."

        "No, it doesn't, especially as the man can't or won't say who he's pretending to be. But it was just that woman's evidence, and the way the man took it, that put a doubt into my mind. It seemed to me that he was more surprised at the first that she swore he was Houghton than she was when she was told that he denied it. And that was the wrong way round.

        "Well, I can't say I noticed that. And it isn't sense that when we're after the man who killed her sister she should go out of her way to point out someone else. It isn't as though, even if she had a motive for such a thing; she could hope that it could be sustained. But as you feel that way, I don't mind saying that I haven't been quite as easy about it as I should like. I heard just before I came into court that they've succeeded in deciphering the writing on that envelope he burnt. I suppose he wouldn't think that we could do that! It doesn't prove anything. There were some notes that seem to have been of no importance on the back, and it was addressed in a woman's hand to J. Limbrook, Esq., 17, Charmian Crescent, W.1. It looks as though it really were the address that he wished to destroy; and when we've had time to find out who Limbrook is, and whether he's still about, we should know a lot more than we do now."

        Mr. Otbury agreed that everything possible was being done. He said that the Limbrook clue alone ought to clear the matter up, one way or other. And

with Miss Bingham's positive identification, and the man refusing to say who he claimed to be - well, if he were not Houghton, he must be finding a prison cell more attractive than most men would!

CHAPTER VII

A QUEER BARGAIN WITH MR. LIMBROOK

IT was on Tuesday afternoon that Inspector Cauldron entered a cell which might be hygienic, but could not be considered cosy by the most vivid imagination, and found it solitary occupant appropriately studying the Book of Job. The inspector had a photograph in his hand. He said sourly: "Mr. Limbrook, before you leave here perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me why you have put us to all this trouble."

        "Do I understand that you now want me to go?"

        "We shall withdraw the charge against you tomorrow morning. You needn't have been here at all if you had been franker at first."

        "I am not aware that I have made any complaint."

        "I don't see that you've any cause. I think it's we who should do that."

        "Really? . . . You know, as a matter of abstract argument - but I could hardly expect you to admit that!"

        Inspector Cauldron ignored the tone of restrained and yet almost bantering levity with which he was met. He had something more to say from which he would not be turned. "Naturally, we have had some curiosity to discover who Mr. Limbrook is, and what his occupation has been during the last few months."

        "I hope you haven't been persuaded to arrest him in mistake for me?"

        "I suppose you think that's a joke! . . . I must tell you that we've found out some rather serious things."

        "It may occur to you that, so far as they may be true, I am not likely to be very interested, as I must be familiar with them already; and so far as they may be mistaken (a possibility we are bound to recognize after the events of the past week), they are still less likely to rouse any excitement."

        "I hey are sufficiently serious to render it necessary to ask you for explanations."

        "Am I to take that as a threat? It should, if I may venture to offer you some good advice, be a mistake, especially after what has occurred already."

        "I haven't threatened anything yet. I've only said that there are some things we should like to know."

        "Well, that's a bit better! There is a condition on which I might even gratify your curiosity."

        "I don't know that I could make any bargain before I heard."

        "Oh yes, you could. Why don't you wait to hear that the deal is? If you'll undertake not to withdraw the charge tomorrow, I'll talk for as long as you care to remain in this homelike atmosphere, and I may tell you some rather surprising things."

        Inspector Cauldron stared. He felt that he had heard one already. He exclaimed: "Not withdraw the charge! We can't go on prosecuting you when we know you're not the right man."

        "You can ask for another remand."

        "But we've got to get the right man into the dock."

        "Well, you can go on looking for him. And I suppose you'll be asking the lady who knew me so intimately a few questions. Your next conversation with her ought to be quite interesting."

        Inspector Cauldron said that he thought it would. He added: "If you're really serious about not having the charge withdrawn at once - - "

        "I'm quite serious about that. The lodging here is remarkably cheap, and so long as I put my coat on the bed - - Can you tell me, Inspector, why, if a man be suspected of murder, he requires so few bed-clothes at night?"

        The inspector said that he was sure that an extra blanket could be arranged.

CHAPTER VIIII

INSPECTOR CAULDRON REPORTS

INSPECTOR CAULDRON was an anxious man. He was on the biggest case which had yet been entrusted to his hands, and he knew that it had developed so that he might be praised or blamed, and it was difficult to decide which it was the more likely to be.

        He might not be blamed for putting the wrong man into the dock, in view of the fact that he had been obliged to rely upon Charlotte Bingham for identification, and that she, with whatever object, must have deliberately misled him. Rather, it might be said that he had shown some ability in checking upon and exposing the error so promptly; and the information which he had obtained from Mr. Limbrook was of a nature to condone much.

        But he knew that his superiors required that a high standard should be maintained, not only of effort and judgement, but of success. They did not like the idea of putting innocent men into the dock, however good the excuse might be - and still less did they appreciate the unavoidable sequel of publicly fetching them out.

        Now he had been instructed to report to Superintendent Backwash, who would then discuss with his superiors what would be done, and to whom the further conduct of the case should be given.

        That was what he had most to fear. That the case - there were really two cases now - when he had reported all that he knew, would be considered to have become too big for him, and that one, if not both would be taken out of his hands.

        But there was one certainty with which he could encourage himself. Superintendent Backwash would listen to all that he had to say. In his silent, non-committal way, he would listen well. He would he fair, though there might be no margin of generosity in what he might say or do. It would be Inspector Cauldron's own fault if his case were not fully and fairly put to those with whom the final decision lay.

        The superintendent received him better than he had expected. "I hear," he said, "that Houghton's photo s conclusive. Sir Henry's relieved that we've got it over in time to prevent us going farther down the wrong road. But there must be some funny business going on. . . . I just want to hear what you've been able to do with Limbrook, and then you'd better get hold of the Bingham woman.

        "You can threaten her with the Public Prosecutor, and a perjury charge, if she doesn't come clean, as the Yankees call it; but don't promise her much if she does. She may have killed Houghton herself for all we could swear to yet."

        "There's the fact that Houghton bolted."

        "Yes. There's that. But there must be some other facts that we haven't got, and facts have a funny way of knocking each other out. You never know what any one of them means till you've got the lot."

        "I'll go after Charlotte Bingham, of course. Six months' hard wouldn't be too much for her. But I suppose I've got to try to get her to talk before we even think of running her in."

        "You can use your discretion about that. If she can't put up a decent-looking excuse - and it's not easy to see what it can be - you'd be justified in bringing her here. You can't arrest for perjury, but we could put the charge in another form."

        "It's quite true that I don't want to lose any time before I hear a bit more of that woman's tongue, but there's something I've got to report first that you may think even more important, though it mayn't be as urgent as that. It's about Limbrook. He owns that's his name. In the first place, he doesn't want us to withdraw the charge, and I've promised him that we'll apply for another remand tomorrow."

        Superintendent Backwash had more confidence in his subordinate's discretion than he was likely to mention, and he saw that there was a tale to come. He might have recalled his own remark of a few moments before that you can never judge one fact till you have the lot. But it remained that it was a most irregular procedure to continue, even by consent, and by no more than delay, the prosecution of a man who was now known to have been wrongly arrested. He said. "I don't think you should have promised that. It's more than any of us has the power to undertake on our own."

        But Inspector Cauldron took the rebuke easily. He knew that if he were to be condemned it must be on other grounds.

        "I saw that," he said; "but it was something I had to risk. Perhaps you'll hear the tale, and then tell me if I was strong.

        "To begin at the right end. Limbrook says that he knows nothing of the Houghtons, nor of Miss Bingham. He never met them before, nor heard their names, as far as he knows. He didn't even know there had been a murder, having been too busy with his own troubles to read the papers.

        "He hasn't the remotest idea why Charlotte Bingham should have pointed him out as Houghton, though when I showed him the photograph he admitted that there was sufficient resemblance to excuse the cashier's identification. He suggested that Miss then been too obstinate to admit it; but we can do our own guessing, and we shall have to think of something better than that.

        "But the thing began to look really interesting when he told me why he had kept his name to himself, and let us charge him the way we did The fact was that he was in a jam between being forced into the dope racket and being put on the spot by Mildew's gang, and it seemed Heaven's own luck when he found we'd got room for him where he couldn't be blamed for not doing what he'd been told "

        "That fits in with what you'd learned already about his recent associations."

        "Yes. He told me that he got helped by them when he was starving in Cairo, and that they tried to make a tool of him after that; and when they found he wasn't their sort he'd learned too much for it to be safe for them to let him go. He's given me a lot of information, and promised more, on condition that we take care of him until we've broken the gang up, and that two men, in particular, are either run out of the country or safely jailed; and, for the moment, he can't see where he could sleep more safely than where he is."

        "If he can put Mildew into our hands," Superintendent Backwash replied, "Sir Henry won't make any objection to the remand I dare say he'll even agree to his being convicted for Houghton's murder if he feels that he'll go on being safer with us. . . . But we mustn't forget that there's a real murderer running loose. We can't arrest him while we've got another man charged with the crime in the same name.

        "No, but we can keep him under observation. That is, when we find where he's lying up. We haven't done that yet."

        "And thanks to the blunder we've made he's got an extra start. It has become one of those cases now where the Press helps. We ought to have that photo all over the world before this time tomorrow. . . . And we can't do that, either, while this bogus prosecution's to be kept up."

        "No. But, while it does, Houghton won't suspect that we're looking for him. That ought to be worth something.

        Superintendent Backwash still looked doubtful, as though he were more conscious of the ambiguities of the position than of its contingent advantages. But his words, when they came, were more satisfactory than the tone in which they were spoken. "I'm not saying you're wrong. It all depends upon how much real help Limbrook's going to be. But you'd better get after the Bingham woman and deal with her. There's one there who isn't under any delusion as to whether we've got the right murderer. Not that she'll be doing any talking. Not till she's obliged. But if we keep Limbrook in jail, and start hunting Houghton again at the same time, we ought to know what her game was. And if you think she might double-cross us, you mustn't let her out of your sight till you've got her here."

        Superintendent Backwash observed that the inspector had now risen, but stood hesitating, as though reluctant to go. He added: "I know what you want to say. You're afraid that this is getting too big for you, and is going to Tolbooth, or one of the other chiefs, and you want to ask me to let you have the biggest chance that has come your way.

        "Well, I'm not going to promise anything. It doesn't entirely rest with me, as you know. And, in these matters, individuals can't be considered. It's the public service that has to be thought of first. But I shall tell Sir Henry that, so far, you've done well enough."

        Inspector Cauldron thanked him for better words than he had expected to hear. But as to individuals not being considered! He wasn't quite young enough to believe that. . . . He saw that much might depend upon his handling of Miss Charlotte Bingham, and he lost no time in seeking her at the Old Jersey Hotel, where it was understood that she was continuing to reside. She was an American citizen, and English law does not allow of the "holding" of witnesses after the manner of her native land, where it may happen at times that, while the criminal is out on bail, the witnesses are closely jailed till the time of trial, for no further fault than being able to testify to his misdeeds; but she had given a voluntary assurance that she had no early intention of leaving England, and should not fail to be present at the trial of her sister's murderer, being not merely willing but anxious to bear witness against him.

        None the less, the Transatlantic shipping companies had been warned that she was of interest to the Metropolitan Police, and requested to inform them at once if she should book a return passage.

        Knowing this, Inspector Cauldron had some reason for supposing that he would be able to interview her without any prolonged difficulty. But he soon learned differently.

CHAPTER IX

MISS BINGHAM WAS NOT THERE

THE reception clerk had a smile for Inspector Cauldron, of which he had not been prodigal on previous occasions, but it was one which the inspector did not entirely like.

        He felt that there was going to be trouble ahead, and when he was briefly told that the lady was not in he had a correct opinion that the clerk could tell him more if he would. He asked: "You don't mean that she's left?"

        The reception clerk, whose contacts with Trans-atlantic visitors had made him more familiar with the American than the English tongue, replied that she had not checked out; her baggage was still there.

        "Then why do you think she won't be coming in tonight?"

        "I don't know that she's been about since the day you had her in court."

        "You mean you know that she hasn't?"

        "No. I couldn't say that. I can't see everyone who goes in or out. If a suite's engaged, it's not our business to watch how much it's used."

        "But you know whether the keys have been left with you?"

        The clerk glanced at the keyboard in a perfunctory manner. He said "Well Miss Bingham's got hers."

        "I think I'd better see the manager."

        The clerk told a page-boy to see whether Mr. Munro were disengaged, and next moment Inspector Cauldron was being shown into the manager's office.

        Mr. Monro was one of those men whose skeletons appear to have been supplied to them a size too large. The bony hand which he extended had knobbly knuckles, the skin was drawn tightly over prominent cheek-bones, the light-blue eyes were recessed beneath craggy brows.

        His manner was friendlier than that which Inspector Cauldron had been used to encounter in the reception lobby. He gave the impression of being glad to see him, as perhaps he was. He said: "Miss Bingham? I expected it would be about her. Half hour ago, I should have told you that she was still located here, though she's been away somewhere since Friday. But I'm afraid she's given you the slip. I had this by evening mail."

        He passed a letter across his desk, written on the note-paper of a Paris hotel. The inspector read:

        "Miss Charlotte Bingham begs to inform the manager of the Old Jersey Hotel that she will not be returning to England at present.

        "She is sailing from Havre to New York on Saturday, and will be obliged if Mr. Monro will have her baggage packed and forwarded to her apartment at 47 Riverside Avenue, New York City, U.S.A., charges forward.

        "She enclosed a cheque for £20 on Chase's Bank (London) which will approximately settle anything for which she may be liable up to the receipt of this letter, if an account be rendered to the same bank, any remaining balance will be discharged."

        Inspector Cauldron read this note carefully, twice over, but he knew that he was wasting time. Its meaning and its effects were clear. Miss Bingham had crossed to Paris on Friday, probably taking advantage of one of those weekend tickets for which no passports were required, and would now sail on a French boat, doubtless having selected one which did not enter British territorial waters. That must be checked too, but it also would he waste of time. The fact was that Miss Bingham had bolted, and that perjury is not an extraditable crime.

        He saw that, even if he should escape blame, he could have no credit for this. But he also saw that the investigation of the Houghton murder, which at one time had seemed simple enough, was only about to begin, after those most nearly concerned had gained a long start from the grip of Justice's out-stretched arm.

        "I'm afraid," he said, "that we may have been too quick to believe that she had had nothing to do with her sister's death." He reminded himself, as he spoke, that the manager, along with the rest of the world, believed that the dead woman's husband was in custody, and already being prosecuted for the crime, and that he must say nothing to remove that impression. He concluded. "I should like another chat with Janet if she's at liberty now."

        "She s on duty now. You can have her down here, if you like."

        I suppose it will be her place to have Miss Bingham's luggage packed?"

        "Yes. You've no objection to it being sent on?"

        "Probably not. But there's no reason for it to catch the next boat. I may have another word with you before it goes. Can I speak to Janet upstairs, after you've told her what you want her to do?"

        Receiving a ready assent, he proceeded to the third

floor, and met the woman coming along the corridor,

a pile of clean linen upon her arm.

        "Good-evening, Janet," he began. "I've just been told at the desk that Miss Bingham's out, and that we can have a look at how she has left her room."

        The woman responded with the affability which he had previously discovered to be consistent with a severe abstention from random confidences. She opened the bedroom door with her master-key, and revealed a half-packed trunk which stood on the centre of the floor with a lifted lid. The keys of the rooms lay on the dressing-table. It was a simple deduction that Charlotte Bingham had left them there rather than hand them in at the counter, so that her departure should be as unnoticed as possible.

        "I don't suppose," he said, "you thought you'd see her again."

        "No," she answered, with more readiness than he had expected, as she picked up the keys, "you won't find much here that she didn't mean you to see."

        "She couldn't have taken much with her, leaving as she did with no one to carry it down."

        "She took her dressing-case when she went, and she'd taken a kind of suitcase - grip, she called it - out the day before, and not brought it back. And before then she sent Mrs. Houghton's things off to New York, and there wasn't overmuch left in this room when she'd done that."

        "I see. Then she must have been planning a get away all the time?"

        "I wouldn't say you're far wrong, if you think that."

        "Well, I've got Mr. Munro's permission to look over what's here, and I should like you to give me any help that you can. But I don't think it's much I shall find."

        "If that's what Mr. Munro wants done, it's not for me to say different."

        Closing the door, perhaps with a natural inclination to prevent other guests observing this overhauling of a visitor's effects, Janet gave him the assistance for which he had asked. Her methods were of a characteristic thoroughness, and between them it is very unlikely that anything of importance was overlooked, but the result was just nothing at all.

        Inspector Cauldron left the hotel with a realization that the C.I.D. in his person had been thoroughly fooled. It was his good fortune, rather than merit, that the event had developed in an unexpected manner, which might go far to obscure the blunder into which he had been led, even if it did not earn him some measure of praise.

CHAPTER X

CONCERNING THE MISSING BULLET

INSPECTOR CAULDRON reported next morning to Superintendent Backwash, who said no more than: "Pity we didn't have her a bit better watched" when he heard of Miss Bingham's flight. And then, with more consideration for the inspector's feelings than he had expected to get: "But if she'd said she was going to Paris for the weekend, I don't see how we could have stopped her. Not on the information we had then."

        He added: "We've still got a clear week." He was thinking of how long it would be before Charlotte Bingham would pass out of French jurisdiction, and the narrow confines of an Atlantic liner, to the greater security and vaguer address of the American continent. He knew that, with the wealth she had at command, her extradition on anything less than a charge of murder, with good evidence in its support, would not be easily obtained; but the Sûrete officials in Paris had just received a favour from London which they would not be slow to return, if the request should be made in the right way.

        Inspector Cauldron's mind moved on the same lines. He said, as though thinking aloud: "I wish I knew where that bullet is."

        "You'll know a whole lot when you know that," the superintendent replied. But, as he said it, his eyes returned to his desk, and he had put the Houghton murder out of his mind. He was, in fact, far more interested in Mr. Limbrook's revelations, than in the manner of Mrs. Houghton's death, or the capture of her fugitive relations.

        But Inspector Cauldron felt a more immediate interest in clearing up a matter with which he was more closely concerned. His mind continued to dwell on the mystery of that missing bullet. "If he knew - - " Yes, of course. But how was he to proceed on the path of enquiry? He saw no hope in searching the Houghton suite again. Apart from the fact that it had now been put into order, and was in the occupation of other guests of the hotel, he knew that the examination it had received had been so thorough that there was no more than a negligible chance that the bullet could have escaped the search. And, besides, if it were there, the mystery and its significance went. He would be searching not only with the knowledge that it would be immensely improbable that the bullet was there, but also that, if he should find it, he would know, at the same moment, that it had not been worth the trouble.

        It was better to assume that, in some way it had left the room, and to consider the implications of that, and where it could now be found.

        If it were allowed that it could not have escaped the search which had subsequently been made, it followed that it must have been removed by human agency, for it was certain that, as the impetus of its flight had ceased, its own power of motion was gone. Might it not have been imbedded in some object that Charlotte, either because it was there, or for some other reason, had removed from the room? On her own statement, she had been first to enter after the shots were fired. She had had further opportunity during the fifteen or twenty minutes which divided the murder from when the police had taken charge of the room. Everyone else in the hotel who, with good reason or none, might have been there during that interval, had been exhaustively interrogated already.

        His mind, circling round like a lost pigeon, came round to Charlotte again. As she had led him to arrest a stranger with that audaciously false identification, so she might have concealed something in which the bullet lay. To protect James Houghton? If he had been her lover, if their adultery had been at the root of the tragedy, it was a possible explanation. But there was a different one which appeared almost equally plausible. Suppose that the guilt were hers, and that he had disappeared rather than bear witness against her? In that event, she might have an even stronger and more selfish fear lest he might be found, he might care for her sufficiently to run away rather than give evidence which would be her death; but it did not follow that, if he were found, he would remain silent when in danger of execution for a crime in which he had had no part.

        Had he had no part? That was to assume much. Suppose they had been involved in an equal guilt? The one bolts, by a common plan. The other hardily remains, points out an innocent man as a victim to content, or at least temporarily mislead, the law, and then retires at leisure - the befooled police making no effort to detain her. And as to the bullet - suppose it had penetrated something of hers? Something from which it could not be instantly withdrawn, and which would have been damning evidence that it was she against whom it had been discharged?

        He felt that he had constructed a quite possible theory, but it was not one of which it was any pleasure to think. What was the word which had entered his mind to describe the part played by the police in this imaginary drama? Befooled? And the right word too! It is not by being befooled that promotion comes. When this case should pass on to the records of the C.I.D., it must deserve a better final description, or it would be well for him to send in his resignation, and look for a different job.

        But one thing was sure. When Charlotte Bingham had told him that story about Houghton having said that it would be the safer course for a criminal to remain near the scene of his crime, she had not intended to assist his capture. It followed logically that no such opinion had been expressed, or that, if it had, she had good reason to know that the man was not practising his own theory.

        The opportunity to identify a stranger was a chance she could not have foreseen. She could only have aimed to mislead the police in a more general way.

        But that implied that she had definite knowledge that he had fled some distance away. Probably she knew where he was. As to that, there was only one guiding fact within the knowledge of the police. He had been a native of Preston. What more likely than that he should have sought refuge where he might have friends he could trust? Resolving that little time should be lost in intensifying the search in Houghton's native county, Inspector Cauldron turned his mind to his more immediate duty, which was to interview Mr. Limbrook again.

CHAPTER XI

A CHANCE FOR INSPECTOR CAULDRON

"You think Limbrook's straight?" Superintendent Backwash asked doubtfully. Apart from the explanation he now offers, the case against him is rather black."

        "Yes, I do. But it doesn't matter much to us whether he is or not, so long as he's prepared to give them away, and there's no doubt about that. The trouble is that I don't see how we can go very far an his evidence alone. He just confirms what we guessed - what we might say we knew - before. But there's not much he can swear to that any jury would swallow as legal proof. Not against Mildew, at least, nor any of the others that we're most anxious to get. We don't want to end up with two or three of the small fry in the dock, and the gang warned where we've been putting the ferrets down into the holes."

        "And you think Limbrook's telling you all he knows?"

        Inspector Cauldron was confident of this also. "He's got good reason to do that. If he gives them away at all, he wants us to put them where they can't take it out of him. We can't do that unless we get the heads of the gang. You can see how he feels by him asking us to keep him where he is now."

        "It won't be easy to do that much longer. Especially if we should find where Houghton has gone to earth."

        "We mayn't find that over-easy to do now, after the start he's got."

        Superintendent Backwash was inclined to agree. "It mayn't be an easy job. He's got a long start, and there'll be no help from the press while we keep Limbrook jailed. He may be out of the country now, though its more likely that he's up north."

        "Well, I hope he won't be caught for the next fortnight, or a bit more. I thought at first that we ought to start combing Lancashire, but I've thought since that it may be wiser to go slow about that. I expect Sir Henry'd rather get Mildew behind the bars than any dozen murderers that have been hanged while he's been on the job."

        Superintendent Backwash did not differ on that. They both knew enough of the wide-spread misery, physical and moral, which is caused by the sale of illicit drugs to understand that the murder of a single individual even from the basest of human passions, the greed of gain, is a venial error in comparison with the evil, callously caused, and with no better incentive, by these traffickers, with whom the law deals with such comparative leniency. He said: "That's just how Sir Henry feels. And, I want you to understand this, Cauldron. You got on the track, and I've advised that the matter should be left in your hands. It's the biggest chance you're ever likely to have, and if you fluke it, heaven help you, for you'll get no mercy from me. And I'd like to know how you're meaning to go ahead."

        "I haven't thought it out yet," Inspector Cauldron announced frankly, "not enough to say much yet. But I want to discover first whether they've any idea what's become of Limbrook. If they haven't it's a rather different proposition from if they have."

        Superintendent Backwash considered this, in a mind that worked slowly, but with a subtlety that many criminals had had reason to curse. "Yes," he said, "so it is. How do you expect to discover that?"

        "I haven't even thought out the best way for that yet. I might put Westbrook on to it, or have Beesley followed. But we want quick action, and those are ways that take time. The first thing that I've got on hand is a social call. . . .

        "It's a request from Limbrook I couldn't refuse. He's got a girl friend who would be expecting him to look her up when he got back from Egypt, and he hasn't gone near her for fear she should be involved in whatever trouble was coming to him.

        "But he thinks she'll be getting worked up wondering what's happened, and as the explanation's hardly one that we should want him sending by letter to a young woman we know nothing about, I agreed to give her a call and explain as much as I think's safe for her to know, when I'm able to judge what she's like a bit better than I can now. It was a thing I couldn't refuse, considering how we arrested him in the first instance, and what he's offering to do for us now."

        "No," the superintendent agreed, and added dryly: "You'd have been a mug if you had."

        Inspector Cauldron did not profess to misunderstand. He said: "Yes. There's a chance, of course. Limbrook thought I should be a particularly safe channel of communication, because I'm not one that they would be likely to be following."

        "No. They wouldn't be doing that. But they may be watching her house"

        "I shall take all the precautions I can. But Limbrook doesn't see how they could be on her track at all, as he's been careful not to go there, nor even to write, since he found the mess he was in."

        "Well, we must hope differently."

        The inspector did not dispute this somewhat obscure aspiration. He departed to prepare for his social call.

CHAPTER XII

AT THE ENVOY HOTEL

A man leaned against the Hyde Park railings opposite the Envoy Hotel in Bayswater Road. He was doing no harm, but when he observed the approach of Detective-Sergeant Porson, with whom he had a previous acquaintance, he moved slowly away, and would have loitered across the road as unobtrusively as possible, but the officer followed him with a more definite purpose, and a brisker step.

        "Hello, Stokes," he said. "What were you passing to that young woman by the railings a few moments ago?"

        "The man exclaimed with the indignation of one who, during an infrequent interval of innocence, is accused of his habitual crime. "Who? Me? Haven't as much as touched a young person's hand. Blast me to hell if I did."

        "That won't go down with me, Tommy. When you're hanging about like that the show isn't far off, even in June. You'd better make off at a better pace if you want to sleep in your own bed."

        "I tell you I haven't got a pinch on me. Search me if I have!" protested the indignant innocent, but Sergeant Porson, disregarding his reluctance to desert his post of observation, shepherded him firmly in the direction of Queen's Road Station, and watched him purchase a ticket for Moorgate, which would take him about half-way toward the bed that he had been recommended to seek.

        It was hard on Tommy Stokes, who, after nerve-wracking weeks of precarious peddling, had been surprisingly told that he could earn his usual weekly remuneration by a more lawful surveillance of those who entered or left the Envoy Hotel during certain hours (after which he was to be relieved by a younger brother of Risky Tubbs), and who knew himself to be innocent of the passing of packets of any kind. But he also knew his record to be against him, and Detective-Sergeant Porson spoke in a voice of authority which he had good reason to fear.

        And meanwhile Inspector Cauldron, relying upon his subordinates to have dealt with any posts of observation which might have been established around it, had walked openly into the Envoy Hotel, as it is seemly for detective-inspectors to do, and there requested to see the manageress.

        "I should be obliged," he said, "if you would give me the number of Miss Billie Wingrove's room."

        Miss Hounder looked at the card which had been placed silently before her. "I hope - - " she began.

        "No. Nothing at all. Miss Wingrove is a young lady for whom we have a particular esteem at the yard." The eyes of the manageress fell to the register. "Miss Wingrove," she said, "has just moved her room. Number 73 now." A sudden doubt disturbed her serenity. "She hasn't made any complaint, has she?"

        "About being molested in the hotel?" It was a random shot, but it evidently went home.

        "It was only during the last hour that she complained to me that she has been annoyed by the conduct of a Mr. Greaves who took the room next to hers a few days ago. There didn't appear to be anything very definite, but I told her that I should speak to him. I was intending to tell him that if I hear any further complaint he must leave at once. I've given Miss Wingrove a room on another floor."

        Inspector Cauldron heard, and felt pleased. He had given Mr. Limbrook his word that he would take sufficient precautions to prevent his call being observed, and had kept his promise; but it was good news to him that Miss Wingrove was already receiving the attentions of the Mildew gang.

        It told him two things: that they had become aware of her acquaintance with Mr. Limbrook, either in spite of the precautions he had taken, or before it had occurred to him that any concealment was desirable; and that they were unaware of his arrest on a charge for which bail is not allowed.

        Obviously they regarded his disappearance as a defiance possibly preluding their denunciation to the police, and the organization had become active to trace him. Inspector Cauldron knew enough of their methods to anticipate how swift and ruthless, had their search succeeded, their vengeance (to which Cornelius Mildew would have given the milder description of discipline or merely business precaution) would have been likely to be.

        A hunted man, unable to approach his own home, is likely to make attempts to communicate with his friends, especially if he suppose them to be unsuspected by those who pursue him. He may delay such a contact, according to the measures of caution or fear that control his mind, but it is merely a question of time. Mr. Limbrook's enemies might be seeking him by other means; but if those should