Inspector Stoddart's Most Famous Cases. Annie Haynes

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СКАЧАТЬ or even in England at all. Also, it may have been done years ago, and the maker may be dead. But I heard last night of a man who does a great deal of work, in a small way, for theatrical folks. He has a little shop in a street off the Strand at the back of Drury Lane. That is where I am making for now." As he spoke, he stopped the taxi at Charing Cross. "We will get out here."

      The two men threaded their way across the traffic of the Strand.

      Harbord had known, ever since he came into the Hawksview Mansions Case, that Stoddart held a very strong opinion with regard to Basil Wilton's innocence. It was one that Harbord himself was not altogether inclined to share. There were times when he felt that the evidence against Wilton was too strong to be disproved, and he had not had Stoddart's experience in the Bastow Mystery. There were alternative moments when he felt that certain suspicions of Stoddart's which he had fathomed must be well-founded. The inspector was not the sort of man to take fancies without any cause.

      Stoddart did not speak again as they turned up by the side of Charing Cross, along Chandos Street, and then across to Maiden Lane. From there they dived into that labyrinth of back streets that lies between Covent Garden and Drury Lane. The inspector wound his way in and out, at last coming to a standstill before a dust-begrimed little shop that surely must have been a survival of the old Seven Dials.

      "This is our goal."

      Harbord looked up. The name of Simon Lesson told him nothing, but the quaint, old-fashioned bow window held various examples of the hairdresser's art. The door was another survival. Divided into halves, one closed, the top one open. The inspector put his hand over and unlatched the bottom one. A curious, old bell tinkled, and an old man with a funny, wrinkled face and a hump-back got up from his seat behind the counter.

      "Mr. Simon Lesson?" the inspector began politely.

      "At your service, sir," the little man said with an elfish grin. "Anything I can do for you in the way of make-up will give me the greatest pleasure. I may say that some of the greatest actors of our time—of all time—have availed themselves of my poor skill and have expressed themselves satisfied."

      "I am quite sure they would be," the inspector agreed. "It is just a little information I want from you this morning. But if you will glance at my card, Mr. Lesson—"

      The little man took the card. The grin died off his wizened face.

      "I don't know what your business may be, gentlemen, but I have always kept myself to myself. I have never been called in question by the police."

      "That also I am sure of," the inspector returned. "It is your help we want, Mr. Lesson. I am told that you are the only man in London who can be of any assistance to us."

      As he spoke he put a paper-bag that he had been carrying on the counter and, opening it, produced the brown beard that had been found in the bag at the station. He held it up.

      "Can you tell us anything about this, Mr. Lesson? We are particularly anxious to find the maker. Not that there is any trouble threatening him—far from it. But we must find out for whom it was made."

      Simon Lesson took the beard in his hand. He scrutinized it carefully, he held it up to the light, then, screwing a magnifying-glass in one eye, he bent over it, while the other two men watched him in silence.

      At last he looked up.

      "I had nothing to do with the making of this, gentlemen, if that is what you want to know."

      An expression of keen disappointment crossed the inspector's face, but he smoothed it out directly.

      "It is a wonderfully good thing, Mr. Lesson, and I was told that you were the only man in London capable of manufacturing such an article."

      "In London, eh?" the hunch-back ejaculated. "But suppose it was not made in London, or I should say by anyone who is in London now?"

      "Mr. Lesson, I can see that you know something about it," the inspector said, his tone insensibly changing. "I can assure you that in no way does it mean trouble to the maker of this. It is just that we may be able to ascertain something about the buyer. I must request you to speak out."

      The stress he laid on the word "request" gave it the force of a command.

      The little man hesitated a minute, turning the beard about in his hands, his puckered face contorted. Then, with a sudden air of resolution he put it on the counter again and snapped the glass from his eye.

      "There is only one man I know who could have made this article, sir, for unless you were in the trade yourself you could not appreciate the fine workmanship of it, and the way it is finished. Such a beard, properly put on, would be almost impossible of detection. As I say, I have never known more than one man capable of this work—a little French-Swiss who was the greatest artist I ever heard of. I feel sure this is his."

      "And his name?" the inspector questioned sharply.

      "Pierre Picquet. But he went back to his own country and it is years since I heard of him."

      "You know his address?"

      "No." Lesson shuffled his feet. "I had one or two letters from him from Geneva, but he was not much of a hand at writing English, and I cannot read French, so we lost sight of one another. But he was an artist—a real artist."

      "And you can tell me nothing more about him?" the inspector asked in a disappointed tone.

      Simon Lesson wrinkled up his brow.

      "I heard of him once afterwards, yes. He had what he called a studio of his own. But that was in Brussels, and then came the Great War and the German occupation." He spread out his hands. "Everything was swept away. I have never heard of my friend Pierre Picquet since. I fear, I very much fear that he is numbered amongst those departed, for whom we offer Mass every day in our little church in Maiden Lane."

      There was evidently nothing more to be gleaned from Simon Lesson.

      The two detectives walked back to Scotland Yard. As they came in sight of the entrance Stoddart turned to his junior.

      "You will be ready to go to Brussels this evening, Harbord. There is not one moment to be lost. Spare no expense. If Pierre Picquet is alive we must have him over for the trial. Let me know of your success by wireless at the earliest possible moment."

      Chapter XXII

       Table of Contents

      The trial of Basil Wilton for the murder of his wife had been fixed to take place at the Old Bailey early in November.

      The court was crowded; the streets were thronged with disappointed sightseers. No trial of late years had so taken hold of the public imagination as this of Basil Wilton. The youth and good looks of the accused, combined with the fact that he was popularly supposed to have murdered his late employer as well as his wife, had aroused an enormous amount of excitement; and the fact of his love affair with Hilary Bastow—which had been allowed to leak out—had done nothing to allay it.

      The judge was Mr. Justice Ruthven, as women whispered to one another with a pitying glance at the pale, delicate-looking young man in the dock.

      There was a formidable array СКАЧАТЬ