Inspector Stoddart's Most Famous Cases. Annie Haynes

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      "You mean—you suspect some one?"

      "No, I don't," the detective said bluntly. "I beg your pardon, Sir Felix. I mean what I said—no more. To my mind it is self-evident that the murderer was some one known to Dr. Bastow—some one with whom he was sufficiently at home to go on with his work while the other was moving about the room. To me it hardly seems possible that anyone strange could have got into the room and shot Dr. Bastow without his knowing there was anyone there. Still one cannot rule out the possibility—"

      "No," said Sir Felix. "No, of course one cannot." Then he stood absolutely motionless, his eyes fixed on the paper that was spread before the dead man's place. There were a few lines of writing and then the pen lay with a long zigzagging mark across the whiteness beneath, just as it must have fallen from the stiffening fingers.

      The detective drew a small leather case from his pocket, and proceeded to take out a strong magnifying-glass, a pill-box full of fine grey powder and a tiny pair of tweezers. Then he changed his pince-nez for spectacles and turned to the window by which Wilton had entered and began to examine the curtains and blind with meticulous care. It occupied a good deal of time and seemed unproductive of any result.

      Meanwhile Skrine, still looking at the paper, uttered a sharp exclamation. The detective looked up.

      "This letter he was writing was to me," the lawyer said pointing downwards.

      "Ah, I was coming to that." Stoddart did not turn.

      The lawyer read aloud the few words the dead man had written:

      "Dear Felix,

      "I have been thinking over our conversation and have now decided upon my line of action with regard to the discovery I spoke of. I fancy you know what I meant. But it is, of course, quite possible that I am wrong. The proofs, such as they are, are in my Chinese box. But I shall always maintain—"

      Then death had stepped in and the sentence remained unfinished for ever. Skrine's voice trembled as he read it aloud.

      The detective was now prowling about near the door leading into the garden. He picked up some tiny fragments of what looked like mud with his tweezers and, after examining them through the magnifying-glass, laid them carefully in the little box in his hand. Then he came over to Skrine.

      "You know to what those words refer, I take it, Sir Felix?"

      Skrine nodded.

      "As is self-evident, to a conversation that we had had that very afternoon."

      "Do you think that conversation could in any way help us now?"

      "I scarcely think so. It was all so vague really. But you shall judge for yourself. It has appeared to me for some time that Dr. Bastow was not in the best of health. So far, however, he had always evaded the subject when I mentioned it, but yesterday I taxed him with it directly. After beating about the bush for some time he admitted that his sickness was more of the mind than the body. In the course of his professional career he had discovered something connected with a crime that had been committed, and he was undecided what to do about it. He had a very sensitive nature, and it was preying upon his mind. He wanted my advice. I gave it to the best of my ability, not knowing any of the details of the affair, and he seemed inclined to accept it, but said he would see me again before deciding. He is absolutely wrong when he says he thinks I know what he meant. I should imagine from this letter"—tapping it as it lay on the table—"that he had made his decision before consulting me any further."

      The detective looked at the paper then back again at Skrine standing behind the vacant chair.

      "What does he mean by his Chinese box? We had better have that."

      Skrine looked round vaguely.

      "I take it he meant a box that generally used to stand on the table before him with gold dragons sprinkled over a red lacquer background—that sort of thing, don't you know. I don't see it now."

      "It isn't here," said the detective quickly. "But perhaps he put it in some place of safety. How big a box was it?"

      Sir Felix looked doubtful.

      "Oh, about so big, I should say," holding his hands about a foot apart.

      The detective nodded.

      "It would go in the safe, then. We must search for it there. But first, Sir Felix, I must ask if you really had no idea of the nature of the discovery he had made, or why it was troubling him?"

      "Really no knowledge whatever. But naturally one makes surmises—especially in a profession like mine. It is almost unavoidable."

      "Of course." The detective looked puzzled. "But I am sure you appreciate the importance of this as well as, if not much better than I do, Sir Felix. Do you connect this secret of the doctor's with his murder?"

      "N—o," Sir Felix said slowly. "Not if it is as I surmise. I really don't see that it could have any connexion with his death."

      "You feel sure that you don't know the cause of the worry of which Dr. Bastow was speaking to you?"

      "No, I don't," Sir Felix said bluntly. "I really feel sure of nothing."

      The detective rubbed the side of his nose reflectively.

      "I think you will have to tell us the nature of the secret, Sir Felix, or rather of what you surmise the nature to have been. I know you realize the importance of placing every detail in the hands of the police," he added.

      Sir Felix did not hesitate.

      "Certainly. The only stipulation I make is that I do not speak until your examination of the household is complete."

      The inspector did not look satisfied. Had the man to whom he was speaking been almost anyone else, he would have insisted on a full disclosure at once, but Sir Felix Skrine was no ordinary person to him.

      "Very well, Sir Felix," he said grudgingly at last. "But now I must ask you something else. Can you tell me the names of any men among Dr. Bastow's friends or acquaintances who wear dark beards?"

      "Dark beards!" Sir Felix looked amazed at the question. "There may have been dozens. I don't know."

      "But can you remember the names of any of them?" the detective persisted.

      Sir Felix raised his eyebrows.

      "Not at the moment. Yet stay—there is Dr. Sanford Morris, noted for his research work, and John Lavery, an old schoolfellow of ours. He lives near Lancaster Gate, but I don't think Dr. Bastow saw much of him; though I have met him here on special occasions—anniversaries, etc. I believe they both have dark beards, but why do you ask?"

      "I will show you, Sir Felix, though, mind you, I shall say nothing about it to anyone else at present." The detective drew a sheet of notepaper from the blotting-book before the dead man's chair; across it was scrawled in big, bold handwriting—like that of the half-finished letter Skrine had just been studying—

      "It was the Man with the Dark Beard."

      "What do you think of that, Sir Felix?" Sir Felix stared at the paper in astonishment.

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