The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ pass the window—I had opened it—but Green. Yes, Green, the man my paper had tried so hard to get in N'York and fallen flat over. He had an overcoat on his arm, and his grip in his hand, so I just whipped out of the window and followed him to a garage. Went in after him and arranged for a faster car than his little two-seater. Picked up his trail without any effort, for he had hired the machine and driver in Dover, and the man was to drive him back for the boat. I did the same. We crossed together, and I followed him here to Brussels. He doesn't know me by sight, so I laid what I thought was a first class trap for him. Everything went according to plan—except the end." He made a grimace. "Behold me minus the crook, my diamond ring, my pocket-book and my reputation for brains, to say nothing of my night's sleep. You see, Green knew all the time who I was, and I'm bound to say he's a hustler."

      "Why do you call him Green?" asked Pointer slowly. "Why shouldn't I? It's as much his name as any of the others he uses, I guess."

      "What others, for instance?"

      "Well—I,—Shepherd, Smith, are two others."

      "What about Cox, or Carter?"

      Just for a second Pointer saw a contraction of the American's pupils.

      "Carter? Cox? Do you know him, too, at Scotland Yard?"

      "Mr. Beale, may I ask you for the fullest possible details of the man you call Green?"

      "Better search our police files. A cleverer criminal doesn't snap his fingers at our detectives."

      "Any murders to his name?"

      "Well—I, I don't know about murders, but for robbery with or without violence he's a master."

      "Will you describe him, sir?"

      "My language might pain you, Chief, but here's the police docket of him from N'York." He handed the Chief Inspector a typewritten numbered slip, which described one Henry Green, alias Arthur Shepherd, alias—The description tallied exactly with the man Carter.

      The snapshot appended was that of a clever face, full of daring and with a resolute chin. The specimen handwriting was that familiar to Pointer both from the Hotel Marvel and from the register below in the Lion Blanc.

      He studied the slip very carefully. He noted that Carter, or Green, had never yet been actually captured or stood his trial. All the evidence against him seemed to be held back in the police hands.

      "You can keep that if you like, Chief."

      "Thank you, sir. That's a great help. And now, sir, what made you choose the Enterprise Hotel in the first place?"

      "I had information that Green had been seen a couple of days before going in there. Mistaken information, I guess. The fool mixed it up with another hotel lower down."

      "You had never seen Eames before?"

      "Eames? Never. My reason for suspecting that something was wrong in the room was exactly what I told you."

      He looked the police-officer squarely in the eye. Pointer had received excellent witness of Mr. Beale's character and reputation, and yet—he was sure that the other had recognized the corpse. He decided to blurt out Eames' real name. "We have found out that Eames was really a Scotsman named Erskine living in Canada; and to the best of our belief the man you call Green, and speak of as a well-known crook who goes under many aliases, is his partner, John Carter. Both are wanted for embezzlement, we are told, though so far no particulars have come in."

      Mr. Beale looked the picture of surprise.

      "You don't say!" There was a short pause. Pointer wondered whether Mr. Beale was choosing his next words with care.

      "Partner in what? Safe-opening? What kind of a business did this Eames, I forget what you called him, run?"

      "We hear that he was manager of the Toronto Silk Mills."

      Mr. Beale made no comment except to give a cluck of amazement. There was a little pause, then the Englishman came back to the case in hand.

      "May I ask, sir, why you didn't write and let us know where you were? Your evidence was greatly wanted at the last inquest, and will be absolutely necessary in two weeks' time."

      Mr. Beale raised his eyebrows. "It may be quite impossible for me to come over," he said coldly; "and as to writing—the American Embassy was informed of my whereabouts, I guess."

      The police-officer rose.

      "Then, sir, if I can be of no use here, I wish you a good-morning," he began formally; but Mr. Beale, having shown his superiority to any police regulations, pressed him down into his chair with an affable hand, and this time insisted on ordering a drink. Pointer chose tea, which seemed to the other originality verging on eccentricity, and took his leave as soon as he could escape. He made no mention of the green and white striped paper. Mr. Beale was not the kind of man of whom to ask too many explanations, but the Chief Inspector was closeted for some time with a Brussels confrère, and if the Belgium police were openly to hunt for the missing Green, the Yard received the private assurance that they would also not forget to keep an unobtrusive eye on the wealthy, well-documented Mr. Beale, who still puzzled Pointer. That astute officer never for a moment forgot the sketchy alibi, the cigar ashes over Erskine's tie, the emptied basin, and various other puzzling odds and ends, such as the scrap of green and white wrapping paper picked up in a room where he had spent many hours. It was still Mr. Beale who struck Pointer as not fitting into the picture. He thought that the American's presence gave an unreal effect. That where he showed, an impartial scrutiny could dimly detect different outlines and other colors beneath.

      The adjourned inquest was duly held. Mr. Beale did not appear, but the evidence against Carter, alias Cox, was given by Pointer and Watts, as well as by the Enterprise manager and employees. Carter's photograph was identified by the Marvel Hotel as that of Cox. There was the motive as shown in Erskine's will, the purchase by him of the medicine—the vehicle in which the poison was given—there was Carter's flight and silence, and, lastly, his desperate effort in Brussels to throw any pursuer off his track. There were the mud marks on the balcony, and the wax vestas.

      A verdict was brought in against the Canadian for the murder of his partner, and his portrait was published in the papers, so that all honest men could be on the watch for him. But Pointer was not satisfied.

      "I wonder if the whole investigation is on the wrong line—whether the points have been missed somewhere, but where?" He asked O'Connor, who only shook his head in silence, and left his friend to sit up smoking and thinking long after he himself had gone to bed.

      From the Brussels police came the news that they had not been able to discover any trace of Green, but that Beale had gone to Lille, and so was out of their jurisdiction. Watts was dispatched post-haste to the French town to pick up the American's trail, but before he came on it a wire reached Pointer from the Editor himself.

      LOCATED GREEN-CARTER. COME IMMEDIATELY.

      Pointer crossed that night. He had a little talk with a Frenchman in plain clothes who seemed to be expecting him at the station before Lille, and, descending on the platform of that prosperous town, was met by the impatient Mr. Beale and by Watts.

      "I thought you would never get here. Train's an hour late. He's staying in a room in the Rue Sentier near here under the name of Thompson. He's out just now, and we can wait for him there. The maid thinks I'm a friend of his."

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