VII
A Mysterious Peddler
He went to the Millicents’ that afternoon, the bangle in his pocket, and found Jean unaffectedly glad to see him. Mrs. Millicent had said nothing to her daughter, but her manner had been that of one who approves. She liked Derrick and had conceived a genuine fondness for Edith. The contemplated summer in France was becoming a little indefinite. In a few moments she murmured something and disappeared. Derrick thought rapidly and looked straight into the girl’s clear eyes. Then he held out the bangle.
“Will you take this from me? It has a curious something about it.”
Jean hesitated, the look on his face being unmistakable. “It’s charming. Where did you get it?”
“From Burma,” he said slowly. “It arrived this morning by a peddler who is staying the night with Martin. He seemed grateful for my allowing it and insisted that I take this from his pack.”
She stared at the yellow circlet. “Does he know Martin?”
“He pretended that he did not, but Martin knew him without question and was horrified to see him.”
Jean did not speak, but her eyes were full of swift wonder. “And then?”
“Then it was my turn to pretend that I had noticed nothing. They are together now and will be till tomorrow morning, at any rate. That’s one reason I came here.”
She did not ask the other but slid the bangle on her wrist with a slow and lingering touch. Derrick’s gaze did not leave her. He saw the color flood and desert her cheek, and the pulse throbbing in her slim throat. How utterly desirable she was! This was the indescribable quality about which Edith had talked with a cheerfulness that he now saw must have cost her dearly; the thing that secured what all women at some time long to possess.
He waited breathlessly, but she was still silent. Her heart whispered one thing, but over her there yet hung a cloud of memories that well nigh blotted out all else. For so long she had thought of herself as the child of a foully murdered man, for so long had the menace seemed to be transferred to herself, that the promise of a future such as she believed she saw in Derrick’s eyes seemed almost as unreal as it was divine. She was already more than fond of him and admitted it in secret hours. It was something new and strange and alluring for the mind to feed on. But what escape would it mean till the secret of Beech Lodge had been read, and the weight lifted from her soul? She took the bangle because she did not want to hurt him, but her eyes avoided his.
“What do you think is going to happen now?” she asked shakily.
“I don’t know. I wanted to see you first of all. Do you remember such a man ever coming to Beech Lodge before?”
“What is he like?”
He told her, and she shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Martin had no friends even in the village, and father had no visitors from the East. Can it be the image that brought him?”
“Nothing else, as I see it.”
“But how could he know it was there?”
Derrick smiled. “How did I know? It’s all part of the main puzzle, and perhaps the missing part. I hoped you might be able to tell me something that would throw some light on this man’s arrival. I have a queer idea that it closes the circle, and am going to get him into the study on some pretext.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, to begin with.”
“Have you told the police about him?”
“I’m not ready for the police yet. The first thing to find out is whether the study means anything to him. That little god, or devil, is there, safely out of sight and touch, but if the peddler is what I take him to be, he will know it, and if he has come here for it, some attempt will be made before long.”
“But what about you?” she asked nervously.
“He’s not interested in me, but I expect he has something to say to Martin. He’s probably saying it now. Oh, my dear!” he went on unconsciously, “don’t you see that we’re getting nearer to the end of it every hour?”
Nothing he might have said could have touched her more, or given her a swifter assurance of what lay next his heart. It moved her to see that he did not know he had said it. So tender was the thought that she hid it away to delight in after he had gone. She was ready to love in secret, but he must not know that yet. Then, in this new light, she was suddenly afraid for him.
“Are you quite sure there’s no danger?”
“The danger,” he said slowly, “is to the man who committed the crime.”
There was a little silence till instinctively they turned to other things. It was a strange talk, of the lips and mind only, veering sometimes to ground where as yet it was trespass to enter, and just as often diverted with a deftness that only added to the growing reality of what they both felt but must not declare. He studied the girl, wanting her the more as moments passed, finding in her the charm that is beyond explanation, delighting in her perception, caressing her with the arms of his spirit, and wondering a little at the strangeness of his own voice. Often in days to come they would remember this meeting and smile at each other.
And Jean, timid lest she show what must not yet be shown, discovered in him a companion of her fancy, a swift interpreter, creative, sensitive, and ambitious, whose nature was fresh and unexhausted. She did not realize how secluded a life had been hers. She only knew that never before had she met a man just like this. And, above all, he made her feel safe.
He walked thoughtfully back to Beech Lodge and, approaching the gates, unconsciously slackened his pace. He pictured the jade god in its hidden cabinet, ominous behind the mellow oak, its creamy fingers resting on its rigid miniature knees. Who had lifted this thing from the place where it should be, and where was that place? It had brought death to Millicent. What would it bring to others? He pictured Perkins, haunting the room of tragic memory that would not let her go. How much more did Perkins see than that to which she had sworn? He pictured Martin, his thick fingers among the rose-trees. What was written on the screen of Martin’s mind, what had jerked him out of the jungle, and why should fear be written on his swarthy face at sight of the stranger of that morning? How could he fear a man he did not know? But he did know him!
Pondering this last, and with the cottage but a few yards ahead, Derrick thought he could hear voices, and stepped close against the high hedge that fronted the grounds of Beech Lodge. Peering through this, he could make out the window of the cottage kitchen, and it was from here that the voices came. There was a little stirring of wind that made it difficult to distinguish anything clearly, but even at this distance it was evident that some kind of heated argument was in progress. Martin was speaking with a stubborn sort of rasp in his tones that carried with it a queer suggestion of nervousness, while the other man talked with a contemptuous lift in his voice as though he reminded the gardener of things he had culpably forgotten. Coming as close as he dared, and, leaning tensely forward, Derrick listened. He could not understand one word.
The men were using some unknown language, sometimes sharp, sometimes liquid, shooting it out with a speed that showed complete familiarity. Into Derrick’s brain flashed his sister’s description of how Perkins had talked in her sleep, and he knew that this was the same tongue. Breathless at the discovery, he listened the more intently. Martin was rapidly getting on the defensive, jabbering a jargon of defiance, in which, however, fear seemed always present. Derrick started at the sound of his own name, then Millicent’s, then Thursby’s. The word “Buddha” was repeated, but always linked to some unintelligible prefix, and never with the usual respect accorded to the god by the Oriental.
What the peddler now said appeared to take the form of some kind of pronouncement as though he were delivering a verdict, framed almost in a mysterious chant that sounded as though it came from an infinite distance. In the middle of this Martin burst forth in a great English oath, to which the stranger replied with one word that came like the hiss of a snake, whereat Martin choked audibly and fell silent. Then Derrick, his brain working like an engine, stepped back on the road, strolled on to the gate at his usual pace, and, turning in, went casually on to the house. No sooner had his foot touched the gravel than instantaneous silence spread in the cottage. And at that he smiled grimly.
Passing directly to the study, he closed the door and, making sure he was not observed from the lawn, opened the oak panel. Inside was the jade god and its waxen copy. Weighing these in either hand, he deliberated a moment; then, putting the original back, he closed the cabinet and dropped the model into his pocket. From the top drawer of the big desk he took a small automatic. Finally, with god and gun balancing each other in their concealment, he lit his pipe and strolled back toward the cottage.
This time he knew he was observed, for, as he neared the gates, Martin emerged from the front of the cottage and touched his cap. His face was of a curiously mottled appearance, and betrayed signs of great tension, but as his eyes met those of his master he pulled himself together and assumed his ordinary gruff though respectful manner. Derrick nodded affably.
“Well, Martin, what do you think of those Lady Hillingdons for next year? I see you’ve been at them.”
“They promise well, sir, but I don’t think so much of the Richmonds.”
“Sorry to hear that. Why not?”
“One thing, they weren’t properly pruned last winter, and for another the mildew’s been at them.”
“You don’t seem to think much of the man who was here last.”
“I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact!”
“And what do you make of your visitor of this morning? Does he know anything about flowers?”
“No, sir, flowers aren’t exactly in his line from what I make of him. Queer sort of chap, I should say, but I don’t take it there’s any harm in him.”
“He told me he came from the East. Does he know any of the parts you know?”
“Yes, sir, some.”
“Never happened to come across him before, did you?”
Martin stiffened ever so slightly. “No, sir, never set eyes on him. The East is a big bit of country, and there’s room for all kinds there.”
“You know some foreign lingos?”
“Yes, sir, a trader needs them if he’s going to do any business.”
“Have you tried your friend in that respect?”
“I tackled him just now with Hindustani, but that beat him.”
“It would beat me, too. Does he know any Malay?” Derrick smiled a little. “Not that I know any myself.”
“Only a word or two, sir.”
“Curious that two traders like you, both of whom have lived in the Orient, should have to fall back on English to converse.”
Martin’s eyes were unfathomable, and Derrick searched his mind for the next move. The man had twice been proved a liar, but the object of his lies was as remote as ever. Then suddenly came the thought of Perkins, babbling what was probably Malay in her dream-haunted sleep.
“I wonder if Perkins happens to know any of those Eastern lingos?”
The man’s face underwent a swift change. There was fear in it now. He ground his heel nervously into the soil, while the big fingers clenched tight. There was in his manner that which suggested a new anxiety, and for the moment he seemed oddly helpless.
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Derrick, but if I may make so bold, I wouldn’t try. She’s a queer woman, and”—here he touched his forehead meaningly—“she’s best left alone. Mr. Millicent never bothered her, and he knew her well.”
Derrick nodded. “You may be right. Where are you putting your visitor tonight?”
“On the floor in the kitchen, sir; he says that’s good enough for him. He’s about used up and asked if he might rest for another day or two. Showed me his feet. They’re in bad shape. I told him it was for you to say.”
Derrick felt a quickening of his pulse. Once again everything fitted in. The peddler would stay, but not on account of sore feet. He pressed his fingers against the image in his pocket, but his mind sped to the dark recess where the real god stared malevolently into the darkness and waited till his servants should gather at his baffling summons. Then he glanced at Martin, experiencing a throb of pity for one who was so secretly tortured. He began to see how the man must already have suffered, anticipating the inevitable, paying in advance, with the pangs of two years, part of the price of a blow that took place in a second. But there was no room now for compassion.
“Did you happen to see the inside of the peddler’s pack?” he asked carelessly.
Martin shook his head. “No, sir, he won’t trouble to show that to the likes of me.”
“I don’t know! I’d ask him if I were you, and have a look at them. They’ll probably remind you of a good many places you ought to know. Also I think I’d keep an eye on him tonight.”
“He’s all right so far as that’s concerned,” put in the gardener hastily.
“He may be, but one can never tell. I fancy he wouldn’t mind picking up anything portable, especially if it happened to be in his own line. One can never be sure about men like that. I’ve known them to wander about the country picking up odds and ends that were of no value to most people, but of particular interest to others. I’ve half a mind to send him along to the village as it is.”
“That will be all right, sir,” put in Martin hurriedly; “he’s a harmless old soul with not as much strength as a cat. I’ll stand good for him.”
He spoke with great earnestness and unconsciously raised his voice. Derrick at this moment felt his gaze drawn toward the cottage and, glancing over Martin’s shoulder, noted that at one of the tiny windows of the kitchen the blind had been drawn slightly aside. The window was open. Pitching his own tones a little higher, he looked straight into Martin’s troubled eyes.
“You remember that talk we had about Mr. Millicent’s death the first night you came to see me?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the gardener with reluctance.
“Well, I’ve said nothing about it since then, but I’ve thought a good deal. What about you?”
“I don’t forget it, either, Mr. Derrick, but what else is there to be said? I told you what I know.”
“Then I take it that nothing has occurred to you since?”
“What could occur, sir? It’s more than two years ago now. The poor gentleman’s cold in his grave, and the world has moved on. I’m trying to forget it as hard as I can.”
“Yes, I know, but sometimes, Martin, when a man comes back to a well-known place which is associated with an event like that, the mind takes a curious turn and pitches on something it did not see before. It’s almost as though the place had kept something up its sleeve to reveal later on. Perhaps it’s your friend’s arrival that has started me thinking.”
Martin sent him an indescribable glance. “I don’t quite follow, sir.”
“I was wondering,” went on Derrick in the same clear tones, “whether it was possible that anyone answering to the description of this stranger had been hanging about the night Mr. Millicent was killed. Things like that have been known to happen.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk that way, sir.” Martin’s face was now desperate, and he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.
Derrick smiled reassuringly. “I can’t see that there’s any harm done by mentioning it, and it might be as well to let your friend know that we’re not asleep.”
The man winced as though struck. “Mr. Derrick, sir, if there’s anything you want to say about Mr. Millicent now, couldn’t we go a few steps up the drive? It isn’t wise, is it, that this fellow should know anything about it?”
“What’s the matter with you, Martin?”
“Nothing, sir, but I can’t help being upset when I talk about the thing.”
Derrick hesitated, then thrust the probe still deeper. “I can’t see what difference would be made if he did learn of it. However, let that go, and perhaps you’re right. You remember my asking you if anything was missed at that time?”
“Yes, sir, and I told you all I knew.”
“And the motive for the crime is as much a mystery to you as ever?”
Martin’s lips were trembling now, and he could only nod.
“Well, I had a chat the other day with a man who was on the case, and he told me that another thing, not that kris, was missed and has never been seen since. It was a sort of image, carved in jade.”
“I never heard of that, sir,” stammered Martin thickly.
“Yes, and apparently it had been picked up by Mr. Millicent in the East years before.”
Martin made a convulsive gesture. “Please, sir,” he begged, “don’t talk like that here.”
Simultaneously his gaze was drawn to the cottage window as though by mesmeric power. It seemed that now he had ceased to feel anything except a mounting fear that struck to his very heart. Little tremors ran through his massive frame, and he began to sway with a slow, rhythmic motion as if endeavoring to maintain his balance. His face was a changing mask in which there was not so much of guilt as of a deadly recognition that he was being overtaken by some remorseless destiny from which there was no escape. No longer a gardener, a pruner of rose-trees, or a traveler from far countries. He became in that moment a man under a curse.
Again Derrick felt a fleeting pang of pity for such torture, but remembered the triangle of death, with Martin standing at one corner. At the same time he sensed the strangeness of the situation, in which he, a dweller in a quiet countryside, should be inextricably involved in a problem so grim and unexpected. Might it be some period of fantasy or subconscious phase from which he would presently awaken? To this there were two apparent answers. One, the faint tingle that seemed to spread from the thing hidden in his clenched hand. The other, the picture of a girl waiting, waiting. At that, all thought of compassion vanished from his mind. It was real, all real, and destiny was at work in Beech Lodge. Then in a flash the next move became clear.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if this was the sort of thing that was missed from the desk?” He took the image from his pocket and balanced it openly in the palm of his hand. “Of course,” he added, fixing Martin with a steady eye, “you can’t tell me, because you say you never saw it.”
The gardener’s figure seemed to shrink visibly, and his eyes protruded. He made a choking sound, the blood rushed in a mottled flood to his cheeks, and the big hands clasped and unclasped mechanically. Derrick, staring at him, felt a throb of triumph and slid the image out of sight.
“God!” said Martin chokingly. “Oh, God! Where did you get that?”
Then he swung round and glared at the cottage.
Out of the door came the figure of the peddler, and Martin, watching him, made a gesture of despair foreign to so powerful a man. The stranger’s eyes were preternaturally bright, and there was now no trace of the weary limp with which he had moved only a few hours ago. His head was erect, the bent shoulders were straight, his body was lithe and had taken on something of the springy contours of youth. Instinctively Derrick’s fingers tightened round the image, but it was at him rather than at his pocket that Blunt looked first.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began, “but when I was smoking inside just now I couldn’t help hearing you say that someone had been killed in your house. Might I ask who it was?”
The audacity of the thing made Derrick blink. He could not trust himself to glance at Martin but knew that the gardener’s eyes were fixed intently on the peddler’s face. There followed an instant of silence. Derrick realized that he was hunting big game, the biggest game of all, and it behooved him to keep his head.
“Will you tell me first why the matter is of any interest to you?”
Blunt’s lips formed an inscrutable smile, but his gaze was as blank as seawater.
“It’s of no more interest than anything else of the same kind, but I’ve seen a bit of that sort of thing in the East, and it may be I can be of use in getting at the bottom of it, if that’s not been done yet.”
Derrick pondered. “This was not the usual kind of sudden death, and there were no clues left.”
The man nodded understandingly. “There ain’t so many deaths of what you would call the usual kind where I come from, either, but there is most always a clue of some sort if one knows where to look. That’s a matter of instinct. Can’t explain it, but I reckon I’ve got it.”
Over Martin’s features crept a shade of admiration. Derrick saw this, and it stiffened his resolution. The hunt was afoot now, one against two. Soon, he was convinced, it would be one against three, when Perkins joined in. She would prove perhaps the most elusive of all. Then his mind jumped back to the man in front of him.
“I don’t see how a complete stranger could spot at first sight anything that skilled detectives failed to discover after very close examination,” he said coolly. “You’ll have to convince me that it’s something more than mere curiosity on your part before I go any further.”
“And against that there’s such a thing as looking at some object for so long that after a while one doesn’t see it at all. It’s the fresh eye that picks things up. Would it surprise you if I said that you’ve got something close to you at this minute that might be a clue, and you never guess it.”
Martin drew in his breath sharply, but Derrick’s eyes never left the stranger’s face.
“Isn’t that a rather wild shot of yours?”
“It may be, but I’ll risk it. I reckon I’ve sucked in something from the places I’ve been in that helps to get under the skin at times. Getting back to clues, this world is full of clues that go unnoticed just because people don’t know how to look at them. Same thing when you get so used to a thing that you can’t tell whether it’s in the room or not, without making sure. That’s because you don’t hear what it says.”
“Ah,” put in Derrick swiftly, “then you believe that things talk?”
“It’s the only talk worth listening to now and then.”
Derrick’s pulse quickened. “Is that what you depend on in this case?”
The peddler nodded. “Perhaps it would surprise you if I said that something was talking at this very minute, a queer kind of stuff that I only half get.”
Saying this, he lifted his eyes, and sent Derrick an extraordinary look. There was power in it, and a certain mesmeric weight, and in a strange but unmistakable fashion it invited the young man to acknowledge what he himself believed. This look stated very plainly that the stranger saw through Derrick’s camouflage, and also quite understood the present necessity for it; but it suggested, too, that behind the newcomer was an authority that as yet he had no intention to disclose. There were no words in which to phrase what Derrick felt. Presently, and as though to make the thing as easy as possible for the master of Beech Lodge, the little man gave a short laugh.
“You might as well let me try it, sir. If I fail there will be no harm done.”
Derrick, without realizing it, took his cue. “Well,” he said good-humouredly, “at any rate, you can’t do much harm by having a look at the room. What do you say, Martin? I’ll let you decide, since you’re responsible for Blunt while he’s here.”
Martin twisted his lips in a vain effort to speak, but it seemed that any reminder of responsibility was almost too much for him. He shot the peddler a swift glance, in which fear and respect were mingled, and when he looked at his master his eyes implored that he be not further involved. In that moment Martin acted like an honest man. Then the expression passed, and his face was once more a mask.
“That’s just as you feel about it, sir.”
Derrick turned to Blunt. “Well, then, you can come up, say, at six o’clock, and you’d better bring Martin with you. And, by the way,” he added, “if you want any details about this murder before you come, Martin knows a good deal more than I do, so you’d better pump him.”
Blunt shook his head. “It’s just as well I shouldn’t know anything at all, sir. Sometimes the more one thinks one knows the less one finds out.” Again he sent the young man that extraordinary look.
“All right; but if you change your mind, and Martin gets stuck, I’ll put you in touch with Perkins at the house.”
Martin started at this, but Blunt seemed unmoved. “Who might Perkins be?”
“The maid who was here when Mr. Millicent died. She found him.”
The man’s expression did not change in the slightest.
“I won’t want to bother her, sir; and look here, if you doubt my faith you can take my pack till you’re satisfied I’m straight. Anything else?”
His voice lifted as he spoke, and Derrick knew what he meant. The sharp eyes peering from the cottage window had missed nothing. The stranger was aware that something lay hidden in that pocket, nor could all his art conceal the hunger that was growing in his soul. Derrick, his mind tense, and realizing that every step taken now must inevitably affect the last scene of the drama, gripped the image with fingers that felt suddenly cold, then drew it out and dropped it carelessly into the peddler’s hand. The man quivered at the touch.
“While we’re on the subject, there’s something that may interest you. Ever see anything like it before?”
A tremor ran through the lean form, and the bright eyes became clouded with emotion. The brown fingers closed caressingly, till, all in a breath, a look of concentrated shrewdness spread over the swarthy face. The man stared at the molded wax, then at Derrick. “You clever devil!” was what the eyes said. He grasped the meaning of this model, there could be no doubt of that, and telegraphed an unconscious admiration to the one who had fashioned it. He scanned the small square base, the cloaked shoulders, the tiny folded hands, and the hellish sneer on the pygmy features, and nodded. Yes, it was all there, and nothing was there. A great gulf yawned between wax and jade. But the peddler remained master of himself, while Martin, at his elbow, seemed rooted to the ground.
“What do you think of it?” asked Derrick smoothly.
The peddler shook his head. “Of this, sir, nothing at all; but if I could see the original it might be another matter. Do you happen to have it?”
“I do, but not here. And it doesn’t belong to me. Ever see anything like it?”
Blunt nodded. “Yes, but not often. The original of this may have come from Indo-China, up northeast of the Bay of Bengal. I reckon it would be about five hundred years old. They don’t make them often nowadays. These things sometimes drift down into the Malay country, but they’re not supposed to. Look here, sir, I’ve a leaning for carved jade, which brings a good price from the Chinese, and I’ll trade you anything in my pack for the original of this.”
“But I’ve told you it’s not mine.”
“Maybe, sir, but if you’ll put me in touch with the owner I’ll make it worth his while to sell.”
“We’ll see about that later. Why did you say that these things are not supposed to get out of Indo-China?”
“Let me ask first, sir, if this ever brought any bad luck to the man who owned it?” He paused and smiled cynically. “I mean the original.”
Derrick nodded. The daring of it was prodigious.
“Does it happen to be the man you spoke of just now?”
“Yes.”
Again the odd smile, and the peddler handed back the image. “It’s a queer thing,” he said slowly, “but I’ve heard tell that the spirit of Buddha doesn’t like these things drifting about. It’s talk of the East, of course, and perhaps it isn’t worth much in England. But there’s something at work in those parts that gets hold of people without their knowing it. It isn’t so long ago that I was in a temple up country where there was something like this, and it just looked at me and dared me to steal it. I reckon I would have tried to if it hadn’t been guarded by about a hundred priests. It was the same size as this, and just as ugly, and carved out of jade, too.
“All round it there were the usual images, but arranged like rows of policemen. Next it was an empty stand, and I guessed that that was where another one just like it had been, but when I asked where it had got to there was a hell of an excitement, because the beggars thought perhaps I had it and had come after its mate. It took me all my time to get them quieted down. Queer sort of game, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Derrick, in a strained voice. “Anything else?”
“We had a lot of talk back and forth but didn’t get anywhere. They seemed to claim that the thing was a sort of link between what one saw and didn’t see, and in a way joined them up to make a kind of general picture. I didn’t take much stock in all that, for Indo-China is stuffed with temples where they palaver about such subjects year after year. So that, sir, is why I happen to be interested in the original of this, and if you could put me in the way of getting it I’d make it worth your while.”
Derrick glanced involuntarily at Martin. On the man’s face had settled a look of utter hopelessness. There was no sullenness now, nothing grim or repellent. His eyes, at times so furtive, held only despair. His figure was slack, the broad shoulders dropped, and the big hands hung inert by his side. As though conscious of his master’s scrutiny, he looked up and pulled himself spasmodically together.
“Well,” said Derrick, “I don’t know if the present owner puts any value on the thing, but I’ll find out.” He took back the wax impression and slipped it into his pocket. “I don’t suppose this model really interests you from what you tell me.”
The peddler shook his head. “The copy is dead,” he replied slowly, “but, from what I gathered in the East, the real thing may have a sort of life in it.”
“All right, I’ll see you both at six o’clock.”
The man touched his cap. Derrick strolled on through the white gates, and, turning to the right, took the road that led away from Bamberley. Following this a quarter of a mile, he left it abruptly, traversed a neighboring copse, and doubled back along a parallel lane. He walked fast and came to the village in a little more than half an hour. In the tiny police office sat Sergeant Burke. Derrick waved his hand, went in, and took the proffered chair. Burke’s face was full of sudden interest, but he asked no questions. Presently Derrick leaned forward.
“I think, sergeant, that an attempt at robbery will take place at Beech Lodge within the next hour or so.”
Burke sat up straighter than ever. “What’s that, sir?”
“I’ll explain in a minute, but first I want to make sure that, so far as the evidence went, no stranger was seen in the vicinity of the Lodge about the time of the murder.”
“No, sir. That seems to be without question.”
“No peddler or traveling tinker had been in Bamberley that week?”
“No, Mr. Derrick, these people are all licensed and registered, and we examine the license of everyone who comes along. They are under the head of itinerant vendors.”
“Well, there’s an itinerant vendor at the Lodge now, and he’s more keen on buying than selling. He doesn’t make any bones of the fact that he’d like to get hold of the original of this.”
Derrick put the model on the table, and Burke fingered it curiously.
“Neat sort of job you’ve made of it, sir. Weighs about the same, too, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I put some shot inside the base and balanced it with the other. It’s the other that my peddler friend is coming to see at six o’clock. Martin will be there with him.”
“When did this fellow turn up?”
Derrick told him all that had happened, Burke’s face growing ever more tense, while he thrilled to the belief that the Millicent case was alive again.
“You haven’t missed much, sir,” he rambled presently. “Now what can I do?”
“At six o’clock those two men will be in the study. Blunt will be apparently in charge of Martin, whom I have made responsible for him, but actually I suspect it is the other way round. From what I can see, Martin is under Blunt’s thumb. Blunt will be asked if the room suggests anything to him in connection with the murder. He will probably pretend it does, and begin some kind of queer story, which may after all have something in it. I expect that he will in some way involve Martin, and that’s what Martin is in such fear of. At the same time, so far as Blunt is concerned, I can’t feel that Martin is so very important. It’s the image he’s after. Whether he can resist the impulse when he sees the real thing I can’t tell, but if he does not, that’s where you come in. The Millicent case will then start all over again with an attempted burglary, and I shall be in a position to testify that Martin lied to me about the burglar. And that’s as far as I can go at the moment.”
Burke nodded approvingly. “Then you want the grounds guarded?”
“Yes, in any way you think best. I would not bother about the front door; it would take too long to get out that way. The French window is the place.”
“The trap will be set at a quarter to six,” said Burke, glancing at the clock.
Derrick grinned contentedly. “It would be a bit of a feather in your cap, sergeant, if you could pull this thing off after two years.”