XV

The last of the guests had escaped, when the police came, and, simultaneously with the ambulance, Divisional-Inspector Craig, who had happened to be making a call in the neighbourhood. The doctor who came with the ambulance made a brief examination.

“He is not dead, though he may be before he reaches hospital,” he said.

“Is it a case of suicide?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Suicides do not, as a rule, shoot themselves under the right shoulder-blade. It would be a difficult operation: try it yourself. I should say he’d been shot from the open doorway.”

He applied a rough first dressing, and Jeffrey was carried into the elevator. In the bottom passage a stretcher was prepared, and upon this he was laid, and, covered with a blanket, carried through the crowd which had assembled at the entrance.

“Murder, or attempted murder, as the case may be,” said Craig. “Someone has tipped off the guests. You, I suppose, Stevens? Let me see your book.”

The inspector ran his finger down the list, and stopped at Room 13.

“Mr. William Brown of Toronto. Who is Mr. Brown of Toronto?”

“I don’t know, sir. He engaged a room by telephone, I didn’t see him go.”

“That old fire-escape of yours still working?” asked Craig sardonically. “Anybody else been here? Who is the wounded man? His face seemed familiar to me.”

“Major Floyd, sir.”

“Who?” asked Craig sharply. “Impossible! Major Floyd is⁠—”

It was Floyd! He remembered now. Floyd, with whom he had sat that day⁠—that happily-married man!

“What was he doing here?” he asked. “Now, spill it, Stevens, unless you want to get yourself into pretty bad trouble.”

“I’ve spilled all I know, sir,” said Stevens doggedly. “It was Major Floyd.”

And then an inspiration came to him.

“If you want to know who it was, it was Jeff Legge. Floyd’s his fancy name.”

“Who?”

Craig had had many shocks in his life, but, this was the greatest he had had for years.

“Jeff Legge? Old Legge’s son?”

Stevens nodded.

“Nobody knows that but a couple of us,” he said. “Jeff doesn’t work in the light.”

The officer nodded slowly.

“I’ve never seen him,” he admitted. “I knew Legge had a son, but I didn’t know he was running crook. I thought he was a bit of a boy.”

“He’s some boy, let me tell you!” said Stevens.

Craig sat down, his chin in his hands.

“Mrs. Floyd will have to be told. Good God! Peter Kane’s daughter! Peter didn’t know that he’d married her to Legge’s son?”

“I don’t know whether he knew or not,” said Stevens, “but if I know old Peter, he’d as soon know that she’d gone to the devil as marry her to a son of Emanuel Legge’s. I’m squeaking in a way,” he said apologetically, “but you’ve got to know⁠—Emanuel will tell you as soon as he gets the news.”

“Come here,” said Craig. He took the man’s arm and led him to the passage where the detectives were listening, opened the door of a private room, the table giving evidence of the hasty flight of the diners. “Now,” he said, closing the door, “what’s the strength of this story?”

“I don’t know it all, Mr. Craig, but I know they were putting a point on Peter Kane a long time ago. Then one night they brought Peter along and kidded him into thinking that Jeff was a sucker in the hands of the boys. Peter had never seen Jeff before⁠—as a matter of fact, I didn’t know he was Jeff at the time; I’d heard a lot about him, but, like a lot of other people, I hadn’t seen him. Well, they fooled Peter all right. He took the lad away with him. Jeff was wearing a Canadian officer’s uniform, and, of course, Jeff told the tale. He wouldn’t be the son of his father if he didn’t. That’s how he got to know the Kanes, and was taken to their home. When I heard about the marriage, I thought Peter must have known. I never dreamt they were playing a trick on him.”

“Peter didn’t know,” said Craig slowly. “Where’s the girl?”

“I can’t tell you. She’s in London somewhere.”

“At the Charlton,” nodded the other. “Now, you’ve got to tell me, Stevens, who is Mr. Brown of Toronto? It’s written differently from your usual hand⁠—written by a man who has had a bad scare. In other words, it was written after you’d found the body.”

Stevens said nothing.

“You saw him come out; who was he?”

“If I die this minute⁠—” began Stevens.

“You might in a few months, as ‘accessory after,’ ” said the other ominously; “and that’s what you’ll do if you conceal a murderer. Who is Mr. Brown?”

Stevens was struggling with himself, and after a while it came out.

“Johnny was here tonight,” he said huskily. “Johnny Gray.”

Craig whistled.

There was a knock at the door. A police officer, wanting instructions.

“There’s a woman down below, pretty nigh mad. I think you know her, sir.”

“Not Lila?” blurted Stevens.

“That’s the girl. Shall I let her come up?”

“Yes,” said Craig. “Bring her in here.”

She came in a minute, distracted, incoherent, her hair dishevelled, her hands trembling.

“Is he dead?” she gasped. “For God’s sake tell me. I see it in your face⁠—he’s dead. Oh, Jeff, Jeff!”

“Now you sit down,” said the kindly Craig. “He’s no more dead than you or I are. Ask Stevens. Jeff’s doing very well indeed. Just a slight wound, my dear⁠—nothing to worry about. What was the trouble? Do you know anything about it?”

She could not answer him.

“He’s dead,” she moaned. “My God, I killed him! I saw him and followed him here!”

“Give her a glass of wine, Stevens.”

The porter poured out a glass of white wine from one of the many deserted bottles on the table, and put it to her chattering teeth.

“Now, Lila, let’s get some sense out of you. I tell you, Jeff’s not dead. What is he to you, anyway?”

“Everything,” she muttered. She was shivering from head to foot. “I married him three years ago. No, I didn’t,” she said in a sudden frenzy.

“Go on; tell us the truth,” said Craig. “We’re not going to pull him for bigamy, anyway.”

“I married him three years ago,” she said. “He wasn’t a bad fellow to me. It was the old man’s idea, his marrying this girl, and there was a thousand for me in it. He put me down in Horsham to look after her, and see that there were no letters going to Johnny. There wasn’t any need of that, because she never wrote. I didn’t like the marriage idea, but he swore to me that it was only to get Peter’s money, and I believed him. Then tonight he told me the truth, knowing I wouldn’t squeak. I wish to God I had now, I wish I had! He is dead, isn’t he? I know he’s dead!”

“He’s not dead, you poor fish,” said Craig impatiently. “I might be congratulating you if he was. No, he’s got a bit of a wound.”

“Who shot him?”

“That’s just what I want to know,” said Craig. “Was it you?”

“Me!” Her look of horror supplied a satisfactory answer to his question. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know he was here, or coming here. I thought he was at the hotel, till I saw him. Yet I had a feeling that he was coming here tonight, and I’ve been waiting about all evening. I saw Peter and dodged him.”

“Peter? Has he been near the club?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. He was on his way. I thought he was going to the Highlow. There’s nowhere else he’d go in this street⁠—I saw him twice.”

Craig turned his bright, suspicious eyes upon the porter.

“Peter been here? I didn’t see anything about Mr. Brown of Montreal?” he asked sarcastically.

“No, he hasn’t. I haven’t seen Peter since the Lord knows when,” said the porter emphatically. “That’s the truth. You can give the elevator boy permission to tell you all he knows, and if Peter was here tonight you can hang me.”

Craig considered for a long time.

“Does Peter know his way in by the easy route?” he asked.

“You mean the fire-escape? Yes, Peter knows that way, but members never come in by the back nowadays. They’ve got nothing to hide.”

Craig went out of the room and walked down the passage stopping at No. 13. Immediately opposite the door was a window, and it was wide open. Beyond was the grille of the fire-escape landing. He stepped out through the window and peered down into the dark yard where the escape ended. By the light of a street lamp he saw a stout gate, in turn pierced by a door, and this led to the street. The door was open, a fact which might be accounted for by the presence in the yard of two uniformed policemen, the flash of whose lanterns he saw. He came back into the corridor and to Stevens.

“Somebody may have used the fire-escape tonight, and they may not,” he said. “What time did Gray come in? Who came in first?”

“Jeff came first, about five minutes before Gray.”

“Then what happened?”

“I had a chat with Captain Gray,” said the porter, after a second’s hesitation. “He went round into the side passage⁠—”

“The same way that Jeff had gone?”

The porter nodded.

“About a minute later⁠—in fact, it was shorter than a minute⁠—I heard what I thought was a door slammed. I remarked upon the fact to the elevator man.”

“And then?”

“I suppose four or five minutes passed after that, and Captain Gray came out. Said he might look in later.”

“There was no sign of a struggle in Captain Gray’s clothes?”

“No, sir. I’m sure there was no struggle.”

“I should think not,” agreed Craig. “Jeff Legge never had a chance of showing fight.”

The girl was lying on the sofa, her head buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking, and the sound of her weeping drew the detective’s attention to her.

“Has she been here before tonight?”

“Yes, she came, and I had to throw her out⁠—Emanuel told me she was not to be admitted.”

Craig made a few notes in his book, closed it with a snap and put it in his pocket.

“You understand, Stevens, that, if you’re not under arrest, you’re under open arrest. You’ll close the club for tonight and admit no more people. I shall leave a couple of men on the premises.”

“I’ll lock up the beer,” said Stevens facetiously.

“And you needn’t be funny,” was the sharp retort. “If we close this club you’ll lose your job⁠—and if they don’t close it now they never will.”

He took aside his assistant.

“I’m afraid Johnny’s got to go through the hoop tonight,” he said. “Send a couple of men to pull him in. He lives at Albert Mansions. I’ll go along and break the news to the girl, and somebody’ll have to tell Peter⁠—I hope there’s need for Peter to be told,” he added grimly.