XVI

Tab smiled to himself. He who had investigated so many burglaries had never imagined that he would be favoured by the attention of those midnight adventurers. He went into Rex’s room, turned the switch and had only to take one glance to know that somebody had been very busy indeed in his absence. Under the bed which his companion had occupied, were two shallow trunks, filled with those of Rex Lander’s belongings which he had not taken with him. One of these had been pulled out, placed on the bed and opened. It had been opened unscientifically with a chisel, which Tab knew was his property, and must have been taken from the toolbox in the kitchen. The lock was wrenched off and the contents of the box were scattered on the bed. The other trunk had not been touched. Whether the thief had been successful in his quest Tab did not know, because he was ignorant of the box’s contents. He guessed he must have been disappointed, for beyond a quantity of underlinen, more or less in a state of disrepair, a few books and drawing instruments, and a packet of letters which Tab saw at a glance were from Jesse Trasmere, there was nothing at all valuable in the trunk.

He went to his own room, but none of his things had been touched. And then he began a careful search of the other rooms in the flat. They yielded, however, no clue as to the identity of the mysterious visitor, and Tab got on to the phone to Carver and was lucky to find him.

“Burglars? That’s poetic justice, Tab,” said Carver’s sad voice. “I’ll come right along.”

The detective was at the house in ten minutes.

“If this had happened in the daytime I could find a fairly simple explanation,” said Tab, “because the front door below is left open until nine, and the tenant who comes in or goes out nearest to nine o’clock, closes it. We keep the door open because it saves a lot of running up and down stairs, but the street-door was closed when I came home.”

“How would it have been a simple matter to burgle the flat?” asked Carver, and Tab explained that there was a window on the landing through which a surefooted and skilful adventurer might emerge on to a narrow ledge by which the kitchen window could be reached.

“He didn’t go that way I should think,” said Carver, after he had inspected the kitchenette. “No, the burglar opened the door like a gentleman. Do you know whether Mr. Lander had anything worth stealing in that trunk?”

Tab shook his head.

“I am perfectly certain he hadn’t,” he said. “Poor old Rex had nothing of value except the money he drew from his uncle’s estate just before he left.”

Carver went back to Rex’s room and carefully emptied the trunk item by item.

“It was something at the bottom of the trunk. I should imagine it was in this box.”

He handled a little wooden box with a sliding lid.

“And here is the top,” he said, picking it up from the bed. “Can you get in touch with Mr. Lander?”

“He’ll be at Naples in a day or two. I’ll wire him then, but I shouldn’t imagine he had lost anything worth the thief’s trouble,” said Tab.

They went back to the sitting-room and Carver stood a long time by the table, tapping its covered surface nervously, his long face puckered in thought.

“Do you know what I think?” he said suddenly.

“Generally,” said Tab.

“Do you know what I am thinking now?”

“You think I am giving you a lot of trouble over a happening which wasn’t worth mentioning,” said Tab.

Carver shook his head.

“I am thinking this,” he said slowly and deliberately, “that the man who burgled this flat was the man who killed Jesse Trasmere! If you ask me to give chapter and verse for my conclusion I shall both disappoint you and disappoint myself. I have always found,” he went on, “that when one has an instinctive conviction, it is a mistake to make too close an examination of one’s mind. Every human being was endowed some time or other, with as powerful and potent an instinct as the most sensitive of wild animals. With the growth of reason, the instinctive quality faded, until today, in humanity, we find only the faintest trace of it. Yet,” he said earnestly, “it is possible for humanity to cultivate that germ of instinct so that one can go to a racetrack and pick every winner.”

“You are joking,” said Tab surprised, but Carver shook his head.

“You get flashes of it at times; you call them ‘hunches.’ It is really your atrophied instinct asserting itself. But you won’t give it a chance. You slay it with the hands of logic and smother it with argument, and my instinct tells me that the hand that opened Mr. Lander’s trunk was the hand that destroyed Trasmere. I had a queer feeling when you telephoned to me,” he went on, “a queer feeling as though you or somebody was going to hand to me a ready-made solution of Trasmere’s death.”

“And you are disappointed. My poor old Carver,” said Tab, pityingly. “You think too much!”

“We all think too much,” said Carver, relapsing into his natural gloom.

The next morning the tenant who occupied the flat below came up whilst Tab was dressing and Mr. Holland was a little taken aback to see one who so seldom put in an appearance on any day. He was a red-faced gentleman, somewhat sportily attired.

“I hope you didn’t mind my shouting up at you last night,” he said apologetically, “but I had been travelling night and day and I had had no sleep and naturally I was a little rattled when I heard that noise going on overhead. Did you drop a box or something?”

“To be exact, I didn’t drop a box at all,” said Tab. “In fact, the noise you heard was made by a burglar.”

“A burglar?” said the startled man. “I heard the row and it woke me up. I got out of bed and yelled up, as I thought, to you.”

“What time was this?”

“Between ten and half-past,” said the other. “It was just getting dark.”

“He must have dropped the box as he was putting it on the bed,” said Tab thoughtfully. “You didn’t by any chance see him?”

“I heard him go out about a quarter of an hour after I’d made a fuss,” said the man from downstairs, “and I was feeling so ashamed of myself for losing my temper that I opened the door to apologize for shouting at him.”

“You didn’t see him?”

The man shook his head.

“He shut the door quick, just as I got into the passage. The only thing I saw was his hand on the edge of the door. He was wearing black gloves. Naturally I thought it was you, though the black gloves seemed to be a queer sort of thing for a young man to wear, even if he was in mourning, and taking it for granted that it was you, and that you were mad with me, I thought no more about it.”

All this Tab duly reported to Carver.

That ended the episode of Saturday. Sunday’s surprise was more pleasant but not less disturbing. It was late in the evening, and Tab was reading by the light of a table-lamp, when the bell which connected with the front door rang urgently. This meant that the front door was closed. On the night of Wellington Brown’s visit it was open. He unconsciously connected the two visitations and wondered whether his instinct was working as well as Carver could wish. Putting the book aside, he went down and opened the door, and nearly staggered in his astonishment, for his visitor was Ursula Ardfem, and her little car stood by the edge of the sidewalk.

“I am on my way to the Central,” she explained. “May I come in?”

He had seen the two suitcases strapped to the back of the car and had wondered to what distant and inaccessible spot she was bound.

“Come in, please,” he said hastily. “I am afraid this room is rather smoky.” He made to pull up the blind, but she stopped him.

“Please don’t,” she said, “I am all nerves and shivers and I feel I could swoon on the slightest excuse. It is rather a pity that that delightful practice of our grandmothers’ days went out of fashion. It would be such a relief to swoon sometimes.” Her tone was half-jesting, but there was a whole lot of seriousness in her face. “I am coming to live at the Central again,” she said, “though I really cannot afford that extravagance.”

“What has happened?”

“Stone Cottage is haunted,” was the staggering reply.

“Haunted?”

She nodded and a momentary smile came into her eyes, only to fade as quickly as it came.

“Not by a ghost,” she said, “but by a very human man, a mysterious individual in black. The woman who looks after me saw him the other night in the garden: I myself have seen him from my window and challenged him. He has been seen by other people pacing the road outside. Now tell me honestly, Tab Holland, am I under the observation of the police?”

The thought had also occurred to Tab.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Carver does not tell me everything, but he has never mentioned your name to me as being under the slightest suspicion. In black, you say?”

“Yes,” nodded the girl. “From head to foot in black, including black gloves. It was rather spectacular⁠—”

“Black gloves?” interrupted Tab. “I wonder if it is my burglar?” and he told her of the visitor who had come the night before.

“It is extraordinary,” she said, “more extraordinary because he was not seen last night. I am not usually nervous, but I must confess that it is a little worrying to know that somebody is watching me.”

“How did he come? Had he a car or bicycle, or did he come by train?”

On this point she could not enlighten him.

“I almost wish you had not come up,” said Tab. “If you had told me, I would have gone to Stone Cottage and stayed the night, especially after my burglar. I should like to meet the gentleman who treats my flat so unceremoniously.”

She made no reply and then:

“Why did I come here, I wonder?” she asked, and it was as though she were speaking to herself, for she laughed. “Poor Mr. Tab,” she said, with that little hint of mockery in her voice which he adored, “I am laying all my burdens upon you. Mystery upon mystery, some of my own, but this, I promise you, not of my making.” She considered, her finger at her lips. “Suppose I return to Stone Cottage on Monday morning and you come down later? My woman will be an efficient chaperon, and I think you should come after dark⁠—that is, if you can spare the time.”

Tab wanted to tell her that all eternity, so far as he was concerned, was at her disposal, but very wisely refrained.

He saw her to her car and went back to his room with a sense of exhilaration that he had not felt all that week.