IX

Rex was in his own room when Carver called.

“I have had a talk with some of the High Ones,” he said, “and put it up to them that you might be of assistance to me. First of all they were horrified at the idea of a newspaper reporter being allowed even to smell inside information, but I persuaded them at last. I am on my way down to the house now, and I thought I would pick you up. I am going through those boxes that we didn’t search on Saturday.”

Tab heard with mingled feelings. To assist the police actively meant that his newspaper stories would suffer. He would not be allowed to use any of the information he secured, except in the tamest, most colourless form. If he remained outside, he was fairly certain to get a line to the crime, which he might use without laying himself open to the charge of breaking faith. There was no time to discover the mind of his chief on the subject⁠—he had to make an instant decision.

“I’ll go,” he said. “This means, of course, that I shall only be able to write the punk stuff that the evening papers print, but I’ll take a chance.”

He was surprised, when he came out into Doughty Street, to find that a private car had been placed at Carver’s disposal. Knowing the parsimony of headquarters, he expressed his surprise.

“It is Mr. Trasmere’s own. He has had it garaged for the past year, but Mr. Lander gave us permission to get it out and offered to pay the running expenses.”

“Good old Babe,” said Tab, sinking back into the carriage seat. “He didn’t tell me anything about it.”

Nearing the house, Carver broke the silence.

“I have something to show you later,” he said. “Our men have been at the Post Office all night, making enquiries as to Mr. Trasmere’s correspondence. It appears that he has had a whole lot during the past year or two. We shall probably come across it in the boxes that remain unsearched. But that wasn’t the big thing we found. Most of the telegraph staff were off duty yesterday. It was only this morning that we learnt a telegram had been received at Mayfield about ten minutes before Walters disappeared.”

When they were in the sitting-room and the door was closed, Carver produced the telegram from his pocket. It was handed in at the General Post Office and ran:

“Remember 17th July, 1913. Newcastle police coming for you at three o’clock.”

It was unsigned.

“I have been searching the newspaper files this morning,” said Carver, “to discover the reference to that date. On the 17th July, 1913, I find that Felling was sent down to Newcastle for seven years, and the judge said that if he ever came before him again on a similar charge, he would send him down for life.”

“Then the telegram was despatched by some friend of Walters?” suggested Tab.

Carver nodded.

“It was delivered five minutes before he disappeared, that is to say, exactly at five minutes to three. I have seen the lad who delivered the telegram, and he says that Walters himself took in the message.”

“Would that account for his disappearance?”

“In a sense it might, yet it does not necessarily follow that Walters is innocent of the murder. The telegram may have come to him immediately after the murder was committed and have decided him to get away. If he was responsible for the murder, there would be even more reason why he should leave in a hurry. The arrival of the police, who would find the body, would, of course, have been fatal to him.”

“Did anybody see Wellington Brown go into the house?” asked Tab. It was a question he meant to have put before.

“Nobody,” said the detective. “At what hour he arrived only Walters can tell us.”

He folded the telegram and put it away, then unlocking the door from the study which led to the passage, he went down the steps and stopping only to switch on the lights, made his way into the vault. One by one the boxes were taken down, emptied of their contents and carefully examined.

Money was everywhere; banknotes, treasury bills, money in the greasy notes of a Chinese Government bank, money in the shape of Greek drachmas and Italian lira. Sometimes a box would contain nothing but these valuable squares of paper, sometimes a box held thick packets of correspondence addressed to Trasmere, at queer looking towns in Northern China. All bore the same clerkly number, generally written in green ink, and none of them threw any light whatever upon the tragedy they were investigating.

In the last box of all, the correspondence was more recent. It was mostly typewritten copies of letters, evidently addressed by the dead man to various corporations with whom he had dealings, and these they went through letter by letter.

“Where were those typed?” said Carver. “And when? He doesn’t seem to have kept a secretary.”

Until that moment Tab had forgotten the discovery of the typewriter-key-cover. Now he referred to the find.

“But he used to go out every night at half-past six and remain away until half-past eight,” said Tab. “Probably he went to some typewriting office⁠—there are a few in the city which make a specialty of after-hours work.”

“That is possible,” admitted Carver. “There is nothing here. I have sent anything that looked important to the translators⁠—I don’t think it is worth while sending the trading accounts of ’89.” He put the papers carefully back into the box. “And that’s the lot,” he said.

Tab was standing with his back to the lower shelf to the right hand of the door and his fingers were idly touching the plain strip of steel, when he felt something underneath and looking down, saw that the obstruction which his fingers had found was one of two slides on which hung a drawer. This had been pushed so far back that it was impossible to see it from where they had stood.

The detective stooped and picked it out.

“Hullo,” he said, “what are these?”

He brought out first a small box of Chinese workmanship. It was exquisitely lacquered in pale green. Lifting off the lid he saw that it was empty.

“Nothing there⁠—some curio he was hoarding,” said Carver.

Next he produced a small brown jewel-case from the drawer and putting it on the broad shelf, opened it.

Even before he saw the heart-shaped ruby brooch that was pinned to the satin lining of the lid, Tab knew what it was.

“Those are Ursula Ardfern’s jewels,” he said, and they looked at one another.

“The jewels that were stolen on Saturday morning?” asked the detective incredulously.

Tab nodded and the detective took out an emerald cross, turned it over, looked at its face, then put it back again.

“On Saturday morning,” he said slowly, “if I remember the facts aright, and I only read them in the newspaper this morning, Miss Ursula Ardfern went into a post office to buy some stamps. Whilst she was there she put her jewel-case by her side, and looking round, discovered it was gone. Thinking she had made some mistake, she went back to her hotel and searched her room. She reported it to the police on Sunday morning.”

“That is the case as I understand it,” said Tab, who was as dumbfounded as his companion.

“And three or four hours after Miss Ardfern lost her jewels, Trasmere was murdered in this room. The jewels were here at that time, because obviously nobody has been in or out of this room since Trasmere was murdered, except possibly the murderer; in other words, in the space of two hours, the jewels were stolen and conveyed to Jesse Trasmere and locked in his strongroom⁠—why?” He stared at Tab.

Tab could only stare back. Carver scratched his head, massaged the back of his neck irritably, rubbed his chin, and then: “In other circumstances, one would say that Trasmere was a receiver. I have known some very unlikely people who were receivers of stolen property and grew rich on the proceeds, and I have known very unlikely folk to loan money, not only to actresses, but very substantial people, on the security of their jewels. Had we not Miss Ardfern’s report of their loss, the obvious explanation would have been that these had been pledged to Trasmere in security for a loan.”

“I am perfectly sure she doesn’t know Trasmere. I happen to be⁠—an⁠—an acquaintance of hers,” said Tab quickly.

Again the detective was giving contortional evidence of his perplexity. His long face was longer still, his down-turned face more melancholy.

“Anyway, there is no question of pledge. The only thing we have to decide is, whether he was the kind of man who would receive stolen property.” He glanced round at the black boxes which filled the shelves and shook his head. “The probability is all against that theory,” he said. “Trasmere was too rich a man to run the risk. Besides we should have found other property. It is not likely that he would act as receiver for one gang of thieves, and for only one of their crimes.”

He hoisted himself to the top of the table, pushed his hands in his trousers pockets and with his chin on his breast, considered.

“Now, that beats me,” he said at last. “I admit that I am thoroughly and absolutely beaten. You are perfectly sure that these are Miss Ardfern’s jewels?”

“I am absolutely certain that it is her jewel-case. Probably at headquarters they have a description of the jewels which are lost,” said Tab.

“Then we’ll settle that little mystery at once.”

He was telephoning for a quarter of an hour, taking notes all the time, and when he hung up the receiver, he turned to Tab.

“Without having carefully looked at the pieces in that box,” he said, “I think it is absolutely certain that those jewels are Miss Ardfern’s. She gave a fairly complete list to the police, but could not remember every item. We will go along and check our inventory.”

He had not been at work long before it was clear that the jewelry was Ursula Ardfern’s property.

“Go along and see her, Tab,” said Carver. “Take the empty box with you⁠—we had better hold on to the jewelry a little longer⁠—and ask her to identify the case.”