The Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley. Tracy Louis

By hook or by crook, journalism would triumph. He had often been amazed at the extent and accuracy of news items concerning the most secret inquiries. Of course the reporters sometimes missed the heart of an intricate case. In this instance, they had never heard of the bond robbery, though the numbers of the stolen securities had been advertised widely. Moreover, he was free to admit that if every fact known to the police were published broadcast, no one would be a penny the worse; for thus far the crime was singularly lacking in motive.

      Meanwhile Furneaux had fastened on to Brodie again.

      "You saw me at once?" he began.

      "I couldn't miss you, sir," said the chauffeur, a solid, stolid mechanic, who understood his engine and a road map thoroughly, and left the rest to Providence. "I wasn't payin' particular attention, yet I twigged you the minute you popped up."

      "So it is reasonable to suppose that if any one had appeared in that same place this morning and taken steady aim at Mr. Fenley, you would have twigged him, too."

      "It strikes me that way, sir."

      "Did you see nothing – not even a puff of smoke? You must certainly have looked at the wood when you heard the shot."

      "I did, sir. Not a leaf moved. Just a couple of pheasants flew out, and the rooks around the house kicked up such a row that I didn't know the Guv'nor was down till Harris shouted."

      "Where did the pheasants fly from?"

      "They kem out a bit below the rock; but they were risin' birds, an' may have started from the ground higher up."

      "No birds were startled before the shot was fired?"

      "Not to my knowledge, sir. But June pheasants are very tame, and they lie marvelous close. A pheasant would just as soon run as fly."

      The detectives began a detailed inquiry almost at once. It covered the ground already traversed, and the only new incident happened when Hilton Fenley, at the moment repeating his evidence, was called to the telephone.

      "If either of you cares to smoke there are cigars and Virginia cigarettes on the sideboard," he said. "Or, if you prefer Turkish, here are some," and he laid a gold case on the table. Furneaux grabbed it when the door had closed.

      "All neurotics use Turkish cigarettes," he said solemnly. "Ah, I guessed it! A strong, vile, scented brand!"

      "Sometimes, my dear Charles, you talk rubbish," sighed Winter.

      "Maybe. I never think or smoke it. 'Language was given us to conceal our thoughts,' said Talleyrand. I have always admired Talleyrand, 'that rather middling bishop but very eminent knave,' as de Quincey called him. 'Cré nom! I wonder what de Quincey meant by 'middling.' A man who could keep in the front rank under the Bourbons, during the Revolution, with Napoleon, and back again under the Bourbons, and yet die in bed, must have been superhuman. St. Peter, in his stead, would have lost his napper at least four times."

      Winter stirred uneasily, and gazed out across the Italian garden and park, for the detectives were again installed in the dining-room.

      "What about that artist, Trenholme?" he said after a pause.

      "We'll look him up. Before leaving this house I want to peep into various rooms. And there's Tomlinson. Tomlinson is a rich mine. Do leave him to me. I'll dig into him deep, and extract ore of high percentage – see if I don't."

      "Do you know, Charles, I've a notion that we shall get closer to bed-rock in London than here."

      Furneaux pretended to look for an invisible halo surrounding his chief's close-cropped bullet head.

      "Sometimes," he said reverently, "you frighten me when you bring off a brilliant remark like that. I seem to see lightning zigzagging round Jove's dome."

      Fenley returned.

      "It was a call from the bank," he announced. "They have just seen the newspapers. I told them I would run up to town this afternoon."

      "Then you did not telephone Bishopsgate Street earlier?" inquired Winter, permitting himself to be surprised.

      "No. I had other things to bother me."

      "Now, Mr. Fenley, can you tell me where your brother is?"

      "I can not."

      He placed a rather unnecessary emphasis on the negative. The question seemed to disturb him. Evidently, if he could consult his own wishes, he would prefer not to discuss his brother.

      "I take it he has not been home since leaving here on Saturday?" persisted Winter.

      "That is so."

      "Had he quarreled with your father?"

      "There was a dispute. Really, Mr. Winter, I must decline to go into family affairs."

      "But the probability is that the more we know the less our knowledge will affect your brother."

      The door opened again. Mr. Winter was wanted on the telephone. Then there happened one of those strange coincidences which Furneaux's caustic wit had christened "Winter's Yorkers," being a quaint play on the lines:

      Now is the Winter of our discontent

      Made glorious Summer by this sun of York.

      For the Superintendent had scarcely squeezed his big body into the telephone box when he became aware of a mixup on the line; a querulous voice was saying:

      "I insist on being put through. I am speaking from Mr. Fenley's bank, and it is monstrous that I should be kept waiting. I've been trying for twenty minutes – "

      Buzz. The protest was squelched.

      "Are you there?" came the calm accents of the Assistant Commissioner.

      "Yes, sir," said Winter.

      "Any progress?"

      "A little. Oddly enough, you are in the nick of time to help materially. Will you ring off, and find out from the exchange who 'phoned here two minutes ago? I don't mean Fenley's Bank, which is just trying to get through. I want to know who made the preceding call, which was effective."

      "I understand. Good-by."

      Winter explained in the dining-room that the Assistant Commissioner was anxious for news. He had hardly finished when the footman reappeared. A call for Mr. Hilton Fenley.

      "Confound the telephone," snapped Fenley. "We won't have a moment's peace all day, I suppose."

      Winter winked heavily at Furneaux. He waited until Fenley's hurried footsteps across a creaking parquet floor had died away.

      "This is the bank's call," he murmured. "The other was from the Lord knows who. I've put the Yard on the track. I wonder why he lied about it."

      "He's a queer sort of brother, too," said Furneaux. "It strikes me he wants to put Robert in the cart."

      CHAPTER V

      A Family Gathering

      Fenley was frowning when he reappeared.

      "Another call from the Bank," he said gruffly. "Everything there is at sixes and sevens since the news was howled through the City. That is why I really must go to town later. I'm not altogether sorry. The necessity of bringing my mind to bear on business will leaven the surfeit of horrors I've borne this morning…

      "Now, about my brother, Mr. Winter. While listening to Mr. Brown's condolences – you remember Brown, the cashier, Mr. Furneaux – I was thinking of more vital matters. A policy of concealment often defeats its own object, and I have come to the conclusion that you ought to know of a dispute between my father and Robert. There's a woman in the case, of course. It's a rather unpleasant story, too. Poor Bob got entangled with a married woman some months ago. He was infatuated at first, but would have broken it off recently were it not for fear of divorce proceedings."

      "Would you make the position a little clearer, sir?" said Winter, who also was listening and thinking. He was quite certain that when he met Mr. Brown he would meet the man who had been worrying a telephone exchange "during the last twenty minutes."

      "I – I can't." And Fenley's hand brushed