ARTHUR MORRISON Ultimate Collection: 80+ Mysteries, Detective Stories & Dark Fantasy Tales (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

at an unusual time, letting himself in with his latchkey, and went away at once with a bag, but the accounts of the exact time are contradictory. One servant thought it was before twelve, and another insisted that it was after one. He has not been back.”

      “And the office boy—can’t you get some information out of him?”

      “He hasn’t been seen since the morning. I expect Denson told him to take a whole holiday. I can’t find where he lives, at the moment, but no doubt he will turn up to-morrow. Not that I expect to get much from him. But I shan’t bother. Unless Mr. Samuel will answer satisfactorily some very plain questions I shall ask—and I don’t expect he will—I shall throw up the commission. He called, by the way, not long ago, but I was out. We shall see him in the morning, I expect.”

      A look round Denson’s office taught me no more than it had taught Hewitt already. There were two small rooms, one inside the other, with ordinary and cheap office furniture. It was quite plain that any man of ordinary activity and size could have got out of the inner room into the corridor by the means which Samuel suggested—through the hinged wall-light, near the ceiling. Hewitt had meddled with nothing—he would do no more till he was satisfied of the bonâ fides of his client; certainly he would not commit himself to breaking open desks or cupboards. And so, the time for my attendance at the office approaching—I was working on the Morning Phoenix then, and ten at night saw my work begin—we shut Denson’s office, and went away.

      III

      In the morning I was awakened by an impatient knocking at my bedroom door. Going to bed at two or three I was naturally a late riser, and this was about nine. I scrambled sleepily out of bed, and turned the key. Hewitt was standing in my sitting-room, with a newspaper in his hand.

      “Sorry to break your morning sleep, Brett,” he said, “but something interesting has happened in regard to that business you helped me with yesterday, and you may like to know. Crawl back into bed if you like.”

      But I was already in my dressing-gown, and groping for my clothes. “No, no, come in and tell me,” I said. “What is it?”

      Hewitt sat on the bed. “I’ll tell you in due order,” he said. “First, I saw Samuel again last night—after you had gone away. You remember I went back to my office; I had a letter or two to write which I had set aside in the afternoon. Well, I wrote the letters, shut up, and went downstairs. I opened the outer door, and there was Samuel, in the act of ringing the housekeeper’s bell. He said he was very anxious, and couldn’t sleep without coming to hear if I had made any progress; he had called before, but I was out. I half thought of taking him back to my office, but decided that it wasn’t worth while. So I walked along to the corner of the Strand, till I got him well under the lights. Then I stopped and talked to him. ‘You ask about the progress in your case, Mr. Samuel,’ I said. ‘Now, I have sometimes met people who seem to consider me a sort of prophet, seer, or diviner. As a matter of fact, I am nothing but a professional investigator, and even if I were possessed of such an amazing genius as I lay no claim to, I could never succeed in a case, nor even make progress in it, if my client started me with false information, or only told me half the truth. More, when I find that such is the state of affairs, and that if I am to succeed I must begin by investigating my client before I proceed with his case, I throw that case up on the instant—invariably. Do you understand that? Now I must tell you that I have made no progress with your case, none; for that very reason.’”

      “He protested, of course—vowed he had told me the simple truth, and so forth. I replied by asking him certain definite questions. First, I asked him whose the diamonds were. He repeated that they were his own. To that I simply replied, ‘Good evening, Mr. Samuel,’ and turned away. He came after me beseechingly, and prevaricated. He said something about another party having an interest, but the matter being confidential. To that I responded by asking him with whom he had communicated before sending for me, and who was the person in the brougham which he had twice entered. That flabbergasted him. He said that he couldn’t answer those questions without bringing other parties into the matter, to which I answered that it was just those other parties that I meant to know about, if I were to move a step in the matter. At this he got into a sad state—imploring, actually imploring, me not to desert him. He said he should do something desperate—something terrible—that night if I didn’t relieve his mind, and undertake the case. What he meant he’d do I didn’t know, of course, but it didn’t move me. I said finally that I would deal only with principals, and that until I had the personal instructions of the actual owner of the diamonds, in addition to a complete explanation of the brougham incident, I should do nothing, and I recommended him to go to the police; and with that I left him.”

      “And you got nothing more from him than that?”

      “Nothing more; but it was something, you see. He admitted, to all intents, that the diamonds were not his own. And now see here. I suppose I left him about ten o’clock. Here is a paragraph in one of this morning’s newspapers. It is only in the one paper; the matter seems to have occurred rather late for press.”

      Hewitt gave me the paper in his hand, pointing to the following paragraph:

      “Horrible Discovery.—A shocking discovery was made just before midnight last night, near the York column, where a police-constable found the dead body of a man lying on the stone steps. The body, which was fully clothed in the ordinary dress of a labouring man, bore plain marks of strangulation, and it was evident that a brutal murder had been committed. A singular circumstance was the presence of a curious reddish mark upon the forehead, at first taken for a wound, but soon discovered to be a mark apparently drawn or impressed on the skin. At the time of going to press, no arrest had been made, and so far the affair appears a mystery.”

      “Well,” I said, “this certainly seems curious, especially in the matter of the mark on the forehead. But what has it all to do——”

      “To do with Samuel and his diamonds, you mean? I’ll tell you. That dead man is Denson!”

      “Denson?” I exclaimed. “Denson? How?”

      “I get it from the housekeeper next door. It seems that when the police came to examine the body they found, among other things—money and a watch, and the like—a piece of an addressed envelope, used to hold a few pins—the pins stuck in and the paper rolled up, you know. There was just enough of it to guess the address by—that of the office next door; and it was the only clue they had. So they came along here at once and knocked up the housekeeper. He went with them and instantly recognised Denson, disguised in labourer’s clothes, but Denson, he says, unmistakably.”

      “And the mark on the forehead?”

      “That is very odd. It is an outlined triangle, rather less than an inch along each side. It is quite red, he says, and seems to be done in a greasy, sticky sort of ink or colour.”

      “Was anything found—the diamonds?”

      “No. He says there was money—two or three five-pound notes, I believe, some small change, a watch, keys and so forth; but there’s not a word of diamonds.”

      I paused in my dressing. “Does that mean that the murderer has got them?” I asked. Hewitt pursed his lips and shook his head. “It may mean that,” he said, “but does it look altogether like it when five-pound notes are left? On the other hand, there is the disguise; the only reason that we know of for that would be that he was bolting with the diamonds. But the really puzzling thing is the mark on the forehead. Why that? Of course, the picturesque and romantic thing to suppose is that it is the mark of some criminal club or society. But criminal associations, such as exist, don’t do silly things like that. When criminals rob and murder, they don’t go leaving their tracks behind them purposely—they leave nothing that could possibly draw attention to them if they can help it; also, they don’t leave five-pound notes. But I’m off to have a look at that mark. Inspector Plummer is in charge of the case—you remember Plummer, don’t you, in the Stanway Cameo case, and two or three others? Well, Plummer is an old friend of mine, and not only am I interested in this