The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips Oppenheim

in a most mysterious manner,” Heneage continued. “You have gathered, I dare say, from your knowledge of me, that these affairs always interest me immensely. I am almost as great a crank as the Colonel. I have been thinking over this case a great deal, but I must confess that up to to-night I have not been able to see a gleam of daylight. I had dismissed the young lady from my mind. Now, however, I cannot do so.”

      “Simply because you saw her with the Baroness de Sturm?” Wrayson asked.

      “They are living together,” Heneage reminded him, “a condition which naturally makes for a certain amount of intimacy.”

      “Do you know anything against the Baroness?” Wrayson demanded.

      “Against her?” Heneage repeated thoughtfully. “Well, that depends.”

      “Do you mean to insinuate that she is an adventuress?” Wrayson asked bluntly.

      “Certainly not,” Heneage replied. “She is a representative of one of the oldest families in Europe, a persona grata at the Court of her country, and an intimate friend of Queen Helena’s. She is by no means an adventuress.”

      “Then why,” Wrayson asked, “should you attach such significance to the fact of her friendship with Miss Deveney?”

      “Because,” Heneage remarked, lighting another cigarette, “I happen to know that the Baroness is at present under the strictest police surveillance!”

      Wrayson started. Heneage’s first statement had reassured him: his later one was simply terrifying. He stared at his visitor in dumb alarm.

      “I came to know of this in rather a curious way,” Heneage continued. “My information, in fact, came direct from her own country. She is being watched with extraordinary care, in connection with some affair of which I must confess that I know nothing. She is staying in London, a city which I happen to know she detests, without any ostensible reason. Of all parts, she has chosen Battersea as a place of residence. It is her companion whom I saw leaving your flat at three o’clock on the morning of Barnes’ murder. I am bound to say, Wrayson, that I find these facts interesting.”

      “Why have you come to me?” Wrayson asked. “What are you going to do about them?”

      “I am going to set myself the task of solving the mystery of Morris Barnes’ death,” Heneage answered calmly. “If I succeed, I am very much afraid that, directly or indirectly, the presence of Miss Deveney in the flats that night will become known.”

      “And you advise me, therefore,” Wrayson remarked, “to take a voyage—in plain words, to clear out.”

      “Exactly,” Heneage agreed.

      Wrayson threw his cigarette angrily into the fire.

      “What the devil business is it of yours?” he demanded.

      Heneage looked at him steadily.

      “Wrayson,” he said, “I am sorry that you should use that tone with me. I am no moralist. I admit frankly that I take this matter up because my personal tastes prompt me to. But murder, however great the provocation, is an indefensible thing.”

      “I am not seeking to justify it,” Wrayson declared.

      “I am glad to hear that,” Heneage answered. “I cannot believe, either, that you would shield any one directly or indirectly connected with such a crime. I am going to ask you, therefore, to tell me what Miss Deveney was doing in these flats on that particular evening.”

      Wrayson was silent. In the light of what he had just been told about the Baroness, he knew very well how Heneage would regard the truth. Of course, she was innocent, innocent of the deed itself and of all knowledge of it. But Heneage did not know her; he would be hard to convince. So Wrayson shook his head.

      “I can tell you nothing,” he said. “I admit frankly my sympathies are not with you. I should not say a word likely to bring even inconvenience upon Miss Deveney.”

      “Dare you tell me,” Heneage asked calmly, “that her visit was to you? No! I thought not,” he added, as Wrayson remained silent. “I believe that that young lady could solve the mystery of Morris Barnes’ death, if she chose.”

      Then Wrayson had an idea. At any rate, the disclosure would do no harm.

      “Do you know who Miss Deveney is?” he asked.

      Heneage looked across at him quickly.

      “Do you?”

      “Yes! She is the eldest daughter of the Colonel!”

      “Our Colonel?” Heneage exclaimed.

      Wrayson nodded.

      “Her real name is Miss Fitzmaurice,” he said. “Her mother’s name was Deveney.”

      Heneage looked incredulous.

      “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

      “Absolutely,” Wrayson answered. “I saw her picture the day of the garden party, and I recognized her at once. There is no doubt about it whatever. She and the Baroness were schoolfellows in Brussels. There is no mystery about their friendship at all.”

      Heneage was thoughtful for several moments.

      “This is interesting,” he said at last, “but it does not, of course, affect the situation.”

      “You mean that you will go on just the same?” Wrayson demanded.

      “Certainly! And it rests with you to say whether you will be on my side or theirs,” Heneage declared. “If you are on mine, you will tell me what Miss Deveney was doing in these flats on that night of all others. If you are on theirs, you will go and warn them that I am determined to solve the mystery of Morris Barnes’ death—at all costs.”

      “I had no idea,” Wrayson remarked quietly, “that you were ambitious to shine as an amateur policeman.”

      “We all have our hobbies,” Heneage answered. “Take the Colonel, for instance, the most harmless, the most good-natured man who ever lived. Nothing in the world fascinates him so much as the details of a tragedy like this, however gruesome they may be. I have seen him handle a murderer’s knife as though he loved it. His favourite museum is the professional Chamber of Horrors in Scotland Yard. My own interests run in a slightly different direction. I like to look at an affair of this sort as a chess problem, and to set myself to solve it. I like to make a silent study of all the characters around, to search for motives and dissect evidence. Human nature has its secrets, and very wonderful secrets too.”

      “I once,” Wrayson said thoughtfully, “saw a man tracked down by bloodhounds. My sympathies were with the man.”

      Heneage nodded.

      “Your view of life,” he remarked, “was always a sentimental one.”

      “No correct view,” Wrayson declared, “can ignore sentiment.”

      “Granted; but it must be true sentiment, not false,” Heneage said. “This sentiment which interferes with justice is false sentiment.”

      “Justice is altogether an arbitrary, a relative phrase,” Wrayson declared. “I know no more about the case of Morris Barnes than you do. I knew the man by sight and repute, and I knew the manner of his life, and it seems to me a likely thing that there is more human justice about his death than in the punishing the person who compassed it.”

      “There are cases of that sort,” Heneage admitted. “That is the advantage of being an amateur, like myself. My discoveries, if I make any, are my own. I am not bound to publish them.”

      Wrayson smiled a little bitterly.

      “You would be less than human if you didn’t,” he said.

      Heneage rose to his feet and began putting on his coat. Wrayson remained in his seat, without offering to help him.