Trent’s Last Case. John Curran

prospectuses, and that. A few letters on private matters, nothing in them that I can see. The American secretary—Bunner his name is, and a queerer card I never saw turned—he’s been through this desk with me this morning. He had got it into his head that Manderson had been receiving threatening letters, and that the murder was the outcome of that. But there’s no trace of any such thing; and we looked at every blessed paper. The only unusual things we found were some packets of banknotes to a considerable amount, and a couple of little bags of unset diamonds. I asked Mr Bunner to put them in a safer place. It appears that Manderson had begun buying diamonds lately as a speculation—it was a new game to him, the secretary said, and it seemed to amuse him.’

      ‘What about these secretaries?’ Trent enquired. ‘I met one called Marlowe just now outside; a nice-looking chap with singular eyes, unquestionably English. The other, it seems, is an American. What did Manderson want with an English secretary?’

      ‘Mr Marlowe explained to me how that was. The American was his right-hand business man, one of his office staff, who never left him. Mr Marlowe had nothing to do with Manderson’s business as a financier, knew nothing of it. His job was to look after Manderson’s horses and motors and yacht and sporting arrangements and that—make himself generally useful, as you might say. He had the spending of a lot of money, I should think. The other was confined entirely to the office affairs, and I dare say he had his hands full. As for his being English, it was just a fad of Manderson’s to have an English secretary. He’d had several before Mr Marlowe.’

      ‘He showed his taste,’ observed Trent. ‘It might be more than interesting, don’t you think, to be minister to the pleasures of a modern plutocrat with a large P. Only they say that Manderson’s were exclusively of an innocent kind. Certainly Marlowe gives me the impression that he would be weak in the part of Petronius. But to return to the matter in hand.’ He looked at his notes. ‘You said just now that he was last seen alive here, “so far as the servants were concerned”. That meant—?’

      ‘He had a conversation with his wife on going to bed. But for that, the manservant, Martin by name, last saw him in this room. I had his story last night, and very glad he was to tell it. An affair like this is meat and drink to the servants of the house.’

      Trent considered for some moments, gazing through the open window over the sun-flooded slopes. ‘Would it bore you to hear what he has to say again?’ he asked at length. For reply, Mr Murch rang the bell. A spare, clean-shaven, middle-aged man, having the servant’s manner in its most distinguished form, answered it.

      ‘This is Mr Trent, who is authorised by Mrs Manderson to go over the house and make inquiries,’ explained the detective. ‘He would like to hear your story.’ Martin bowed distantly. He recognised Trent for a gentleman. Time would show whether he was what Martin called a gentleman in every sense of the word.

      ‘I observed you approaching the house, sir,’ said Martin with impassive courtesy. He spoke with a slow and measured utterance. ‘My instructions are to assist you in every possible way. Should you wish me to recall the circumstances of Sunday night?’

      ‘Please,’ said Trent with ponderous gravity. Martin’s style was making clamorous appeal to his sense of comedy. He banished with an effort all vivacity of expression from his face.

      ‘I last saw Mr Manderson—’

      ‘No, not that yet,’ Trent checked him quietly. ‘Tell me all you saw of him that evening—after dinner, say. Try to recollect every little detail.’

      ‘After dinner, sir?—yes. I remember that after dinner Mr Manderson and Mr Marlowe walked up and down the path through the orchard, talking. If you ask me for details, it struck me they were talking about something important, because I heard Mr Manderson say something when they came in through the back entrance. He said, as near as I can remember, “If Harris is there, every minute is of importance. You want to start right away. And not a word to a soul.” Mr Marlowe answered, “Very well. I will just change out of these clothes and then I am ready”—or words to that effect. I heard this plainly as they passed the window of my pantry. Then Mr Marlowe went up to his bedroom, and Mr Manderson entered the library and rang for me. He handed me some letters for the postman in the morning and directed me to sit up, as Mr Marlowe had persuaded him to go for a drive in the car by moonlight.’

      ‘That was curious,’ remarked Trent.

      ‘I thought so, sir. But I recollected what I had heard about “not a word to a soul”, and I concluded that this about a moonlight drive was intended to mislead.’

      ‘What time was this?’

      ‘It would be about ten, sir, I should say. After speaking to me, Mr Manderson waited until Mr Marlowe had come down and brought round the car. He then went into the drawing-room, where Mrs Manderson was.’

      ‘Did that strike you as curious?’

      Martin looked down his nose. ‘If you ask me the question, sir,’ he said with reserve, ‘I had not known him enter that room since we came here this year. He preferred to sit in the library in the evenings. That evening he only remained with Mrs Manderson for a few minutes. Then he and Mr Marlowe started immediately.’

      ‘You saw them start?’

      ‘Yes, sir. They took the direction of Bishopsbridge.’

      ‘And you saw Mr Manderson again later?’

      ‘After an hour or thereabouts, sir, in the library. That would have been about a quarter past eleven, I should say; I had noticed eleven striking from the church. I may say I am peculiarly quick of hearing, sir.’

      ‘Mr Manderson had rung the bell for you, I suppose. Yes? And what passed when you answered it?’

      ‘Mr Manderson had put out the decanter of whisky and a syphon and glass, sir, from the cupboard where he kept them—’

      Trent held up his hand. ‘While we are on that point, Martin, I want to ask you plainly, did Mr Manderson drink very much? You understand this is not impertinent curiosity on my part. I want you to tell me, because it may possibly help in the clearing up of this case.’

      ‘Perfectly, sir,’ replied Martin gravely. ‘I have no hesitation in telling you what I have already told the inspector. Mr Manderson was, considering his position in life, a remarkably abstemious man. In my four years of service with him I never knew anything of an alcoholic nature pass his lips, except a glass or two of wine at dinner, very rarely a little at luncheon, and from time to time a whisky and soda before going to bed. He never seemed to form a habit of it. Often I used to find his glass in the morning with only a little soda water in it; sometimes he would have been having whisky with it, but never much. He never was particular about his drinks; ordinary soda was what he preferred, though I had ventured to suggest some of the natural minerals, having personally acquired a taste for them in my previous service. He used to keep them in the cupboard here, because he had a great dislike of being waited on more than was necessary. It was an understood thing that I never came near him after dinner unless sent for. And when he sent for anything, he liked it brought quick, and to be left alone again at once. He hated to be asked if he required anything more. Amazingly simple in his tastes, sir, Mr Manderson was.’

      ‘Very well; and he rang for you that night about a quarter past eleven. Now can you remember exactly what he said?’

      ‘I think I can tell you with some approach to accuracy, sir. It was not much. First he asked me if Mr Bunner had gone to bed, and I replied that he had been gone up some time. He then said that he wanted someone to sit up until 12.30, in case an important message should come by telephone, and that Mr Marlowe having gone to Southampton for him in the motor, he wished me to do this, and that I was to take down the message if it came, and not disturb him. He also ordered a fresh syphon of soda water. I believe that was all, sir.’

      ‘You noticed nothing unusual about him, I suppose?’

      ‘No, sir, nothing unusual. When I answered the ring, he was seated at the desk listening at the telephone, waiting for a number, as I supposed. He gave his orders