The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

was a providential one. Of course, from the moment that the girl in Manchester was proved to be a plant everything was altered. Young Beresford saw that for himself without my having to tell it him. But he felt he couldn’t trust his judgment on the subject of Miss Cowley. Did I think she was alive? I told him, duly weighing the evidence, that there was a very decided chance in favour of it. That brought us back to the telegram.”

      “Yes?”

      “I advised him to apply to you for a copy of the original wire. It had occurred to me as probable that, after Miss Cowley flung it on the floor, certain words might have been erased and altered with the express intention of setting searchers on a false trail.”

      Carter nodded. He took a sheet from his pocket, and read aloud: “Come at once, Astley Priors, Gatehouse, Kent. Great developments—TOMMY.

      “Very simple,” said Sir James, “and very ingenious. Just a few words to alter, and the thing was done. And the one important clue they overlooked.”

      “What was that?”

      “The page-boy’s statement that Miss Cowley drove to Charing Cross. They were so sure of themselves that they took it for granted he had made a mistake.”

      “Then young Beresford is now?”

      “At Gatehouse, Kent, unless I am much mistaken.”

      Mr. Carter looked at him curiously.

      “I rather wonder you’re not there too, Peel Edgerton?”

      “Ah, I’m busy on a case.”

      “I thought you were on your holiday?”

      “Oh, I’ve not been briefed. Perhaps it would be more correct to say I’m preparing a case. Any more facts about that American chap for me?”

      “I’m afraid not. Is it important to find out who he was?”

      “Oh, I know who he was,” said Sir James easily. “I can’t prove it yet—but I know.”

      The other two asked no questions. They had an instinct that it would be mere waste of breath.

      “But what I don’t understand,” said the Prime-Minister suddenly, “is how that photograph came to be in Mr. Hersheimmer’s drawer?”

      “Perhaps it never left it,” suggested the lawyer gently.

      “But the bogus inspector? Inspector Brown?”

      “Ah!” said Sir James thoughtfully. He rose to his feet. “I mustn’t keep you. Go on with the affairs of the nation. I must get back to—my case.”

      Two days later Julius Hersheimmer returned from Manchester. A note from Tommy lay on his table: “DEAR HERSHEIMMER,

      “Sorry I lost my temper. In case I don’t see you again, good-bye. I’ve been offered a job in the Argentine, and might as well take it. “Yours, “TOMMY BERESFORD.”

      A peculiar smile lingered for a moment on Julius’s face. He threw the letter into the waste-paper basket.

      “The darned fool!” he murmured.

      Chapter 23

       A Race Against Time

       Table of Contents

      AFTER ringing up Sir James, Tommy’s next procedure was to make a call at South Audley Mansions. He found Albert discharging his professional duties, and introduced himself without more ado as a friend of Tuppence’s. Albert unbent immediately.

      “Things has been very quiet here lately,” he said wistfully. “Hope the young lady’s keeping well, sir?”

      “That’s just the point, Albert. She’s disappeared.” You don’t mean as the crooks have got her?”

      “In the Underworld?”

      “No, dash it all, in this world!”

      “It’s a h’expression, sir,” explained Albert. “At the pictures the crooks always have a restoorant in the Underworld. But do you think as they’ve done her in, sir?”

      “I hope not. By the way, have you by any chance an aunt, a cousin, a grandmother, or any other suitable female relation who might be represented as being likely to kick the bucket?”

      A delighted grin spread slowly over Albert’s countenance.

      “I’m on, sir. My poor aunt what lives in the country has been mortal bad for a long time, and she’s asking for me with her dying breath.”

      Tommy nodded approval.

      “Can you report this in the proper quarter and meet me at Charing Cross in an hour’s time?”

      “I’ll be there, sir. You can count on me.”

      As Tommy had judged, the faithful Albert proved an invaluable ally. The two took up their quarters at the inn in Gatehouse. To Albert fell the task of collecting information There was no difficulty about it.

      Astley Priors was the property of a Dr. Adams. The doctor no longer practiced, had retired, the landlord believed, but he took a few private patients—here the good fellow tapped his forehead knowingly—“balmy ones! You understand!” The doctor was a popular figure in the village, subscribed freely to all the local sports—“a very pleasant, affable gentleman.” Been there long? Oh, a matter of ten years or so—might be longer. Scientific gentleman, he was. Professors and people often came down from town to see him. Anyway, it was a gay house, always visitors.

      In the face of all this volubility, Tommy felt doubts. Was it possible that this genial, well-known figure could be in reality a dangerous criminal? His life seemed so open and aboveboard. No hint of sinister doings. Suppose it was all a gigantic mistake? Tommy felt a cold chill at the thought.

      Then he remembered the private patients—“balmy ones.” He inquired carefully if there was a young lady amongst them, describing Tuppence. But nothing much seemed to be known about the patients—they were seldom seen outside the grounds. A guarded description of Annette also failed to provoke recognition.

      Astley Priors was a pleasant red-brick edifice, surrounded by well-wooded grounds which effectually shielded the house from observation from the road.

      On the first evening Tommy, accompanied by Albert, explored the grounds. Owing to Albert’s insistence they dragged themselves along painfully on their stomachs, thereby producing a great deal more noise than if they had stood upright. In any case, these precautions were totally unnecessary. The grounds, like those of any other private house after nightfall, seemed untenanted. Tommy had imagined a possible fierce watchdog. Albert’s fancy ran to a puma, or a tame cobra. But they reached a shrubbery near the house quite unmolested.

      The blinds of the dining-room window were up. There was a large company assembled round the table. The port was passing from hand to hand. It seemed a normal, pleasant company. Through the open window scraps of conversation floated out disjointedly on the night air. It was a heated discussion on county cricket!

      Again Tommy felt that cold chill of uncertainty. It seemed impossible to believe that these people were other than they seemed. Had he been fooled once more? The fair-bearded, spectacled gentleman who sat at the head of the table looked singularly honest and normal.

      Tommy slept badly that night. The following morning the indefatigable Albert, having cemented an alliance with the greengrocer’s boy, took the latter’s place and ingratiated himself with the cook at Malthouse. He returned with the information that she was undoubtedly “one of the crooks,” but Tommy mistrusted the vividness of his imagination. Questioned, he could adduce nothing in support of his statement except his own opinion that she wasn’t the usual kind. You could see that at a glance.

      The substitution being repeated (much to the pecuniary advantage of the