The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

letters seemed to me to show but little real happiness."

      "Ah! his letters! May I see them?"

      "Oh, I couldn't! My son's letters to me? Oh, no!" She shook her head resolutely, but he insisted, pointing out in his kindest way that the matter could not rest where it was, that some motive must have lain behind that draught of morphia, and that the letters might furnish the explanation. All of which was strictly true. Mrs. Erskine looked at him tragically.

      "I cannot do it! I canna!" she whispered brokenly, but finally he persuaded her to draw out from under her cushion a leather pocket-book.

      "Don't—don't misjudge him," she pleaded earnestly, looking away. "He was a good son and loved me, but it's not easy for a lad to put his love into words, is it?"

      Certainly Robert Erskine had made but little effort in that direction. The letters were only those of the current year, with the exception of his last Christmas letter. Each was the barest of prefaces to a demand for money to pay some pressing debt. In one he apparently half-shamefacedly had added that the devil only knew where all his own money went to. In another, evidently in answer to some suggestion of his mother about living with an object in view, was a caustic line as to the differing estimates put on objects by an old lady and a young man; as for himself, he added candidly, it was to "squeeze the most out of this rotten show."

      As a light on his character the four were damning in their clearness, and in so far they gave the Chief Inspector a very good idea of the vicious circle in which Robert Erskine must have lived; but they mentioned no names and no facts. Not even an address was given. The mother was directed to send the sums asked for, and very big sums they totaled all together, to the Toronto main postoffice. There was never a date or heading, but the Toronto post-mark on the envelopes supplied some clue. Of coming to Europe there was no word. It looked much as though young Robert's journey might easily have been a flight from unpleasant consequences, for Pointer knew, none better, where such paths as these could lead. He handed back the letters without a word, except of thanks. Mrs. Erskine covered her face with her hands and said nothing for a moment.

      "You'll not—they don't do my poor lad justice—I shan't be called on to show them again?"

      "No, no, madame!" Pointer was thankful that he need not turn the knife in a mother's wound. "No, there will be no necessity for any mention of them. But his other letters, now-?"

      "I didn't keep them," she spoke in a low, pained voice, "you see, I never dreamt that they might be all that I should ever have—I always thought he would let me make my home with him some day—living alone is hard when your son is so far away—but that was not to be."

      "You have no other letters from him, then?"

      "None. I destroyed them each year. I make a practice of never keeping letters long. My health is none too certain."

      "Did he ever refer to a John Carter in them?"

      "You mean the John Carter to whom he left his money? Mr. Russell asked me about him, too. No, I never knew him mention any names or places to me."

      "You know nothing of a man called Beale?"

      "Nothing whatever."

      Clearly it was no use putting any questions to her as to Robert's political views. "Before I leave, could you tell me how much his uncle left him?"

      Mrs. Erskine sat silent awhile, evidently thinking deeply. She seemed a very accurate person. "He did say how much it was, but I forget the exact figures. I know he conveyed the impression that"—she bit her lip—"well, that the ball of life was now at his feet. My dear husband always spoke of Ian as a wealthier man than himself, but more than that I can't say."

      It was a most painful interview. Pointer was thankful when he could close the door gently behind him with a gesture symbolical of his respectful pity.

      Watts met him at Victoria Station, late though it was. The detective was eager to wipe out the memory of Mr. Russell's visit to the hotel room.

      "I came across an interesting bit of evidence yesterday, sir," he began as soon as they were in the taxi, "in the manager's room. You know that steel locked box in his desk? Well, he left his keys on his desk for a moment. I slipped out of his bedroom, where I was keeping an eye on him in accordance with your instructions, and unlocked it. He rushed back a second later, picked up his keys, and hurried off. I opened the box. There was nothing in it but a new check book for the Chiswick branch of the Midland bank with one check gone. It was a close shave, for I had hardly laid it back in the box and put it away again in its drawer when he came back and went on with his writing. It was an order for some repairs. I slipped out and down to Chiswick, and there I had a bit of luck. Their doorkeeper is Higgins of the City Police. He and I used to be on the same beat. So I showed him the manager's photo, and had a chat with him. He said the manager gave the name of Parsons, and called at the bank to open an account. Higgins has been at the branch for fourteen years, so he has the run of the place, and during the lunch hour he managed to get a look at the signature book. There was only one Parsons in it—T. A. Parsons, of 8 Parma Crt., Turnham Green. He had opened a current account on August 6, but the amount Higgins couldn't find out. Off I went to the address. It's a block of flats, and at No. 8 I asked for Mr. Parsons. It seemed that on last Monday a Mr. Parsons had taken a room which had been advertised as to let. The landlady asked for payment in advance, so he paid for a week as requested, and called daily for letters, saying that as his mother was ill he might not move in till later in the week. She had not seen him since Thursday, when he had left a note saying that he was giving up the room, as his mother's illness was taking a turn for the worse. I showed her the manager's picture, which she and the servant identified as Mr. Parsons. I pretended to be from his bank, and said that there was some difficulty about a pass book I had sent him which he had not received. Did she know his home address? She did not. But both she and the slavey were certain that a thick, sealed envelope, such as generally contains a pass book, had arrived, with the bank's name on the seals, on the morning when Mr. Parsons had left. That's all, sir.''

      "Good work, Watts, though, of course, it won't prove anything. A hotel manager will have a dozen excuses for a separate account, even under an assumed name, but still—it all fits in—perhaps too well. At any rate, it shows us what first class men we have trailing him."

      "It's Marsh and Ketteridge, sir: they're both sharp fellows; but they say that the manager goes to his club and vanishes, or to some shop they've never heard of, which turns out to have a dozen entrances. Oh, he's clever enough!" They had arrived at Pointer's rooms, but he had Watts follow him in and share a supper.

      "What changes at the hotel itself?"

      "Two of the first floor rooms have fresh occupants. Mrs. Willett is still staying on. Miss Leslie is in bed with a bad cold."

      "Nothing odd noticed?" Pointer asked the routine questions.

      "Nothing reported by Miller, sir."

      Only when the men had finished an excellent meal of gravy soup and fried chicken did Pointer hold out his hand for any cables from the Canadian police.

      There were two. The first one ran:

      Toronto. John Carter, assistant manager of the Amalgamated Silk Mills of this town. Served in the war. Promoted Sergeant. Had local reputation of trustworthy man, but disappeared July fifteenth, together with Manager Robert Erskine. Warrant out for both men issued July eighteenth for embezzlement of the Amalgamated's funds.

      This was quite along the lines Pointer had expected. He opened the second. It ran:

      Robert Erskine, Scotsman. Came Toronto seven years ago from Calgary as Manager of Amalgamated Silk Mills. Invested twenty thousand in Mills. Did well at first. Gone downhill since war. In hands of money-lenders. Disappeared June fifteenth, together with Assistant Manager John Carter. Warrant issued June eighteenth against both men for embezzlement of the Amalgamated's funds to amount not yet ascertained.

      Both cables were signed by the Toronto Police Commissioner.

      Watts had already seen them when the Assistant Commissioner at the Yard had sent them in. As no comment was made he ventured