CHAPTER

HILARY SLOANE WAS MUCH in Jimmie Silverdale's mind as he made his way to St. Ronan's Place. She had ever seemed to him a girl without the least touch of that feminine lack of balance that for want of a better word is classed as hysteria. Why should she want to vanish?

      Whatever was at the back of her mind, it was not triviality. Some great emergency had arisen to change her as she had changed. He had promised to ask no questions but he had not promised not to think.

      Was she playing with him? The speculation crossed his mind, though he loyally tried to dismiss it. She had never kissed him before—indeed, she had tried to keep their association on the platonic plane of two chums of the same sex. She had always tried to avoid the intrusion of the attraction of man or woman. Was she playing with him?

      "Good heavens—don't I know her well enough to know that she's dead straight?" snarled Jimmie, answering his own thought aloud. "Only a fool would doubt her."

      He was approaching the foot of St. Ronan's Place and saw Harry coming towards him. The other reporter shrugged his shoulders as they met. "Nothing doing, Silver. The police are in the flat, but they've got their mouths shut tight as oysters."

      "Seen Garfield?" asked Jimmie.

      "Can't get near him. Rack came out of the place just now. Very genial and nice when I tackled him, but didn't know anything about any murder. Said held just called up to visit a sick friend."

      Jimmie chuckled as he rolled a cigarette. The problem of Hilary Sloane had gone for the moment and he was once more a newspaperman on the warpath.

      "Like that, is it? They're asses if they think they can keep a story like this sealed up tight. The days of the censor are over. We've got to get busy. See that board up there?" He pointed to a notice:

      WELL-APPOINTED FLATS TO LET APPLY CARETAKER NO. 3 ST. RONAN'S PLACE

      "What about it?" asked the other blankly.

      "This" said Jimmie. "We'll interview that caretaker and see if we can't take a flat for a week or so near that of the late lamented Harold Saxon. It'll be some policeman who'll prevent us going to and fro from our own flat—eh, Harry?"

      The interview with the caretaker proved fruitful. For the sum of £20, Jimmie found himself the tenant for a period of two weeks of No. 31b, St. Ronan's Place, and on the opposite side of a corridor was the flat in which still lay the dead body of Harold Saxon.

      A plain-clothes police officer was standing at the gate of the lift. He stared blankly at the two journalists. Silverdale smiled on him blandly.

      "'Evening, Wade. Mr. Garfield upstairs?"

      Wade shrugged his burly shoulders. "I don't know anything, Mr. Silverdale," he protested.

      "I'll bet you don't," agreed Jimmie with a grin. "I didn't ask you anything."

      "How'd you get on to this, anyway?" asked the other. "We're supposed to have kept the shutters up on this job."

      "My dear Watson," said Silverdale mockingly, "the inefficiency of the police force is notorious, even in so simple a matter as keeping close the murder of a munition millionaire. I'm here, as you see. What about it?"

      "Cut out the kid stuff," said Wade. "I've heard all about those inefficient police methods. You've got a nose on this kind of thing, Silver, but the guv'nor won't be pleased to see you." He was standing in front of the lift, so that he barred their entrance. "I think on the whole you'd better not butt in for a little while. See?"

      "Meaning you're going to prevent us going up?"

      "Sorry, old sport. I was told to be particular and see that no one interrupted."

      "Do you know I'm a tenant in this block of flats?"

      "He's a great little kidder, " said Wade, addressing the air. "How long have you been living here, Silver?" he continued genially.

      "Go and fetch the caretaker, Harry," said Jimmie. He thrust his hands in his pockets and with legs wide apart whistled cheerfully. Wade surveyed him a little anxiously. He had reason to know Silverdale and he had rarely known him frustrated.

      "You don't expect to get by on that bluff, do you ?"

      "Bluff!" Silverdale was scornful. "You've got another guess coming. I don't bluff. I'm a tenant in these flats, Wade, and a peaceful, law-abiding citizen. These arbitrary police methods don't go down with me as you will find out. Hello—here's the caretaker. Now, my man, tell this gentleman that I'm a tenant in thisplace. He won't believe me."

      "That's so, sir," said the caretaker.

      "Well, I'm dodgasted." Wade was staggered and showed it. "Here—my old son—how long has Mr. Silverdale lived here?"

      The big moon face of the caretaker looked placidly, into the eyes of the detective. Whatever methods Silverdale had employed other than the payment of rent had been thoroughly effective.

      "Mr. Silverdale has been a valued tenant of ours for some time," he lied unblushingly.

      "That's me," said Jimmie. "Run us up, Wade, like a good fellow since you're acting as engineer-in-chief."

      Wade made a grimace, but obeyed.

      Silverdale and his colleague made their way into their new premises and in two minutes had established an observation post from the fanlight of the front door with the aid of a table and kitchen chairs. Watchful waiting was the policy Jimmie had in mind for the moment. While the police were in Saxon's flat, it would be vain to attempt to extract any information from Saxon's housekeeper. Meanwhile, much might be gained by observing the visitors in and out.

      Suddenly the door of the opposing flat flung open and a tall jovial-faced man emerged. Jimmie hurriedly descended from his perch, pushed away the table and unlatched the door.

      "Come right in, Garfield," he said.

      Chief-Detective Inspector Garfield was not the sort of man the average person would have picked on as a disciple of Sherlock Holmes. He had an open, frank, kindly face, and twinkling blue eyes. From his spats upwards, he was a genial, well-dressed, business man. And like most detectives outside the books, he regarded his work as a matter of common sense-common sense and organization.

      He held no illusions that he was a romantic figure—few detectives do. Twenty-odd years in the police service do not make a man romantic. Josiah Garfield was hard on occasion, but the twinkle in his eye proved that he was human.

      He glanced now from the table to the two journalists and smiled. "Hope I'm not disturbing you?" he apologized.

      "Not a bit, not a bit," Jimmie assured him.

      The detective closed the door and walked into thedining-room. "I hear you've taken up your quarters here," he said. "Now—getting right down to things—what's the game?"

      Silverdale was absorbed in rolling a cigarette. He looked up slowly and his eyes met the detective's. " That's what we want to know, he said. "What are you hiding in there?" He jerked his thumb vaguely in the direction of Saxon's flat.. His manner had changed. He was abrupt, direct. "You know me, Garfield. I'm all out on this yarn. The story of Sir Harold Saxon's murder will be all over the world tomorrow. You can't hide your head in the sand like an ostrich. Do you want me to come in with you? Are you going to trust me, or shall I pull things off by myself and perhaps upset the cart?"

      Garfield pulled his upper lip thoughtfully.

      "To tell you the truth, Jimmie, I'd no idea that you were on the job, until Wade told me just now. I'm not going to ask how you got on to this because you wouldn't fell me. I don't trust newspapermen as a rule, but you're different. We didn't want too much to leak out till we had got a bit farther. But I'd sooner have you with me than playing a lone hand. Is that a bet?"

      "We'll call it one," agreed Silverdale.

      It is not a usual rule with Scotland Yard men to take journalists too fully into their confidence, but Garfield knew what he was doing. Silverdale, working purely in the interests of his paper, would consider nothing but the news. It is embarrassing to the detectives when an avenue of inquiry is revealed prematurely, and Silverdale had an aptitude for being first.

      On the other hand, he knew that Silverdale would honorably observe an unspoken compact with the police and act loyally as their ally. It was safer to lay the cards on the table with such a man.

      "Come with me," saidGarfield. "Mr. Silverdale won't be long," he added as he saw Harry show signs of joining them.

      Having thus evaded confiding in a third person, he led the way to the other flat. The journalist observed a police photographer busy at work in the dining-room and, with the detective, moved through to a small interior-room.

      "This," said Garfield abruptly, "is Velvet Fred, known to a few other people in the world as Mr. Frederick Blunt."

      Mr. Frederick Blunt was seated in an upright chair, his wide but well-creased trousers crossed at the knee. His coat descended in a voluminous skirt well over the waist. His suit had obviously been bought in America. He boasted a small black tooth-brush mustache and a pair of small, restless green eyes that darted to and fro across the room like those of a trapped animal. He showed his white teeth in an animal snarl as the detective spoke. Jimmie could see the veins swell on his white hands as he clenched his fists.

      "I'm about fed up with this, he said resentfully. "Haven't you kept me hanging about here long enough? I'm no lackey for the police. If you don't get down to what you want, I'm going to beat it."

      Garfield smiled a suave, dangerous smile. "I'm not stopping you, my friend," he observed. "Beat it, by all means. There's the door, if you want to go."

      Blunt half rose and reached for the billycock that lay beside his chair. Garfield regarded him steadily, smilingly, and the other seemed to appreciate some subtle menace in his gaze, for he sank back again and twiddled nervously with his hat.

      "Mr. Blunt can't tear himself away, you see, Jimmie," went on the detective smoothly.

      "He's very superstitious, is Mr. Blunt, and perhaps he feels that it might be unlucky. Mr. Blunt and you and I, Jimmie, are going to have a nice, cozy, confidential chat. You see, Mr. Blunt has a great deal up his sleeve that he wants to say to us—haven't you, Mr. Blunt?"

      "I didn't croak the stiff." growled Fred.

      "So you. said before. In his own happy way, Jimmie, Mr. Blunt is saying that he did not murder Sir Harold Saxon. Mr. Blunt is an old friend of mine. That's how I knew where to send for him and why he so courteously responded to my invitation to come here. He couldn't refuse. Mr. Blunt has been a little unfortunate once or twice, but he wouldn't kill an old friend—would you, Fred?"

      "Aw—cut out the funny stuff."

      "Now," Garfield leaned forward and laid one finger on the palm of a hand in the manner of a man demonstrating an argument," our friend denies that he ever knew Saxon. That's a lie, isn't it, Freddie?"

      He spoke mildly without any change of voice, and waited for a second for an answer to his challenge. The crook shook his head surlily, roused himself as if to speak and altered his mind.

      "It's a lie," went on the chief inspector. "Mr. Blunt knows a great deal about the finger-print system. This flat has been ransacked from top to bottom and finger-prints have been developed on a dozen different things. This tumbler, for instance."

      As he spoke, he lifted a tumbler from a side table, he held it up to the light. Drawing a small packet from his waistcoat pocket, he sprinkled a little powder on the side of the glass, blew it away, and showed the sharp detail of thumb and finger marks. Blunt was visibly interested. He leaned forward, his little green eyes fixed apprehensively on the glass.

      "That's how it's done," continued Garfield. "I've had photographs taken of finger-prints on other articles and compared with our little collection at the Yard. The gentleman who left his trademark must have paid a visit to this place recently. He'll be lucky if he isn't charged with murder." Suddenly his soft tones changed and his voice rose sternly. "These finger-prints are yours, Freddie. What have you got to say about it?"

      An animal growl came from the white lips of the trapped man. In one single swift moment he was on his feet and an automatic appeared as by magic in his hand. Garfield laughed merrily and flung his huge bulk face forward on the ground. Jimmie leapt aside and then towards Blunt, but quick as he was the detective was quicker.

      As he dropped, Garfield's right hand whipped out and caught Freddie by the ankle. A quick jerk threw him off his balance and he fell heavily, the pistol flying from his hand. Jimmie pounced upon it, but before he could recover himself, Blunt was free and was coming at him with dynamic fury.

      One never knows what a man will do in an emergency. Freddie Blunt was a scoundrel, but among those who knew him best at Scotland Yard, he was not reckoned an apostle of physical violence. Garfield had, however, roused him beyond all reasoning. He saw the shadow of the gallows before him and to avoid it, he was willing to fight in a blind frenzy.

      With blazing eyes he tore at Silverdale. The journalist was hurled aside and staggered against the wall, still grasping the automatic. Garfield was on his feet once again and his muscular hands fastened themselves at the madman's neck. Almost without effort, he lifted the squirming ruffian clean from the floor and held him for a second while he made sure of his grip. Then be flung him heavily across the room.

      "Lie there, you rat!"

      Under the stress of physical conflict, primitive man had flowed out in the usually self-controlled detective for once, but his self-possession returned almost instantly. Not so with Blunt. He lay where he had fallen, breathing heavily, his green eyes flashing from one to the other. Half a dozen men of the corps of detectives who were engaged in various investigations in the flat had clustered round the door. Garfield dismissed them with a gesture.

      "That's all right," he said coolly. "Somebody very nearly got hurt, but it Is all right now. Now, Velvet, " he continued, as his subordinates disappeared, "you can get up if you're tired of making a fool of yourself." He brushed the dust from his clothes with a handkerchief fastidiously. "You don't think I was thinking you committed this murder, do you?" A slight touch of contempt crept into his voice. "You haven't nerve enough."

      Blunt picked himself up sulkily. "Whatwere you driving at, anyway?"

      Silverdale intervened for the first time. His voice was as silky as Garfield's and he swung the automatic idly to and fro by the trigger guard.

      "What Mr. Garfield is driving at, if I'm not making any mistake," he said, "is that if you didn't kill this man yourself, you have a very good suspicion who did!"

      Blunt knotted his hands sulkily. The gaze of both men was fixed on him steadily. "I don't know," he answered with a note of doggedness in his voice.

      Jimmie shrugged his shoulders and glanced interrogatively at the inspector. Garfield nodded. He was content to let the journalist try by methods that had before then been successful with German prisoners.

      The journalist thrust his head forward and stared straight between Blunt's eyes. "You do know," he rasped.

      "What were you doing in this flat?" broke in Garfield. "Who sent you? What did you want?"

      "Let me alone," protested Blunt. "I wasn't in the flat. I don't know."

      They plied him pitilessly, brutally, with a ceaseless rain of questions. Like some dogged animal, he held them at bay as they alternately threatened and coaxed. There is no third degree in Britain, and, technically, both of his questioners knew they were infringing the strict letter of the law. But many crimes would go unsolved if the limits of legality were always observed in these cases.

      Garfield apparently gave it up at last. "That's enough," he growled.

      "There's only one thing that makes you unwilling to talk," said Jimmie. "You were in the flat. If you didn't kill Sir Harold Saxon, who did?"

      White and shaken, Blunt shook his head dumbly.

      "You're right, Jimmie," agreed Garfield. "Once for all, Freddie, listen to me. I know you didn't kill this man. Now unless you cough up your story—it's between friends now—I swear I'll let you go down to prove you didn't. Get me?"

      "You mean you'll charge me with the murder? "

      "I'll do that," said Garfield, nodding with grim emphasis.

      There was method in this terrorization. Garfield knew he was dealing with a man who was beyond the fringe of decent human society. That Velvet Fred held the thread of the mystery, he was convinced and it needed little reasoning to see that some strong object was keeping his lips sealed. A stronger motive was needed to make him speak.

      Even for Garfield, it was carrying things close to the bone to threaten to accuse a man he knew to be innocent of a capital crime. But he saw no other means of forcing the crook's hand. Once in the dock, Velvet Fred would have to reveal his story or run the risk of being hanged.

      Blunt was no fool. Rightly or wrongly, he believed that Garfield meant his threat. He went very white.

      "I'll tell you," he said in a low voice.

      "The straight goods, now. No lies."

      "I'll give you the straight goods. Lookhere, Mr. Garfield, it's up to you to see that I come out of this with my skin safe. If Eston—"

      Garfield interrupted with a low whistle. "So Eston is mixed up in this. Don't you worry I'll look after you. Half a moment. We'll have your statement in writing."

      He summoned one of his aides, who placed himself with notebook and pencil at a low table. "Head this: 'The voluntary statement of Frederick Blunt, otherwise '—there's nothing to smile at, Silver. This is a deadly serious business."

      "I'm. not smiling," protested Jimmie.

      "Right-oh. Now we're ready, Velvet. Go ahead! "

      "There isn't much to it, Mr. Garfield, but you know Eston. He'll have me, if it's twenty years hence."

      "Who's Eston?" interrupted Jimmie.

      "Eston," explained Garfield, "is the biggest crook, in London—perhaps in the world. I'll tell you more about him when Velvet has finished."

      "Well, I met Eston a week ago at a restaurant up Regent Street way. He was with a bird— "

      "A girl?"

      "I said so," said Blunt aggrievedly. "They were having a bit of an argument and didn't take any notice of me for a bit. Presently the girl went and Eston beckoned me over.

      "'Can you do a little job for me—or rather for a lady?" he asks.

      "'Sure,' said I, "if there's anything in it for me.'

      "Then he tells me that there's some papers in this flat and that he's bound to have 'em, He offered me fifty of the best and I took on the job. I pulled it off night before last. The gink who lives here had a safe that you'd laugh to see."

      "The safe here has not been tampered with," said Garfield.

      "Hasn't it?" said Velvet scornfully. "Give me five minutes with the combination and I'll lock and unlock it any time you want. Anyway, I did it—got the papers—a bundle of letters—and handed 'em to Eston."

      "Was the girl there then?"

      "Sure. It was at the same restaurant. She was seated at a different table, but Eston went over with the goods after he finished with me.

      "You'd recognize her again?"

      "I think so."

      "Then look at this."

      Garfield pulled a cabinet photograph from his pocket and thrust it in front of the crook. Velvet nodded his head. "That 's the lady."

      "That's the woman who killed Harold Saxon," said Garfield, handing the picture over to Silverdale.

      Jimmie only needed one glance. The room reeled round him.

      For the portrait was that of Hilary Sloane.