XXI
The next two or three days passed very uneventfully. Every person of my acquaintance seemed to be busy, while I had nothing to do.
I saw Harland at breakfast every morning and at dinner every night; but he never referred to the jewels. He disappeared altogether during the daytime. Sir Desmond Adare I saw on only one occasion, when I glimpsed him driving into the town. Neither the princess nor Nancy came my way. I met Carburton once; he told me somewhat irritably that if he were not interrupted he would finish his picture that day. I gathered that he wanted to be left to himself; otherwise I should have walked out to see him paint.
There were no inducements, however, for walking about the country just then. It was July, and the weather was very hot. It was pleasanter to sit in the garden of the hotel, or to lounge on the shady side of the streets, than to tramp the blinding roads, which were thick with white, penetrating dust; so I played the part of an idler, wondering how long the hot weather would last and how soon I should be free to depart.
Another idler shared my laziness. For the greater part of the day Prince Adalbert sat in the garden, in an easy chair placed in a shady corner. He consumed many glasses of whisky and soda, smoked an endless succession of cigars, and occasionally glanced at a French novel. When he was not engaged in one or other of these pursuits, he was asleep. If I met him at the door, or in the hall, or on the garden paths, he glared at me.
As for Count Hofberg, I scarcely saw him during those days, and Samuel Jefferson appeared to have departed forever. I just vegetated from day to day, and felt very little interest in whatever might be going on.
Inspector Harland had arrived on the 3rd of July. On the sixth I was having lunch in the coffeeroom when he came in, looking very warm and tired. He flung himself into a chair, looked about him with an air of distaste, and remarked that it was impossible to eat in that sort of weather.
I let him go his own way. I felt sure that he was going to tell me something; and at last he spoke.
“Well, Mr. Hanmer,” said he, “I'm about beaten by this case. I've been investigating for three days now, and I haven't a single clew. The person who poisoned the bulldog and who administered the drug to you and Deasy must have been a resident of the castle. He must also have had some knowledge of the habits of the household. Yes, there must have been an accomplice in the house,” he continued. “That's the only possible solution; but which of 'em was it? That's the rub, Mr. Hanmer! I don't wonder that the opposite camp fixed on you. I'd have done it myself. Deasy's caution saved you a good deal, sir. By the way, Mr. Hanmer, what of your suspicions of the count? Do they still hold?”
“No,” I replied, “they don't. I don't believe the count knows any more about the affair than any of us do. At least,” I added, “he didn't know any more three days ago.”
“Three days ago?” said Harland, giving me a quick glance. “That was the day of my arrival. Well, what made you change your mind, Mr. Hanmer?”
I hesitated about telling him. Hofberg had spoken to me in confidence—had I any right to repeat his remarks to a third party?
I thought the matter over. On the whole, it seemed foolish to have scruples in respect to the count, and eventually I repeated the gist of our conversation.
“Well,” said Harland, when I had finished, “I think you are right. So he has a clew, and he wants a partner! Very good—that gives us a little help. About the partner, now—failing you, to whom would he go? What about Jefferson?”
“Jefferson seems to have disappeared,” I answered.
“All the more reason to suspect him,” said the detective. “If Count Hofberg asked you to go into partnership with him, you may be sure that it was because he had business on hand which he couldn't carry out single-handed; and as you didn't rise to the bait it's likely he angled for Jefferson. There's one thing you may be pretty sure of, Mr. Hanmer—if the count had succeeded in inducing you to help him, your career of usefulness would have come to a sudden termination as soon as you had found the jewels!”
“I don't understand you,” I said.
“It's easy enough to understand,” he replied, laughing. “Men who employ help in that way throw it aside as soon as it becomes an encumbrance. In other words, you stand a better chance of not being shot than if you had accepted the Count Hofberg's offer. If the count has a clew, he will follow it up. We, therefore, must follow him up. If he wanted a partner, he will have obtained one. We, therefore, must find out who the partner is.”
He was proceeding, with unusual loquaciousness, to enlarge upon details, when the waitress entered and informed me that the landlord wished to see me for a moment. I excused myself to Harland and went into the hall.
The proprietor of the hotel stood there, looking as if he were in great perplexity. When he saw me, his face brightened, and he took a step forward.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, lowering his voice, “but do you know anything of where the little artist might be?”
“Do you mean Mr. Carburton?” I asked.
“I do, sir,” he answered. “Not a glimpse of him did we see these two days, and 'tis two nights he didn't sleep in his bed.”
“Let me see,” I said. “I saw him on Wednesday morning—”
“Sure and that was the last was seen of him, sir. Mickey Doyle took him out Annalleen Castle way, where he was in the habit of taking him every morning, and set him down there,” said the man. “'Twas the little gentleman's custom to walk in of an evening, and to eat his dinner at seven o'clock; but on Wednesday he never came back, and we haven't seen him since.”
“Well, I don't know anything about him,” said I. “Here, come into the coffeeroom a moment. Now, then,” I continued, leading the landlord inside, “we can talk without interruption. Mr. Harland, here's another case for you. Carburton, the artist, has disappeared, and here's his landlord wanting news of him.”
“Who is Carburton?” asked Harland.
I gave him a brief account of my acquaintance with the little painter, and then the landlord repeated his story. Harland listened with obvious interest.
“Humph! Did he owe you anything?” he suddenly asked of the landlord. “Leave a bill behind him, eh?”
“Oh, just the smallest trifle, sir. His bill was settled up every Saturday,” said the landlord. “'Tis whether anything has happened to the little gentleman that's bothering me. I thought perhaps this gentleman here would know where he was.”
“I haven't a notion of his whereabouts,” I said. “He was to accompany me to Annalleen Castle this evening. I expected him about seven o'clock. Is there anything in his room that would give you any clew?”
As to that the landlord could not say. Harland rose from the table.
“You had better look through his effects,” he said. “Here, I'll go with you. I'm a police officer. Come with us, Mr. Hanmer.”
The landlord made no objection—he was evidently seriously concerned about the safety of his guest—and we went off with him, and in due course were ushered into the room that Carburton had occupied. Ten minutes' examination of his effects and belongings showed nothing that afforded any clew to his disappearance. Anything more innocent than the contents of his leather trunk, or the clothing scattered about the room or stored in the drawers of the wardrobe, no one could imagine. There were no papers in the pockets, and the only documents we found were some rough sketches of castles and churches.
We left the house, after warning the landlord to keep silent about Carburton's disappearance until we saw him again. Once outside, Harland turned to me and asked sharply:
“Why was I not told of this man before?”
“I really don't know,” I answered. “I suppose it never occurred to any one that his presence in the town could interest you.”
“Bah!” he said. “How short-sighted most people are! This is the first bit of real scent I have sniffed at yet.”
I stopped and gazed at him in astonishment.
“You don't mean that you suspect this man?” I said.
“Just tell me all you can about his habits,” he said. “Don't miss anything that you can remember. I want to know all that you know of him, from the time you first saw him until you last set eyes on him.”
We had strolled out on the bridge as we talked. Leaning over the parapet, I told him everything that I knew of Carburton. Harland, after his wont, kept silence.
“And so,” he said at last, “this man became intimate at the castle, and made himself conversant with a good deal of the arrangements there? Very good! Mr. Hanmer, I'm going to drive out to the farm where Mr. Carburton kept his canvases and things. Will you come?”
I accepted the invitation readily enough, and within a few moments we were driving away on a car. We were very soon at the little farmhouse, and its mistress came out to the door to meet us. It was not difficult to get out of her all that it lay in her power to tell.
Carburton had come there as usual on Wednesday morning, and had taken his picture and things down to the river. He had been painting there all day, for she had seen him at various times from the door of the house. He had come in for a cup of tea at four o'clock; after that he had gone on painting until nearly dark. Then he had carried his things back, and had told her that he had not quite finished his picture, and would have to spend an hour or two upon it in the morning.
After that, it appeared, he had said good night and gone away, following the path along the river, as he always did. That was about nine o'clock—perhaps a little later. She had never set eyes on him since.
Harland expressed a desire to see the picture, and the woman consented to show it to him. She led us into a parlor where the canvas reposed on two chairs, with its face turned to the whitewashed wall. On the table lay the artist's painting materials; close by stood the enormous umbrella and the camp stool. Everything was just as Carburton had left it.
Harland turned the picture around and looked at it long and critically. He replaced it in position, and, still keeping silence, left the room and the house.
After a word or two to the woman I hastened to join him.
“Well?” I said. “Do you make anything out of all this?”
“I've made out one thing,” he answered. “I understood from you that this man Carburton was an artist.”
“Well?” I said again. “Isn't he an artist?”
Mr. Harland shrugged his shoulders.
“I don't know what your standard of art is, Mr. Hanmer,” he said. “The man's a mere dauber—an absolute amateur, and a bad amateur at that.”
“Dear me!” I exclaimed. “I thought it rather nice work; but I confess I don't know much about art.”
“You don't, indeed,” said the inspector with brutal frankness.
He fell into a somber silence, from which I did not dare to arouse him. It did not trouble me at all to hear that I was no judge of art. What did trouble me was the new element of suspicion which had been introduced into the case by the disappearance of Carburton. It was easy to see that Harland's thoughts were already diverted into a new channel.
“Did I hear you say that you were going out to Annalleen to-night?” he asked, suddenly turning upon me as we drew up at the hotel.
“Yes, you did,” I replied.
“Oblige me by not talking of this before the servants,” he said. “In fact, please don't mention it at all at present—not even to Sir Desmond Adare.”
I gave him my promise, and left him to continue his journey into the town. For myself, I lounged away the rest of the afternoon until it was time to start for Annalleen. To the last I hoped that Carburton would turn up, but when seven o'clock struck and there was no sign of him, I drove off convinced that something had happened.
I spent an uncomfortable evening at the castle, and more than once found myself wishing that the little artist were there, so that he might have talked in his usual voluble fashion. Sir Desmond was puzzled by his non-appearance, but of course I refrained from telling my host of the events of the afternoon.
At half past ten I left, secretly glad to get away, and set off across the park by a path which led through a deep wood, on the outer edge of which stood the ruins of an old stronghold, or tower, which had formed a conspicuous object in Carburton's picture. It was a desolate and lonely spot at any time, and in that gray, uncertain light it had a positively weird and awe-inspiring appearance.
As I passed by it, staring at its crumbling parapets and gaping ruins, I was suddenly startled by a sound that seemed to come from somewhere within its walls. I stood rooted to the spot. It was several minutes before the sound came again, and this time I knew that it was a human voice crying for help in muffled tones.