CHAPTER XX
STABBED THROUGH THE HEART
THE Baroness recognized Wrayson with a little shrug of the shoulders.
"Ah! my dear Mr. Wrayson," she exclaimed, "this is very kind of you. You have been keeping Louise company, I hope. And see what droll things happen! It is your friend, Mr. Barnes, who has brought me home this evening, and who will take a whisky and soda before he goes. Is it not so, my friend?"
She turned around, but there was no immediate response. The Baroness looked over the banisters and beheld her escort in the act of ascending.
"Coming right along," he called out cheerfully. "It was the cabman who tried to stop me. He wanted more than his fare. Found he'd tackled the wrong Johnny this time."
Mr. Sydney Barnes came slowly into view. He was wearing an evening suit, obviously too large for him, a made-up white tie had slipped round underneath his ear, a considerable fragment of red silk handkerchief was visible between his waistcoat and much crumpled white shirt. An opera hat, also too large for him, he was wearing very much on the back of his head, and he was smoking a very black cigar, from which he had failed to remove the band. He frowned when he saw Wrayson, but followed the Baroness into the room with a pronounced swagger.
"You two need no introduction, of course," the Baroness remarked. "I am not going to tell you where I found Mr. Barnes. I do not expect to be very much longer in England, so perhaps I am not so careful as I ought to be. Louise, if she knew, would be shocked. Now, Mr. Wrayson, do not hurry away. You will take some whisky and soda? I am afraid that my young friend has not been very hospitable."
"You are very kind," Wrayson said. "To tell you the truth, I was rather hoping to see Miss Fitzmaurice again. She disappeared rather abruptly."
The Baroness shook her finger at him in mock reproach.
"You have been misbehaving," she declared. "Never mind. I will go and see what I can do for you."
She stood for a moment before a looking-glass arranging her hair, and then left the room humming a light tune. Sydney Barnes, with his hands in his pockets, flung himself into an easy-chair.
"I say," he began, "I don't quite see what you're doing here."
Wrayson looked at him for a moment in supercilious surprise.
"I scarcely see," he answered, "how my movements concern you."
Mr. Barnes was unabashed.
"Oh! chuck it," he declared. "You know very well what I'm thinking of. To tell you the truth, I've come to the conclusion that there's some connection between this household and my brothers affairs. That's why I'm palling on to the Baroness. She's a fine woman—class, you know, and all that sort of thing, but what I want is the shino! You tumble?"
Wrayson shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"I wish you every success," he said. "Personally, I think that you are wasting your time here."
"Perhaps so," Barnes answered. "I'm taking my own risks."
Wrayson turned away, and at that moment the Baroness re-entered the room.
"My friend," she said, addressing Wrayson, "I can do nothing for you. Whether you have offended Louise or made her too happy, I cannot say. But she will not come down. You will not see her again to-night."
"I am sorry," Wrayson answered. "She is going away to-morrow, I understand?"
The Baroness sighed.
"Alas!" she declared, "I must not answer any questions. Louise has forbidden it."
Wrayson took up his hat.
"In that case," he remarked, "there remains nothing for me but to wish you good night!"
There was a cab on the rank opposite, and Wrayson, after a moment's hesitation, entered it and was driven to the club. He scarcely expected to find any one there, but he was in no mood for sleep, and the thought of his own empty rooms chilled him. Somewhat to his surprise, however, he found the smoking-room full. The central figure of the most important group was the Colonel, his face beaming with good-nature, and his cheeks just a little flushed. He welcomed Wrayson almost boisterously.
"Come along, Herbert," he cried. "Plenty of room. What'll you have to drink, and have you heard the news?"
"Whisky and soda," Wrayson answered, sinking into an easy-chair, "and I haven't heard any news."
The Colonel took his cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward in his chair. He had the appearance of a man who was striving to appear more grave than he felt.
"You remember the old chap we saw dining at Luigi's to-night—Bentham, I think you said his name was?"
Wrayson nodded.
"Of course! What about him?"
"He's dead!" the Colonel declared.
Wrayson jumped out of his chair.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean it, Colonel!"
"Unfortunately, I do," the Colonel answered. "He was found dead on the stairs leading to his office, about ten o'clock to-night. A most interesting case. The murder, presuming it was a murder, appears to have been committed——"
Wrayson was suddenly pale.
"Murder!" he repeated. "Colonel, do you mean this?"
The Colonel, who hated being interrupted, answered a little testily.
"My dear Wrayson," he expostulated, "is this the sort of thing a man invents for fun? Do listen for a moment, if you can, in patience. It is a deeply interesting case. If you remember, it was about nine o'clock when we left Luigi's; Bentham must have gone almost straight to his office, for he was found there dead a very few minutes after ten."
"Who killed him, and why?" Wrayson asked breathlessly.
"That, I suppose, we shall know later," the Colonel answered. "The police will be on their mettle this time, but it isn't a particularly easy case. He was found lying on his face, stabbed through the heart. That is all anybody knows."
The thoughts went rushing through Wrayson's brain. He remembered the man as he had seemed only a few hours ago, cold, stonily indifferent to young Barnes' passionate questions, inflexibly silent, a man who might easily kindle hatreds, to all appearance without a soft spot or any human feeling. He remembered the close of their interview, and Sydney Barnes' rash threat. The suggested idea clothed itself almost unconsciously with words.
"I have just seen young Barnes," he said. "He has been at the Empire all the evening."
The Colonel lit another cigar.
"It takes a man of nerve and deliberation," he remarked, "to commit a murder. From what I have heard of him, I should not imagine your young friend to be possessed of either. The lady whom he was entertaining, or rather failing to entertain, at dinner——"
"I have seen her since," Wrayson interrupted shortly. "She went straight to the Alhambra."
The Colonel nodded.
"I would have insured her against even suspicion," he remarked. "She was a large, placid woman, of the flabby order of nerves. She will probably faint when she hears what has happened. She might box a man's ears, but her arm would never drive a dagger home into his heart, especially with such beautiful, almost mathematical accuracy. We must look elsewhere, I fancy, for the person who has paid Bentham's debt to society. Heneage, here, has an interesting theory."
Wrayson looked across and found that his eyes met Heneage's. He was sitting a little in the background, with a newspaper in his hand, which he was, however, only affecting to read. He was taking note of every word of the conversation. He was obviously annoyed at the Colonel's reference to him, but he did his best to conceal it.
"Scarcely a theory," he remarked, laying down his paper for a moment. "I can hardly call it that. I only remarked that I happened to know a little about Bentham, and that his clients, if he had any, were mostly foreigners, and their business of a shady nature. As a matter of fact, he was struck off the rolls here some years ago. I forget the case now, but I know that it was a pretty bad one."
"So you see," the Colonel resumed, "he was probably in touch with a loose lot, though what benefit his death could have been to any one it is, of course, a little hard to imagine. Makes one think, somehow, of this Morris Barnes affair, doesn't it? I wonder if there is any connection between the two."
Heneage laid down his paper now, and abandoned his attitude of indifferent listener. He was obviously listening for what Wrayson had to say.
"Connection of some sort between the two men there certainly was," Wrayson admitted. "We know that."
"Exactly," Heneage remarked. "I speak without knowing very much about the matter, but I am thoroughly convinced of one thing. If you can find the murderer of Morris Barnes, you will solve, at the same time, the mystery of Bentham's death. It is the same affair; part and parcel of the same tangle."
The Colonel was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be reflecting on Heneage's words.
"I believe you are right," he said at last. "I should be curious to know, though, how you arrived at this decision."
Heneage looked past him at Wrayson.
"You should ask Wrayson," he said.
But Wrayson had risen, and was sauntering towards the door.
"I'm off," he remarked, looking backwards and nodding his farewells. "If I stay here any longer, I shall have nightmare. Time you fellows were in bed, too. How's the Malleni fund, Colonel?"
The Colonel's face relaxed. A smile of genuine pleasure lit up his features.
"Going strong," he declared triumphantly. "We shall ship him off for Italy next week with a very tidy little cheque in his pocket. Dear old Dobson gave us ten pounds, and the concert fund is turning out well."
Wrayson lit a cigarette and looked back from the open door.
"You're more at home with philanthropy than horrors, Colonel," he remarked. "Good night, everybody!"