CHAPTER V
THREADS DRAWN CLOSER
Having a firm belief in the principle of making sure about everything, Mr. Ronald Tyndale, who overheard his quarry ask for a ticket to South Kensington, did precisely the same thing, and then walked past her on the stairs leading to the platform with all the sang-froid in the world. To make still surer, when the train came in, he deliberately entered the same compartment which she selected, and sat down exactly opposite her. He was so satisfied with the result of this experiment, that when they changed trains at Baker Street, Mr. Tyndale indulged himself by going into a smoking-carriage—selecting a corner, however, from which he could command a view of the next car, in which the veiled woman had taken a seat. Arrived at South Kensington, he permitted her to mount the stairs, and to leave the station a little in advance of him; what with her tall figure, her sable garments, and above all her thick veils, she was not easily to be missed.
So, Mr. Tyndale, puffing contentedly at his cigar, and declaring himself that if it ever so happened (for he was a philosopher, and was fond of telling himself and his friends that you never know what's going to turn up) that he lost all his wealth (which was an impossibility, seeing that his wise parent had tied it up somewhat strictly) he would most certainly amuse himself by starting a private-detective agency, strolled behind the object of his acquaintance, resolved to follow her wherever she went.
The veiled woman first of all visited a fruiterer's shop, where Mr. Tyndale, watching her from across the road (it was now quite dusk, and he knew there was small risk of her detecting him), saw her purchase some fine hot-house grapes. From this place she went to a wine-merchant's establishment, whence she presently emerged with what was obviously a bottle of wine or spirits. This apparently completed her purchases for that time, and she set off in the direction of the Park, Mr. Tyndale following her at a safe distance. And after various turns right and left he found himself in Princes Gate.
The amateur detective was now deeply interested, and informed himself that he was going through with it. Up to now he had chiefly been actuated by a desire to find out who the woman was, and where she lived, just because her letter to Millicent Oxenham had been so cryptic as to provoke the curiosity which was a strong feature in Mr. Ronald Tyndale's character.
Now that he found himself in the immediate neighbourhood of Bartenstein's murder, it occured to him that although he had no knowledge of what the veiled woman had told his cousin, the mere fact that she had come to Princes Gate showed that she had some connection with the affair which it might be well for him to learn something about. A vague notion shaped itself in his mind that she might be one of the servants who had some secret knowledge of the crime. It was interesting, anyway, thought Mr. Tyndale, and he watched his game carefully.
The veiled woman pursued her way until she came to a large house which stood at a corner. Down a side street which seemed to lead to stables and coach-houses, and was but dimly lighted, she turned, and Mr. Tyndale, slipping into a deep shadow, saw her follow a high brick wall until she came to a small house which stood between the end of the wall and a range of stabling. It looked the sort of house that would be built for a coachman or a head gardener, and was of the same style of architecture, and therefore in keeping with the massive mansion at the corner. Into this house the woman disappeared, letting herself in with a latch-key.
Mr. Tyndale, seeing nobody about just then, walked a little way along the side street opposite the high wall and the small house. Then he discovered that the roadway in front of the house was thickly covered with tan, wherefrom his intellect deduced the fact that somebody was ill there, and that the woman he had followed was carrying the sick person wine and grapes. He went back into Princes Gate and walked past the front of the big house. And there he met a policeman who was lounging gently along. Him Mr. Tyndale, adopting the role of inquisitive sightseer, accosted ingenuously.
"I say," he said, "which, officer, which is that chap Bartenstein's house?"
The constable looked down and, seeing nothing but a harmless-looking and diminutive young gentleman who was smoking a remarkably fragrant cigar, smiled somewhat and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"This is it, sir," he answered.
"Oh, this!" exclaimed Mr. Tyndale, stepping back a pace and examining the front of the murdered millionaire's mansion as if it had been a rare and new arrival at the Zoological Gardens. "Dear me; fine place, officer."
The constable wagged his head.
"Ah!" he said meaningly. "They do say, first and last, that house and all there is in it represents a good deal more than a million o' money."
"Bless me!" said Mr. Tyndale. "Um! I wonder which room it was that the—the affair took place in!"
"Come this way, sir," said the constable, fingering a half-crown which Mr. Tyndale slipped into his hand. "I can soon show you that, sir—see it from this side lane. There!" he continued, leading Mr. Tyndale round the corner and pointing a finger over the high wall. "You see that sort of round tower in the angle there, sir, with a turret on top—next two windows to that in the room—dead man's study, sir, where the body was found."
"Dear me," said Mr. Tyndale, "how interesting!" He glanced at the tan-covered roadway. "Somebody ill, evidently," he remarked.
"Coachman's wife," said the policeman laconically. "Pretty bad, I hear."
"Kept up a big establishment, Bartenstein, I expect?" said Mr. Tyndale.
The policeman said that Mr. Bartenstein did himself pretty well in the matter of horses, carriages, automobiles, and servants, and added that his murder was a rum go, and that he'd like to know who did it. Mr. Tyndale said that it was an uncommonly rum go, and that it wouldn't be found out in a day. They continued chatting at the corner for a moment or two, and Mr. Tyndale suddenly saw the woman whom he had followed emerge from what he now knew to be the coachman's house, and come swiftly along the opposite side of the street under the high wall. He drew a little farther into the shadow in which he and the constable stood, ostensibly to light a fresh cigar. But the woman, who was still heavily veiled, looked neither to the right nor the left; she turned the corner of the big house and went rapidly away in the direction of Knightsbridge.
Mr. Tyndale, leaving the constable and pursuing the same direction, occupied himself in a little mental exercise. Whoever the woman was who had sent the message to his cousin, and whatever information she might have given to Millicent, he now knew something of her, and where she was to be found if wanted. The immediate question was, "Is it necessary to follow her farther?" "I think not," said Mr. Tyndale to himself in answer. "I now know that the coachman's wife at that place is ill—I also know that she is what the bobby called 'pretty bad'—therefore it is a hundred to one on the chances of her visiting her again—and at night. Ergo, if the Dwayne man wants to find her for any purpose of his own, consequent upon what Millie may have to tell him, I can put him on to her and he can come and lay wait for her himself."
This appearing to Mr. Tyndale to be the most sensible solution that any right-minded person could come to, he walked forward until he encountered a taxi-cab, which he promptly entered, instructing the driver to take him round to Sussex Square. Duly set down there at Sir Nicholas Oxenham's house, he first commanded the butler, who knew his ways of old and took pleasure in humouring them, to give him a whisky-and-seltzer, during the consumption of which he inquired as to the whereabouts of his cousin. The butler replied that Miss Oxenham was closeted with a party in the little library, and that she had left instructions that Mr. Ronald was to be sent in there as soon as he arrived.
Upon the young gentleman's entrance to the place of consultation he found Millicent and Inspector Dwayne seated on either side of a small table on which, reposing on a sheet of note-paper, lay the artificial eye which Miss Oxenham had received earlier in the evening. The Inspector was looking extremely mystified, and Millicent very despairing. Mr. Tyndale cheerily inquired how things were going. Whereupon his cousin, at the detective's suggestion, gave him a brief résumé of her adventures at the appointed rendezvous, compressing into a few sentences all that was pertinent. Mr. Tyndale listened attentively.
"Well," he said, "and I dare say the woman was right. That's what I should call a good clue. All you've got to do is to find somebody who's lost an artificial eye—more green than hazel, I think."
"Be sensible, Ronny!" said his cousin.
"Ah, I wish we knew who that woman was!" sighed Inspector Dwayne. "I wish I'd instructed one of my young people to follow her. That woman, miss, knows more than she's told you. Father was a detective, was he? More than her life would be worth if her name came out? Ah, indeed—yes, I've no doubt she knows a lot—probably trying to draw a red herring across our path. I wish I could come across her."
"Don't be doleful, Inspector," said Mr. Tyndale. "You can come across her. The fact is, I have just left her. Yes!" he continued, calmly accepting the looks of wonder turned upon him. "You see, my fair cousin, I was so inquisitive as to who your unknown correspondent might be that I determined to witness your meeting in my own person."
"Ronnie, you weren't there!" exclaimed Millicent.
"I was there, my dear, in the character of a nice old gentleman, and you looked at me several times and didn't know me," retorted Mr. Tyndale. "And when your mysterious lady left you I stepped into my worshipful aunt's brougham which I had borrowed for the occasion, and with which I had exchanged signals from the top of the hill, changed my old gentleman's attire for these garments, and followed her. And, if I didn't follow her home, I at any rate followed her to where Mr. Dwayne, there, can find her."
"And where may that be, sir?" asked the Inspector eagerly.
Mr. Tyndale assumed an air of gravity, lowered his voice, and bent forward.
"The coachman's house at the corner of Bartenstein's garden," he said.
Inspector Dwayne uttered a sharp click of his tongue.
"Ay, ay!" he said. "The windows of that place do look out upon the garden. I have a plan of the whole premises in my desk. Just tell me how you tracked her, and what happened, sir."
Mr. Tyndale thereupon narrated his adventures of the evening, deducing various morals and conclusions from them. Millicent regarded him with wondering eyes, and felt uncertain whether to laugh or to marvel at his cleverness. But the Inspector nodded approvingly.
"You did very well, sir," he said. "What you've accomplished may be of great use. Now, Miss Oxenham, and you, sir, don't say a word of this to a soul—just wait. The threads are drawing closer—they are drawing closer!"
"Quite so, but round whom?" asked Mr. Tyndale.
Inspector Dwayne looked wiser than ever at that question, and, having remarked that this was a very queer world and declined an offer of refreshment, he took his leave and presently departed in a taxi-cab, the artificial eye safely reposing in his waistcoat pocket, and he himself being very thoughtful and preoccupied.
He continued his journey in this mood until his vehicle reached Regent Quadrant, where a block in the traffic caused his driver to stop and himself to look out of the window. He was gazing idly at the throngs coming and going from Piccadilly Circus when, as the cab moved on again, he caught sight of two men entering the Café Royal, on seeing whom he immediately stopped the driver and made a hasty descent in the street. For Inspector Dwayne had recognized in those two men the pseudo Señor Olivares and the man who was the genuine Señor Olivares's clerk—Fernandes.