"The word will be passed round now, though," said Dunbar, "and we shall probably have him here during the day."
"I hope so," said the other good-humoredly, seating himself upon one of the two chairs ranged beside the wall. "If he doesn't show up."…
"Well?" jerked Dunbar—"if he doesn't?"
"It will look very black against Leroux."
Dunbar drummed upon the blotting-pad with the fingers of his left hand.
"It beats anything of the kind that has ever come my way," he confessed. "You get pretty cautious at weighing people up, in this business; but I certainly don't think—mind you, I go no further—but I certainly don't think Mr. Henry Leroux would willingly kill a fly; yet there is circumstantial evidence enough to hang him."
Sergeant Sowerby nodded, gazing speculatively at the floor.
"I wonder," he said, slowly, "why the girl—Miss Cumberly—hesitated about telling us the woman's name?"
"I am not wondering about that at all," replied Dunbar, bluntly. "She must meet thousands in the same way. The wonder to me is that she remembered at all. I am open to bet half-a-crown that YOU couldn't remember the name of every woman you happened to have pointed out to you at an Arts Ball?"
"Maybe not," agreed Sowerby; "she's a smart girl, I'll allow. I see you have last night's papers there?"
"I have," replied Dunbar; "and I'm wondering"…
"If there's any connection?"
"Well," continued the inspector, "it looks on the face of it as though the news of her husband's death had something to do with Mrs. Vernon's presence at Leroux's flat. It's not a natural thing for a woman, on the evening of her husband's death, to rush straight away to another man's place"…
"It's strange we couldn't find her clothes"…
"It's not strange at all! You're simply obsessed with the idea that this was a love intrigue! Think, man! the most abandoned woman wouldn't run to keep an appointment with a lover at a time like that! And remember she had the news in her pocket! She came to that flat dressed—or undressed—just as we found her; I'm sure of it. And a point like that sometimes means the difference between hanging and acquittal."
Sergeant Sowerby digested these words, composing his jovial countenance in an expression of unnatural profundity. Then:—
"THE point to my mind," he said, "is the one raised by Mr. Hilton. By gum! didn't Dr. Cumberly tell him off!"
"Dr. Cumberly," replied Dunbar, "is entitled to his opinion, that the injection in the woman's shoulder was at least eight hours old; whilst Mr. Hilton is equally entitled to maintain that it was less than ONE hour old. Neither of them can hope to prove his case."
"If either of them could?"…
"It might make a difference to the evidence—but I'm not sure."
"What time is your appointment?"
"Ten o'clock," replied Dunbar. "I am meeting Mr. Debnam—the late Mr. Vernon's solicitor. There is something in it. Damme! I am sure of it!"
"Something in what?"
"The fact that Mr. Vernon died yesterday evening, and that his wife was murdered at midnight."
"What have you told the press?"
"As little as possible, but you will see that the early editions will all be screaming for the arrest of Soames."
"I shouldn't wonder. He would be a useful man to have; but he's probably out of London now."
"I think not. He's more likely to wait for instructions from his principal."
"His principal?"
"Certainly. You don't think Soames did the murder, do you?"
"No; but he's obviously an accessory."
"I'm not so sure even of that."
"Then why did he bolt?"
"Because he had a guilty conscience."
"Yes," agreed Sowerby; "it does turn out that way sometimes. At any rate, Stringer is after him, but he's got next to nothing to go upon. Has any reply been received from Mrs. Leroux in Paris?"
"No," answered Dunbar, frowning thoughtfully. "Her husband's wire would reach her first thing this morning; I am expecting to hear of a reply at any moment."
"They're a funny couple, altogether," said Sowerby. "I can't imagine myself standing for Mrs. Sowerby spending her week-ends in Paris. Asking for trouble, I call it!"
"It does seem a daft arrangement," agreed Dunbar; "but then, as you say, they're a funny couple."
"I never saw such a bundle of nerves in all my life!"…
"Leroux?"
Sowerby nodded.
"I suppose," he said, "it's the artistic temperament! If Mrs. Leroux has got it, too, I don't wonder that they get fed up with one another's company."
"That's about the secret of it. And now, I shall be glad, Sowerby, if you will be after that taxi-man again. Report at one o'clock. I shall be here."
With his hand on the door-knob: "By the way," said Sowerby, "who the blazes is Mr. King?"
Inspector Dunbar looked up.
"Mr. King," he replied slowly, "is the solution of the mystery."
Chapter 7 THE MAN IN THE LIMOUSINE
The house of the late Horace Vernon was a modern villa of prosperous appearance; but, on this sunny September morning, a palpable atmosphere of gloom seemed to overlie it. This made itself perceptible even to the toughened and unimpressionable nerves of Inspector Dunbar. As he mounted the five steps leading up to the door, glancing meanwhile at the lowered blinds at the windows, he wondered if, failing these evidences and his own private knowledge of the facts, he should have recognized that the hand of tragedy had placed its mark upon this house. But when the door was opened by a white-faced servant, he told himself that he should, for a veritable miasma of death seemed to come out to meet him, to envelop him.
Within, proceeded a subdued activity: somber figures moved upon the staircase; and Inspector Dunbar, having presented his card, presently found himself in a well-appointed library.
At the table, whereon were spread a number of documents, sat a lean, clean-shaven, sallow-faced man, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez; a man whose demeanor of business-like gloom was most admirably adapted to that place and occasion. This was Mr. Debnam, the solicitor. He gravely waved the detective to an armchair, adjusted his pince-nez, and coughed, introductorily.
"Your communication, Inspector," he began (he had the kind of voice which seems to be buried in sawdust packing), "was brought to me this morning, and has disturbed me immeasurably, unspeakably."
"You have been to view the body, sir?"
"One of my clerks, who knew Mrs. Vernon, has just returned to this house to report that he has identified her."
"I should have preferred you to have gone yourself, sir," began Dunbar, taking out his notebook.
"My state of health, Inspector," said the solicitor, "renders it undesirable that I should submit myself to an ordeal so unnecessary—so wholly unnecessary."
"Very good!" muttered Dunbar, making an entry in his book; "your clerk, then, whom I can see in a moment, identifies the murdered woman as Mrs. Vernon. What was her Christian name?"
"Iris—Iris Mary Vernon."
Inspector Dunbar made a note of the fact.
"And now," he said, "you will have read the copy of that portion of my report which I submitted to you this morning—acting upon information supplied by Miss Helen Cumberly?"
"Yes, yes, Inspector, I have read it—but, by the way, I do not know Miss Cumberly."
"Miss Cumberly," explained the detective, "is the daughter of Dr. Cumberly, the Harley Street physician. She lives with her father in the flat above that of Mr. Leroux. She saw the body by accident—and recognized it as that of a lady who had been named to her at the last Arts Ball."
"Ah!" said Debnam, "yes—I see—at the Arts Ball, Inspector. This is a mysterious and a very ghastly case."
"It is indeed, sir," agreed Dunbar. "Can you throw any light upon the presence of Mrs. Vernon at Mr. Leroux's flat on the very night of her husband's death?"