THE Twelfth Crime

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 121, 27 June 1914, Page 4

THE Twelfth Crime

■ By SETON CROSS * "M* •!« •I" •I* 4**! l e l # Author of " The Stolen Governess,'' " Queen of the Ballet, "The Mill Girl's Secret,'' etc.

1 A Mystery of Modern London

[COPYBIGHT.]

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS. OLIVE BOYD, ward of Peter Holgate, a retired contractor, who lives at Cliapham. DAVID M'EWAN, proprietor of a curio shop. M'Ewan is discovered brutally murdered in his room, i PRANK GORING, M'Ewan's assistant, who falls deeply in love with Olive Boyd. PHILLIP WHEELER, reporter on the ''Evening Record," with a reputation for "smelling out" sensations. The • journalist discovers a woman s lace handkerchief behind a Buddha in the old man's shop. The handkerchief was marked "O. Boyd." _ TREVERSH, a saturnine individual, a friend of Olive, whom Wheeler detects peering out of the side door in M'Ewan's shop. CHAPTER VIII. A VITAL QUESTION. Realising that nothing further was to be gained by remaining, Wheeler stole softly out of the garden, his mind a prey to the most conflicting emotions. The events of the past few hours, culminating in the dramatic shadow play he had just witnessed, had disturbed even his cast-iron equanimity. Outwardly he was as calm and unruffled as ever, but his soul was in a turmoil of excitement. It was some little time before he could separate his personal feelings from his professional instinct and comprehend that, to some extent, he was faced with two alternatives. Professionally he had to concentrate all his efforts on discovering those responsible for the mysterious crime in the curio shop. Personally, he intended to prove how far Olive Boyd was implicated in this mystery. Could the two be reconciled? His next step would show. Come what might, he must set his doubts at rest concerning the handkerchief he had found behind the big bronze Buddha.

less every other means of extricating the truth from her failed, for he foresaw that she would certainly inform her companion and thus set him on his guard—a contingency to be avoided for many reasons. Fortunately, such an undesirable step proved unnecessary. ''The truth is, sir," whispered the woman, "that I forgot all about it. I was so flustered that it went clean out of my head." Wheeler was convinced that she was "but he nodded his head sympathetically, as though perfectly satisfied with the answer. He had at least got the information he desired. Olive had been to the shop! "Do you happen to know what Miss Boyd came in for?" he asked, adjusting a fresh cigarette in the amber holder. "No, sir. I just looked in the shop shortly before closing time and saw her there, talking to the poor master." "M'Ewan, I suppose?" "Yes, "Did you hear what they were saying?"

Martha shook her head. '' All I heard was Miss Boyd saying she'd call back later. With that she went out." "And did she call back later in the evening?" asked Wheeler, with seeming indifference; but his fingers trembled so that he could barely hold his cigarette. So much depended on the woman's reply.

"Not that I know of, sir." "She might have done so without your seeing her?" "Oh, yes." "And was Mr Goring present during this interview between Miss Boyd and your late master?" "No. He'd gone out some time before she came," replied Martha, "and he didn't get back till just on closing time. As soon as he got in I heard master tell him to shut up for the night. When he'd done that he went off, so I don't think he knew the young lady had been there." Wheeler was silent for some moments. Then he rose to his feet, stretched himself, and glanced round the room with an expression of bored curiosity. "We 11,." he said, turning suddenly and catching the woman's half-fright-ened, half-vindictive glance, "as you forgot to mention this little incident to the police, I should advise you to say nothing about it now. You may be asked again at the inquest, but —for your own sake, you understand—it would be better for you to stick to your original statement. You see what I mean?" "Oh, yes, sir! But, I did forget, really, sir." '' Quite so. Of course. And you may rely oil me not to mention the matter. I don't want you to get into trouble over a thing which really is of no importance. '' "Thank you, sir." And there was utter relief in her words. '' That's all right. And we understand one another now. You see, a journalist comes across all sorts of little things in his work. I've helped you this time; perhaps you may be able to help me. If so, I'm certain you will. How do you like your new quarters?' he asked, abruptly, before Martha had time to assure him that she would do everything in her power to help him at any time. '' There's nothing much to complain of, sir.'' '' Well, I'm just going round to the shop to see the constable in charge,'' went on Wheeler, "and it struck me that if you wanted anything I could get it for you. But I suppose a t ou've been back for all you require?" "Me go back to that house?" cried the woman, holding up her hands in horror at the very thought. "I dassen 't step into That house again for anything! As long as Ili >'cs 1 'li never forge't when rue and Mr <"< looked into the i'loiit rt.om. Never!"

Without further delay he jumped on a tramcar and went direct to the little house where Martha was staying. The woman was plainly surprised and none too pleased at seeing him, but Wheeler had not been a London Pressman for several years without learning how to manage unwilling subjects, and he put his plan into action before ever Martha had time to make excuse or objection.

"Well, Mrs Pattinson," he drawled, "you seem pretty comfortable here." And he sat himself down with all the assurance of a lifelong friend.

The woman muttered some unintelligible remarks and continued to regard him with undisguised suspicion. '' By the way, I wish you would tell me ——But have you any objection to my smoking.?" he asked, pleasantly, breaking off from his original statement.

Martha paid no attention to lsis request; she sat, stiff and upright, and waited. So Wheeler, in no wliit abashed, took out his case, slowly and with great.deliberation selected a cigarette, *a ml Lit it.

"I was going to say," he continued, as he found his long amber holder and proceeded to fit the cigarette into it, "that I merely called to ask you why" —he stopped and liicked away a particle of white ash that had fallen on the lapel of his coat —'' why you lied to the police this afternoon.'' For one brief moment of time a gleam of fear showed in the liousekeper's eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it had come —but not before Wheeler had observed it through his own half-droop-ing lids —to be replaced by a look of cruel cunning. The reporter smiled, fully prepared for the outburst which was to follow.

"Lied? Me lied to the police? Look here, young man, I'm not going to stand here and be insulted by the likes of you—poking your dirty fingers into what doesn't concern you and coining here with your impudent ways. The sooner "

"Excuse me a moment," drawled Wheeler, as he rose to his feet and moved over towards the door. "Oh, no," he continued, seeing the look of relief on Martha's countenance, "I'm not going just yet; and I don't want you to go either. What Ido want is that you " "And I tell you " burst out the infuriated woman; but her questioner went on, unmoved. 4 ' What Ido want,'' he repeated, '' is that you tell me why you said nothing to the inspector about Miss Olive Bpyd having called at the shop last night." It was really a fine piece of bluff; for, beyond the handkerchief,. Wheeler had not the least thing to show that Olive had been anywhere near M'Ewan's place on the evening in question. But the plan succeeded beyond all his expectations. The moment she heard the name Martha's jaw dropped. She made as if to speak; then, with a low cry, sank into her chair and commenced to sob bitterly.

What, an actress the t waan was, thought the reporter. And vet how neatly slie had hcen trapped. Martha Pattinson would bear watching. But nothing of this showed on his face as he pleasantly wished her good night and let himself out. lie walked slowly clown the lane, turning over in his mind the facts squeezed from this mysterious old woman and endeavouring to fit them in Avith the events which had preceded his visit. Almost mechanically he hailed a taxi to take him to Scotland Yard, where he had arranged to meet Smallpieee. And his thoughts were not with the detective and the possibility of what he would have to tell him; they centred round the wistful face of Olive Boyd. What a tangled skein! Bit by bit the journalist's trained mind picked out various scattered threads as the cab whirled him past Keunington Gate towards Westminster.

Mine men out of ten might have felt sorry for her. The journalist, however, was quick enough to see that outburst was nothiiig more than a device to enable her to. gain time before she replied. There was no longer any need for him to guard the door —he knew that she would not now attempt to get away from him—so he sauntered back to where she sat.

In the first place Olive had visited the curio shop on the evening of the murder. The old woman's statement left him no doubt on that score. • Why, then, had the girl herself made no reference to it when the murder was mentioned before her at her guardian's teatable ?

"Well?" he said at hist. "You must have had .some reason, you know."

Instead, she had at first declined to discuss the crime at all, remarking that it was too horrible to contemplate. True, there was nothing strange in a girl taking up such an attitude as that; on the contrary, it seemed the natural thing to expect. But the puzzling feature •yvns that, not very long afterwards, when Treversh appeared and brought up the subject anew, she had made no protest. And how came it that the man was on such familiar terms with her when she obviously disliked him ? There was mystery there, Treversh, on had professed that he knew nothing whatever about the murder beyond what he had seen in the early editions of the newspapers. And that very night he paid a clandestine visit to the scene of the crime, in company with Martha Pattinson, the dead man's housekeeper! Surely that was significant. Martha had denied having been to the place. And Wheeler had himself seen her emerge. That, too, was well worth consideration, as were the other facts. Not only did she persist in hiding something relating to Olive's visit to the shop, but, more curious still, she;

He looked at her with a languid smile, as though the matter bored him as much as it troubled her. But she continued to sob and mutter incoherently, and all the time she watched his every movement.

Wheeler took the long amber holder from his lips and bent over her. He was still smiling, and, though he did not raise his voice above its usual lowpitched drawl, there was something in it which made the listener stop her senseless moaning with remarkable suddenness.

"It would be very awkward for you, Mrs Pattinson," he s.thl, "if the inspector came to know that you had withheld this information —don't you think?"

There was a world of meaning in his uteranee, and it was this which caused Martha —who was no fool —to dry her eyes and moderate her sobs. The journalist had determined, as a last resource, to tell her that he had seen her come out of the side door of M'Ewan's house in company with Trelie did not want to do this un-

knew the man Treversh intmately. Olive and Treversh and Martha Pattinson were all associated and linked up by a common chain of evidence with this mysterious murder. On that point Wheeler had not the slightest doubt. What puzzled him, however, was why Treversh had gone back to The Retreat and threatened poor old Peter Holgate, using Olive's name to secure his end.

"Exactly. "Well, by a happy chance wc hit upon the word 'diamonl.' It worked. And the translated cipher told us that M'Ewan —simple old M'Ewan —was a 'fence'; in other words, a buyer and receiver of stolen property.'' "Whew! That's a discovery! "

Wheeler's ejaculation was, rightly enough, construed into a compliment by Sniallpiece. It was so seldom that the imperturbable journalist allowed any expression of astonishment to escape him that, when he did so, it might reasonably be assumed that the thing which caused it was exceptionally surprising. "Yes," continued the inspector, gleefully, "and that's not all." He suddenly assumed an air of impressive gravity. "If we can clear up this matter we shall also be able to solve the mystery of the strange series of crimes that have baffled us so long." "How's that?" asked the journalist.

Equally important to the journalist was the question as to whether Olive kept her promise and paid M'Ewan a second visit on the night of his murder. That, indeed, was a vital matter. CHAPTER IX. FORGING THE LINKS.

Though he realised how much depended on this latter point, Wheeler could not see any immediate prospect of finding an answer. For the time being he must thrust it aside and devote his attention to the other tdues; chief of which, of course, were the finger-prints found on various articles in the room where the crime was committed and particularly the impress of the bloodsmeared hand.

If Smallpieee had succeeded in identifying these, the mystery was as good as solved, while, even if he had failed to do so, there was still the cipher which might throw some fresh light on the affair.

On arriving at Scotland Yard he made his way to the inspector's room, and was genially greeted by that officer. Well,' ? asked the latter. ' 4 any discoveries? "

Wheeler made no answer, and subsided languidly into an arm-chair, carefully pulling up his well-creased trousers to prevent their bagging at the knees. Smallpieee, who knew the journalist's peculiarities and was quite aware that, beneath all this seeming indifference, a brain as keen and subtle as his own was at work, merely smiled. In his mind he was convinced that Wheeler had discovered something. We a e been lucky here,'' he went on. "True, we've failed on one point, but we've succeeded on another.'' The journalist flashed a look of enquiry, but did not speak. "With regard to the finger-prints," continued the inspector, "there is nothing in our files which corresponds with them, and so they remain, for the present, unidentified."

Wheeler did not answer for a moment. It had suddenly occurred to him that, by some means or other, he must get Treversh's finger-prints and compare them with those which the police had failed to identify. He looked up to find Smallpiece gathering together some papers. "What about the cipher?" he asked. "That," replied the inspector, with triumphant emphasis, "we have succeeded in elucidating. It is amazing." Which the cipher, the elucidation, or the result?" enquired Wheeler. "All, if you like. The cipher itself is remarkably ingenious, and is based on the 'block-square' system—the same sort of thing, you know, that was used by the Confederate army in the American Civil War. It consists of the entire alphabet written from left to right and from top to bottom in the form of a square, so that "

"I know," interrupted the journalist. < < And you have to find the keyword. ''

"You remember the three most prominent cases —the Duchess of Lingmell's jewels, the Hatton Garden robbery, and that last puzzler, the Bond Street diamond mystery?" '' Rather,'' replied Wheeler, with a grim laugh. "Well, we have traced most, if not all, of the proceeds of these robberies in M'Ewan's account books, which, of course, are written in cipher.'' "That's all very well," drawled Wheeler: "but if these cases have baffled us up to the present, what's the good of your discovery?" "They have done so, I admit," replied Smallpiece; "but we've made a big step forward now. The fact that we know that the same person or persons are involved in each of the three cases not only simplifies future investigations, but establishes a link between these crimes and the murder of M 'Ewan.''

"Quite true," agreed Wheeler; ''but the point is, can we trace your newlydiscovered link far enough? I suppose no names are mentioned in the books ''

"No. The 'clients,' as M'Ewan would have called them, are merely designated by numbers." "At any rate," mused the journalist, "your discovery enables us to form a theory as to the motive of the murder. ,s

"Eh?" ejaculated Smallpiece. "I don't quite see where " He broke off abruptly, as ' though struck by some new thought, a puzzled expression on his face. Wheeler, who was taking a fresh cigarette from his case, smiled, and at the same moment the inspector's face cleared. "By jove, you're right!" he ejaculated. '' It does suggest a motive. Why the dickens didn't I think of that before?"

They discussed the point for some little time longer, . and then Wheeler took his leave 1 and proceeded straight to his lodgings. Here he found Goring seated at the table with a mass of papers in front of him and a look of utter hopelessness on his face. Phil, who had forgotten all about having asked his friend to try and solve the cipher, glanced at him in surprise. "Halloa, old man, writing a novel?" he enquired, elieerily. '' Well, I like that,'' exclaimed Goring, -in injured tones. "Here I've been racking my brains all the evening

over this wretched cipher, and now you ask "

'' Sorry, • old chap,'' interrupted the journalist. '' To tell you the truth, I've been so busy that I forgot aU about

"Well, it doesn't matter, because I can't make head or tail of the confounded thing,'' growled Goring. "It's all right; the people at Scot-* land Yard have solved it," laughed the other. And, as some slight compensation for the trouble Goring had taken, he explained how the thing was done. "Have you discovered anything fresh, then, Phil?" asked Frank, when he had finished.

"Nothing really definite," replied Wheeler. "Several new clues have turned up, but, so far as I can see, they merely serve to complicate matters at present. Still, they'll probably be of value later on." There was silence for some moments; then Wheeler rose from his chair, yawned, and stretched himself.

"Think I'll go to bed now," he said. "I'm dog-tired. Good night, old chap.''

"Good night, Phil," answered Goring, somewhat surprised, for it had only just gone ten, and Wheeler, as a rule, never turned in before one or two in the morning. On reaching his bedroom the reporter switched on the electric light and began to undress slowly. Occasionally he stopped in the midst of taking off some garment, and stood staring in front of him like one who follows out a train of thought, forgetful of what he is actually doing. But at last, having propped up some pillows so as to form a comfortable back-rest, he climbed into bed. He did not switch out the light; instead, pulling the blankets up to his chin, he sat smoking and staring fixedly in front of him with the expression of a man whose mind is far away from his surroundings. When a church clock in the neighbourhood struck the hour of midnight, he was still smoking, and a little heap of cigarette-ends on a tray-by his bedside showed that sleep, had not visited him in the interval. For hour after hour he sat propped up, smoking unceasingly, and it was not till four strokes rang out from the near-by tower that he readjusted the pillows and switched off the light.. "It's as simple as A B C," he murmured, as he lay down to sleep. (To be continued.)