The Marten Mystery

Taranaki Daily News, 18 August 1934, Page 23 (Supplement)

The Marten Mystery

(By

John Ironside)

Author of “The Call Box Mystery/’ “The Red Symbol,” etc.

CHAPTER 18 (Continued). “The person who was listening at the door dropped that, and if it wasn’t Miss Cave who was it? That hysterical young lady’s maid wasn't in the house at the time, none of the others was upstairs, and the little girl was with her brother in this room. So what about it?” “She—she ■. couldn’t do such a thing—it’s impossible!” John stammered, staring at the handkerchief again. So Tattam knew of this, and that was why Miriam had noticed him looking reproachfully at her, and why he had been so evasive when she spoke to him. But it couldn’t have been she! He’d never believe it! “Women are impossible creatures, and it’s impossible for any mere man to guess what any one of ’em would say or do in certain circumstances,” Freeman asserted. “And, after all, you’d only met her two days before. It’s my fault for not telling you about that at the time, and I’m sorry, very sorry, you’ve told her about me. It uay make a Jot of difference—to us all. However, it’s done. So least said soonest mended. Don’t take it too much to heart,” he added, seeing the stricken look on John’s face, as he silently offered to return the handkerchief. “No, you’d better keep it, and I’d better be off, and both of us get to bed.” /‘Won’t you have something before you go?” John aSked dully, crushing the handkerchief in his hand. “There’s whisky and soda on the sideboard.” “No, thanks. The tea has set me up air right. . . Oh, by the way, Mr. Marten,” he turned as he went towards the door,' “did you happen to hear anything down at that place—Chelcombe—about some woman in the churchyard?” “A woman?” John repeated vaguely, his mind still exercised over Miriam and that handkerchief. “Oh, yes, someone who spoke to Rodin, and then went off abruptly in a car. I remember hearing Devlin, his secretary, mention her, and ask if anyone knew who she was.” “Devlin, eh? Did you see her?” “No, I was in the church. I thought Devlin seemed rather upset about her. Do you know who she was?” “I can give a guess,” Freeman said dryly. “And I know that an inquiry as to the owner of that car, and giving the number on it, was put through here in London that afternoon, by ’phone—from 0628 Twickenham!” “Then there was something queer about her? They were afraid of her? Who was she?”

“Ah, the King of Diamonds would give a good deal to know that!” Freeman said with almost a chuckle as he took his overcoat from a chair and donned it. “ But he won’t trace het through that number! You see, it’s not on the register. It’s what we call an ‘accommodation number,’ used by the police when

necessary. That’s how I came to know the inquiry was made. Well, good night ” The lights were still on in the front hall, and John escorted Freeman to the door. The fog had lifted, and the light from the street lamp opposite shone into the porch. A burly figure—a policeman in uniform—came forward silently as the . door was opened and saluted Freeman, who returned the salute and went off with the man, looking back at John with a parting gesture and a significant jerk of the head towards his companion. Evidently the man knew he was there, and was waiting to escort him to the end of his beat. Freeman didn’t intend to take any unnecessary risks. As he closed the door and shot the heavy bolts John heard a slight sound from the back of the big hall, Which was in darkness, and turned, instantly on the alert.

Without speaking, and with his hand on the little automatic in the pocket of his dinner-jacket, he went forward swiftly and silently, turning on the rear lights from a switch at the foot of the staircase as he passed. Under the stair was a big oak fitment, a coat cupboard. The sliding door was partly open, and slid back noiselessly to its full extent under his hand. No one there.

Opposite was the door of a cloakroom, locked on the outside, with the key in place, and at the back was a heavy mahogany door that led to servants’ offices and the basement stairs. He tried it softly, and found it also was fastened from the inner side. The sound he heard might have been the click of the well-oiled lock. He stood for a minute or so listening intently, but there was no further sound. Silence as of the grave. He must have imagined it, he decided, as he returned to the sitting-room, put out the lights there and went up to his own room, trying every door as he passed. They were all locked, and doubtless Tattam had the keys. At the end of the corridor, near the bedroom, was another door that gave access to the back staircase and the women servants’ quarters. This also was locked on the'other side, but a brass bolt on this side was undrawn, and he fastened it and locked his own door when he entered his bedroom, inwardly rebuking himself for being “nervy.” He was, indeed, strung up to high tensioh, and'for once utterly unable to obey his old campaigner’s instinct and go to bed and to sleep. The room was warm and cheerful, with the electric stove aglow. He locked the door, sank into the easy-chair, lighted his pipe, and sat brooding, not over Freeman’s main report, important and astonishing as this was, but over Miriam, looking now and then at her crushed handkerchief, which he still held in his left hand. However it came to be where Free-' man found it she had never listened at the door, nor had she any secret knowledge of the mystery of the murders. Both were absurd and preposterous ideas, which he instantly dismissed from his mind.

But why had Henri Rodin taken the trouble to inveigle her into his household? No doubt it was he who brought it -about. Was Miss Rodin consciously aiding and abetting him in his schemes, as they concerned Miriam, anyhow? He could not think that. She seemed such a sincere woman! Yet there Miriam was—Jn the lion’s den, in the house Freeman described as a fortress, virtually a prisoner, who knew, or suspected, that her correspondence was watched, her telephone messages tapped, hence her whispered warning. Why should Rodin take so much trouble to have her near and keep her thus under surveillance? She had declared she did not fear him, but he must have, or think he had, cause to fear her.

It was terrible to think of her there, under his roof, in the very midst of his mysterious, far-reaching plots. But how was she to get away? How could he even communicate with her without imperilling her? Should he write or telephone to her parents, and suggest that they should send an trrgent summons to her to return home? That, he soon decided, was an impossible expedient at present, for he must give them some sort of explanation of what, to them, would seem his unwarrantable interference in their daughter’s private affairs, and that he could not do until he had something more definite to go on. Presently his pipe went out and he found himself nodding in his chair, so switched off the stove and tumbled into bed, and to sleep at last. He was awakened by a knocking and Tattam’s voice.

“Your shaving water, Mr. John.” He got up, blinking, and admitted the old man.

“’Morning, Tattam. I've overslept for onCe. Why didn’t you let Garrett bring that as usual?” “He’s busy downstairs, sir. I’m glad you’ve slept all right. I wish I had.” “Didn't you?” “Hardly a wink, Mr. John.” He looked like it. His once plump face was pale and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. He seemed to have aged years in these few days. “Bad business, Tattam. You’re working and worrying tod much, and that doesn’t do any good to anyone!” “I know, sir. But there it is, and I can’t help it. Mr. Freeman stayed pretty late sir, didn’t he? I thought I heard him go about two?”

“Yes. Were you up then?” John asked quickly. “I was, a minute or two after, sir, for I thought I heard someone moving below.”

“So did I! It sounded like the door at the back of the hall being locked — just after I let Freeman out. Was that you?”

“No, sir! I never went up the stairs at all, but went the round of the basement and looked into Garrett’s room—he was snoring like anything. So I thought it was just my f&ncy and went back to bed, though, as I said, I scarcely slept a wink.” “We’re both a bit jumpy, I’m afraid. We must try and steady our' nerves,” said John. “Just so, sir. But it’s easier said than done sometimes. Shall you be back early to-day, as it’s Saturday?” “Probably. But if I’m not there's no need to be anxious, you know." “I hope not, sir. But somehow I always am. you know. I can’t help it.” On his way to the City, and with his mind still full of Miriam, John decided he would ring up Lucie Rodin. Even if her messages were also “tapped” it Height be safer; anyhow, he would try it He did so in the course of the morning, and, as before, a man answered. Devlin, this time, he recognised his voice. “Can you put me through to Miss Rodin?” John asked. “Sure. Mr. John Marten, isn’t it?” John frowned as he answered in the affirmative. “0.K., Mr. Marten. Hold the line.” He had to vzait nearly a minute before. he heard, not Lucie's, but Rodin's rich voice. (To be continued?.