THE
DAFFODIL MURDER


---


THE
DAFFODIL MURDER
By EDGAR WALLACE
AUTHOR of
"Diana of Kara-Kara," "The Fellowship of the Frog,” “The
Squealer," "Angel Esquire," "Jack O' Judgment," "The
Ringer," "The Four Just Men," "The Sinister
Man," "The Hairy Arm," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
New York
Printed in U. S. A.


IS COLLEGE
M
an'
.
Nato e as
Copyright, 1921,
BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED).


THE
DAFFODIL MURDER





THE DAFFODIL MURDER
CHAPTER I
AN OFFER REJECTED
“I don't understand you, Mr. Lyne.”
The girl who looked down at Thornton Lyne was
something more than pretty. Her clear skin was
tinted with the faintest pink, and there was in the
sober depths of her grey eyes a light which would have
warned a man less satisfied with his own genius and
power of persuasion than the proprietor of Lyne's
Stores.
He was not looking at her face. His eyes were
running approvingly over her perfect figure, noting
the straightness of the back, the fine poise of the
lovely head, the shapeliness of the slender hands.
He pushed back his long black hair from his fore-
head and smiled. It pleased him to believe that his
face was cast in an intellectual mould, and that the
somewhat unhealthy pastiness of his skin might be
described as the “pallor of thought.”
Presently he looked away from her through the big
bay window which overlooked the crowded floor of
the Stores.
He had had this office built in the entresol and the


THE DAFFODIL MURDER
big windows had been put in so that he might at any
time overlook the most important department of the
great establishment which it was his good fortune to
control.
Now and again, as he saw, a head would be turned
in his direction, and he knew that the attention of all
the girls was concentrated upon the little scene, plainly
visible from the floor below, in which an unwilling
employee was engaged.
She too was conscious of the fact, and her discom-
fort and anger increased. She made a little move-
ment as if to go, but he stopped her.
“ You don't understand, Odette," he said. His
voice was soft and melodious, and held the hint of a
caress. “Did you read my little book?” he asked
suddenly. “I suppose you thought it rather curious
that a man in my position should bother his head to
write poetry; eh?" he asked. “Most of it was writ-
ten before I came into this beastly shop, my dear -
before I developed into a tradesman!”
She made no reply and he looked at her curiously.
“What did you think of them?” he asked pres-
ently.
Her lips were trembling and again he mistook the
symptoms.
"I did not want to discuss your book," she said, her
indignation rising, “ but since it was evidently given to
me for a purpose, I will say that only a degenerate
could have written it and only a diseased mind could
enjoy reading it!”


AN OFFER REJECTED
He went red. The vanity of the man was touched
in its tenderest spot.
"How very middle class you are, Miss Rider!” he
sneered. “Those verses have been acclaimed by some
of the best critics in the country as reproducing all the
beauties of the old Hellenic poetry.”
She went to speak, but stopped herself and stood
with lips compressed.
“May I go now, Mr. Lyne?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he replied coolly. “You said just now
you didn't understand what I was talking about. I'll
put it plainer this time. You're a very beautiful girl,
as you probably know, and you are destined, in all
probability, to be the mate of a very average suburban
minded person, who will give you a life tantamount
to slavery. That is the life of the middle-class woman,
as you probably know. And why would you submit
to this bondage? Simply because a person in a black
coat and a white collar has mumbled certain passages
over you — passages which have neither meaning nor,
to an intelligent person, significance. I would not
take the trouble of going through such a foolish cer-
emony, but I would take a great deal of trouble to
make you happy.”
He walked towards her slowly and laid one hand
upon her shoulder. Instinctively she shrank back and
he laughed.
“What do you say?”.
She swung round on him, her eyes blazing.
“I say I would sooner be the wife of a clean-minded


THE DAFFODIL MURDER
labourer than be associated with a man like you!" she
cried. “You have no right in the world to insult me
because I am in your employ — nobody but a cad
would make such a proposal!”
His face went livid.
“Do you know whom you are talking to?” he
asked, raising his voice.
“I am talking to Thornton Lyne,” said she, breath-
ing quickly, “known as the proprietor of Lyne's
Stores, the employer of Odette Rider who draws three
pounds every week from him —”
He was breathless with anger.
“Be careful!” he gasped. “Be careful!”
“I am speaking to a man whose whole life is a re-
proach to the very name of man!” she went on, speak-
ing rapidly. “A man who is sincere in nothing, who
is living on the brains and reputation of his father,
and the money that has come through the hard work-
ing of better men.
“ You can't scare me," she continued scornfully, as
he took a step towards her. “Oh yes, I know I'm
going to leave your employment, and I'm leaving to-
night. There are other places in London where de-
cency is respected and where men like you get the
treatment they deserve!”
The man was hurt, humiliated, almost crushed by
her scorn. He was incapable of speech and could
only shake his head and point with unsteady fingers
to the door.
“ Get out,” he whispered.
-


6
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
with his reputation for ingenuity, his almost sublime
uncanny cleverness. Tarling, whom he had never
seen, was a relation, too, and would do things to
oblige him if he paid him well.
He passed with quick steps along the corridor,
which connected his private den with the board-room,
and came into that spacious apartment still seething
with rage.
The man who turned to greet him might have been
twenty-seven or thirty-seven. He was tall but lithe,
rather than broad. His face was the colour of ma-
hogany, and the blue eyes turned to Lyne were un-
winking and expressionless. That was the first im-
pression which Lyne received.
He took Lyne's hand in his — it was as soft as
a woman's. As they shook hands Lyne noticed a
third figure in the room. He was below middle
height and sat in the shadow thrown by a wall pillar.
He too rose, but bowed his head.
“A Chinaman, eh?” said Lyne, looking at this
unexpected apparition with curiosity. “Oh, of course,
Tarling, I had almost forgotten that you've almost
come straight from China. Won't you sit down?"
He followed the other's example, threw himself into
a chair and offered his cigarette case.
“The work I am going to ask you to do I will dis-
cuss later," he said. “But I must explain that I was
partly attracted to you by the description I read in one


AN OFFER REJECTED
“Did you send for me, sir?”
He turned round quickly. The door had opened
without noise, and a man stood on the threshold of
the room, an ingratiating smile on his face, his hands
twining and intertwining ceaselessly as though he were
washing them with invisible soap.


THE HUNTER DECLINES
II
almost imperceptible twitch of the nostrils, which in-
variably showed on the face of his attendant when he
"smelt” a criminal.
"Mr. Tarling is a detective," repeated Lyne. “He
is a gentleman I heard about when I was in China -
you know I was in China for three months, when I
made my tour round the world ?” he asked Tarling.
Tarling nodded.
“Oh yes, I know," he said. “You stayed at the
Bund Hotel. You spent a great deal of time in the
native quarter, and you had rather an unpleasant ex-
perience as the result of making an experiment in
opium smoking."
Lyne's face went red, and then he laughed.
"You know more about me than I know about you,
Tarling," he said, yet with a note of asperity in his
voice, and turned again to his subordinate.
"I have reason to believe that there has been money
stolen in this business by one of my cashiers,” he said.
"Impossible, sir!” said the shocked Mr. Milburgh.
" Wholly impossible!”
Mr. Lyne smiled complacently.
“It will interest you to know, Mr. Tarling," he
said, “ that I myself have some knowledge of and ac-
quaintance with the criminal classes. In fact, there
is one unfortunate protégé of mine whom I have tried
very hard to reform for the past four years, who is
coming out of prison in a couple of days. I took up
this work,” he said modestly, “because I feel it is the
duty of those of us who are in a more fortunate posi-


12
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
tion to help those who have not had a chance in the
cruel competition of the world.”
Tarling was not impressed.
“Do you know the person who has been robbing
you?” he asked.
“I have reason to believe it is a girl whom I have
summarily dismissed tonight, and whom I wish you to
watch."
The detective nodded.
“That is rather a primitive business,” he said, with
the first faint hint of a smile he had shown. “Haven't
you your own shop detective who could take that job
in hand ? Petty larceny is hardly in my line. I un-
derstood that this was bigger work —”
He stopped, because it was obviously impossible to
explain just why he had thought as much, in the
presence of the man whose conduct, originally, had
been the subject of his enquiries.
“To you it may seem a small matter. To me, it
is very important,” said Mr. Lyne profoundly. “Here
is a girl, highly respected by all her companions and
consequently a great influence on their morals, who,
as I have reason to believe, has steadily and persist-
ently falsified my books, taking money from the firm,
and at the same time has secured the goodwill of all
with whom she has been brought into contact.
"I want you clearly to understand, Tarling, that
I have not sufficient evidence to convict her; other-
wise, I would not have called you in."


THE HUNTER DECLINES 13
“ You want me to get the evidence, eh?” said Tar-
ling curiously.
“Who is the lady, may I venture to ask, sir ? ”
It was Milburgh who interposed the question.
“Miss Rider,” replied Lyne.
“Miss Rider!”
Milburgh's face took on a look of blank surprise,
as he gasped the words.
“Miss Rider — oh no, impossible!”
“Why impossible?” demanded Mr. Lyne sharply.
“Well, sir, I meant stammered the manager, “it
is so unlikely - she is such a nice girl —"
Thornton Lyne shot a suspicious glance at him.
“You have no particular reason for wishing to
shield Miss Rider, have you?” he asked coldly.
"No, sir, not at all. I beg of you not to think
that," appealed the agitated Mr. Milburgh, “only it
seems so — extraordinary.”
"All things are extraordinary that are out of the
· common,” snapped Lyne. “ It would be extraordinary
if you were accused of stealing, Milburgh. It would
be very extraordinary indeed, for example, if we dis-
covered that you were living a five thousand pounds
life on a nine hundred pounds salary, eh?”
Only for a second did Milburgh lose his self-pos-
session. The hand that went to his mouth shook, and
Tarling, whose eyes had never left the man's face, saw
the tremendous effort which he was making to recover
his equanimity.


14
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Yes, sir, that would be extraordinary,” said Mil-
burgh steadily.
Lyne had lashed himself again into the old fury,
and if his vitriolic tongue was directed at Milburgh
his thoughts were centred upon that proud and beauti-
ful face which had looked down upon him in his
office.
“It would be extraordinary if you were sent to
penal servitude as the result of my discovery that you
had been robbing the firm for years," he growled,
"and I suppose everybody else in the firm would say
the same as you - how extraordinary!”
"I daresay they would, sir," said Mr. Milburgh, his
old smile back, the twinkle again returning to his eyes,
and his hands rubbing together in ceaseless ablutions.
“It would sound extraordinary, and it would be
extraordinary, and nobody here would be more sur-
prised than the unfortunate victim — ha, ha!”
"Perhaps not,” said Lyne coldly. “Only I want
to say a few words in your presence, and I would like
you to give them every attention. You have been com-
plaining to me for a month past," he said speaking
with deliberation, “about small sums of money being
missing from the cashier's office.”
It was a bold thing to say, and in many ways a rash
thing. He was dependent for the success of his
hastily-formed plan, not only upon Milburgh's guilt,
but upon Milburgh's willingness to confess his guilt.
If the manager agreed to stand sponsor to this lie, he
admitted his own peculations, and Tarling, to whom


THE HUNTER DECLINES
15
the turn of the conversation had at first been unin-
telligible, began dimly to see the drift it was taking.
“I have complained that sums of money have been
missing for the past month?” repeated Milburgh dully.
The smile had gone from lips and eyes. His face
was haggard — he was a man at bay.
“ That is what I said,” said Lyne watching him.
“Isn't that the fact?”
There was a long pause, and presently Milburgh
nodded.
“That is the fact, sir," he said in a low voice.
“ And you have told me that you suspected Miss
Rider of defalcations?”
Again the pause and again the man nodded.
“Do you hear?” asked Lyne triumphantly.
“I hear,” said Tarling quietly. “Now what do you
wish me to do? Isn't this a matter for the police? I
mean the regular police."
Lyne frowned.
“The case has to be prepared first,” he said. “I
will give you full particulars as to the girl's address
and her habits, and it will be your business to collect
such information as will enable us to put the case in
the hands of Scotland Yard.”
"I see,” said Tarling and smiled again. Then he
shook his head. “I'm afraid I can't come into this
case, Mr. Lyne."
“Can't come in?" said Lyne in astonishment.
“Why not?”
" Because it's not my kind of job," said Tarling.


16
. THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“ When I met you I had a feeling that you were head-
ing me for one of the biggest cases I had ever under-
taken. It shows you how one's instincts can lead one
astray," he smiled again, and picked up his hat.
“What do you mean? You're going to throw up a
valuable client and, and a relation!”
"I don't know how valuable you're likely to be,"
said Tarling, “and I don't think the fact that our
fathers were cousins need come into account. I tell
you I do not wish to be associated with this case, Mr.
Lyne, and I think there the matter can end.”
“You don't think it's worth while, eh?” sneered
Lyne. “Yet when I tell you that I am prepared to
give you a fee of five hundred guineas --"
"If you gave me a fee of five thousand guineas, or
fifty thousand guineas, I should still decline to be as-
sociated with this matter," said Tarling and his words
had the metallic quality which precludes argument.
“And I'll tell you why, here and now," he contin-
ued. “I decline to be associated with so palpable a
frame-up. I daresay you know what that means —
I will put the matter more plainly and within your un-
derstanding. For some reason or other you have a
sudden grudge against a member of your staff. I
read your face, Mr. Lyne, and the weakness of your
chin and the appetite of your mouth suggest to me that
you are not over scrupulous with the women who are
in your charge. I guess, rather than know, that you
have been turned down with a dull, sickening thud by
a decent girl, and in your mortification you are attempt-


THE HUNTER DECLINES
17
ing to invent a charge which has no substance and no
foundation.
“Mr. Milburgh,” he turned to the other, and again
Mr. Milburgh ceased to smile, “has his own reasons
for complying with your wishes. He is your subordi-
nate, and moreover, the side threat of penal servitude
for life, if he refuses, has carried some weight.”
Thornton Lyne's face was distorted with fury.
“I will take care that your behaviour is widely ad-
vertised,” his voice was trembling with passion.
“You have brought a most monstrous charge against
me, and I shall proceed against you for slander. The
truth is that you are not equal to the job I intended
giving you and you are finding an excuse for getting
out.”
“ The truth is,” replied Oliver Tarling, biting off the
end of a cigar he had taken from his pocket, “that my
reputation is too good to be risked in associating with
such a dirty business as yours. I hate to be rude, and
I hate just as much to throw away good money. But
I can't take good money for bad work, Mr. Lyne, and
if you will be advised by me, you will drop this stupid
scheme for vengeance which your hurt vanity has sug-
gested – it is the clumsiest kind of 'frame-up' that.
was ever invented — and I suggest also you apologise
to the young lady, whom, I have no doubt, you have
grossly insulted.”
He beckoned to his Chinese satellite and walked lei-
surely to the door. Incoherent with rage, shaking in
every limb with a weak man's sense of his own impo-


18
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
tence, Lyne watched him until the door was half
closed, then, springing forward with a strangled cry,'
he wrenched the door open and leapt at the detective.
Two hands gripped his arm and lifting him bodily
back into the room, pushed him down into a chair.
A not unkindly face blinked down at him, a face re-
lieved from utter solemnity by the tiny laughter lines
about the eyes.
"Mr. Lyne," said the mocking voice of Tarling,
“ you are setting an awful example to the criminal
classes. It is a good job your convict friend is in
gaol.”
Without another word he left the room.


CHAPTER III
THE MAN WHO LOVED LYNE
Two days later Thornton Lyne sat in his big limou-
sine which was drawn up on the edge of Wandsworth
Common facing the gates of the gaol.
Poet and poseur he was, not the strangest combina-
tion seen in man. He was rich, he had opportunities
and life might have gone on being pleasant if every
man and woman he had met had let him have his own
way. Only there were at least two people with whom
Thornton Lyne's millions carried no weight.
It was warm in his limousine, which was electrically
heated. But outside, on that raw April morning, it
was bitterly cold, and the shivering little group of
women who stood at a respectful distance from the
prison gates drew their shawls tightly about them as
errant flakes of snow whirled across the open. The
common was covered with a white powder, and the
early flowers looked supremely miserable in their win-
try setting.
The prison clock struck eight, and a wicket gate
opened. A man slouched out, his jacket buttoned
up to his neck, his cap pulled over his eyes. At sight
of him, Lyne dropped the newspaper he had been read-
19


20
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
ing, opened the door of the car and jumped out, walk-
ing towards the released prisoner.
“Well, Sam," he said genially, "you didn't expect
me?"
The man stopped as if he had been shot, and stood
staring at the fur-coated figure. Then:
“Oh, Mr. Lyne,” he said brokenly. “Oh, guy'-
nor!” he choked, and tears streamed down his face,
and he gripped the outstretched hand in both of his,
unable to speak.
“You didn't think I'd desert you, Sam, eh?” said
Mr. Lyne, all aglow with consciousness of his virtue.
“I thought you'd given me up, sir,” said Sam Stay
huskily. “ You're a gentleman, you are, sir, and I
ought to be ashamed of myself!”.
“Nonsense, nonsense, Sam! Jump into the car,
my lad. Go along. People will think you're a mil-
lionaire.”
The man gulped, grinned sheepishly, opened the
door and stepped in, and sank with a sigh of comfort
into the luxurious depths of the big brown cushions.
“Gawd! To think that there are men like you in
the world, sir! Why, I believe in angels, I do!”
“Nonsense, Sam. Now you come along to my flat,
and I'm going to give you a good breakfast and start
you fair again."
" I'm going to try and keep straight, sir, I am,
s'help me!”
It may be said in truth that Mr. Lyne did not care
very much whether Sam kept straight or not. He


THE MAN WHO LOVED LYNE
21
might indeed have been very much disappointed if
Sam had kept to the straight and narrow path. He
“kept " Sam as men keep chickens and prize cows,
and he “collected ” Sam as other men collect stamps
and china. Sam was his luxury and his pose. In his
club he boasted of his acquaintance with this repre-
sentative of the criminal classes — for Sam was an
expert burglar and knew no other trade — and Sam's
adoration for him was one of his most exhilarating
experiences.
And that adoration was genuine. Sam would have
laid down his life for the pale-faced man with the
loose mouth. He would have suffered himself to be
torn limb from limb, if in his agony he could have
brought ease or advancement to the man, who, to him,
was one with the gods.
Originally, Thornton Lyne had found Sam whilst
that artist was engaged in burgling the house of his
future benefactor. It was a whim of Lyne's to give
the criminal a good breakfast and to evince an interest
in his future. Twice had Sam gone down for a short
term, and once for a long term of imprisonment, and
on each occasion Thornton Lyne had made a parade
of collecting the returned wanderer, driving him home,
giving him breakfast and a great deal of worldly and
unnecessary advice, and launching him forth again
upon the world with ten pounds — a sum just suffi-
cient to buy Sam a new kit of burglar's tools.
Never before had Sam shown such gratitude; and
never before had Thornton Lyne been less disinter-


22
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
ested in his attentions. There was a hot bath — which
Sam Stay could have dispensed with, but which, out
of sheer politeness, he was compelled to accept, a warm
and luxurious breakfast; a new suit of clothes, with
not two, but four, five-pound notes in the pocket.
After breakfast Lyne had his talk.
“ It's no good, sir," said the burglar, shaking his
head. “I've tried everything to get an honest living,
but somehow I can't get on in the straight life. I
drove a taxicab for three months after I came out,
till a busy-fellow 1 tumbled to me not having a license
and brought me up under the Prevention of Crimes
Act. It's no use my asking you to give me a job in
your shop, sir, because I couldn't stick it, I couldn't
really! I'm used to the open air life; I like being my
own master. I'm one of those fellows you've read
about — the word begins with A.”.
“Adventurers?” said Lyne with a little laugh.
“Yes, I think you are, Sam, and I'm going to give
you an adventure after your own heart."
And then he began to tell a tale of base ingratitude
- of a girl he had helped, had indeed saved from
starvation and who had betrayed him at every turn.
Thornton Lyne was a poet. He was also a picturesque
liar. The woman he had desired was now the most
hateful creature in the world. He would have maimed
her, torn her beauty from her, trampled her in the
slime in his mortification.
His voice rose and his vehemence increased as he
1 Detective.


THE MAN WHO LOVED LYNE
23
saw the eyes of the criminal blazing with the reflection
of his rage. The lie came as easily to his lips as the
truth, and easier, since there was a certain crudeness
about truth which revolted his artistic soul. And as
the tale was unfolded of Odette Rider's perfidy, Sam's
responses grew more and more husky.
Presently Thornton Lyne stopped, his eyes fixed on
the other to note the effect.
“Show me,” said Sam, his voice trembling. “Show
me a way of getting even with her, sir, and I'll go
through hell to do it!”
“ That's the kind of stuff I like to hear," said Lyne,
and poured out from the long bottle which stood on
the coffee-tray a stiff tot of Sam's favourite brandy,
“Now, I'll give you my idea.”
For the rest of the morning the two men sat almost
head to head, plotting woe for the girl, whose chief
offence had been against the dignity of Thornton
Lyne, and whose virtue had so incited his hate!


CHAPTER IV
MURDER
Jack Tarling lay stretched upon his hard bed, a long
cigarette holder between his teeth, a book on Chinese
metaphysics balanced on his chest, at peace with the
world. The hour was eight o'clock, and it was the
day that Sam Stay had been released from gaol.
It had been a busy day for Tarling, for he was en-
gaged in a bank fraud case which would have occupied
the whole of his time had he not had a little private
business to attend to. This private matter was wholly
unprofitable, but his curiosity had been piqued.
He lay the book flat on his chest as the soft click
of the opening door announced the coming of his re-
tainer. The impassive Ling Chu came noiselessly into
the room, carrying a tray, which he placed upon a low
table by the side of his master's bed. The Chinaman
wore a blue silk pyjama suit - a fact which Tarling
noticed.
“You are not going out tonight, then, Ling Chu?"
“No, Lieh Jen," said the man.
They both spoke in the soft, sibilant language of
the Middle Kingdom.
“ You have been to the Man with the Cunning
Face?"
24


MURDER
25
For answer the other took an envelope from an
inside pocket and laid it in the other's hand. Tarling
glanced at the address.
“So this is where the young lady lives, eh? 'Miss
Odette Rider, 27, Carrymore Buildings, Edgware
Road.'”
“ It is a clan house, where many people live," said
Ling Chu. “I myself went, in your honourable serv-
ice, and saw people coming in and going out intermi-
nably, and never the same people did I see twice.”
" It is what they call in English a 'flat building,'
Ling,” said Tarling with a little smile. “What did
the Man with the Cunning Face say to my letter?”
“Master, he said nothing. He just read and read,
and then he made a face like this.” Ling gave an
imitation of Mr. Milburgh's smile. “And then he
wrote as you see.”
Tarling nodded. He stared for a moment into va-
cancy, then he turned on his elbow and lifted the cup
of tea which his servant had brought him.
“What of Face-White-and-Weak man, Ling?” he
asked in the vernacular. “You saw him?”.
“I saw him, master,” said the Chinaman gravely.
"He is a man without a heaven."
Again Tarling nodded. The Chinese use the word
"heaven" instead of “God," and he felt that Ling
had very accurately sized up Mr. Thornton Lyne's
lack of spiritual qualities.
He finished the tea, and swung his legs over the
edge of the bed.


26
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“ Ling," he said, “this place is very dull and sad.
I do not think I shall live here."
“ Will the master go back to Shanghai?” asked the
other, without any display of emotion.
“I think so," nodded Tarling. “At any rate, this
place is too dull. Just miserable little taking-money-
easily cases, and wife-husband-lover cases, and my soul
is sick."
“ These are small matters," said Ling philosophically.
“ But The Master —” this time he spoke of the great
Master, Confucius —" has said that all greatness comes
from small things, and perhaps some small-piece man
will cut off the head of some big-piece man, and then
they will call you to find the murderer.”
Tarling laughed.
“ You're an optimist, Ling," he said. “No, I don't
think they'll call me in for a murder. They don't call
in private detectives in this country.”
Ling shook his head.
“But the master must find murderers, or he will
no longer be Lieh Jen, the Hunter of Men."
“You're a bloodthirsty soul, Ling," said Tarling,
this time in English, which Ling imperfectly under-
stood, despite the sustained efforts of eminent mission-
ary schools. “Now I'll go out,” he said with sudden
resolution. “I am going to call upon the small-piece
woman whom White-Face desires."
“May I come with you?” asked Ling.
Tarling hesitated.


MURDER
27
“Yes, you may come,” he said, “but you must
trail me."
Carrymore Mansions is a great block of buildings
sandwiched between two more aristocratic and more
expensive blocks of flats in the Edgware Road. The
ground floor is given up to lock-up shops which per-
haps cheapened the building, but still it was sufficiently
exclusive a habitation for the rents, as Tarling guessed,
to be a little too high for a shop assistant unless she
were living with her family. The explanation, as he
was to discover, lay in the fact that there were some
very undesirable basement flats which were let at a
lower rental.
He found himself standing outside the polished ma-
hogany door of one of these, wondering exactly what
excuse he was going to give to the girl for making a
call so late at night. And that she needed some ex-
planation was clear from the frank suspicion which
showed in her face when she opened the door to him.
“Yes, I am Miss Rider,” she said.
“Can I see you for a few moments?”
“ I'm sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “but I am
alone in the flat, so I can't ask you to come in."
This was a bad beginning.
“ Is it not possible for you to come out?” he asked
anxiously, and in spite of herself she smiled.
“I'm afraid it's quite impossible for me to go out
with somebody I have never met before,” she said,
with just a trace of amusement in her eyes.


28
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“I recognise the difficulty," laughed Tarling.
“ Here is one of my cards. I'm afraid I am not very
famous in this country, so you will not know my
name.”
She took the card and read it.
“A private detective?” she said in a troubled voice.
“Who has sent you? Not Mr.-"
“Not Mr. Lyne," he said.
She hesitated a moment, then threw open the door
wider.
“You must come in. We can talk here in the hall.
Do I understand, Mr. Lyne has not sent you?”
“Mr. Lyne was very anxious that I should come,”
he said. “I am betraying his confidence, but I do not
think that he has any claim upon my loyalty. I don't
know why I've bothered you at all, except that I feel
that you ought to be put on your guard."
“ Against what?” she asked.
“ Against the machinations of a gentleman to whom
you have been —” he hesitated for a word.
“Very offensive,” she finished for him.
“I don't know how offensive you've been," he
laughed, “but I gather you have annoyed Mr. Lyne
for some reason or other, and that he is determined
to punish you. I do not ask your confidence in this
respect, because I realise that you would hardly like
to tell me. But what I want to tell you is this, that
Mr. Lyne is probably framing up a charge against you
- that is to say, inventing a charge of theft."
“Of theft?" she cried in indignant amazement.


MURDER
29
“ Against me? Of theft? It's impossible that he
could be so wicked!”
“It's not impossible that anybody could be wicked,"
said Tarling of the impassive face and the laughing
eyes. “All that I know is that he even induced Mr.
Milburgh to say that complaints have been made by
Milburgh concerning thefts of money from your de-
partment.”
“ That's absolutely impossible!” she cried emphat-
ically. “Mr. Milburgh would never say such a thing.
Absolutely impossible!”.
“Mr. Milburgh didn't want to say such a thing, I
give him credit for that,” said Tarling slowly, and then
gave the gist of the argument, omitting any reference,
direct or indirect, to the suspicion which surrounded
Milburgh.
“So you see,” he said in conclusion, " that you
ought to be on your guard. I suggest to you that
you see a solicitor and put the matter in his hands.
You need not move against Mr. Lyne, but it would
strengthen your position tremendously if you had
already detailed the scheme to some person in author-
ity."
“ Thank you very, very much, Mr. Tarling," she
said warmly, and looked up into his face with a smile
so sweet, so pathetic, so helpless, that Tarling's heart
melted towards her.
“And if you don't want a solicitor," he said, "you
can depend upon me. I will help you if any trouble
arises."
as TICI.


30
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
е
“You don't know how grateful I am to you, Mr.
Tarling. I didn't receive you very graciously!”.
“If you will forgive my saying so, you would have
been a fool to have received me in any other way,” he
said.
She held out both her hands to him, he took them
and there were tears in her eyes. Presently she com-
posed herself, and led him into her little drawing-
room.
“Of course, I've lost my job,” she laughed, “but
I've had several offers, one of which I shall accept.
I am going to have the rest of the week to myself
and take a little holiday.”
Tarling stopped her with a gesture. His ears were
superhumanly sensitive.
“Are you expecting a visitor?” he asked softly.
"No," said the girl in surprise.
“Do you share this flat with somebody?”
“ I have a woman who sleeps here,” she said. “She
is out for the evening.”
“Has she a key?”
The girl shook her head.
The man rose, and Odette marvelled how one so tall
could move so swiftly and without so much as a sound
across the uncarpeted hallway. He reached the door,
turned the knob of the patent lock and jerked it open.
A man was standing on the mat and he jumped back
at the unexpectedness of Tarling's appearance. The
stranger was a cadaverous looking man, in a brand-
new suit of clothes, evidently ready-made, but he still


MURDER
31
wore on his face the curious yellow tinge which is the
special mark of the recently liberated gaol-bird.
“Beg pardon,” he stammered, “but is this No.
87?”
Tarling shot out a hand and gripping him by the
coat, drew the helpless man towards him.
“ Hullo, what are you trying to do? What's this
you have?”
He wrenched something from the man's hand. It
was not a key but a flat-toothed instrument of strange
construction.
“Come in,” said Tarling and jerked his prisoner into
the hall.
A swift turning back of his prisoner's coat pinioned
him, and then with dexterousness and in silence he
proceeded to search. From two pockets he took a
dozen jewelled rings, each bearing the tiny tag of
Lyne's Stores.
“Hullo!” said Tarling sarcastically, “are these
intended as a loving gift from Mr. Lyne to Miss
Rider?”
The man was speechless with rage. If looks could
kill, Tarling would have died.
“A clumsy trick," said Tarling, shaking his head
mournfully. “Now go back to your boss, Mr. Thorn-
ton Lyne, and tell him that I am ashamed of an in-
telligent man adopting so crude a method,” and with a
kick he dismissed Sam Stay to the outer darkness.
The girl, who had been a frightened spectator of the
scene, turned her eyes imploringly upon the detective.


32
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“What does it mean?” she pleaded. “I feel so
frightened. What did that man want?”.
“You need not be afraid of the man, or any other
man,” said Tarling briskly. “I'm sorry you were
scared."
He succeeded in calming her by the time her servant
had returned, and then took his leave.
“Remember, I have given you my telephone number
and you will call me up if there is any trouble. Par-
ticularly,” he said emphatically, “ if there is any trou-
ble tomorrow.”
But there was no trouble on the following day,
though at three o'clock in the afternoon she called
him up.
"I am going away to stay in the country," she said.
“I was frightened last night.”
“Come and see me when you get back," said Tar-
ling who had found it difficult to dismiss the girl from
his mind. “I am going to see Lyne tomorrow. By-
the-way, the person who called last night is a protégé
of Mr. Thornton Lyne's, a man who is devoted to him
body and soul, and he's the fellow we've got to look
after. By Jove! It almost gives me an interest in
life!”
He heard the faint laugh of the girl.
“Must I be butchered to make a detective's holi-
day?" she mocked and he grinned sympathetically.
“ Anyway, I'll see Lyne tomorrow,” he said.
The next morning, in fulfilment of his promise he
walked to the mammoth building which housed Lyne's


MURDER
33
Stores. His route brought him to Oxford Street and
he noted idly that the newsboys were unusually busy.
Then his eye caught the staring black letters of a bill.
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“ Daffodil murder ?” he repeated to himself and
bought a newspaper.
The news, widely spaced, was brief. An early
worker taking a short cut through Hyde Park, had
found the body of a man lying by the side of a car-
riage drive. He was fully dressed, save that his coat
and waistcoat had been removed. Wound about his
body was a woman's silk nightdress, stained with
blood. The hands of the figure were crossed on the
breast and upon them lay a handful of daffodils.
Tarling read the short paragraph again, then turned
to the stop-press column for any later news. There
were two lines in the space, but they were sensational.
“DAFFODIL MURDER
BODY IDENTIFIED AS MR. THORNTON LYNE, WELL-
KNOWN MILLIONAIRE”


CHAPTER V
FOUND IN LYNE'S POCKET
“ The London police are confronted with a new
mystery, which has features so remarkable, that it
would not be an exaggeration to describe this crime
as the Murder Mystery of the Century. A well-
known figure in London society, Mr. Thornton Lyne,
head of an important commercial organisation, a
poet of no mean quality, and a millionaire, renowned
for his philanthropic activities, was found dead in
Hyde Park in the early hours of this morning, in cir-
cumstances which admit of no doubt that he was most
brutally murdered.
" At half-past five, Thomas Savage, a bricklayer's
labourer employed by the Cubitt Town Construction
Company, was making his way across Hyde Park en
route to his work. He had crossed the main drive
which runs parallel with the Bayswater Road, when
his attention was attracted to a figure lying on the grass
near to the sidewalk. He made his way to the spot
and discovered a man, who had obviously been dead
for some hours. The body had neither coat nor waist-
coat, but about the breast, on which his two hands
were laid, was a silk garment tightly wound about the
body, and obviously designed to staunch a wound on
the left side above the heart.
34


FOUND IN LYNE'S POCKET
“ The extraordinary feature is that the murderer
must not only have composed the body, but had laid
upon its breast a handful of daffodils. The police were
immediately summoned and the body was removed.
The police theory is that the murder was not committed
in Hyde Park, but the unfortunate gentleman was
killed elsewhere and his body conveyed to the Park
in his own motor-car, which was found abandoned a
hundred yards from the scene of the discovery. We
understand that the police are working upon a very
important clue, and an arrest is imminent."
Mr. J. O. Tarling, late of the Shanghai Detective
Service, read the longer account in the evening news-
paper, and was unusually thoughtful.
Lyne murdered! It was an extraordinary coinci-
dence that he had been brought into touch with this
young man only a few days before.
Tarling knew nothing of Lyne's private life, despite
the fact that the man had been a distant relative of his.
He had been too busy in China to bother his head about
the vagaries of a tourist, even a cousin, but he re-
membered dimly some sort of scandal which had at-
tached to the visitor's name, and puzzled his head to
recall all the circumstances.
He put down the newspaper with a little grimace,
indicative of regret. If he had only been attached to
Scotland Yard, what a case this would have been for
him! Here was a mystery which promised unusual
interest.
His mind wandered to the girl, Odette Rider. What


36
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
would she think of it? She would be shocked, he
thought — horrified. It hurt him to feel that she
might be indirectly, even remotely associated with such
a public scandal, and he realised with a sudden sense
of dismay that nothing was less unlikely than that her
name would be mentioned as one who had quarrelled
with the dead man.
“Pshaw!” he muttered, shrugging off the possi-
bility as absurd, and, walking to the door, called his
Chinese servant.
Ling Chu came silently at his bidding.
“Ling Chu," he said, “ the white-faced man is
dead."
Ling Chu raised his imperturbable eyes to his mas-
ter's face.
“ All men die some time," he said calmly. “ This
man quick die. That is better than long die.”
Tarling looked at him sharply.
“How do you know that he quick die?” he de-
manded.
“ These things are talked about," said Ling Chu
without hesitation.
" But not in the Chinese language," replied Tarling,
“and, Ling Chu, you speak no English."
“I speak a little, master,” said Ling Chu, “and I
have heard these things in the streets.”
Tarling did not answer immediately and the China-
man waited.
"Ling Chu," he said after a while, “this man came
to Shanghai whilst we were there, and there was


FOUND IN LYNE'S POCKET
37
trouble-trouble. Once he was thrown out from Wing
Fu's tea-house where he had been smoking opium.
Also there was another trouble — do you remember?”
The Chinaman looked him straight in the eyes.
“I am forgetting,” he said. “This white-face was
a bad man. I am glad he is dead.”
“Humph!” said Tarling, and dismissed his re-
tainer.
Ling Chu was the cleverest of all his sleuths, a man
who never lifted his nose from the trail once it was
struck, and he had been the most loyal and faithful
of Tarling's native trailers. But the detective never
pretended that he understood Ling Chu's mind, or that
he could pierce the veil which the native dropped be-
tween his own private thoughts and the curious for-
eigner. Even native criminals were baffled in their
interpretation of Ling Chu's views, and many a man
had gone to the scaffold puzzling the head, which was
soon to be snicked from his body, over the method
by which Ling Chu had detected his crime.
Tarling went back to the table and picked up the
newspaper, but had hardly begun to read when the
telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver and
listened. To his amazement it was the voice of Crass-
well, the Assistant-Commissioner of Police, who had
been instrumental in persuading Tarling to come to
England.
“ Can you come to the Yard for five minutes, Tar-
ling?" said the voice. “I want to talk to you about
this murder."


THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Surely," said Tarling, “I'll be with you in ten
minutes.”
In five minutes he was at Scotland Yard and was
ushered into the office of Assistant Commissioner
Cresswell. The white-haired man who came across
to meet him with a smile of pleasure in his eyes dis-
closed the object of the summons.
" I'm going to bring you into this case, Tarling,"
he said. “It has certain aspects which seem outside
the humdrum experience of our own people. It is not
unusual, as you know," he said, as he motioned the
other to a chair, “ for Scotland Yard to engage outside
help, particularly when we have a crime of this char-
acter to deal with. The facts you know,” he went on,
as he opened a thin folder. “These are the reports,
which you can read at your leisure. Thornton Lyne
was, to say the least, eccentric. His life was not a
particularly wholesome one, and he had many unde-
sirable acquaintances, amongst whom was a criminal
and ex-convict who was only released from gaol a
few days ago."
" That's rather extraordinary," said Tarling, lifting
his eyebrows. “What had he in common with the
criminal?”
Commissioner Cresswell shrugged his shoulders.
“My own view is that this acquaintance was rather
a pose of Lyne's. He liked to be talked about. It
gave him a certain reputation for character amongst
his friends."
“ Who is the criminal?” asked Tarling.


FOUND IN LYNE'S POCKET
39
“ He is a man named Stay, a petty larcenist, and in
my opinion a much more dangerous character than
the police have realised.”
“Is he --” began Tarling. But the Commissioner
shook his head.
“I think we can rule him out from the list of people
who may be suspected of this murder," he said. “Sam
Stay has very few qualities that would commend them-
selves to the average man, but there can be no doubt
at all that he was devoted to Lyne body and soul.
When the detective temporarily in charge of the case
went down to Lambeth to interview Stay, he found him
lying on his bed prostrate with grief, with a news-
paper containing the particulars of the murder by his
side. The man is beside himself with sorrow, and
threatens to 'do in' the person who is responsible
for this crime. You can interview him later. I doubt
whether you will get much out of him, because he is
absolutely incoherent. Lyne was something more than
human in his eyes, and I should imagine that the only
decent emotion he has had in his life is this affection
for a man who was certainly good to him, whether
he'was sincere in his philanthropy or otherwise. Now,
here are a few of the facts which have not been made
public.”
Cresswell settled himself back in his chair and
ticked off on his fingers the points as he made them.
“You know that around Lyne's chest a silk night-
dress was discovered?"
Tarling nodded.


40
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Under the nightdress, made into a pad, evidently
with the object of arresting the bleeding, were two
handkerchiefs, neatly folded, as though they had been
taken from a drawer. They were ladies' handker-
chiefs, so we may start on the supposition that there
is a woman in the case."
Tarling nodded.
“Now another peculiar feature of the case, which
happily has escaped the attention of those who saw
the body first and gave particulars to the newspapers,
was that Lyne, though fully dressed, wore a pair of
thick felt slippers. They were taken out of his own
store last evening, as we have ascertained, by Lyne him-
self, who sent for one of his assistants to his office and
told him to get a pair of very soft-soled slippers.
“The third item is that Lyne's boots were discov-
ered in the deserted motor-car which was drawn up
by the side of the road a hundred yards from where
the body was lying.
"And the fourth feature — and this explains why
I have brought you into the case — is that in the car
was discovered his bloodstained coat and waistcoat.
In the right-hand pocket of the latter garment,” said
Cresswell, speaking slowly," was found this."
He took from his drawer a small piece of crimson
paper two inches square, and handed it without com-
ment to the detective.
Tarling took the paper and stared. Written in thick
black ink were four Chinese characters -“tzu chao fan
nao”—“He brought this trouble upon himself.”


CHAPTER VI
THE MOTHER OF ODETTE RIDER
The two men looked at one another in silence.
“Well?” said the Commissioner at last.
Tarling shook his head.
“That's amazing," he said, and looked at the little
slip of paper between his finger and thumb.
" You see why I am bringing you in,” said the Com-
missioner. “If there is a Chinese end to this crime,
nobody knows better than you how to deal with it.
I have had this slip translated: It means ' He brought
this trouble upon himself.'”
“Literally, ‘self look for trouble,” said Tarling.
“But there is one fact which you may not have no-
ticed. If you will look at the slip, you will see that
it is not written, but printed.”
He passed the little red square across the table, and
the Commissioner examined it.
“ That's true," he said in surprise. “I did not no-
tice that. Have you seen these slips before?”
Tarling nodded.
"A few years ago," he said. “There was a very
bad outbreak of crime in Shanghai, mostly under the
leadership of a notorious criminal whom I was instru-
41


42
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
mental in getting beheaded. He ran a gang called
• The Cheerful Hearts '- you know the fantastic titles
which these Chinese gangs adopt. It was their cus-
tom to leave on the scene of their depredations, the
Hong, or sign-manual of the gang. It was worded
exactly as this slip, only it was written. These visit-
ing cards of The Cheerful Hearts were bought up as
curios, and commanded high prices until some enter-
prising Chinaman started printing them, so that you
could buy them at almost any stationer's shop in Shang-
hai — just as you buy picture post-cards."
The Commissioner nodded.
“ And this is one of those ?”
“ This is such a one. How it came here, heaven
knows,” he said. “It is certainly the most remarkable
discovery."
The Commissioner went to a cupboard, unlocked it
and took out a suit-case, which he placed upon the
table and opened.
“Now," said the Commissioner, "look at this, Tar-
ling.”
“ This " was a stained garment, which Tarling had
no difficulty in recognising as a nightdress. He took
it out and examined it. Save for two sprays of for-
get-me-nots upon the sleeves it was perfectly plain
and was innocent of lace or embroidery.
" It was found round his body, and here are the
handkerchiefs.” He pointed to two tiny squares of
linen, so discoloured as to be hardly recognisable.
Tarling lifted the flimsy garment, with its evi-


THE MOTHER OF ODETTE RIDER 43
dence of the terrible purpose for which it had been
employed, and carried it to the light.
“ Are there laundry marks ? ”
“None whatever," said the Commissioner.
“Or on the handkerchiefs?”
“None,” replied Mr. Cresswell.
“ The property of a girl who lived alone,” said Tar-
ling. “She is not very well off, but extremely neat,
fond of good things but not extravagant, eh?"
“How do you know that? ” asked the Commis-
sioner, surprised.
Tarling laughed.
“ The absence of laundry marks shows that she
washes her silk garments at home, and probably her
handkerchiefs also, which places her amongst the girls
who aren't blessed with too many of this world's goods.
The fact that it is silk, and good silk, and that the hand-
kerchiefs are good linen, suggests a woman who takes
a great deal of trouble, yet whom one would not ex-
pect to find over-dressed. Have you any other clue?”
“None," said the Commissioner. “We have dis-
covered that Mr. Lyne had rather a serious quarrel with
one of his employees, a Miss Odette Rider --"
Tarling caught his breath. It was, he told himself,
absurd to take so keen an interest in a person whom
he had not seen for more than ten minutes, and who
a week before was a perfect stranger. But, somehow,
the girl had made a deeper impression upon him than
he had realised. This man, who had spent his life
in the investigation of crime and in the study of crim-


44
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
inals, had found little time to interest himself in
womanhood, and Odette Rider had been a revelation to
him.
“I happen to know there was a quarrel. I also
know the cause,” he said, and related briefly the cir-
cumstances under which he himself had met Thornton
Lyne. “What have you against her?” he asked, with
an assumption of carelessness which he did not feel.
“Nothing definite," said the Commissioner. “Her
principal accuser is the man Stay. Even he did not
accuse her directly, but he hinted that she was respon-
sible, in some way which he did not particularise, for
Thornton Lyne's death. I thought it curious that he
should know anything about this girl, but I am in-
clined to think that Thornton Lyne made this man his
confidant."
“What about the man?” asked Tarling. “Can he
account for his movements last night and early this
morning?"
“His statement,” replied the Commissioner, “is
that he saw Mr. Lyne at his flat at nine o'clock and
that Mr. Lyne gave him five pounds in the presence
of Lyne's butler. He said he left the flat and went
to his lodgings in Lambeth, where he went to bed very
early. All the evidence we have been able to collect
supports his statement. We have interviewed Lyne's
butler, and his account agrees with Stay's. Stay left
at five minutes past nine, and at twenty-five minutes to
ten — exactly half-an-hour — Lyne himself left the


THE MOTHER OF ODETTE RIDER 45
n
e
20
house, driving his two-seater. He was alone, and told
the butler he was going to his club.”
“How was he dressed ? ” asked Tarling.
“That is rather important,” nodded the Commis-
sioner. “For he was in evening dress until nine
o'clock — in fact, until after Stay had gone — when
he changed into the kit in which he was found dead.”
Tarling pursed his lips.
"He'd hardly change from evening into day dress
to go to his club,” he said.
He left Scotland Yard a little while after this, a
much puzzled man. His first call was at the flat in
Edgware Road which Odette Rider occupied. She
was not at home, and the hall porter told him that she
had been away since the afternoon of the previous day.
Her letters were to be sent on to Hertford. He had
the address because it was his business to intercept the
postman and send forward the letters.
“ Hillington Grove, Hertford."
Tarling was worried. There was really no reason
why he should be, he told himself, but he was un-
doubtedly worried. And he was disappointed too.
He felt that, if he could have seen the girl and spoken
with her for a few minutes, he could have completely
dissociated her from any suspicion which might at-
tach. In fact, that she was away from home, that
she had “ disappeared” from her flat on the eve of the
murder, would be quite enough, as he knew, to set the
official policemen nosing on her trail.


46
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Do you know whether Miss Rider has friends at
Hertford ?” he asked the porter.
“Oh, yes, sir," said the man nodding. “Miss Ri-
der's mother lives there."
Tarling was going, when the man detained him with
a remark which switched his mind back to the murder
and filled him with a momentary sense of hopeless dis-
may.
“ I'm rather glad Miss Rider didn't happen to be in
last night, sir,” he said. “Some of the tenants up-
stairs were making complaints.”
“Complaints about what?” asked Tarling and the
man hesitated.
“I suppose you're a friend of the young lady's,
aren't you?” and Tarling nodded.
“Well, it only shows you," said the porter confi-
dentially, “how people are very often blamed for
something they did not do. The tenant in the next
flat is a bit crotchety; he's a musician, and rather deaf.
If he hadn't been deaf, he wouldn't have said that Miss
Rider was the cause of his being wakened up. I sup-
pose it was something that happened outside.”
“What did he hear?” asked Tarling quickly and
the porter laughed.
"Well, sir, he thought he heard a shot, and a scream
like a woman's. It woke him up. I should have
thought he had dreamt it, but another tenant, who also
lives in the basement, heard the same sound, and the
rum thing was they both thought it was in Miss Rider's
flat."


48
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
dreadful — the most dreadful thing within my expe-
rience. Is anybody suspected, sir?” he asked.
Tarling shook his head.
“It is a most mysterious circumstance, Mr. Mil-
burgh,” he said. And then: “May I ask if any pro-
vision has been made to carry on the business in the
event of Mr. Lyne's sudden death?”
Again Milburgh hesitated, and seemed reluctant to
reply.
“I am, of course, in control,” he said, “as I was
when Mr. Lyne took his trip around the world. I
have received authority also from Mr. Lyne's solicitors
to continue the direction of the business until the Court
appoints a trustee."
Tarling eyed him narrowly.
“What effect has this murder had upon you per-
sonally?” he asked bluntly. “Does it enhance or de-
preciate your position?”
Milburgh smiled.
“Unhappily,” he said, “it enhances my position,
because it gives me a greater authority and a greater
responsibility. I would that the occasion had never
arisen, Mr. Tarling.”
" I'm sure you do," said Tarling drily, remember-
ing Lyne's accusations against the other's probity.
After a few commonplaces the men parted.
Milburgh! On the journey to Hertford Tarling
analysed that urbane man, and found him deficient in
certain essential qualities; weighed him and found him


50
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
air of a grand dame. She was graciousness itself to
the visitor, but Tarling thought he detected a note of
anxiety both in her mien and in her voice.
" I'm afraid there's some mistake," he began. “I
have probably found the wrong Mrs. Rider - I wanted
to see Miss Odette Rider."
The lady nodded.
“That is my daughter,” she said. “Have you any
news of her? I am quite worried about her.”
“Worried about her?” said Tarling quickly.
“Why, what has happened? Isn't she here?”
“Here?” said Mrs. Rider, wide-eyed, “of course
she is not.”
"But hasn't she been here?” asked Tarling.
“ Didn't she arrive here two nights ago?"
Mrs. Rider shook her head.
“My daughter has not been,” she replied. “But
she promised to come and spend a few days with me,
and last night I received a telegram — wait a mo-
ment, I will get it for you.”
She was gone a few moments and came back with a
little buff form, which she handed to the detective.
He looked and read:
“My visit cancelled. Do not write to me at flat.
I will communicate with you when I reach my desti-
nation.”
The telegram had been handed in at the General
Post Office, London, and was dated nine o'clock —
three hours, according to expert opinion, before the
murder was committed!


CHAPTER VII
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
“May I keep this telegram?" asked Tarling.
The woman nodded. He saw that she was nervous,
ill at ease and worried.
“I can't quite understand why Odette should not
come,” she said. “Is there any particular reason?"
“That I can't say," said Tarling. “But please
don't let it worry you, Mrs. Rider. She probably
changed her mind at the 'last moment and is staying
with friends in town."
“Then you haven't seen her?” asked Mrs. Rider
anxiously.
“I haven't seen her for several days."
“Is anything wrong?” Her voice shook for a
second, but she recovered herself. “You see," she
made an attempt to smile, “I have been in the house
for two or three days, and I have seen neither Odette
nor — nor anybody else,” she added quickly.
Who was she expecting to see, wondered Tarling,
and why did she check herself? Was it possible that
she had not heard of the murder? He determined to
test her.
“ Your daughter is probably detained in town owing
to Mr. Lyne's death,” he said, watching her closely.
51


52
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
She started and went white.
“Mr. Lyne's death?” she stammered. “Has he
died? That young man?”
“He was murdered in Hyde Park yesterday morn-
ing,” said Tarling, and she staggered back and col-
lapsed into a chair.
“Murdered! Murdered!” she whispered. “O
God! Not that, not that!”
Her face was ashen white, and she was shaking in
every limb, this stately woman who had walked so se-
renely into the drawing-room a few minutes before.
Presently she covered her face with her hands and
began to weep softly, and Tarling waited.
“ Did you know Mr. Lyne?” he asked after a while.
She shook her head.
“ Have you heard any stories about Mr. Lyne?”
She looked up.
“None,” she said listlessly, "except that he was —
not a very nice man.”
“Forgive my asking you, but are you very much
interested —” He hesitated, and she lifted her head.
He did not know how to put this question into words.
It puzzled him that the daughter of this woman, who
was evidently well off, should be engaged in a more
or less humble capacity in Lyne's Stores. He wanted
to know whether she knew that the girl had been dis-
missed, and whether that made much difference to her.
Then again, his conversation with Odette Rider had
not led him to the conclusion that she could afford to
throw up her work. She spoke of finding another


THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 53
job, and that did not sound as though her mother was
in a good position.
“Is there any necessity for your daughter working
for a living ?” he asked bluntly and she dropped her
eyes.
“ It is her wish,” she said in a low voice. “She
does not get on — with people about here,” she added
hastily.
There was a brief silence, then he rose and offered
his hand.
“I do hope I haven't worried you with my ques-
tions," he said, “and I daresay you wonder why I
have come. I will tell you candidly that I am en-
gaged in investigating this murder, and I was hoping
to hear that your daughter, in common with the other
people who were brought into contact with Mr. Lyne,
might give me some thread of a clue which would lead
to more important things.”
“ A detective ? ” she asked, and he could have sworn
there was horror in her eyes.
"A sort of detective," he laughed, “but not a for-
midable one, I hope, Mrs. Rider.”
She saw him to the door, and watched him as he
disappeared down the drive, then walked slowly back
to the room and stood against the marble mantelpiece,
her head upon her arms, weeping softly.
Jack Tarling left Hertford more confused than ever.
He had instructed the fly driver to wait for him at the
gates, and this worthy he proceeded to pump.
Mrs. Rider had been living in Hertford for four


54
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
years, and was greatly respected. Did the cabman
know the daughter? Oh, yes, he had seen the young
lady once or twice, but: “ She don't come very
often,” he explained. “By all accounts she doesn't
get on with her father.”
"Her father? I did not know she had a father,"
said Tarling in surprise.
Yes, there was a father. He was an infrequent
visitor, and usually came up from London by the late
train and was driven in his own brougham to the
house. He had not seen him — indeed, very few
people had, but by all accounts he was a very nice
man, and well-connected in the City.
Tarling had telegraphed to the assistant who had
been placed at his disposal by Scotland Yard, and
Detective Inspector Whiteside was waiting for him
at the station.
“Any fresh news?” asked Tarling.
“Yes, sir, there's rather an important clue come to
light,” said Whiteside. “ I've got the car here, sir,
and we might discuss it on the way back to the Yard.”
“What is it?" asked Tarling.
“We got it from Mr. Lyne's manservant,” said the
Inspector. “It appears that the butler had been going
through Mr. Lyne's things, acting on instructions from
headquarters, and in a corner of his writing desk a
telegram was discovered. I'll show it you when I
get to the Yard. It has a very important bearing upon
the case, and I think may lead us to the murderer.”
On the word " telegram” Tarling felt mechanically


THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
55
in his pockets for the wire which Mrs. Rider had given
him from her daughter. Now he took it out and read
it again. It had been handed in at the General Post
Office at nine o'clock exactly.
“That's extraordinary, sir." Detective Inspector
Whiteside, sitting by his side, had overlooked the wire.
“What is extraordinary?” asked Tarling with an
air of surprise.
“I happened to see the signature to that wire —
Odette, isn't it?” said the Scotland Yard man.
“Yes,” nodded Tarling. “Why? What is there
extraordinary in this?".
“Well, sir," said Whiteside, “it is something of a
coincidence that the telegram which was found in Mr.
Lyne's desk, and making an appointment with him at a
certain flat in the Edgware Road, was also signed
'Odette' and,” he bent forward, looking at the wire
still in the astonished Tarling's hand, “and,” he said
in triumph, “it was handed in exactly at the same
time as this!”
An examination of the telegram at Scotland Yard
left no doubt in the detective's mind that Whiteside
had spoken nothing but the truth. An urgent mes-
sage was despatched to the General Post Office, and in
two hours the original telegrams were before him.
They were both written in the same hand. The first
to her mother, saying that she could not come; the
second to Lyne, running:
“Will you see me at my flat tonight at eleven
o'clock? Odette Rider.”


156
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
Tarling's heart sank within him. This amazing
news was stunning. It was impossible, impossible, he
told himself again and again, that this girl could have
killed Lyne. Suppose she had? Where had they met?
Had they gone driving together, and had she shot
him in making the circuit of the Park? But why
should he be wearing list slippers ? Why should his
coat be off, and why should the nightdress be bound
round and round his body?
He thought the matter out, but the more he thought,
the more puzzled he became. It was a very depressed
man who interviewed an authority that night and se-
cured from him a search-warrant.
Armed with this and accompanied by Whiteside, he
made his way to the flat in the Edgware Road, and,
showing his authority, secured a pass-key from the
hall porter, who was also the caretaker of the building.
Tarling remembered the last time he had gone to the
flat, and it was with a feeling of intense pity for the
girl that he turned the key in the lock and stepped into
the little hall, reaching out his hand and switching on
the light as he did so.
There was nothing in the hall to suggest anything
unusual. There was just that close and musty smell
which is peculiar to all buildings which have been shut
up, even for a few days.
But there was something else.
Tarling sniffed and Whiteside sniffed. A dull,
“burnt" smell, some pungent “scorched ” odour,


THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
57
which he recognised as the stale stench of exploded
cordite. He went into the tiny dining-room; every-
thing was neat, nothing displaced.
“That's curious,” said Whiteside, pointing to the
sideboard, and Tarling saw a deep glass vase half
filled with daffodils. Two or three blossoms had
either fallen or had been pulled out, and were lying,
shrivelled and dead, on the polished surface of the side-
board.
“Humph!” said Tarling. “I don't like this very
much."
He turned and walked back into the hall and opened
another door, which stood ajar. Again he turned on
the light. He was in the girl's bedroom. He stopped
dead, and slowly examined the room. But for the dis-
ordered appearance of the chest of drawers, there was
nothing unusual in the appearance of the room. At
the open doors of the bureau a little heap of female
attire had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor. All
these were eloquent of hasty action. Still more was
a small suit-case, half-packed, on the bed, also left in
a great hurry.
Tarling stepped into the room, and if he had been
half-blind, he could not have missed the last and most
damning evidence of all. The carpet was of a biscuit
colour, and covered the room flush to the wainscote.
Opposite the fireplace was a big, dark, red irregular
stain.
Tarling's face grew tense.


58
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“This is where Lyne was shot,” he said.
" And look there!” said Whiteside excitedly, point-
ing to the chest of drawers.
Tarling stepped quickly across the room and pulled
out a garment which hung over the edge of the drawer.
It was a nightdress — a silk nightdress with two little
sprays of forget-me-nots embroidered on the sleeves.
It was the companion to that which had been found
about Lyne's body. And there was something more.
The removal of the garment from the drawer dis-
closed a mark on the white enamel of the bureau. It
was a bloody thumb print!
The detective looked round at his assistant, and the
expression of his face was set in its hardest mask.
“Whiteside,” he said quietly, “swear out a warrant
for the arrest of Odette Rider on a charge of wilful
murder. Telegraph all stations to detain this girl, and
let me know the result.”
Without another word he turned from the room and
walked back to his lodgings.


CHAPTER VIII
THE SILENCING OF SAM STAY
There was a criminal in London, who was watched
day and night. It was no new experience to Sam
Stay to find an unconcerned-looking detective strolling
along behind him; but for the first time in his life,
the burglar was neither disconcerted nor embarrassed
by these attentions.
The death of Thornton Lyne had been the most
tragic blow which had ever overtaken him. And if
they had arrested him he would have been indifferent.
For this hang-dog criminal, with the long, melancholy
face, lined and seamed and puckered so that he ap-
peared to be an old man, had loved Thornton Lyne as
he had loved nothing in his wild and barren life.
Lyne to him had been some divine creature, possessed
of gifts and qualities which no other would have recog-
nised in him. In Sam's eyes Lyne could have done
no wrong. By Sam's standard he stood for all that
was beautiful in human nature.
Thornton Lyne was dead! Dead, dead, dead.
Every footfall echoed the horrible, unbelievable word,
The man was incapable of feeling — every other pain
was deadened in this great suffering which was his.
And who had been the cause of it all? Whose
59


60
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
treachery had cut short this wonderful life? He
ground his teeth at the thought. Odette Rider! He
remembered the name. He remembered all the in-
juries she had done to this man, his benefactor. He
remembered that long conversation which Lyne and
he had had on the morning of Sam's release from
prison and the plannings which had followed.
He could not know that his hero was lying, and
that in his pique and hurt vanity he was inventing
grievances which had no foundation, and offences
which had never been committed. He only knew that,
because of the hate which lay in Thornton Lyne's
heart, justifiable hate from Sam's view, the death of
this great man had been encompassed.
He walked aimlessly westward, unconscious of and
uncaring for his shadower, and had reached the end
of Piccadilly when somebody took him gently by the
arm. He turned, and as he recognised an acquaint-
ance his thick lips went back in an ugly snarl.
“It's all right, Sam,” said the plain-clothes police-
man with a grin. “There's no trouble coming to you.
I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“You fellows have been asking questions day and
night since — since that happened,” growled Sam.
Nevertheless, he permitted himself to be mollified
and led to a seat in the Park.
“Now, I'm putting it to you straight, Sam," said
the policeman. “We've got nothing against you at the
Yard, but we think you might be able to help us. You
knew Mr. Lyne; he was very decent to you.”


THE DAFFODIL MURDER
miliarly by their surnames. “She ain't fit to walk
the earth -"
His voice broke.
“ Might I ask the name of this party?" demanded
Slade.
Again Sam looked suspiciously around.
"Look here,” he said, “ leave me to deal with her.
I'll settle with her, and don't you worry!”
“That would only get you into trouble, Sam,” mused
Slade. “Just give us her name. Did it begin with
an R?”
" How the 'ell do I know?" growled the criminal.
“I can't spell. Her name was Odette.”
“Rider?” said the other eagerly.
“ That's her. She used to be cashier in Lyne's
Stores."
“Now, just quiet yourself down and tell me all
Lyne told you about her, will you, my lad?”
Sam Stay stared at him, and then a slow look of
cunning passed over his face.
"If it was her!” he breathed. “If I could only
put her away for it!”.
Nothing better illustrated the mentality of this man
than the fact that the thought of "shopping " the girl
had not occurred to him before. That was the idea,
a splendid idea! Again his lips curled back, and he
eyed the detective with a queer little smile.
“All right, sir," he said. “I'll tell the head-split.
I'm not going to tell you."


THE SILENCING OF SAM STAY
63
“That's as it ought to be, Sam,” said the detective
genially. “You can tell Mr. Tarling or Mr. White-
side, and they'll make it worth your while.”
The detective called a cab, and together they drove,
not to Scotland Yard, but to Tarling's little office in
Bond Street. It was here that the man from Shang-
hai had established his detective agency, and here he
waited with the phlegmatic Whiteside for the return
of the detective he had sent to withdraw Sam Stay
from his shadower.
The man shuffled into the room, looked resentfully
from one to the other, nodded to both, and declined the
chair which was pushed forward for him. His head
was throbbing in an unaccountable way, as it had
never throbbed before. There were curious buzzes and
noises in his ears. It was strange that he had not no-
ticed this until he came into the quiet room, to meet
the grave eyes of a hard-faced man, whom he did not
remember having seen before.
“Now, Stay,” said Whiteside, whom at least the
criminal recognised, "we want to hear what you know
about this murder."
Stay pressed his lips together and made no reply.
“Sit down," said Tarling, and this time the man
obeyed. “Now, my lad," Tarling went on — and
when he was in a persuasive mood his voice was silky
—"they tell me that you were a friend of Mr. Lyne's.”
Sam nodded.
“ He was good to you, was he not?”


64
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Good ?” The man drew a deep breath. “I'd
have given my heart and soul to save him from a min-
ute's pain, I would, sir! I'm telling you straight, and
may I be struck dead if I'm lying! He was an angel
on earth — my Gawd, if ever I lay me hands on that
woman, I'll strangle her. I'll put her out! I'll not
leave her till she's torn to rags!”
His voice rose, specks of foam stood on his lips,
his whole face seemed transfigured in an ecstasy of
hate.
“She's been robbing him and robbing him for
years," he shouted. “ He looked after her and pro-
tected her, and she went and told lies about him, she
did! She trapped him!”
His voice rose to a scream, and he made a move for-
ward toward the desk, both fists clenched till the
knuckles showed white. Tarling sprang up, for he
recognised the signs. Before another word could be
spoken the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, and
lay like one dead.
Tarling was round the table in an instant, turned the
unconscious man on his back, and, lifting one eyelid,
examined the pupil.
“ Epilepsy or something worse," he said. “ This
thing has been preying on the poor devil's mind-
'phone ar. ambulance, Whiteside, will you?”
“Shall I give him some water?”
Tarling shook his head.
“He won't recover for hours, if he recovers at all,”
he said. “If Sam Stay knows anything to the detri-


THE SILENCING OF SAM STAY 65
ment of Odette Rider, he is likely to carry his knowl-
edge to the grave.”
And in his heart of hearts J. O. Tarling felt a
little sense of satisfaction that the mouth of this man
was closed.


CHAPTER IX
WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM
Where was Odette Rider? That was a problem
which had to be solved. She had disappeared as
though the earth had opened and swallowed her up.
Every police station in the country had been warned;
all outgoing ships were being watched; tactful en-
quiries had been made in every direction where it
was likely she might be found; and the house at Hert-
ford was under observation day and night.
Tarling had procured an adjournment of the in-
quest; for, whatever might be his sentiments towards
Odette Rider, he was, it seemed, more anxious to per-
form his duty to the State, and it was very necessary
that no prurient minded coroner should investigate too
deeply into the cause and the circumstances leading up
to Thornton Lyne's death, lest the suspected criminal
be warned.
Accompanied by Inspector Whiteside, he re-exam-
ined the flat to which the bloodstained carpet pointed
unmistakably as being the scene of the murder. The
red thumbprints on the bureau had been photographed
and were awaiting comparison with the girl's the mo-
ment she was apprehended.
Carrymore Mansions where Odette Rider lived were,
66


WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM 67
as has been described, a block of good-class flats, the
ground floor being given over to shops. The entrance
to the flats was between two of these, and a flight of
stairs led down to the basement. Here were six sets
of apartments, with windows giving out to a narrow
area on the two as narrow streets running on either
side of the block, which occupied an island site.
The centre of the basement consisted of a large con
crete storeroom, about which were set little cubicles or
cellars in which the tenants stored such of their bag-
gage, furniture, etc., as they did not need. It was
possible, he discovered, to pass from the corridor of
the basement flat, into the storeroom, and out through
a door at the back of the building into a small court-
yard. Access to the street was secured through a
fairly large door, placed there for the convenience of
tenants who wished to get their coal and heavy stores
delivered. In the street behind the block of flats was
a mews, consisting of about a dozen shut-up stables,
all of which were rented by a taxicab company, and
now used as a garage.
If the murder was committed in the flat, it was by
this way the body would have been carried to the mews,
and here, too, a car would attract little attention. En
quiries made amongst employees of the cab company,
some of whom occupied little rooms above their
garages, elicited the important information that the car
had been seen in the mews on the night of the mur-
der - a fact, it seemed, which had been overlooked
in the preliminary police investigations.


THE DAFFODIL MURDER
The car was a two-seater Daimler with a yellow
body and a hood. This was an exact description of
Thornton Lyne's machine which had been found near
the place where his body was discovered. The hood of
the car was up when it was seen in the mews and the
time apparently was between ten and eleven on the
night of the murder. But though he pursued the most
diligent enquiries, Tarling failed to discover any hu-
man being who had either recognised Lyne or observed
the car arrive or depart.
The hall porter of the flats, on being interviewed,
was very emphatic that nobody had come into the
building by the main entrance between the hours of ten
and half-past. It was possible, he admitted, that they
could have come between half-past ten and a quarter
to eleven, because he had gone to his “ office," which
proved to be a stuffy little place under the stairs, to
change from his uniform into his private clothes be-
fore going home. He was in the habit of locking the
front door at eleven o'clock. Tenants of the Man-
sions had pass-keys to the main door, and of all that
happened after eleven he would be ignorant. He ad-
mitted that he may have gone a little before eleven
that night, but even as to this he was not prepared to
swear.
“Ir. fact,” said Whiteside afterwards, “his evidence
would lead nowhere. At the very hour when some-
body might have come into the flat — that is to say,
between half-past ten and a quarter to eleven — he ad-
mits he was not on duty."
e


WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM 69
Tarling nodded. He had made a diligent search of
the floor of the basement corridor through the store-
room into the courtyard, but had found no trace of
blood. Nor did he expect to find such trace, since it
was clear that, if the murder had been committed in
the flat and the night-dress which was wound about
the dead man's body was Odette Rider's, there would
be no bleeding.
“Of one thing I am satisfied,” he said; “if Odette
Rider committed this murder she had an accomplice.
It was impossible that she could have carried or
dragged this man into the open and put him into the
car, carried him again from the car and laid him on
the grass."
“ The daffodils puzzle me," said Whiteside. “Why
should he be found with daffodils on his chest? And
why, if he was murdered here, should she trouble to
pay that tribute of her respect ?”.
Tarling shook his head. He was nearer a solution
to the latter mystery than either of them knew.
His search of the flat completed, he drove to Hyde
Park and, guided by Whiteside, made his way to the
spot where the body was found. It was on a gravelled
sidewalk, nearer to the grass than to the road, and
Whiteside described the position of the body. Tarling
looked round, and suddenly uttered an exclamation.
"I wonder," he said pointing to a flower-bed.
Whiteside stared, then laughed.
“ That's curious," he said. “We seem to see noth-
ing but daffodils in this murder!”


70
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
The big bed to which Tarling walked, was smoth-
ered with great feathery bells that danced and swayed
in the light spring breezes.
“ Humph!” said Tarling. “Do you know anything
about daffodils, Whiteside ?"
Whiteside shook his head with a laugh.
“ All daffodils are daffodils to me. Is there any
difference in them? I suppose there must be.”
Tarling nodded.
“ These are known as Golden Spurs,” he said; "a
kind which is very common in England. The daf-
fodils in Miss Rider's flat are a variety known as the
Emperor."
“Well? ” said Whiteside.
“Well,” said the other slowly, “the daffodils I saw
this morning, which were found on Lyne's chest were
Golden Spurs."
He knelt down by the side of the bed and began
pushing aside the stems, examining the ground care-
fully.
“Here you are,” he said.
He pointed to a dozen jagged stems.
“This is where the daffodils were plucked. I'd like
to swear to that. Look, they were all pulled together
by one hand. Somebody leaned over and pulled a
handful.”
Whiteside looked dubious.
“Mischievous boys sometimes do these things."
“Only in single stalks," said Tarling, "and the


WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM 71
regular flower thieves are careful to steal from vari-
ous parts of the bed so that the loss should not be re-
ported by the Park gardeners.”
“ Then you suggest —”
“I suggest that whoever killed Thornton Lyne
found it convenient, for some reason best known to
himself or herself, to ornament the body as it was
found, and the flowers were got from here."
“Not from the girl's flat at all?."
“ I'm sure of that,” replied Tarling emphatically.
“ In fact, I knew that this morning when I'd seen the
daffodils which you had taken to Scotland Yard.”
Whiteside scratched his nose in perplexity.
“ The further this case goes, the more puzzled I
am,” he said. “Here is a man, a wealthy man, who
has apparently no bitter enemies, discovered dead in
Hyde Park, with a woman's silk nightdress wound
round his chest, with list slippers on his feet, and a
Chinese inscription in his pocket — and further, to
puzzle the police, a bunch of daffodils on the chest.
That was a woman's act, Mr. Tarling," he said sud-
denly.
Tarling started and turned.
“How do you mean?” he asked.
" It was a woman's act to put flowers on the man,"
said Whiteside quietly. “Those daffodils tell me of
pity and compassion, and perhaps repentance."
A slow smile dawned on Tarling's face.
“My dear Whiteside," he said, "you are getting


72
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
sentimental! And here,” he added, looking up, “at-
tracted to the spot, is a gentleman I seem to be always
meeting — Mr. Milburgh, I think.”
Milburgh had stopped at the sight of the detective,
and looked as if he would have been glad to fade away
unobserved. But Tarling had seen him, and Milburgh
came forward with his curious little shuffling walk, a
set smile on his face, the same worried look in his eyes
which Tarling had seen once before.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said with a flourish
of his top hat. “I suppose, Mr. Tarling, nothing has
been discovered?”
" At any rate, I didn't expect to discover you here
this morning!" smiled Tarling. “I thought you were
busy at the Stores.”
Milburgh shifted uneasily.
“ The place has a fascination for me," he said
huskily. “I— I can't keep away from it.”
He dropped his eyes before Tarling's keen gaze and
repeated the question.
" Is there any fresh news?”
“I ought to ask you that,” said Tarling quietly.
The other looked up.
“You mean Miss Rider?” he asked. “No, sir,
nothing has been found to her detriment and I cannot
trace her present address, although I have pursued the
most diligent enquiries. It is very upsetting.”
There was a new emphasis in his voice. Tarling
remembered that when Lyne had spoken to Milburgh
before and had suggested that the girl had been guilty


WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM 73
of some act of predation, Milburgh had been quick to
deny the possibility. Now his manner was hostile to
the girl — indefinitely so, but sufficiently marked for
Tarling to notice it.
“Do you think that Miss Rider had any reason for
running away?” asked the detective.
Milburgh shrugged his shoulders.
“In this world,” he said unctuously, “one is con-
stantly being deceived by people in whom one has put
one's trust.”
“In other words, you suspect Miss Rider of rob-
bing the firm ?”
Up went Mr. Milburgh's plump hands.
"I would not say that,” he said. “I would not
accuse a young woman of such an act of treachery to
her employers, and I distinctly refuse to make any
charges until the auditors have completed their work.
There is no doubt,” he added carefully, “that Miss
Rider had the handling of large sums of money, and
she of all people in the business, and particularly in the
cashier's department, would have been able to rob the
firm without the knowledge of either myself or poor
Mr. Lyne. This, of course, is confidential.” He laid
one hand appealingly on Tarling's arm and that worthy
nodded.
“ Have you any idea where she would be?"
Again Milburgh shook his head.
“The only thing —” he hesitated and looked into
· Tarling's eyes.
“ Well?” asked the detective impatiently.


74
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“There is a suggestion, of course, that she may have
gone abroad. I do not offer that suggestion, only I
know that she spoke French very well and that she had
been to the Continent before."
Tarling stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“To the Continent, eh?” he said softly, “well, in
that case I shall search the Continent; for on one
thing I am determined, and that is to find Odette
Rider," and, beckoning to his companion, he turned
on his heel and left the obsequious Mr. Milburgh star-
ing after him.


CHAPTER X
THE WOMAN AT ASHFORD
Tarling went back to his lodgings that afternoon, a
puzzled and baffled man. Ling Chu, his impassive
Chinese servant, had observed those symptoms of per-
plexity before, but now there was something new in
his master's demeanour - a kind of curt irritation, an
anxiety which the Hunter of Men had not displayed
before.
The Chinaman went silently about the business of
preparing his chief's tea and made no reference to
the tragedy or to any of its details. He had set the
table by the side of Tarling's bed, and was gliding
from the room in that cat-like way of his when Tar-
ling stopped him.
" Ling Chu,” he said, speaking in the vernacular,
"you remember in Shanghai when “The Cheerful
Hearts' committed a crime, how they used to leave be-
hind their hong?”
“Yes, master, I remember it very well,” said Ling
Chu calmly. “They were certain words on red paper,
and afterwards you could buy them from the shops,
because people desired to have these signs to show to
their friends."
“Many people carried these things," said Tarling
75


76
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
slowly, "and the sign of "The Cheerful Hearts' was
found in the pocket of the murdered man."
Ling Chu met the other's eyes with imperturbable
calmness.
“Master,” he said, “may not the white-faced man
who is now dead have brought such a thing from
Shanghai ? He was a tourist, and tourists buy these
foolish souvenirs?".
Tarling nodded again.
“That is possible,” he said. “I have already
thought that such might have been the case. Yet why
should he have this sign of 'The Cheerful Hearts' in
his pocket on the night he was murdered ? ”
“Master," said the Chinaman, “why should he have
been murdered ?”
Tarling's lips curled in a half smile.
“ By which, I suppose, you mean that one question
is as difficult to answer as the other," he said. “ All
right, Ling Chu, that will do."
His principal anxiety for the moment was not this
or any other clue which had been offered, but the dis-
covery of Odette Rider's present hiding-place. Again
and again he turned the problem over in his mind. At
every point he was baffled by the wild improbability
of the facts that he had discovered. Why should
Odette Rider be content to accept a servile position in
Lyne's Stores when her mother was living in luxury
at Hertford? Who was her father — that mysteri-
ous father who appeared and disappeared at Hertford,
and what part did he play in the crime? And if she


THE WOMAN AT ASHFORD
77
was innocent, why had she disappeared so completely
and in circumstances so suspicious ? And what did
Sam Stay know? The man's hatred of the girl was
uncanny. At the mention of her name a veritable
fountain of venom had bubbled up, and Tarling had
sensed the abyssmal depths of this man's hate and
something of his boundless love for the dead man.
He turned impatiently on the couch and reached out
his hand for his tea, when there came a soft tap at
the door and Ling Chu slipped into the room.
“ The Bright Man is here,” he said, and in these
words announced Whiteside, who brought into the
room something of his alert, fresh personality, which
had earned him the pseudonym which Ling Chu had
affixed.
“Well, Mr. Tarling," said the Inspector, taking out
a little notebook, “ I'm afraid I haven't done very
much in the way of discovering the movements of
Miss Rider, but so far as I can find out by enquiries
made at Charing Cross Booking Office, several young
ladies unattended have left for the Continent in the
past few days."
“You cannot identify any of these with Miss
Rider ? " asked Tarling in a tone of disappointment.
The detective shook his head. Despite his apparent
unsuccess, he had evidently made some discovery which
pleased him, for there was nothing gloomy in his ad-
mission of failure.
“You have found out something, though?” sug-
gested Tarling quickly, and Whiteside nodded.


28
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“ Yes," he said, “ by the greatest of luck I've got
hold of a very curious story. I was chatting with
some of the ticket collectors and trying to discover a
man who might have seen the girl — I have a photo-
graph of her taken in a group of Stores employees, and
this I have had enlarged, as it may be useful.”
Tarling nodded.
“Whilst I was talking with the man on the gate,"
Whiteside proceeded, “a travelling ticket inspector
came up and he brought rather an extraordinary story
from Ashford. On the night of the murder there was
an accident to the Continental Express."
“I remember seeing something about it," said Tar-
ling, “but my mind had been occupied by this other
matter. What happened ? ".
“A luggage truck which was standing on the plat-
form fell between two of the carriages and derailed
one of them,” explained Whiteside. “The only pas-
senger who was hurt was a Miss Stevens. Appar-
ently it was a case of simple concussion, and when the
train was brought to a standstill she was removed to
the Cottage Hospital, where she is to-day. Apparently
the daughter of the travelling ticket inspector is a
nurse at the hospital, and she told her father that this
Miss Stevens, before she recovered consciousness,
made several references to a 'Mr. Lyne' and a 'Mr.
Milburgh.'”
Tarling was sitting erect now, watching the other
through narrowed lids.
“Go on,” he said quietly.


THE WOMAN AT ASHFORD 79
“ I could get very little from the travelling inspector,
except that his daughter was under the impression that
the lady had a grudge against Mr. Lyne, and that she
spoke even more disparagingly of Mr. Milburgh.”
Tarling had risen and slipped off his silk dressing-
gown before the other could put away his notebook.
He struck a gong with his knuckles, and when Ling
Chu appeared gave him an order in Chinese, which
Whiteside could not follow.
“You're going to Ashford ? I thought you would,”
said Whiteside. “Would you like me to come
along ?”
"No, thank you," said the other. “I'll go myself.
I have an idea that Miss Stevens may be the missing
witness in the case and may throw greater light upon
the happenings of the night before last than any other
witness we have yet interviewed.”
He found he had to wait an hour before he could get
a train for Ashford, and he passed that hour im-
patiently walking up and down the broad platform.
Here was a new complication in the case. Who was
Miss Stevens, and why should she be journeying to
Dover on the night of the murder?
He reached Ashford, and with difficulty found a
cab, for it was raining heavily, and he had come pro-
vided with neither mackintosh nor umbrella.
The matron of the Cottage Hospital reassured him
on one point.
“Oh yes, Miss Stevens is still in the hospital," she
said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was just


80
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
a chance that she might have been discharged, and
again the possibility that she would be difficult to
trace.
The matron showed him the way through a long
corridor terminating in a big ward. Before reaching
the door of the ward there was a smaller door on the
right.
“We put her in this private ward, because we
thought it might be necessary to operate," said the
matron and opened the door.
Tarling walked in. Facing him was the foot of the
bed, and in that bed lay a girl whose eyes met his.
He stopped dead as though he were shot.
For “Miss Stevens ” was Odette Rider!


CHAPTER XI
“THORNTON LYNE IS DEAD”
For a time neither spoke. Tarling walked slowly
forward, pulled a chair to the side of the bed, and sat
down, never once taking his eyes off the girl.
Odette Rider! The woman for whom the police of
England was searching, against whom a warrant had
been issued on a charge of wilful murder — and here,
in a little country hospital. For a moment, and a mo-
ment only, Tarling was in doubt. Had he been stand-
ing outside the case and watching it as a disinterested
spectator, or had this girl never come so closely into
his life, bringing a new and a disturbing influence so
that the very balance of his judgment was upset, he
would have said that she was in hiding and had chosen
this hospital for a safe retreat. The very name under
which she was passing was fictitious — a suspicious
circumstance in itself.
The girl's eyes did not leave his. He read in their
clear depths a hint of terror and his heart fell. He
had not realised before that the chief incentive he
found in this case was not to discover the murderer
of Thornton Lyne, but to prove that the girl was in-
nocent.
81


82
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Mr. Tarling,” she said with a queer little break in
her voice. “I- I did not expect to see you."
It was a lame opening, and it seemed all the more
feeble to her since she had so carefully rehearsed the
statement she had intended making. For her waking
moments, since the accident, had been filled with
thoughts of this hard-faced man, what he would think,
what he would say, and what, in certain eventualities,
he would do.
“I suppose not,” said Tarling gently. “I am
sorry to hear you have had rather a shaking, Miss
Rider.”
She nodded, and a faint smile played about the
corners of her mouth.
“It was nothing very much,” she said. “Of
course, it was very horrid at first and — what do you
want?"
The last words were blurted out. She could not
keep up the farce of a polite conversation.
There was a moment's silence, and then Tarling
spoke.
"I wanted to find you,” he said, speaking slowly,
and again he read her fear.
“Well,” she hesitated, and then said desperately
and just a little defiantly, "you have found me!”
Tarling nodded.
“ And now that you have found me,” she went on,
speaking rapidly, “what do you want?"
She was resting on her elbow, her strained face
turned towards him, her eyes slightly narrowed, watch-


“THORNTON LYNE IS DEAD” 83
ing him with an intensity of gaze which betrayed her
agitation.
"I want to ask you a few questions," said Tarling,
and slipped a little notebook from his pocket, balanc-
ing it upon his knee.
To his dismay the girl shook her head.
“I don't know that I am prepared to answer your
questions,” she said more calmly, “but there is no
reason why you should not ask them.”
Here was an attitude wholly unexpected. An
Odette Rider panic-stricken he could understand. If
she had burst into a fit of weeping, if she had grown
incoherent in her terror, if she had been indignant or
shame-faced -- any of these displays would have fitted
in with his conception of her innocence or apprehen-
sion of her guilt.
“In the first place," he asked bluntly, “why are
you here under the name of Miss Stevens?”
She thought a moment, then shook her head.
“ That is a question I am not prepared to answer,"
she said quietly.
"I won't press it for a moment," said Tarling, "be-
cause I realise that it is bound up in certain other
extraordinary actions of yours, Miss Rider.”
The girl fushed and dropped her eyes, and Tarling
went on:
“Why did you leave London secretly, without giv-
ing your friends or your mother any inkling of your
plans?”
She looked up sharply.


“ THORNTON LYNE IS DEAD”
85
break down, but again, with an extraordinary effort
of will which excited his secret admiration, she con-
trolled herself.
“You're going to think very badly of me,” she said,
"and I hate the thought, Mr. Tarling — you don't
know how I hate it. I want you to think that I am
innocent, but I am going to make no effort to prove
that I was not guilty.”
“You're mad!” he interrupted her roughly.
“Stark, raving mad! You must do something, do
you hear? You've got to do something."
She shook her head, and the little hand which rested
on his closed gently about two of his fingers.
"I can't,” she said simply. “I just can't.”
Tarling pushed back the chair from the bed. He
could have groaned at the hopelessness of the girl's
case. If she had only given him one thread that
would lead him to another clue, if she only protested
her innocence! His heart sank within him, and he
could only shake his head helplessly.
“ Suppose,” he said huskily, “ that you are charged
with this — crime. Do you mean to tell me that you
will not produce evidence that could prove your in-
nocence, that you will make no attempt to defend your-
self?"
She nodded.
“I mean that,” she said.
“My God! You don't know what you're saying,"
he cried, starting up. “You're mad, Odette, stark
mad!"


86
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
She only smiled for the fraction of a second, and
that at the unconscious employment of her Christian
name.
“I'm not at all mad," she said. “I am very sane."
She looked at him thoughtfully, and then of a sud-
den seemed to shrink back, and her face went whiter.
“You — you have a warrant for me!” she whispered.
He nodded.
“ And you're going to arrest me?”
He shook his head.
“ No,” he said briefly. “I am leaving that to some-
body else. I have sickened of the case, and I'm going
out of it.”
“He sent you here,” she said slowly.
“ He?”
“Yes – I remember. You were working with
him, or he wanted you to work with him.”
“Of whom are you speaking ?” asked Tarling
quickly.
“ Thornton Lyne," said the girl.
Tarling leaped to his feet and stared down at her.
“ Thornton Lyne?” he repeated. “Don't you
know?”
“Know what?" asked the girl with a frown.
“ That Thornton Lyne is dead," said Tarling, “and
that it is for his murder that a warrant has been
issued for your arrest!”.
She looked at him for a moment with wide, staring
eyes.
“Dead!” she gasped. “Dead! Thornton Lynę


CHAPTER XII
THE HOSPITAL BOOK
While the nurse was attending to the girl, Tarling
sought an interview with the medical officer in charge
of the hospital.
“I don't think there's a great deal the matter with
her," said the doctor. “In fact, she was fit for dis-
charge from hospital two or three days ago, and it
was only at her request that we let her stay. Do I
understand that she is wanted in connection with the
Daffodil Murder?”
" As a witness," said Tarling glibly. He realised
that he was saying a ridiculous thing, because the fact
that a warrant was out for Odette Rider must have
been generally known to the local authorities. Her
description had been carefully circulated, and that de-
scription must have come to the heads of hospitals and
public institutions. The next words of the doctor con-
firmed his knowledge.
“As a witness, eh?” he said drily. “Well, I don't
want to pry into your secrets, or rather into the secrets
of Scotland Yard, but she is fit to travel just as soon
as you like."
There was a knock on the door, and the matron
came in to the doctor's office.
88


THE HOSPITAL BOOK
89
" Miss Rider wishes to see you, sir,” she said, ad-
dressing Tarling, and the detective, taking up his hat,
went back to the little ward.
He found the girl more composed but still deathly
white. She was out of bed, sitting in a big armchair,
wrapped in a dressing gown, and she motioned Tarling
to pull up a chair to her side. She waited until after
the door had closed behind the nurse, then she spoke.
" It was very silly of me to faint, Mr. Tarling, but
the news was so horrible and so unexpected. Won't
you tell me all about it? You see, I have not read a
newspaper since I have been in the hospital. I heard
one of the nurses talk about the Daffodil Murder —
that is not the ---"
She hesitated, and Tarling nodded. He was lighter
of heart now, almost cheerful. He had no doubt in his
mind that the girl was innocent and life had taken on
a rosier aspect.
“ Thornton Lyne,” he began," was murdered on the
night of the 14th. He was last seen alive by his valet
about half-past nine in the evening. Early next morn-
ing his body was found in Hyde Park. He had been
shot dead, and an effort had been made to staunch the
wound in his breast by binding a woman's silk night-
dress round and round his body. On his breast some-
body had laid a bunch of daffodils."
“ Daffodils ? " repeated the girl wonderingly. “But
how —”
“ His car was discovered a hundred yards from the
place,” Tarling continued, "and it was clear that he


90
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
had been murdered elsewhere, brought to the Park in
his car, and left on the sidewalk. At the time he was
discovered he had on neither coat nor vest, and on his
feet were a pair of list slippers."
“But I don't understand," said the bewildered girl.
“What does it mean? Who had —” She stopped
suddenly, and the detective saw her lips tighten to-
gether as though to restrain her speech. Then sud-
denly she covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, it's terrible, terrible!” she whispered. “I
never thought, I never dreamed - oh, it is terrible!”
Tarling laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
“ Miss Rider,” he said, "you suspect somebody of
this crime. Won't you tell me?”
She shook her head without looking up.
“I can say nothing,” she said.
“But don't you see that suspicion will attach to
you?” urged Tarling. “A telegram was discovered
amongst his belongings, asking him to call at your flat
that evening."
She looked up quickly.
“ A telegram from me?" she said. “I sent no tele-
gram.”
“Thank God for that!” cried Tarling fervently.
" Thank God for that!”
“But I don't understand, Mr. Tarling. A telegram
was sent to Mr. Lyne asking him to come to my flat?
Did he go to my flat?”
Tarling nodded.


THE HOSPITAL BOOK
91
“I have reason to believe he did,” he said gravely.
“The murder was committed in your flat.”
“My God!” she whispered. “You don't mean
that? Oh no, no, it is impossible!”
Briefly he recited all his discoveries. He knew that
he was acting in a manner which, from the point of
view of police ethics, was wholly wrong and disloyal.
He was placing her in possession of all the clues and
giving her an opportunity to meet and refute the evi-
dence which had been collected against her. He told
her of the bloodstains on the floor, and described the
nightdress which had been found around Thornton
Lyne's body.
“That was my nightdress,” she said simply and
without hesitation. “Go on, please, Mr. Tarling."
He told her of the bloody thumb-prints upon the
door of the bureau.
“On your bed,” he went on, “ I found your dress-
ing-case, half-packed."
She swayed forward, and threw out her hand, grop-
ing blindly.
“Oh, how wicked, how wicked!" she wailed." He
did it, he did it!”
“Who?" demanded Tarling.
He took the girl by the shoulder and shook her
roughly.
“Who was the man? You must tell me. Your
own life depends upon it. Don't you see, Odette, I
want to help you? I want to clear your name of this


92
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
terrible charge. You suspect somebody. I must have
his name.”
She shook her head and turned her pathetic face
to his.
"I can't tell you,” she said in a low voice. “I can
say no more. I knew nothing of the murder until you
told me. I had no idea, no thought ... I hated
Thornton Lyne, I hated him, but I would not have
hurt him ... it is dreadful, dreadful!”
Presently she grew calmer.
“I must go to London at once,” she said. “Will
you please take me back?”
She saw his embarrassment and was quick to under-
stand its cause.
“You — you have a warrant, haven't you?”
He nodded.
“On the charge of — murder?”
He nodded again. She looked at him in silence for
some moments.
“I shall be ready in half an hour," she said, and
without a word the detective left the room.
He made his way back to the doctor's sanctum, and
found that gentleman awaiting him impatiently.
“I say,” said the doctor, “that's all bunkum about
this girl being wanted as a witness. I had my doubts
and I looked up the Scotland Yard warning which I
received a couple of days ago. She's Odette Rider,
and she's wanted on a charge of murder."
“Got it first time," said Tarling, dropping wearily
into a chair. “Do you mind if I smoke?”


THE HOSPITAL BOOK 93
“Not a bit,” said the doctor cheerfully. “I sup-
pose you're taking her with you?”
Tarling nodded.
“I can't imagine a girl like that committing a mur-
der,” said Dr. Saunders. “She doesn't seem to pos-
sess the physique necessary to have carried out all the
etceteras of the crime. I read the particulars in the
Morning Globe. The person who murdered Thorn-
ton Lyne must have carried him from his car and laid
him on the grass, or wherever he was found - and
that girl couldn't lift a large-sized baby."
Tarling jerked his head in agreement.
“Besides,” Dr. Saunders went on, “she hasn't the
face of a murderer. I don't mean to say that because
she's pretty she couldn't commit a crime, but there are
certain types of prettiness which have their origin in
spiritual beauty, and Miss Stevens, or Rider, as I sup-
pose I should call her, is one of that type.”
“ I'm one with you there," said Tarling. “I am
satisfied in my own mind that she did not commit the
crime, but the circumstances are all against her.”
The telephone bell jingled, and the doctor took up
the receiver and spoke a few words.
"A trunk call,” he said, explaining the delay in re-
ceiving acknowledgment from the other end of the
wire.
He spoke again into the receiver and then handed
the instrument across the table to Tarling.
“It's for you," he said. “I think it is Scotland
Yard.”


94
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
Tarling put the receiver to his ear.
“It is Whiteside,” said a voice. “Is that you, Mr.
Tarling? We've found the revolver.”
“Where?” asked Tarling quickly.
“In the girl's flat, "came the reply.
Tarling's face fell. But after all, there was nothing
unexpected. He had no doubt in his mind at all that
the murder had been committed in Odette Rider's flat,
and, if that theory were accepted, the details were un-
important, as there was no reason in the world why the
pistol should not be also found near the scene of the
crime. In fact, it would have been remarkable if the
weapon had not been discovered on those premises.
“Where was it?” he asked.
"In the lady's work-basket,” said Whiteside.
“ Pushed to the bottom and covered with a lot of
wool and odds and ends of tape."
“What sort of a revolver is it?" asked Tarling
after a pause.
"A Colt automatic," was the reply. “ There were
six live cartridges in the magazine and one in the
breach. The pistol had evidently been fired, for the
barrel was foul. We've also found the exploded
shell in the fireplace. Have you found your Miss
Stevens?”
“Yes,” said Tarling quietly. “Miss Stevens is
Odette Rider."
He heard the other's whistle of surprise.
“ Have you arrested her?”
“Not yet,” said Tarling. “Will you meet the next


96
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
page. “Here she is — Miss Stevens, concussion and
shock."
He looked at the writing under his hand and then
lifted his eyes to the detective.
“When was this murder committed ?” he asked.
“On the night of the fourteenth.”
“ On the night of the fourteenth? ” repeated the doc-
tor thoughtfully, “ at what time?”.
“ The hour is uncertain," said Tarling, impatient
and anxious to finish his conversation with this gos-
siping surgeon.
"Some time after eleven," repeated the doctor. “ It
couldn't have been committed before. When was the
man last seen alive?”
“ At half-past nine," said Tarling with a little smile.
“You're not going in for criminal investigation, are
you, doctor?”
“Not exactly," smiled Saunders. “Though I am
naturally pleased to be in a position to prove the girl's
innocence.”
“Prove her innocence? What do you mean?” de-
manded Tarling quickly.
“ The murder could not have been committed be-
fore eleven o'clock. The dead man was last seen alive
at half-past nine.”
“Well?” said Tarling.
“ Well," repeated Dr. Saunders, " at nine o'clock the
boat train left Charing Cross, and at half-past ten
Miss Rider was admitted to this hospital suffering
from shock and concussion.”


THE HOSPITAL BOOK
97
For a moment Tarling said nothing and did nothing.
He stood as though turned to stone, staring at the
doctor with open mouth. Then he lurched forward,
gripped the astonished medical man by the hand, and
wrung it.
“ That's the best bit of news I have had in my life,”
he said huskily.


CHAPTER XIII
TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT
The journey back to London was one the details
of which were registered with photographic realism in
Tarling's mind for the rest of his life. The girl spoke
little, and he himself was content to meditate and turn
over in his mind the puzzling circumstances which had
surrounded Odette Rider's flight.
In the very silences which occurred between the
interchanges of conversation was a comradeship and a
sympathetic understanding which both the man and
the girl would have found it difficult to define. Was
he in love with her? He was shocked at the pos-
sibility of such a catastrophe overtaking him. Love
had never come into his life. It was a hypothetical
condition which he had never even considered. He
had known men to fall in love, just as he had known
men to suffer from malaria or yellow fever, without
considering that the same experience might overtake
him. A shy, reticent man, behind that hard mask was
a diffidence unsuspected by his closest friends.
So that the possibility of being in love with Odette
Rider disturbed his mind, because he lacked sufficient
conceit to believe that such a passion could be any-
thing but hopeless. That any woman could love him
- -
-
- -
98
-
- -


TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT
99
he could not conceive. And now her very presence,
the fragrant nearness of her, at once soothed and
alarmed him. Here was a detective virtually in
charge of a woman suspected of murder — and he was
frightened of her! He knew the warrant in his
pocket would never be executed, and that Scotland
Yard would not proceed with the prosecution, because,
though Scotland Yard makes some big errors, it does
not like to have its errors made public.
The journey was all too short, and it was not until
the train was running slowly through a thin fog which
had descended on London that he returned to the sub-
ject of the murder, and only then with an effort.
"I am going to take you to a hotel for the night,"
he said, “and in the morning I will ask you to come
with me to Scotland Yard to talk to the Chief.”
“ Then I am not arrested?” she smiled.
“No, I don't think you're arrested." He smiled
responsively. “But I'm afraid that you are going to
be asked a number of questions which may be distress-
ing to you. You see, Miss Rider, your actions have
been very suspicious. You leave for the Continent
under an assumed name, and undoubtedly the murder
was committed in your flat.”
She shivered.
“Please, please don't talk about that,” she said in
a low voice.
He felt a brute, but he knew that she must undergo
an examination at the hands of men who had less
regard for her feelings.


100
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“I do wish you would be frank with me," he
pleaded. “I am sure I could get you out of all your
troubles without any difficulty.”
“Mr. Lyne hated me," she said. "I think I
touched him on his tenderest spot — poor man— his
vanity. You yourself know how he sent that crimi-
nal to my flat in order to create evidence against
me.”
He nodded.
“ Did you ever meet Stay before?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I think I have heard of him," she said. “I knew
that Mr. Lyne was interested in a criminal, and
that this criminal worshipped him. Once Mr. Lyne
brought him to the Stores and wanted to give him a
job, but the man would not accept it. Mr. Lyne once
told me that Sam Stay would do anything in the world
for him."
“Stay thinks you committed the murder," said Tar-
ling bluntly. “ Lyne has evidently told stories about
you and your hatred for him, and I really think that
Stay would have been more dangerous to you than the
police, only fortunately the little crook has gone off
his head.”
She looked at him in astonishment.
“Mad?” she asked. “Poor fellow! Has this
awful thing driven him ..."
Tarling nodded.
“ He was taken to the County Asylum this morn-
ing. He had a fit in my office, and when he recovered


TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT IOІ
101
he seemed to have lost his mind completely. Now,
Miss Rider, you're going to be frank with me, aren't
you?"
She looked at him again and smiled sadly.
“ I'm afraid I shan't be any more frank than I have
been, Mr. Tarling," she said. “If you want me to
tell you why I assumed the name of Stevens, or why I
ran away from London, I cannot tell you. I had a
good reason —” she paused," and I may yet have a
better reason for running away ..."
She nearly said " again" but checked the word.
He laid his hand on hers.
“When I told you of this murder," he said earnestly,
“I knew by your surprise and agitation that you were
innocent. Later the doctor was able to prove an alibi
which cannot be shaken. But, Miss Rider, when I sur-
prised you, you spoke as though you knew who com-
mitted the crime. You spoke of a man, and it is that
man's name I want."
She shook her head.
“ That I shall never tell you," she said simply.
“But don't you realise that you may be charged
with being an accessory before or after the act?” he
urged. “Don't you see what it means to you and to
your mother?”
Her eyes closed at the mention of her mother's
name, as though to shut out the vision of some un-
pleasant possibility.
“Don't talk about it, don't talk about it!” she mur-
mured,“ please, Mr. Tarling! Do as you wish. Let


102
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
the police arrest me or try me or hang me — but do not
ask me to say any more, because I will not, I will
not!"
Tarling sank back amongst the cushions, baffled and
bewildered, and no more was said.
Whiteside was waiting for the train, and with him
were two men who were unmistakably branded “Scot-
land Yard.” Tarling drew him aside and explained
the situation in a few words.
“Under the circumstances," he said, “I shall not
execute the warrant.”
Whiteside agreed.
“ It is quite impossible that she could have committed
the murder," he said. “I suppose the doctor's evi-
dence is unshakable?”
" Absolutely," said Tarling, “and it is confirmed by
the station-master at Ashford, who has the time of
the accident logged in his diary, and himself assisted
to lift the girl from the train."
“Why did she call herself Miss Stevens?” asked
Whiteside. “And what induced her to leave London
so hurriedly?”
Tarling gave a despairing gesture.
“That is one of the things I should like to know,"
he said, “ and the very matter upon which Miss Rider
refuses to enlighten me. I am taking her to a hotel,”
he went on. “To-morrow I will bring her down to
the Yard. But I doubt if the Chief can say anything
that will induce her to talk.”
“Was she surprised when you told her of the mur-


TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT 103
der? Did she mention anybody's name?” asked
Whiteside.
Tarling hesitated, and then, for one of the few times
in his life, he lied.
“No,” he said, “ she was just upset . . . she men-
tioned nobody."
He took the girl by taxi to the quiet little hotel he
had chosen — a journey not without its thrills for the
fog was now thick,- and saw her comfortably fixed.
"I can't be sufficiently grateful to you, Mr. Tarling,
for your kindness,” she said at parting, “and if I
could make your task any easier . . . I would.”
He saw a spasm of pain pass across her face.
"I don't understand it yet; it seems like a bad
dream,” she said, half to herself. “I don't want to
understand it somehow ... I want to forget, I want
to forget!”
“What do you want to forget?" asked Tarling.
She shook her head.
“Don't ask me," she said. “ Please, please don't
ask me!”
He walked down the big stairway, a greatly wor-
ried man. He had left the taxi at the door. To his
surprise he found the cab was gone, and turned to the
porter.
“What happened to my taxi?” he said. "I didn't
pay him off.”
“ Your taxi, sir?" said the head porter. “I didn't
see it go. I'll ask one of the boys.”
An assistant porter who had been in the street told


104
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
a surprising tale. A gentleman had come up out of
the murk, had paid off the taxi, which had disappeared.
The witness to this proceeding had not seen the gentle-
man's face. All he knew was that this mysterious
benefactor had walked away in an opposite direction to
that in which the cab had gone, and had vanished into
the night.
Tarling frowned.
“That's curious,” he said. “Get me another taxi.”
“ I'm afraid you'll find that difficult, sir.” The
hotel porter shook his head. “You see how the fog
is — we always get them thick about here - it's rather
late in the year for fogs ..."
Tarling cut short his lecture on meteorology, but-
toned up his coat, and turned out of the hotel in the
direction of the nearest underground station.
The hotel to which he had taken the girl was situated
in a quiet residential street, and at this hour of the
night the street was deserted, and the fog added some-
thing to its normal loneliness.
Tarling was not particularly well acquainted with
London, but he had a rough idea of direction. The
fog was thick, but he could see the blurred nimbus of a
street lamp, and was midway between two of these
when he heard a soft step behind him.
It was the faintest shuffle of sound, and he turned
quickly. Instinctively he threw up his hands and
stepped aside.
Something whizzed past his head and struck the
pavement with a thud.'


TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT
105
“ Sandbag," he noted mentally, and leapt at his
assailant.
As quickly his unknown attacker jumped back.
There was a deafening report. His feet were scorched
with burning cordite, and momentarily he released his
grip of his enemy's throat, which he had seized.
He sensed rather than saw the pistol raised again,
and made one of those lightning falls which he had
learnt in far-off days from Japanese instructors of ju-
jitsu. Head over heels he went as the pistol exploded
for the second time. It was a clever trick, designed
to bring the full force of his foot against his opponent's
knee. But the mysterious stranger was too quick for
him and when Tarling leapt to his feet he was alone.
But he had seen the face — big and white and
vengeful. It was glimpse and guess-work, but he was
satisfied that he knew his man.
He ran in the direction he thought the would be
assassin must have taken, but the fog was patchy and
he had misjudged the direction. He heard the sound
of hurrying footsteps and ran towards them, only to
find that it was a policeman attracted by the sound of
shots.
The officer had met nobody.
“He must have gone the other way," said Tarling,
and raced off in pursuit, without, however, coming up
with his attacker.
Slowly he retraced his footsteps to where he had
left the policeman searching the pavement for some
clue which would identify the assailant of the night.


106
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
The constable was using a small electric lamp which
he had taken from his pocket.
“Nothing here, sir," he said. “Only this bit of
red paper.”
Tarling took the small square of paper from the
man's hand and examined it under the light of the
lamp - a red square on which were written three
words in Chinese: “He brought this trouble upon
himself.”
It was the same inscription as that which had been
found neatly folded in the waistcoat pocket of Thorn-
ton Lyne the morning he was discovered lying starkly
dead.


CHAPTER XIV
THE SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE
Mr. Milburgh had a little house in one of the indus-
trial streets of Camden Town. It was a street made
up for the most part of blank walls, pierced at intervals
with great gates, through which one could procure at
times a view of gaunt factories and smoky-looking
chimney-stacks.
Mr. Milburgh's house was the only residence in the
road, if one excepted the quarters of caretakers and
managers, and it was agreed by all who saw his tiny
demesne, that Mr. Milburgh had a good landlord.
The "house" was a detached cottage in about half
an acre of ground, a one-story building, monopolising
the space which might have been occupied by factory
extension. Both the factory to the right and the left
had made generous offers to acquire the ground, but
Mr. Milburgh's landlord had been adamant. There
were people who suggested that Mr. Milburgh's land-
lord was Mr. Milburgh himself. But how could that
be? Mr. Milburgh's salary was something under £300
a year, and the cottage site was worth at least £4,000.
Canvey Cottage, as it was called, stood back from
the road, behind a lawn innocent of flowers, and the
lawn itself was protected from intrusion by high iron
107


108
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
railings which Mr. Milburgh's landlord had had erected
at considerable cost. To reach the house it was nec-
essary to pass through an iron gate, and traverse a
stone-flagged path to the door of the cottage.
On the night when Tarling of Scotland Yard was
the victim of a murderous assault, Mr. Milburgh un-
locked the gate and passed through, locking and
double-locking the gate behind him. He was alone,
and, as was his wont, he was whistling a sad little re-
frain which had neither beginning nor end. He
walked slowly up the stone pathway, unlocked the door
of his cottage, and stood only a moment on the door-
step to survey the growing thickness of the night, be-
fore he closed and bolted the door, and switched on
the electric light.
He was in a tiny hallway, plainly but nicely fur-
nished. The note of luxury was struck by the Zohn
etchings which hung on the wall, and which Mr. Mil-
burgh stopped to regard approvingly. He hung up
his coat and hat, slipped off the goloshes he was wear-
ing (for it was wet underfoot) and, passing through
a door which opened from the passage, came to his
living-room. The same simple note of furniture and
decoration was observable here. The furniture was
good, the carpet under his feet thick and luxurious.
He snicked down another switch, and an electric radi-
ator glowed in the fireplace. Then he sat down at the
big table, which was the most conspicuous article of
furniture in the room. It was practically covered with
orderly little piles of paper, most of them encircled


SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE 109
with rubber bands. He did not attempt to touch or
read them, but sat looking moodily at his blotting-pad,
preoccupied and absent.
Presently he rose with a little grunt, and, crossing
the room, unlocked a very commonplace and old-fash-
ioned cupboard, the top of which served as a side-
board. From the cupboard he took a dozen little
books and carried them to the table. They were of
uniform size, and each bore the figures of a year.
They appeared to be, and indeed were, diaries, but
they were not Mr. Milburgh's diaries. One day he
had chanced to go into Thornton Lyne's room at the
Stores and had seen these books arrayed on a steel
shelf of Lyne's private safe. The proprietor's room
overlooked the ground floor of the Stores, and Thorn-
ton Lyne at the time was visible to his manager, and
could not under any circumstances surprise him, so Mr.
Milburgh had taken out one volume and read, with
more than ordinary interest, the somewhat frank and
expansive diary which Thornton Lyne had kept.
He had only read a few pages on that occasion, but
later he had an opportunity of perusing the whole
year's record, and had absorbed a great deal of in-
formation which might have been useful to him in
the future, had not Thornton Lyne met his untimely
end at the hands of an unknown murderer.
On the day when Thornton Lyne's body was dis-
covered in Hyde Park with a woman's nightdress
wrapped around the wound in his breast, Mr. Milburgh
had, for reasons of expediency and assisted by a dupli-


110
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
cate key of Lyne's safe, removed those diaries to a
safer place. They contained a great deal that was un-
pleasant for Mr. Milburgh, particularly the current
diary, for Thornton Lyne had set down not only his
experiences, but his daily happenings, his thoughts,
poetical and otherwise, and had stated very exactly and
in libellous terms his suspicions of his manager.
The diary provided Mr. Milburgh with a great deal
of very interesting reading matter, and now he turned
to the page where he had left off the night before and
continued his study. It was a page easy to find, be-
cause he had thrust between the leaves a thin envelope
of foreign make, containing certain slips of paper, and
as he took out his improvised bookmark a thought
seemed to strike him, and he felt carefully in his
pocket. He did not discover the thing for which he
was searching, and with a smile he laid the envelope
carefully on the table, and went on at the point where
his studies had been interrupted.
“ Lunched at the London Hotel and dozed away the
afternoon. Weather fearfully hot. Had arranged to
make a call upon a distant cousin - a man named Tar-
ling -- who is in the police force at Shanghai, but too
much of a fag. Spent evening at Chu Han's dancing,
hall. Got very friendly with a pretty little Chinese
girl who spoke pigeon English. Am seeing her to-
morrow at Ling Foo's. She is called “The Little
Narcissus.' I called her ‘My little Daffodil '—"


SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE III
Mr. Milburgh stopped in his reading. “Little Daf-
fodil!” he repeated, then looked at the ceiling and
pinched his thick lips. “Little Daffodil!” he said
again, and a big smile dawned on his face.
He was still engaged in reading when a bell shrilled
in the hall. He rose to his feet and stood listening,
and the bell rang again. He switched off the light,
pulled aside the thick curtain which hid the window,
and peered out through the fog. He could just dis-
tinguish in the light of the street lamp two or three
men standing at the gate. He replaced the curtain,
turned up the light again, took the books in his arms
and disappeared with them into the corridor. The
room at the back was his bedroom, and into this he
went, making no response to the repeated jingle of the
bell for fully five minutes. At the end of that time
he reappeared, but now he was in his pyjamas, over
which he wore a heavy dressing-gown. He unlocked
the door, and shuffled in his slippers down the stone
pathway to the gate.
“ Who's that?” he asked.
“ Tarling. You know me," said a voice.
“Mr. Tarling?" said Milburgh in surprise.
“Really this is an unexpected pleasure.
come in, gentlemen.”
“ Open the gate," said Tarling briefly.
“Excuse me while I go and get the key," said Mil-
burgh. “I didn't expect visitors at this hour of the
2 une
night.”


112
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
He went into the house, took a good look round his
room, and then reappeared, taking the key from the
pocket of his dressing-gown. It had been there all the
time, if the truth be told, but Mr. Milburgh was a cau-
tious man and took few risks.
Tarling was accompanied by Inspector Whiteside
and another man, whom Milburgh rightly supposed
was a detective. Only Tarling and the Inspector ac-
cepted his invitation to step inside, the third man re-
maining on guard at the gate.
Milburgh led the way to his cosy sitting-room.
“I have been in bed some hours, and I'm sorry to
have kept you so long."
“Your radiator is still warm,” said Tarling quietly,
stooping to feel the little stove.
Mr. Milburgh chuckled.
“Isn't that clever of you to discover that?” he said
admiringly. “The fact is, I was so sleepy when I
went to bed, several hours ago, that I forgot to turn
the radiator off, and it was only when I came down to
answer the bell that I discovered I had been so reck-
less. One ought not to waste fuel in these days, Mr.
Tarling," he went on. “Fuel means power and coal
and in fact national resources."
Tarling stooped and picked the butt end of a cigar
out of the hearth. It was still alight.
“You've been smoking in your sleep, Mr. Mil-
burgh,” he said drily.
“No, no," said the airy Mr. Milburgh. “I was
smoking that when I came downstairs to let you in.


SEARCH OF MILBURGH’S COTTAGE 113
I instinctively put a cigar in my mouth the moment I
wake up in the morning. It is a disgraceful habit, and
really is one of my few vices,” he admitted. “I threw
it down when I turned out the radiator."
Tarling smiled.
“Won't you sit down?" said Milburgh, seating him-
self in the least comfortable of the chairs. “You
see,” his smile was apologetic as he waved his hand to
the table, “the work is frightfully heavy now that
poor Mr. Lyne is dead. I am obliged to bring it home,
and I can assure you, Mr. Tarling, that there are some
nights when I work till daylight, getting things ready
for the auditor."
"Do you ever take exercise?” asked Tarling in-
nocently. “Little night walks in the fog for the bene-
fit of your health ? "
A puzzled frown gathered on Milburgh's face.
“Exercise, Mr. Tarling ?” he said with an air of
mystification. “I don't quite understand you. Nat-
urally I shouldn't walk out on a night like this. What
an extraordinary fog for this time of the year!”
“Do you know Paddington at all?”
“No," said Mr. Milburgh, “except that there is a
station there which I sometimes use. But perhaps you
will explain to me the meaning of this visit?”.
“The meaning is,” said Tarling shortly, “that I
have been attacked to-night by a man of your build
and height, who fired twice at me at close quarters. I
have a warrant —” Mr. Milburgh's eyes narrowed —
“I have a warrant to search this house."


114
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
"For what?" demanded Milburgh boldly.
“For a revolver or an automatic pistol and any-
thing else I can find.”
Milburgh rose.
“ You are at liberty to search the house from end
to end,” he said. “Happily, it is a small one, as my
salary does not allow of an expensive establishment."
“Do you live here alone?” asked Tarling.
“Quite," replied Milburgh. "A woman comes in
at eight o'clock to-morrow morning to cook my break-
fast and make the place tidy, but I sleep here by my-
self. I am very much hurt,” he was going on.
"You will be hurt much worse," said Tarling drily,
and proceeded to the search.
It proved to be a disappointing one, for there was
no trace of any weapon, and certainly no trace of the
little red slips which he had expected to find in Mil-
burgh's possession. For he was not searching for the
man who had assailed him, but for the man who had
killed Thornton Lyne.
He came back to the little sitting-room where Mil-
burgh had been left with the Inspector, and apparently
he was unruffled by his failure.
“Now, Mr. Milburgh," he said brusquely, “I want
to ask you: have you ever seen a piece of paper like
this before?"
He took the slip from his pocket and spread it on the
table. Milburgh looked hard at the Chinese characters
on the crimson square, and then nodded.
“You have?” said Tarling in surprise.


SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE 115
“Yes, sir," said Mr. Milburgh complacently. “I
should be telling an untruth if I said I had not. Noth-
ing is more repugnant to me than to deceive anybody."
“That I can imagine," said Tarling.
“I am sorry you are sarcastic, Mr. Tarling,” said
the reproachful Milburgh, “but I assure you that I
hate and loathe an untruth.”
“Where have you seen these papers?”
“On Mr. Lyne's desk,” was the surprising answer.
“On Lyne's desk?”
Milburgh nodded.
“ The late Mr. Thornton Lyne,” he said, “came
back from the East with a great number of curios, and
amongst them were a number of slips of paper covered
with Chinese characters similar to these. I do not
understand Chinese,” he said, " because I have never
had occasion to go to China. The characters may have
been different one from the other, but to my unsophis-
ticated eye they all look alike.”
“ You've seen these slips on Lyne's desk?” said
Tarling. “Then why did you not tell the police be-
fore? You know that the police attach a great deal
of importance to the discovery of one of these things
in the dead man's pocket?”
Mr. Milburgh nodded.
“It is perfectly true that I did not mention the fact
to the police,” he said, “but you quite understand,
Mr. Tarling, that I was very much upset by the sad
occurrence, which drove everything else out of my
mind. It would have been quite possible that you


116
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
would have found one or two of these strange inscrip-
tions in this very house.” He smiled in the detective's
face. “Mr. Lyne was very fond of distributing the
curios he brought from the East to his friends," he
went on. “He gave me that dagger you see hanging
on the wall, which he bought at some outlandish place
in his travels. He may have given me a sample of
these slips. I remember his telling me a story about
them, which I cannot for the moment recall."
He would have continued retailing reminiscences of
his late employer, but Tarling cut him short, and with
a curt good-night withdrew. Milburgh accompanied
him to the front gate and locked the door upon the
three men before he went back to his sitting-room,
smiling quietly to himself.
“I am certain that the man was Milburgh," said
Tarling. “I am as certain as that I am standing
here."
“ Have you any idea why he should want to out
you?” asked Whiteside.
“None in the world,” replied Tarling. “Evidently
my assailant was a man who had watched my move-
ments and had probably followed the girl and myself
to the hotel in a cab. When I disappeared inside he
dismissed his own and then took the course of dis-
missing my cab, which he could easily do by paying the
man his fare and sending him off. A cabman would
accept that dismissal without suspicion. He then
waited for me in the fog and followed me until he


SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE 117
got me into a quiet part of the road, where he first
attempted to sandbag and then to shoot me."
“But why?” asked Whiteside again. “Suppose
Milburgh knew something about this murder — which
is very doubtful — what benefit would it be to him to
have you put out of the way?”
"If I could answer that question," replied Tarling
grimly, “I could tell you who killed Thornton Lyne."


CHAPTER XV
THE OWNER OF THE PISTOL
All trace of the fog of the night before had disap-
peared when Tarling looked out from his bedroom
window later that morning. The streets were flooded
with yellow sunshine, and there was a tang in the air
which brought the colour to the cheek and light to the
eye of the patient Londoner.
Tarling stretched his arms and yawned in the sheer
luxury of living, before he took down his silk dressing-
gown and went in to the breakfast which Ling Chu
had laid for him.
The blue-bloused Chinaman who stood behind his
master's chair, poured out the tea, and laid a news-
paper on one side of the plate and letters on the other.
Tarling ate his breakfast in silence and pushed away
the plate.
“ Ling Chu," he said in the vernacular of Lower
China, “I shall lose my name as the Man Hunter, for
this case puzzles me beyond any other."
“Master," said the Chinaman in the same language,
“there is a time in all cases when the hunter feels
that he must stop and weep. I myself had this feeling
when I hunted down Wu Fung, the strangler of
118


CHAPTER XVI
THE HEIR
"Your pistol?” said Whiteside incredulously.
“My dear good chap, you are mad! How could it
be your pistol?"
" It is nevertheless my pistol," said Tarling quietly.
“I recognised it the moment I saw it on your desk,
and thought there must be some mistake. These fur-
rows prove that there is no mistake at all. It has
been one of my most faithful friends, and I carried
it with me in China for six years."
Whiteside gasped.
“And you mean to tell me," he demanded, “that
Thornton Lyne was killed with your pistol?”
Tarling nodded.
“ It is an amazing and bewildering fact," he said,
“ but that is undoubtedly my pistol, and it is the same
that was found in Miss Rider's room at Carrymore
Mansions, and I have not the slightest doubt in my
mind that it was by a shot fired from this weapon that
Thornton Lyne lost his life.”
There was a long silence.
“Well, that beats me," said Whiteside, laying the
weapon on the table. “At every turn some new mys-
tery arises. This is the second jar I've had to-day."
122


THE HEIR
123
“The second?” said Tarling. He put the question
idly, for his mind was absorbed in this new and to
him tremendous aspect of the crime. Thornton Lyne
had been killed by his pistol! That to him was the
most staggering circumstance which had been revealed
since he had come into the case.
“Yes,” Whiteside was saying, “it is the second set-
back.”
With an effort Tarling brought his mind back from
speculating upon the new mystery.
"Do you remember this?” said Whiteside. He
opened his safe and took out a big envelope, from
which he extracted a telegram.
Tarling took the message and nodded.
“ Yes, this is the telegram supposed to have been
sent by Odette Rider, asking Mr. Lyne to call at her
flat. It was found amongst the dead man's effects
when the house was searched.”
“To be exact," corrected Whiteside, “it was dis-
covered by Lyne's valet -a man named Cole, who
seems to be a very honest person against whom no
suspicion should be attached. I had him here this
morning early to make further enquiries into Lyne's
movements on the night of the murder. He's in the
next room, by the way. I'll bring him in."
He pushed a bell and gave his instructions to the
uniformed policeman who came. Presently the door
opened again and the officer ushered in a respectable-
looking, middle-aged man, who had “ domestic serv-
ice" written all over him.


124
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
"Just tell Mr. Tarling what you told me," said
Whiteside.
“ About that telegram, sir?” asked Cole. “Yes,
I'm afraid I made a bit of a mistake there, but I got
so flurried with this awful business and I suppose I
lost my head a bit.”
“What happened ? ” asked Tarling.
“Well, sir, this telegram I brought up the next day
to Mr. Whiteside — that is to say, the day after the
murder —" Tarling nodded, "— and when I brought
it up I made a false statement. It's a thing I've never
done before in my life, but I tell you I was scared by
all these police enquiries."
“ What was the false statement ? ” asked Tarling
quickly.
“Well, sir," said the servant, twisting his hat nerv-
ously, “I said that it had been opened by Mr. Lyne.
As a matter of fact, the telegram wasn't delivered
until a quarter of an hour after Mr. Lyne left the
place. It was I who opened it when I heard of the
murder. Then, thinking that I should get into trouble
for sticking my nose into police business, I told Mr.
Whiteside that Mr. Lyne had opened it.”
“He didn't receive the telegram?” asked Tar-
ling.
“ No, sir."
The two detectives looked at one another.
“Well, what do you make of that, Whiteside ? "
“ I'm blest if I know what to think of it,” said
Whiteside, scratching his head. “We depended upon


126
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
at Carrymore Mansions. Bloodstains are found upon
the floor, and there is other evidence, such as the dis-
covery of the pistol and the exploded shell, which em-
phasises the accuracy of that conclusion. Nobody sees
Mr. Lyne come into the flat or go out.
“He is found in Hyde Park the next morning with-
out his coat or vest, a lady's silk nightdress, identified
as Odette Rider's, wrapped tightly round his breast,
and two of Odette Rider's handkerchiefs are found
over the wound. Upon his body are a number of
daffodils, and his car, containing his coat, vest and
boots, is found by the side of the road a hundred yards
away. Have I got it right?”
Whiteside nodded.
“Whatever else is at fault,” he smiled, “your mem-
ory is unchallengeable."
“ A search of the bedroom in which the crime was
committed reveals a bloodstained thumb-print on the
white bureau, and a suit-case identified as Odette Ri-
der's, half-packed, upon the bed. Later, a pistol, which
is mine, is found in the lady's work-basket, hidden un-
der repairing material. The first suggestion is that
Miss Rider is the murderess. That suggestion is re-
futed first by the fact that she was at Ashford when
the murder was committed, unconscious as a result of
a railway accident; and the second point in her favour
is that the telegram discovered by Lyne's valet, pur-
porting to be signed by the girl, inviting Lyne to her
flat at a certain hour, was not delivered to the mur-
dered man.”


THE HEIR
127
He rose to his feet.
“Come along and see Cresswell,” he said. “This
case is going to drive me mad!”
Assistant-Commissioner Cresswell heard the story
the two men had to tell, and if he was astounded he did
not betray any signs of his surprise.
“This looks like being the murder case of the cen-
tury,” he said. “Of course, you cannot proceed any
further against Miss Rider, and you were wise not to
make the arrest. However, she must be kept under
observation, because apparently she knows, or thinks
she knows, the person who did commit the murder.
She must be watched day and night, and sooner or
later she will lead you to the man upon whom her
suspicions rest.
“Whiteside had better see her,” he said, turning to
Tarling. “ He may get a new angle of her view. I
don't think there's much use in bringing her down
here. And, by the way, Tarling, all the accounts of
Lyne's Stores have been placed in the hands of a clever
firm of chartered accountants -- Dashwood and Solo
mon, of St. Mary Axe. If you suspect there has been
any peculation on the part of Lyne's employees, and if
that peculation is behind the murder, we shall probably
learn something which will give you a clue.”
Tarling nodded.
“How long will the examination take?” he asked.
“ They think a week. The books have been taken
away this morning — which reminds me that your
friend, Mr. Milburgh - I think that is his name - is


128
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
giving every assistance to the police to procure a faith-
ful record of the firm's financial record of the firm's
financial position."
He looked up at Tarling and scratched his nose.
“So it was committed with your pistol, Tarling ?”
he said with a little smile. “That sounds bad.”
" It sounds mad,” laughed Tarling. “I'm going
straight back to discover what happened to my pistol
and how it got into that room. I know that it was
there because a fortnight ago I took it to a gunsmith
to be oiled.”
“Where do you keep it as a rule?”
“In the cupboard with my colonial kit," said Tar-
ling. “Nobody has access to my room except Ling
Chu who is always there when I'm out.”
“Ling Chu is your Chinese servant?”
“Not exactly a servant,” smiled Tarling; "he is one
of the best native thief-catchers I have ever met. He
is a man of the greatest integrity and I would trust
him with my life.”
“Murdered with your pistol, eh?” said the Com-
missioner.
There was a little pause and then:
“I suppose Lyne's estate will go to the Crown? He
has no relations and no heir."
“Your wrong there," said Tarling quietly.
The Commissioner looked up in surprise.
“ Has he an heir ?” he asked.
“He has a cousin," said Tarling with a little smile,


THE HEIR
129
"a relationship quite close enough to qualify him for
Lyne's millions unfortunately."
“Why unfortunately?” asked Mr. Cresswell.
“ Because I happen to be the heir," said Tarling.


CHAPTER XVII
THE MISSING REVOLVER
Tarling walked out of Scotland Yard on to the sun-
lit Embankment, trouble in his face. He told himself
that the case was getting beyond him and that it was
only the case and its development which worried him.
The queer little look which had dawned on the Com-
missioner's face when he learnt that the heir to the
murdered Thornton Lyne's fortune was the detective
who was investigating his murder, and that Tarling's
revolver had been found in the room where the murder
had been committed, aroused nothing but an inward
chuckle.
That suspicion should attach to him was, he told
himself, poetic justice, for in his day he himself had
suspected many men, innocent or partly innocent.
He walked up the stairs to his room and found
Ling Chu polishing the meagre stock of silver which
Tarling possessed. Ling Chu was a thief-catcher and
a great detective, but he had also taken upon himself
the business of attending to Tarling's personal com-
fort. The detective spoke no word, but went straight
to the cupboard where he kept his foreign kit. On a
shelf in neat array and carefully folded were the
thin white drill suits he wore in the tropics. His sun-
130


THE MISSING REVOLVER
131
helmet hung on a peg, and on the opposite wall was a
revolver holster hanging by a strap. He lifted the
holster. It was empty. He had had no doubts in
his mind that the holster would be empty and closed
the door with a troubled frown.
“Ling Chu," he said quietly.
“You speak me, Lieh Jen?" said the man, putting
down the spoons and rubber he was handling.
“ Where is my revolver?'
“ It is gone, Lieh Jen,” said the man calmly.
“How long has it been gone ? "
“I miss him four days,” said Ling Chu calmly.
“Who took it?" demanded Tarling.
"I miss him four days," said the man.
There was an interval of silence, and Tarling nodded
his head slowly.
“ Very good, Ling Chu," he said;" there is no more
to be said.”
For all his outward calm, he was distressed in mind.
Was it possible that anybody could have got into
the room in Ling Chu's absence - he could only re-
member one occasion when they had been out together,
and that was the night he had gone to the girl's flat
and Ling Chu had shadowed him.
What if Ling Chu — ?
He dismissed the thought as palpably absurd. What
interest could Ling Chu have in the death of Lyne,
whom he had only seen once, the day that Thornton
Lyne had called Tarling into consultation at the
Stores ?


132
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
That thought was too fantastic to entertain, but
nevertheless it recurred again and again to him and
in the end he sent his servant away with a message
to Scotland Yard, determined to give even this most
fantastic theory as thorough and impartial an examina-
tion as was possible.
The flat consisted of four rooms and a kitchen.
There was Tarling's bedroom communicating with his
dining-and-sitting-room. There was a spare-room in
which he kept his boxes and trunks — it was in this
room that the revolver had been put aside — and there
was the small room occupied by Ling Chu. He gave
his attendant time to get out of the house and well on
his journey before he rose from the deep chair where
he had been sitting in puzzled thought and began his
inspection.
Ling Chu's room was small and scrupulously clean.
Save for the bed and a plain black-painted box be-
neath the bed, there was no furniture. The well-
scrubbed boards were covered with a strip of Chinese
matting and the only ornamentation in the room was
supplied by a tiny red lacquer vase which stood on the
mantel-piece.
Tarling went back to the outer door of the flat and
locked it before continuing his search. If there was
any clue to the mystery of the stolen revolver it would
be found here, in this black box.
A Chinaman keeps all his possessions “within six
sides” as the saying goes, and certainly the box was
very well secured. It was ten minutes before he


THE MISSING REVOLVER 133
managed to find a key to shift the two locks with which
it was fastened.
The contents of the box were few. Ling Chu's
wardrobe was not an extensive one and did little
more than half fill the receptable. Very carefully
he lifted out the one suit of clothes, the silk shirts, the
slippers and the odds and ends of the Chinaman's
toilet and came quickly to the lower layer. Here he
discovered two lacquer boxes, neither of which was
locked or fastened.
The first of these contained sewing material, the
second a small package wrapped in native paper and
carefully tied about with ribbon. Tarling undid the
ribbon, opened the package and found to his surprise
a small pad of newspaper cuttings. In the main they
were cuttings from colloquial journals printed in
Chinese characters, but there were one or two para-
graphs evidently cut from one of the English papers
published in Shanghai.
He thought at first that these were records of cases
in which Ling Chu had been engaged, and though he
was surprised that the Chinaman should have taken
the trouble to collect these souvenirs — especially the
English cuttings — he did not think at first that there
was any significance in the act. He was looking for
some clue — what he knew not — which would enable
him to explain to his own satisfaction the mystery of
the filched pistol.
He read the first of the European cuttings idly, but
presently his eyes opened wide.


134
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“ There was a fracas at Ho Hans' tea room last
night, due apparently to the too-persistent attentions
paid by an English visitor to the dancing girl, the
little Narcissus, who is known to the English, or such
as frequent Ho Hans' rooms, as The Little Daffo
dil -”
He gasped. The Little Daffodil! He let the cut-
ting drop on his knee and frowned in an effort of
memory. He knew Shanghai well. He knew its
mysterious under-world and had more than a passing
acquaintance with Ho Hans' tea-rooms. Ho Hans'
tea-room was, in fact, the mask which hid an opium
den that he had been instrumental in cleaning up just
before he departed from China. And he distinctly
remembered the Little Daffodil. He had had no deal-
ings with her in the way of business, for when he had
had occasion to go into Ho Hans' tea-rooms, he was
usually after bigger game than the graceful little
dancer.
It all came back to him in a flash. He had heard
men at the club speaking of the grace of the Little
Daffodil and her dancing had enjoyed something of a
vogue amongst the young Britishers who were exiled
in Shanghai.
The next cutting was also in English and ran:
"A sad fatality occurred this morning, a young
Chinese girl, O Ling, the sister of Inspector Ling
Chu, of the Native Police, being found in a dying


THE MISSING REVOLVER
135
condition in the yard at the back of Ho Hans' tea-
rooms. The girl had been employed at the shop as a
dancer, much against her brother's wishes and figured
in a very unpleasant affair reported in these columns
last week. It is believed that the tragic act was one
of those save-face' suicides which are all too com-
mon amongst native women!”
Tarling whistled, a soft long understanding whistle.
The Little Daffodil! And the sister of Ling Chu!
He knew something of the Chinese, something of their
uncanny patience, something of their unforgiving na-
ture. This dead man had put an insult not only upon
the little dancing girl, but upon the whole of her fam-
ily. In China a disgrace to one is a disgrace to all
and she, realizing the shame that the notoriety had
brought upon her brother, had taken what to her, as a
Chinese girl, had been the only way out.
But what was the shame? Tarling searched through
the native papers and found several flowery accounts,
not any two agreed save on one point, that an Eng-
lishman, and a tourist, had made public love to the
girl, no very great injury from the standpoint of the
Westerner, a Chinaman had interfered and there had
been a “rough house."
Tarling read the cuttings through from beginning
to end, then carefully replaced them in the paper
package and put them away in the little lacquer box
at the bottom of the trunk. As carefully he returned
all the clothes he had removed, relocked the lid and


136
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
pushed it under the iron bedstead. Swiftly he re-
viewed all the circumstances. Ling Chu had seen
Thornton Lyne and had planned his vengeance. To
extract Tarling's revolver was an easy matter - but
why, if he had murdered Lyne, would he have left the
incriminating weapon behind ? That was not like Ling
Chu— that was the act of a novice.
But how had he lured Thornton Lyne to the flat?
And how did he know — a thought struck him.
Three nights before the murder, Ling Chu, discuss-
ing the interview which had taken place at Lyne's
Stores, had very correctly diagnosed the situation.
Ling Chu knew that Thornton Lyne was in love with
the girl and desired her and it would not be remark-
able if he had utilised his knowledge to his own ends.
But the telegram which was designed to bring Lyne
to the flat was in English, and Ling Chu did not admit
to a knowledge of that language. Here again Tarling
came to a dead end. Though he might trust the China-
man with his life, he was perfectly satisfied that this
man would not reveal all that he knew and it was
quite possible that Ling Chu spoke English as well as
he spoke his own native tongue and the four dialects
of China.
“I give it up," said Tarling, half to himself and
half aloud.
He was undecided as to whether he should wait for
his subordinate's return from Scotland Yard and tax
him with the crime, or whether he should let matters
slide for a day or two and carry out his intention to


THE MISSING REVOLVER 137
visit Odette Rider. He took that decision, leaving a
note for the Chinaman, and a quarter of an hour later
got out of his taxi at the door of the West Somerset
Hotel.
Odette Rider was in (that he knew) and waiting
for him. She looked pale and her eyes were tired, as
though she had slept little on the previous night, but
she greeted him with that half smile of hers.
“I've come to tell you that you are to be spared the
ordeal of meeting the third degree men of Scotland
Yard,” he said laughingly and her eyes spoke her re-
lief.
"Haven't you been out this beautiful morning?”
he asked innocently and this time she laughed aloud.
“What a hypocrite you are, Mr. Tarling!” she re-
plied. “You know very well I haven't been out, and
you know too that there are three Scotland Yard men
watching this hotel who would accompany me in any
constitutional I took.”
“How did you know that?” he asked without deny-
ing the charge.
“ Because I've been out," she said naïvely and
laughed again. “You aren't so clever as I thought
you were,” she rallied him. “ I quite expected when
I said I'd not been out, to hear you tell me just where
I'd been, how far I walked and just what I bought.”
"Some green sewing silk, six handkerchiefs, and a
tooth-brush,” said Tarling promptly and the girl stared
at him in comic dismay.
“Why, of course, I ought to have known you better


138
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
than that,” she said. “Then you do have watchers ? "
“ Watchers and talkers," said Tarling gaily. “I
had a little interview with the gentleman in the vesti-
bule of the hotel and he supplied me with quite a lot
of information. Did he shadow you?”
She shook her head. ,
“I saw nobody," she confessed, “though I looked
most carefully. Now what are you going to do with
me, Mr. Tarling?"
For answer, Tarling took from his pocket a flat
oblong box. The girl looked wonderingly as he opened
the lid and drew forth a slip of porcelain covered with
a thin film of black ink and two white cards. His
hand shook as he placed them on the table and sud-
denly the girl understood.
“You want my finger prints?” she asked and he
nodded.
“I just hate asking you,” he said, “but —"
“Show me how to do it," she interrupted and he
guided her.
He felt disloyal - a very traitor, and perhaps she
realized what he was thinking for she laughed as she
wiped her stained finger tips.
“Duty's duty," she mocked him, “and now tell me
this — are you going to keep me under observation all
the time?"
“For a little while," said Tarling gravely. “In
fact, until we get the kind of information we want.”
He put away the box into his pocket as she shook
her head.


THE MISSING REVOLVER
139
“ That means you're not going to tell us anything,"
said Tarling. “I think you are making a very great
mistake, but really I am not depending upon your say-
ing a word. I depend entirely upon —".
"Upon what?" she asked curiously as he hesi-
tated.
“Upon what others will tell me," said Tarling.
“ Others? What others ?"
Her steady eyes met his.
“There was once a famous politician who said
Wait and see,” said Tarling, “advice which I am
going to ask you to follow. Now, I will tell you some-
thing, Miss Rider," he went on. “To-morrow I am
going to take away your watchers, though I should
advise you to remain at this hotel for a while. It
is obviously impossible for you to go back to your
flat."
The girl shivered.
"Don't talk about that,” she said in a low voice.
“ But is it necessary that I should stay here?”
“There is an alternative," he said, speaking slowly,
“ an alternative," he said, looking at her steadily," and
it is that you should go to your mother's place at
Hertford.”
“That is impossible," she said.
He was silent for a moment.
“Why don't you make a confidant of me, Miss
Rider?” he said. “I should not abuse your trust.
Why don't you tell me something about your fa-
ther —?”
es


140
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“My father?” She looked at him in amazement.
“My father, did you say?"
He nodded.
“ But I have no father,” said the girl.
“Have you ”— he found a difficulty in framing his
words and it seemed to him that she must have guessed
what was coming --" have you a lover?” he asked at
length.
“What do you mean? ” she countered, and there
was a note of hauteur in her voice.
“I mean this," said Tarling steadily. “What is
Mr. Milburgh to you?”
Her hand went up to her mouth and she looked at
him in wide-eyed distress, then:
“Nothing!” she said huskily. “Nothing, noth-
ing!”


CHAPTER XVIII
THE FINGER PRINTS
Tarling, his hands thrust into his pockets, his chin
dropped, his shoulders bent, slowly walked the broad
pavement of the Edgware Road on his way from the
girl's hotel to his flat. He dismissed with good rea-
son the not unimportant fact that he himself was sus-
pect. He, a comparatively unknown detective from
Shanghai, was by reason of his relationship to Thorn-
ton Lyne, and even more so because his own revolver
had been found on the scene of the tragedy, the object
of some suspicion on the part of the higher authori-
ties who certainly would not pooh-pooh the suggestion
that he was innocent of any association with the crime
because he happened to be engaged in the case.
He knew that the whole complex machinery of Scot-
land Yard was working and working at top speed to
implicate him in the tragedy. Silent and invisible
though that work might be, it would nevertheless be
sure. He smiled a little, and shrugged himself from
the category of the suspected.
First and most important of the suspects was Odette
Rider. That Thornton Lyne had loved her, he did
not for one moment imagine. Thornton Lyne was
not the kind of man who loved. Rather had he de-
mo
as
141


142
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
sired, and very few women had thwarted him. Odette
Rider was an exception. Tarling only knew of the
scene which had occurred between Lyne and the girl
on the day he had been called in, but there must have
been many other painful interviews, painful for the
girl, humiliating for the dead millionaire.
Anyway, he thought thankfully, it would not be
Odette. He had got into the habit of thinking of her
as “ Odette," a discovery which had amused him. He
could rule her out, because obviously she could not
be in two places at once. When Thornton Lyne was
discovered in Hyde Park, with Odette Rider's night-
dress round about his wound, the girl herself was
lying in a cottage hospital at Ashford fifty miles away.
But what of Milburgh, that suave and oily man?
Tarling recalled the fact that he had been sent for by
his dead relative to enquire into Milburgh's mode of
living and that Milburgh was under suspicion of hav-
ing robbed the firm. Suppose Milburgh had com-
mitted the crime? Suppose, to hide his defalcations,
he had shot his employer dead? There was a flaw in
this reasoning because the death of Thornton Lyne
would be more likely to precipitate the discovery of
the manager's embezzlements -- there would be an
examination of accounts and everything would come
out. Milburgh himself was not unmindful of this
argument in his favour, as was to be revealed.
As against this, Tarling thought, it was notorious
that criminals did foolish things. They took little or
no account of the immediate consequences of their


THE FINGER PRINTS
143
act and a man like Milburgh, in his desperation, might
in his very frenzy overlook the possibility of his crime
coming to light through the very deed he had com-
mitted to cover himself up.
He had reached the bottom of Edgware Road and
was turning the corner of the street, looking across
to the Marble Arch, when he heard a voice hail him
and turning, saw a cab breaking violently to the edge
of the pavement.
It was Inspector Whiteside who jumped out.
“I was just coming up to see you,” he said. "I
thought your interview with the young lady would be
longer. Just wait a moment, till I've paid the cab
man-by-the-way I saw your Chink servant and
gather you sent him to the Yard on a spoof errand.”
When he returned, he met Tarling's eye and grinned
sympathetically.
"I know what's in your mind,” he said frankly,
“but really the Chief thinks it no more than an ex-
traordinary coincidence. I suppose you made en-
quiries about your revolver?"
Tarling nodded.
“ And can you discover how it came to be in the
possession of —” he paused, “the murderer of Thorn-
ton Lyne?”
“I have a theory, half formed, it is true, but still
a theory," said Tarling. “In fact, it's hardly so much
a theory as an hypothesis.”
Whiteside grinned again.
** This hair-splitting in the matter of logical terms


144
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
never did mean much in my young life," he said, “but
I take it you have a hunch.”
Without any more ado, Tarling told the other of the
discovery he had made in Ling Chu's box, the press
cuttings, descriptive of the late Mr. Lyne's conduct in
Shanghai and its tragic sequel.
Whiteside listened in silence.
“There may be something on that side,” he said at
last when Tarling had finished. “I've heard about
your Ling Chu. He's a pretty good policeman, isn't
he?”
“The best in China," said Tarling promptly, “but
I'm not going to pretend that I understand his mind.
There are the facts. The revolver, or rather the pistol,
was in my cupboard and the only person who could
get at it was Ling Chu. There is the second and more
important fact imputing motive, that Ling Chu had
every reason to hate Thornton Lyne, the man who had
indirectly been responsible for his sister's death. I
have been thinking the matter over and I now recall
that Ling Chu was unusually silent after he had seen
Lyne. He has admitted to me that he has been to
Lyne's store and in fact, has been pursuing enquiries
there. We happened to be discussing the possibility
of Miss Rider committing the murder and Ling Chu
told me that Miss Rider could not drive a motor-car
and when I questioned him as to how he knew this,
he told me that he had made several enquiries at the
Stores. This activity of his I knew nothing about.
“ Here is another curious fact,” Tarling went on.


THE FINGER PRINTS
145
“I have always been under the impression that Ling
Chu did not speak English, except a few words of
'pigeon' that Chinamen pick up through mixing with
foreign devils. Yet he pushed his enquiries at Lyne's
Stores amongst the employees, and it is a million to
one against his finding any shop-girl who spoke Can-
tonese!”
“I'll put a couple of men on to watch him," said
Whiteside, but Tarling shook his head.
" It would be a waste of good men,” he said, “be-
cause Ling Chu could lead them just where he wanted
to. I tell you he is a better sleuth than any you have
got at Scotland Yard and he has an absolute gift for
fading out of the picture under your very nose. Leave
Ling Chu to me, I know the way to deal with him,"
he added grimly.
“The Little Daffodil!” said Whiteside thoughtfully,
repeating the phrase which Tarling had quoted.
“ That was the Chinese girl's name, eh? By Jove!
It's something more than a coincidence, don't you
think, Tarling?"
“It may be or may not be," said Tarling; "there
is no such word as daffodil in Chinese. In fact, I am
not so certain that the daffodil is a native of China at
all, though China's a mighty big place. Strictly speak-
ing the girl was called 'The Little Narcissus' but as
you say it may be something more than a coincidence
that the man who insulted her is murdered whilst her
brother is in London.”
They had crossed the broad roadway as they were


146
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
speaking and had passed into Hyde Park. Tarling
thought whimsically that this open space exercised the
same attraction on him as it did upon Mr. Milburgh.
“What were you going to see me about?” he asked
suddenly, remembering that Whiteside had been on
his way to the hotel when they had met.
“I wanted to give you the last report about Mil-
burgh.”
Milburgh again! All conversation, all thought, all
clues led to that mystery man. But what Whiteside
had to tell was not especially thrilling. Milburgh had
been shadowed day and night, and the record of his
doings was a very prosaic one.
But it is out of prosaic happenings that big clues are
born.
"I don't know how Milburgh expects the enquiry
into Lyne's accounts will go," said Whiteside, “but
he is evidently connected, or expects to be connected,
with some other business.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Tarling.
“Well," replied Whiteside,“ he has been buying
ledgers," and Tarling laughed.
“That doesn't seem to be a very offensive proceed-
ing," he said good-humouredly; "what sort of led-
gers ? "
“ Those heavy things which are used in big offices.
You know, the sort of thing that it takes one man all
his time to lift. He bought three at Roebuck's in
City Road, and took them to his house by taxi.
“Now my theory," said Whiteside earnestly, "is


THE FINGER PRINTS
147
that this fellow is no ordinary criminal, if he is a crim-
inal at all. It may be that he has been keeping a dupli-
cate set of books."
“ That is unlikely,” interrupted Tarling, “and I say
this with due respect for your judgment, Whiteside.
It would want to be something more than an ordinary
criminal to carry all the details of Lyne's mammoth
business in his head, and it is more than possible that
your first theory was right, namely that he contem-
plates either going with another firm, or starting a new
business of his own. The second supposition is more
likely. Anyway, it is no crime to own a ledger, or
even three. By the way, when did he buy these
books?"
“Yesterday," said Whiteside, “ early in the morn-
ing, before Lyne's opened. How did your interview
with Miss Rider go off?”
Tarling shrugged his shoulders. He felt a strange
reluctance to discuss the girl with the police officer,
and realised just how big a fool he was in allowing
her sweetness to drug him.
“I am convinced that, whoever she may suspect,
she knows nothing of the murder," he said shortly.
“ Then she does suspect somebody?”
Tarling nodded.
“Who?"
Again Tarling hesitated.
“I think she suspects Milburgh,” he said.
He put his hand in the inside of his jacket and took
out a pocket case, opened it, and drew forth the two


148
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
cards bearing the finger impressions he had taken of
Odette Rider. It required more than an ordinary ef-
fort of will to do this, though he would have found it
difficult to explain just what tricks his emotions were
playing
“Here are the impressions you wanted,” he said.
“Will you take them?”
Whiteside took the card with a nod and examined
the five inky smudges, and all the time Tarling's heart
stood still, for Inspector Whiteside was the recognised
authority of the Police Intelligence Department on
finger-prints and their characteristics.
The survey was a long one.
Tarling remembered the scene for years afterwards;
the sun-lit path, the straggling idlers, the carriages
pursuing their leisurely way along the walks, and the
stiff military figure of Whiteside standing almost to
attention, his keen eyes peering down at the little card
which he held in the finger tips of both hands. Then:
"Interesting,” he said. “You notice that the two
figures are almost the same — which is rather extraor-
dinary. Very interesting.”
“Well?” asked Tarling impatiently, almost sav-
agely.
“ Interesting," said Whiteside again, “but none of
these correspond to the thumb-prints on the bureau.”
“ Thank God for that!” said Tarling fervently.
“ Thank God for that!”


150
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
wishes to have an independent investigation, as there
seems to be some question of defalcation on the part
of one of the employees. This, coupled with the
tragic death of Mr. Lyne, has made it all the more
necessary that an outside firm should be called in to
look into the books.”
“ That I understand," said Tarling, “and, of course,
the Commissioner quite appreciates the difficulty of
your task. I've come along rather to procure informa-
tion for my own purpose, as I am doubly interested -"
Sir Felix looked up sharply.
“Mr. Tarling ?” he repeated, looking at the card
again. “Why, of course! I understand that letters
of administration are to be applied for on your be-
half?”
“I believe that is so," said Tarling quietly. “But
my interest in the property is more or less impersonal
at the moment. The manager of the business is a Mr.
Milburgh."
Sir Felix nodded.
“He has been most useful and helpful,” he said.
“ And certainly, if the vague rumours I have heard
have any substantial foundation — namely, that Mil-
burgh is suspected of robbing the firm — then he is
assuredly giving us every assistance to convict him-
self.”
“You have all the books in your keeping ?”
“ Absolutely," replied Sir Felix emphatically,
“ The last three books, unearthed by Mr. Milburgh
himself, came to us only this morning. In fact, those


LING CHU TELLS THE TRUTH
151
are they,” he pointed to a brown paper parcel standing
on a smaller table near the window. The parcel was
heavily corded and was secured again by red tape,
which was sealed.
Sir Felix leaned over and pressed a bell on the
table, and a clerk came in.
“Put those books with the others in the strong-
room,” he said, and when the man had disappeared,
staggering under the weight of the heavy volumes, he
turned to Tarling.
“We're keeping all the books and accounts of
Lyne's Stores in a special strong-room," he said.
“ They are all under seal, and those seals will be
broken in the presence of Mr. Milburgh, as an inter-
ested party, and a representative of the Public Prose-
cutor.”
“When will this be?” asked Tarling.
“ Tomorrow afternoon, or possibly tomorrow morn-
ing. We will notify Scotland Yard as to the exact
hour, because I suppose you will wish to be repre-
sented.”
He rose briskly, thereby ending the interview.
It was another dead end, thought Tarling, as he
went out into St. Mary Axe and boarded a westward-
bound omnibus. The case abounded in these culs-de-
sac which seemed to lead nowhere. Cul-de-sac No. I
had been supplied by Odette Rider; cui-de-sac No. 2
might very easily lead to the dead end of Milburgh's
innocence.
He felt a sense of relief, however, that the authori-


152
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
ties had acted so promptly in impounding Lyne's books.
An examination into these might lead to the discovery
of the murderer, and at any rate would dispel the
cloud of suspicion which still surrounded Odette
Rider.
He had gone to Dashwood and Solomon to make
himself personally acquainted with that string in the
tangled skein which he was determined to unravel;
and now, with his mind at rest upon that subject, he
was returning to settle matters with Ling Chu, that
Chinese assistant of his who was now as deeply under
suspicion as any suspect in the case.
He had spoken no more than the truth when he had
told Inspector Whiteside that he knew the way to deal
with Ling Chu. A Chinese criminal — and he was
loath to believe that Ling Chu, that faithful servant,
came under that description - is not to be handled in
the Occidental manner; and he, who had been known
throughout Southern China as the “ Hunter of Men "
had a reputation for extracting truth by methods
which no code of laws would sanction.
He walked into his Bond Street flat, shut the door
behind him and locked it, putting the key in his pocket.
He knew Ling Chu would be in, because he had given
him instructions that morning to await his return.
The Chinaman came into the hall to take his coat
and hat, and followed Tarling into the sitting-room.
“Close the door, Ling Chu," said Tarling in Chin-
ese. “I have something to say to you.”
The last words were spoken in English, and the


LING CHU TELLS THE TRUTH 153
Chinaman looked at him quickly. Tarling had never
addressed him in that language before, and the China-
man knew just what this departure portended.
“Ling Chu,” said Tarling, sitting at the table, his
chin in his hand, watching the other with steady eyes,
“ you did not tell me that you spoke English.”
“ The master has never asked me," said the China-
man quietly, and to Tarling's surprise his English was
without accent and his pronunciation perfect.
“That is not true," said Tarling sternly. “When
you told me that you had heard of the murder, I said
that you did not understand English, and you did not
deny it.”
“ It is not for me to deny the master," said Ling
Chu as coolly as ever. “I speak very good English.
I was trained at the Jesuit School in Hankow, but it
is not good for a Chinaman to speak English in China,
or for any to know that he understands. Yet the
master must have known I spoke English and read the
language, for why should I keep the little cuttings
from the newspapers in the box which the master
searched this morning ?”.
Tarling's eyes narrowed.
“So you knew that, did you?” he said.
The Chinaman smiled. It was a most unusual cir-
cumstance, for Ling Chu had never smiled within Tar-
ling's recollection.
“The papers were in certain order - some turned
one way and some turned the other. When I saw
them after I came back from Scotland Yard they had


154
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
been disturbed. They could not disturb themselves,
master, and none but you would go to my box.”
There was a pause, awkward enough for Tarling,
who felt for the moment a little foolish that his care-
lessness had led to Ling Chu discovering the search
which had been made of his private property.
“I thought I had put them back as I had found
them,” he said, knowing that nothing could be gained
by denying the fact that he had gone through Ling
Chu's trunk. “ Now, you will tell us, Ling Chu, did
those printed words speak the truth?”
Ling Chu nodded.
" It is true, master," he said. “The Little Narcis-
sus, or as the foreigners called her, the Little Daffodil,
was my sister. She became a dancer in a tea house
against my wish, her parents being dead. She was a
very good girl, master, and as pretty as a sprig of
almond blossom. Chinese women are not pretty to the
foreigner's eye, but little Daffodil was like something
cast in porcelain, and she had the virtues of a thou-
sand years."
Tarling nodded.
“She was a good girl?” he repeated, this time
speaking in Chinese and using a phrase which had
a more delicate shade of meaning.
“She lived good and she died good," said the
Chinaman calmly. “ The speech of the Englishman
offended her, and he called her many bad names be-
cause she would not come and sit on his knee; and if
he put shame upon her by embracing her before the


LING CHU TELLS THE TRUTH
155
eyes of men, she was yet good, and she died very
honourably.”
Another interval of silence.
"I see," said Tarling quietly. “And when you
said you would come with me to England, did you ex-
pect to meet the bad Englishman?”
Ling Chu shook his head.
“I had put it from my mind,” he said, “ until I
saw him that day in the big shop. Then the evil spirit
which I had thought was all burnt out inside me blazed
up again.” He stopped.
" And you desired his death?" said Tarling, and a
nod was his answer.
“You shall tell me all, Ling Chu," said Tarling.
The man was now pacing the room with restless
strides, his emotion betrayed only by the convulsive
clutching and unclutching of his hands.
“ The Little Daffodil was very dear to me,” he said.
“Soon I think she would have married and have had
children, and her name would have been blessed after
the fashion of our people; for did not the Great Mas-
ter say: 'What is more worshipful than the mother
of children?? And when she died, master, my heart
was empty, for there was no other love in my life.
And then the Ho Sing murder was committed, and I
went into the interior to search for Lu Fang, and that
helped me to forget.
" And I had forgotten till I saw him again. Then
the old sorrow grew large in my soul, and I went
out-"


156
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“To kill him," said Tarling quietly.
“ To kill him," repeated the man.
“Tell me all,” said Tarling, drawing a long breath.
“ It was the night you went to the little girl," said
Ling Chu (Tarling knew that he spoke of Odette
Rider). “I had made up my mind to go out, but I
could not find an excuse because, master, you have
given me orders that I must not leave this place whilst
you are out. So I asked if I might go with you to the
house of many houses."
“ To the flat?” nodded Tarling. “Yes, go on.”
“I had taken your quick-quick pistol and had loaded
it and put it in my overcoat pocket. You told me to
trail you, but when I had seen you on your way I left
you and went to the big shop.".
“To the big shop?” said Tarling in surprise. “But
Lyne did not live in his stores!”
"So I discovered,” said Ling Chu simply. “I
thought in such a large house he would have built
himself a beautiful room. In China many masters live
in their shops. So I went to the big store to search
it.”
"Did you get in?” asked Tarling in surprise, and
again Ling Chu smiled.
“That was very easy," he said. “The master
knows how well I climb, and there were long iron
pipes leading to the roof. Up one of these I climbed.
Two sides of the shop are on big streets. One side is
on a smaller street, and the fourth side is in a very
small-piece street with few lights. It was up this side
on a
a ve


LING CHU TELLS THE TRUTH
157
that I went. On the roof were many doors, and to
such a man as me there was no difficulty.”
“Go on,” said Tarling again.
“I came down from floor to floor, always in dark-
ness, but each floor I searched carefully, but found
nothing but great bundles and packing-cases and long
bars —”
“ Counters,” corrected Tarling.
“Yes,” nodded Ling Chu,“ they are called counters.
And then at last I came to the floor where I had seen
The Man.” He paused. “First I went to the great
room where we had met him, and that was locked. I
opened it with a key, but it was in darkness, and I
knew nobody was there. Then I went along a pas-
sage very carefully, because there was a light at the
other end, and I came to an office."
“Empty, of course?”.
“It was empty,” said the Chinaman, “but a light
was burning, and the desk cover was open. I thought
he must be there, and I slipped behind the bureau, tak-
ing the pistol from my pocket. Presently I heard a
footstep. I peeped out and saw the big white-faced
man.”
“Milburgh!” said Tarling.
“So he is called,” replied the Chinaman. “He sat
at the young man's desk. I knew it was the young
man's desk, because there were many pictures upon it
and flowers, such as he would have. The big man had
his back to me.”
“What was he doing?” asked Tarling.


158
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“He was searching the desk, looking for something.
Presently I saw him take from one of the drawers,
which he opened, an envelope. From where I stood
I could see into the drawer, and there were many lit-
tle things such as tourists buy in China. From the
envelope he took the Hong."
Tarling started. He knew of the Hong to which
the man referred. It was the little red slip of paper
bearing two Chinese characters which was found upon
Thornton Lyne's body that memorable morning in
Hyde Park.
“Yes, yes,” he said eagerly. “What happened
then?”
"He put the envelope in his pocket and went out.
I heard him walking along the passage, and then I
crept out from my hiding place and I also looked at
the desk. I put the revolver down by my side, be-
cause I wanted both hands for the search, but I found
nothing - only one little-piece book that the master
uses to write down from day to day all that happens
to him.”
"A diary,” thought Tarling. “Well, and what
next?” he asked aloud.
“I got up to search the room and tripped over a
wire. It must have been the wire attached to the
electric light above the desk, for the room suddenly
became dark, and at that moment I heard the big
man's footsteps returning and slipped out of the door.
And that is all, master," said Ling Chu simply. “I


LING CHU TELLS THE TRUTH
159
went back to the roof quickly for fear I should be dis-
covered and it should bring dishonour to you.'
Tarling whistled.
“And left the pistol behind ?” he said.
“That is nothing but the truth,” said Ling Chu.
"I have dishonoured myself in your eyes, and in my
heart I am a murderer, for I went to that place to kill
the man who had brought shame to me and to my
honourable relation.”
" And left the pistol behind ?" said Tarling again.
“And Milburgh found it !".


CHAPTER XX
MR. MILBURGH SEES IT THROUGH
Ling Chu's story was not difficult to believe. It
was less difficult to believe that he was lying. There
is no inventor in the world so clever, so circumstantial,
so exact as to detail, as the Chinaman. He is a born
teller of stories and piecer together of circumstances
that fit so closely that it is difficult to see the joints.
Yet the man had been frank, straightforward, patently
honest. He had even placed himself in Tarling's
power by his confession of his murderous intention.
Tarling could reconstruct the scene after the China-
man had left — Milburgh stumbling in in the dark,
striking a match and discovering a wall plug had been
pulled away, reconnecting the lamp, and discovering
to his amazement a murderous looking pistol on the
desk. It was possible that Milburgh, finding the pistol,
had been deceived into believing that he had over-
looked it on his previous search.
But what had happened to the weapon between the
moment that Ling Chu left it on Thornton Lyne's
private desk and when it was discovered in the work-
basket of Odette Rider in the flat at Carrymore Man-
sions? And what had Milburgh been doing in the
store by himself so late at night? And, more par-
160


MR. MILBURGH SEES IT THROUGH 161
ticularly, what had he been doing in Thornton Lyne's
private room? It was unlikely that Lyne would leave
his desk unlocked, and his only inference to be drawn
was that Milburgh had unlocked it himself with the
object of searching its contents.
And the Hong? Those sinister little red squares of
· red paper with the two Chinese characters, one of
which had been found in Thornton Lyne's pocket?
The explanation of their presence in Thornton Lyne's
desk was simple. He had been a globe-trotter and
had collected curios, and it was only natural that he
should collect these slips of paper, which were on sale
in most of the big Chinese towns as a souvenir of the
predatory methods of the Cheerful Hearts.
His conversation with Ling Chu would have to be
reported to Scotland Yard, and that august institution
would draw its own conclusions. In all probability
they would be most unfavourable to Ling Chu, who
would come immediately under suspicion.
Tarling, however, was satisfied — or perhaps it
would be more accurate to say inclined to be satis-
fied — with his retainer's statement. Some of his
story was susceptible to verification, and the detective
lost no time in making his way to the Stores. The
topographical situation was as Ling Chu had described
it. Tarling went to the back of the big block of
buildings, into the small, quiet street of which Ling
Chu had spoken, and was able to distinguish the iron
rain pipe (one of many) up which the Chinaman had
clambered. Ling Chu would negotiate that task with-


162 THE DAFFODIL MURDER
out any physical distress. He could climb like a cat,
as Tarling knew, and that part of his story put no
great tax upon the detective's credulity.
He walked back to the front of the shop, passed the
huge plate-glass windows, fringed now with shoppers,
with whom Lyne's Stores had acquired a new and mor-
bid interest, and through the big swinging doors on to
the crowded floor. Mr. Milburgh was in his office,
said a shopwalker, and led the way.
Mr. Milburgh's office was much larger and less
ornate than his late employer's. He greeted Tarling
effusively, and pushed an armchair forward and pro-
duced a box of cigars.
“We're in rather a turmoil and upset now, Mr. Tar-
ling," he said in his ingratiating voice, with that set
smile of his which never seemed to leave his face.
“The auditors - or rather I should say the account-
ants — have taken away all the books, and of course
that imposes a terrible strain on me, Mr. Tarling. It
means that we've got to organise a system of interim
accounts, and you as a business man will understand
just what that means."
“You work pretty hard, Mr. Milburgh? " said Tar-
ling.
“Why, yes, sir," smiled Milburgh, “I've always
worked hard.”
“You were working pretty hard before Mr. Lyne
was killed, were you not ?" asked Tarling.
“ Yes --" hesitated Milburgh, “I can say honestly,
that I was.”


MR. MILBURGH SEES IT THROUGH 163
“Very late at night ? "
Milburgh still smiled, but there was a steely look in
his eye as he answered:
"Frequently I worked late at night.”
“Do you remember the night of the eleventh?"
asked Tarling.
Milburgh looked at the ceiling for inspiration.
“Yes, I think I do. I was working very late that
night.”
“In your own office?”
"No," replied the other readily, “I did most of the
work in Mr. Lyne's office — at his request,” he added.
A bold statement to make to a man who knew that
Lyne suspected him of robbing the firm. But Mil-
burgh was nothing if not bold.
“Did he also give you the key of his desk?” asked
the detective drily.
“Yes, sir," beamed Mr. Milburgh, “of course he
did! You see, Mr. Lyne trusted me absolutely."
He said this so naturally and with such assurance
that Tarling was staggered. Before he had time to
speak the other went on:
“Yes, I can truthfully say that I was in Mr. Lyne's
confidence. He told me a great deal more about him-
self than he has told anybody and —"
“One moment,” said Tarling, and he spoke slowly.
“Will you please tell me what you did with the re-
volver which you found on Mr. Lyne's desk? It was
a Colt automatic, and it was loaded.”
Blank astonishment showed in Mr. Milburgh's eyes.


164
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“A loaded pistol?” he asked, raising his eyebrows,
“but, my dear good Mr. Tarling, whatever are you
talking about? I never found a loaded pistol on Mr.
Lyne's desk — poor fellow! Mr. Lyne objected as
much to these deadly weapons as myself.”
Here was a facer for Tarling, but he betrayed no
sign either of disappointment or surprise. Milburgh
was frowning as though he were attempting to piece
together some half-forgotten recollection.
"Is it possible,” he said in a shocked voice, “ that
when you examined my house the other day it was with
the object of discovering such a weapon as this?”
“It's awfully possible,” said Tarling coolly, “and
even probable. Now, I'm going to be very straight-
forward with you, Mr. Milburgh. I suspect you know
a great deal more about this murder than you have told
us, and that you had ever so much more reason for
wishing Mr. Lyne was dead than you are prepared to
admit at this moment. Wait,” he said, as the other
opened his mouth to speak. “I am telling you can-
didly that the object of my first visit to these Stores
was to investigate happenings which looked very black
against you. It was hardly so much the work of a
detective as an accountant,” he said, “but Mr. Lyne
thought that I should be able to discover who was rob-
bing the firm.”
" And did you?” asked Milburgh coolly. There
was the ghost of a smile still upon his face, but defiance
shone in his pale eyes.
“I did not, because I went no further in the matter


MR. MILBURGH SEES IT THROUGH 165
after you had expressed your agreement with Mr.
Lyne that the firm had been robbed by Odette Rider."
He saw the man change colour, and pushed home his
advantage.
“I am not going to enquire too closely into your
reasons for attempting to ruin an innocent girl," he
said sternly. “That is a matter for your own con-
science. But I tell you, Mr. Milburgh, that if you are
innocent — both of the robbery and of the murder
then I've never met a guilty person in my life.”
“What do you mean?” asked the man loudly.
“Do you dare to accuse me —?”
“I accuse you of nothing more than this,” said Tar-
ling, “that I am perfectly satisfied that you have been
robbing the firm for years. I am equally satisfied
that, even if you did not kill Mr. Lyne, you at least
know who did.”
"You're mad!” sneered Milburgh, but his face was
white. “Supposing it were true that I had robbed the
firm, why should I want to kill Mr. Lyne? The mere
fact of his death would have brought an examination
into the accounts.”
This was a convincing argument — the more so as
it was an argument which Tarling himself had em-
ployed.
“ As to your absurd and melodramatic charges of
robbing the firm,” Milburgh went on, “the books are
now in the hands of an eminent firm of chartered ac-
countants, who can give the lie to any such statement
as you have made.”


166
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
He had recovered something of his old urbanity,
and now stood, or rather straddled, with his legs apart,
his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, beaming
benignly upon the detective.
“I await the investigation of that eminent firm,
Messrs. Dashwood and Solomon, with every confidence
and without the least perturbation," he said. “Their
findings will vindicate my honour beyond any ques-
tion. I shall see this matter through!”
Tarling looked at him.
“I admire your nerve,” he said, and left the office
without another word.


CHAPTER XXI
COVERING THE TRAIL
Tarling had a brief interview with his assistant,
Whiteside, and the Inspector, to his surprise, accepted
his view of Ling Chu's confession.
“I always thought Milburgh was a pretty cool cus-
tomer," he said in relating the interview. “But he
has more gall than I gave him credit for. I would
certainly prefer to believe your Chink than I would
believe Milburgh. And, by the way, your young lady
has slipped the shadow.”
“ What are you talking about?” asked Tarling in
surprise.
“I am referring to your Miss Odette Rider — and
why on earth a grown-up police officer with your ex-
perience should blush I can't imagine."
“ I'm not blushing," said Tarling. “What about
her?”
" I've had two men watching her,” explained White-
side, “and whenever she has taken her walks abroad
she has been followed, as you know. In accordance
with your instructions I was taking off those shadows
to-morrow, but to-day she went to Bond Street, and
either Jackson was careless — it was Jackson who was
on the job - or else the young lady was very sharp;
167


168
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
at any rate, he waited for half an hour for her to come
out of the shop, and when she didn't appear he walked
in and found there was another entrance through
which she had gone. Since then she has not been
back to the hotel.”
"I don't like that,” said Tarling, a little troubled.
“I wished her to be under observation as much for
her own protection as anything else. I wish you
would keep a man at the hotel and telephone me just
as soon as she returns."
Whiteside nodded.
“ I've anticipated your wishes in that respect,” he
said. “Well, what is the next move?"
" I'm going to Hertford to see Miss Rider's mother;
and incidentally, I may pick up Miss Rider, who is
very likely to have gone home.”
Whiteside nodded.
“What do you expect to find from the mother?”.
he asked.
“I expect to learn a great deal,” said Tarling.
“ There is still a minor mystery to be discovered. For
example, who is the mysterious man who comes and
goes to Hertford, and just why is Mrs. Rider living
in luxury whilst her daughter is working for her liv-
ing at Lyne's Stores?"
“There's something in that,” agreed Whiteside.
“Would you like me to come along with you?"
“ Thanks,” smiled Tarling, “ I can do that little job
by myself.”
“Reverting to Milburgh," began Whiteside.


COVERING THE TRAIL
169
“As we always revert to Milburgh,” groaned Tar-
ling. “ Yes!”
“Well, I don't like his assurance," said Whiteside.
“ It looks as if all our hopes of getting a clue from the
examination of Lyne's accounts are fated to be
dashed — if you will excuse the extravagant lan-
guage.”
“There's something in that,” said Tarling. “I
don't like it myself. The books are in the hands of
one of the best chartered accountants in the country,
and if there has been any monkey business, he is the
fellow who is certain to find it; and not only that,
but to trace whatever defalcations there are to the
man responsible. Milburgh is not fool enough to
imagine that he won't be found out once the account-
ants get busy, and his cheeriness in face of exposure
is to say the least disconcerting.”
Their little conference was being held in a prosaic
public tea-room opposite the House of Commons — a
tea-room the walls of which, had they ears, could have
told not a few of Scotland Yard's most precious
secrets.
Tarling was on the point of changing the subject
when he remembered the parcel of books which had
arrived at the accountants' office that morning.
“Rather late," said Whiteside thoughtfully. “By
Jove! I wonder!”
“You wonder what?".
“I wonder if they were the three books that Mil-
burgh bought yesterday?'


170
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“ The three ledgers ? "
Whiteside nodded.
“But why on earth should he want to put in three
new ledgers — they were new, weren't they? That
doesn't seem to me to be a very intelligent suggestion.
And yet --"
He jumped up, almost upsetting the table in his
excitement.
“Quick, Whiteside! Get a cab while I settle the
bill,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“Hurry up and get the cab!” said Tarling and
when he had rejoined his companion outside, and the
taxi was bowling along the Thames Embankment:
“ I'm going to St. Mary Axe.”
“So I gathered from your directions to the cab-
man,” said Whiteside. “But why St. Mary Axe at
this time of the afternoon? The very respectable
Dashwood and Solomon will not be glad to see you
until to-morrow.”
“ I'm going to see those books," said Tarling, “the
books which Milburgh sent to the accountants this
morning.”
“What do you expect to find ?".
“I'll tell you later," was Tarling's reply. He
looked at his watch. “They won't be closed yet,
thank heaven!”
The taxi was held up at the junction of the Embank-
ment and Blackfriars Bridge, and was held up again,
for a different reason, in Queen Victoria Street. Sud-


COVERING THE TRAIL
171
denly there was a clang-clang of gongs, and all traffic
drew to one side to allow the passage of a flying motor
fire-engine. Another and another followed in succes-
sion.
“A big fire,” said Whiteside. “Or it may be a
little one, because they get very panicky in the City,
and they'll put in a divisional call for a smoking
chimney!”
The cab moved on, and had crossed Cannon Street,
when it was again held up by another roaring motor,
this time bearing a fire escape.
“Let's get out of the cab; we'll walk," said Tarling.
They jumped out, and Whiteside paid the driver.
“ This way," said Tarling. “We'll make a short
cut.”
Whiteside had stopped to speak to a policeman.
“Where's the fire, constable ?” he asked.
“St. Mary Axe, sir," was the policeman's reply.
“ A big firm of chartered accountants — Dashwood
and Solomon. You know them, sir? I'm told the
place is blazing from cellar to garret.”
Tarling showed his teeth in an unamused grin as
the words came to him. '
“And all the proof of Milburgh's guilt gone up in
smoke, eh?” he said. “I think I know what those
books contained - a little clockwork detonator and a
few pounds of thermite to burn up all the clues to the
Daffodil Murder!”


CHAPTER XXII
THE HEAVY WALLET
All that remained of the once stately, if restricted,
premises of Messrs. Dashwood and Solomon was a
gaunt-looking front wall, blackened by the fire. Tar-
ling interviewed the Chief of the Fire Brigade.
"It'll be days before we can get inside," said that
worthy, “and I very much doubt if there's anything
left intact. The whole of the building has been burnt
out — you can see for yourself the roof has gone in –
and there's very little chance of recovering anything
of an inflammable nature unless it happens to be in a
safe."
Tarling caught sight of the brusque Sir Felix Solo-
mon gazing, without any visible evidence of distress,
upon the wreckage of his office.
“We are covered by insurance,” said Sir Felix
philosophically," and there is nothing of any great im-
portance destroyed, except, of course, those documents
and books from Lyne's Stores."
“They weren't in the fireproof vault?" asked Tar-
ling, and Sir Felix shook his head.
"No," he said, “they were in a strong-room; and
curiously enough, it was in that strong-room where the
fire originated. The room itself was not fire-proof,
172


THE HEAVY WALLET
173
and it would have been precious little use if it had
been, as the fire started inside. The first news we re-
ceived was when a clerk, going down to the basement,
saw flames leaping out between the steel bars which
constitute the door of No. 4 vault.”
Tarling nodded.
“I need not ask you whether the books which Mr.
Milburgh brought this morning had been placed in
that safe, Sir Felix," he said, and the knight looked
surprised.
“Of course not. They were placed there whilst
you were in the office," he said. “Why do you ask?"
“ Because in my judgment those books were not
books at all in the usually understood sense. Unless
I am at fault, the parcel contained three big ledgers
glued together, the contents being hollowed out, and
that hollow filled with thermite, a clockwork detonator,
or the necessary electric apparatus to start a spark at a
given moment."
The accountant stared at him.
“You're joking,” he said, but Tarling shook his
head.
“I was never more serious in my life.”
“But who would commit such an infernal act as
that? Why, one of my clerks was nearly burnt to
death!”
“The man who would commit such an infernal act
as that,” repeated Tarling slowly, “is the man who
has every reason for wishing to avoid an examination
of Lyne's accounts.”


174
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“You don't mean —".
“I'll mention no names for the moment, and if in-
advertently I have conveyed the identity of the gentle-
man of whom I have been speaking, I hope you will be
good enough to regard it as confidential,” said Tarling,
and went back to his crestfallen subordinate.
"No wonder Milburgh was satisfied with the forth-
coming examination,” he said bitterly. “The devil
had planted that parcel, and had timed it probably to
the minute. Well, there's nothing more to be done to-
night — with Milburgh.”
He looked at his watch.
“ I'm going back to my flat, and afterwards to
Hertford,” he said.
He had made no definite plan as to what line he
should pursue after he reached Hertford. He had a
dim notion that his investigation hereabouts might, if
properly directed, lead him nearer to the heart of the
mystery. This pretty, faded woman who lived in such
style, whose husband was so seldom visible, might give
him a key. Somewhere it was in existence, that key,
by which he could decipher the jumbled code of the
Daffodil Murder, and it might as well be at Hertford
as nearer at hand.
It was dark when he came to the home of Mrs.
Rider, for this time he had dispensed with a cab, and
had walked the long distance between the station and
the house, desiring to avoid attention. The dwelling
stood on the main road. It had a high wall frontage
of about 350 feet. The wall was continued down the


THE HEAVY WALLET
175
A.
side of a lane, and at the other end marked the bound-
ary of a big paddock.
The entrance to the grounds was through a wrought-
iron gate of strength, the design of which recalled
something which he had seen before. On his previous
visit the gate had been unfastened, and he had had no
difficulty in reaching the house. Now, however, it
was locked.
He put his flashlight over the gate and the support-
ing piers, and discovered a bell, evidently brand new,
and recently fixed. He made no attempt to press the
little white button, but continued his reconnaissance.
About half-a-dozen yards inside the gateway was a
small cottage, from which a light showed, and ap-
parently the bell communicated with this dwelling.
Whilst he was waiting, he heard a whistle and a quick
footstep coming up the road, and drew into the shadow.
Somebody came to the gate; he heard the faint tinkle
of a bell, and a door opened.
The newcomer was a newspaper boy, who pushed a
bundle of evening papers through the iron bars and
went off again. Tarling waited until he heard the
door of the cottage or lodge close. Then he made a
circuit of the house, hoping to find another entrance.
There was evidently a servants' entrance at the back
leading from the lane, but this too was closed.
Throwing his light up, he saw that there was no
broken glass on top of the wall, as there had been in
the front of the house, and, making a jump, he caught
the stone coping and drew himself up and astride.


176
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
He dropped into the darkness on the other side
without any discomfort to himself, and made his cau-
tious way towards the house. Dogs were the danger,
but apparently Mrs. Rider did not keep dogs, and his
progress was unchallenged.
He saw no light either in the upper or lower win-
dows until he got to the back. Here was a pillared
porch, above which had been built what appeared to
be a conservatory. Beneath the porch was a door and
a barred window, but it was from the conservatory
above that a faint light emanated. He looked round
for a ladder without success. But the portico pre-
sented no more difficulties than the wall had done.
By stepping on to the window-sill and steadying him-
self against one of the pillars, he could reach an iron
stanchion, which had evidently been placed to support
the framework of the superstructure. From here to
the parapet of the conservatory itself was but a swing.
This glass-house had casement windows, one of which
was open, and he leaned on his elbows and cautiously
intruded his head.
The place was empty. The light came from an
inner room opening into the glass-sheltered balcony.
Quickly he slipped through the window and crouched
under the shadow of a big oleander. The atmosphere
of the conservatory was close and the smell was earthy.
He judged from the hot-water pipes which his groping
hands felt that it was a tiny winter garden erected by
the owner of the house for her enjoyment in the dark,
cold days. French windows admitted to the inner


178
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
Mrs. Rider had evidently not heard the sound of the
door opening below, and sat without movement, star-
ing still at the wall before her. Presently she started
and looked round towards the door. Tarling noted
the door — noted, too, the electric switch just in view.
Then the door opened slowly. He saw Mrs. Rider's
face light up with pleasure, then somebody asked a
question in a whisper, and she answered — he could
just hear her words —
“No, darling, nobody."
Tarling held his breath and waited. Then, of a
sudden, the light in the room was extinguished. Who-
ever had entered had turned out the light. He heard
a soft footfall coming towards the window looking
into the conservatory and the rattle of the blinds as
they were lowered. Then the light went up again, but
he could see nothing or hear nothing.
Who was Mrs. Rider's mysterious visitor? There
was only one way to discover, but he waited a little
longer - waited, in fact, until he heard the soft slam
of a safe door closing — before he slipped again
through the window and dropped to the ground.
The bicycle was, as he had expected, leaning against
one of the pillars. He could see nothing, and did not
dare flash his lamp, but his sensitive fingers ran over
its lines, and he barely checked an exclamation of sur-
prise. It was a lady's bicycle!
He waited a little while, then withdrew to a shrub-
bery opposite the door on the other side of the drive
up which the cyclist had come. He had not long to


THE HEAVY WALLET
179
wait before the door under the portico opened again
and closed. Somebody jumped on to the bicycle as
Tarling leaped from his place of concealment. He
pressed the key of his electric lamp, but for some rea-
son it did not act. He felt rather than heard a shiver
of surprise from the person on the machine.
“I want you,” said Tarling, and put out his hands.
He missed the rider by the fraction of an inch, but
saw the machine swerve and heard the soft thud of
something falling. A second later the machine and
rider had disappeared in the pitch darkness.
He re-fixed his lamp. Pursuit, he knew, was use-
less without his lantern, and, cursing the maker
thereof, he adjusted another battery and put the light
on the ground to see what it was that the fugitive had
dropped. He thought he heard a smothered exclama-
tion behind him and turned swiftly. But nobody
came within the radius of his lamp. He must be get-
ting nervy, he thought, and continued his inspection of
the wallet.
It was a long, leather portfolio, about ten inches in
length and five inches in depth, and it was strangely
heavy. He picked it up, felt for the clasp, and found
instead two tiny locks. He made another examination
by the light of his lantern, an examination which was
interrupted by a challenge from above.
,“Who are you?”
It was Mrs. Rider's voice, and just then it was in-
convenient for him to reveal himself. Without a word
in answer, he switched off his light and slipped into


180
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
the bushes, and, more as the result of instinct than
judgment, regained the wall, at almost the exact spot
where he had crossed it.
The road was empty, and there was no sign of the
cyclist. There was only one thing to do and that was
to get back to town as quickly as possible and examine
the contents of the wallet at his leisure. It was
extraordinarily heavy for its size; he was reminded of
that fact by his sagging pocket.
The road back to Hertford seemed interminable and
the clocks were chiming a quarter of eleven when he
entered the station yard.
“ Train to London, sir?" said the porter. “You've
missed the last train to London by five minutes!”


CHAPTER XXIII
THE NIGHT VISITOR
Tarling was less in a dilemma than in that condi-
tion of uncertainty which is produced by having no
definite plans one way or the other. There was no
immediate necessity for his return to town and his
annoyance at finding the last train gone was due rather
to a natural desire to sleep in his own bed, than to any
other cause. He might have got a car from a local
garage, and motored to London, if there had been any
particular urgency, but, he told himself, he might as
well spend the night in Hertford, as in Bond Street.
If he had any leanings towards staying at Hertford,
it was because he was anxious to examine the contents
of the wallet at his leisure. If he had any call to town
it might be discovered in his anxiety as to what had
happened to Odette Rider; whether she had returned
to her hotel or was still marked "missing” by the
police. He could, at any rate, get into communication
with Scotland Yard and satisfy his mind on that point.
He turned back from the station in search of lodgings.
He was to find that it was not so easy to get rooms as
he had imagined. The best hotel in the place was
crowded out as a result of an agricultural convention
which was being held in the town. He was sent on
181


182
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
to another hotel, only to find that the same state of
congestion existed, and finally after half-an-hour's
search he found accommodation at a small commercial
hotel which was surprisingly empty.
His first step was to get into communication with
London and this was established without delay.
Nothing had been heard of Odette Rider, and the
only news of importance was that the ex-convict, Sam
Stay, had escaped from the county lunatic asylum to
which he had been removed.
Tarling went up to the commodious sitting-room.
He was mildly interested in the news about Stay, for
the man had been a disappointment. This criminal,
whose love for Thornton Lyne had, as Tarling sus-
pected rightly, been responsible for his mental col-
lapse, might have supplied a great deal of informa-
tion as to the events which led up to the day of the
murder, and his dramatic break-down had removed a
witness who might have offered material assistance to
the police.
Tarling closed the door of his sitting-room behind
him, pulled the wallet from his pocket and laid it on
the table. He tried first with his own keys to un-
fasten the flap but the locks defied him. The heavi-
ness of the wallet surprised and piqued him but he was
soon to find an explanation for its extraordinary
weight. He opened his pocket-knife and began to
cut away the leather about the locks, and uttered an
exclamation,
So that was the reason for the heaviness of the


THE NIGHT VISITOR
183
pouch — it was only leather-covered! Beneath this
cover was a lining of fine steel mail. The wallet was
really a steel chain bag, the locks being welded to the
chain and absolutely immovable. He threw the wallet
back on the table with a laugh. He must restrain his
curiosity until he got it back to the Yard, where the
experts would make short work of the best locks
which were ever invented. Whilst he sat watching
the thing upon the table and turning over in his mind
the possibility of its contents, he heard footsteps pass
his door and mount the stairway opposite which his
sitting-room was situated. Visitors in the same plight
as himself he thought.
Somehow, being in a strange room amidst un-
familiar surroundings, gave the case a new aspect.
It was an aspect of unreality. They were all so un-
real, the characters in this strange drama.
· Thornton Lyne seemed fantastic, and fantastic in-
deed was his end. Milburgh, with his perpetual
smirk, his little stoop, his broad, fat face and half-
bald head; Mrs. Rider, a pale ghost of a woman who
flitted in and out of the story, or rather hovered about
it never seeming to intrude, yet never wholly separated
from its tragic process; Ling Chu, imperturbable,
bringing with him the atmsophere of that land of
intrigue and mystery and motive, China. Odette
Rider alone was real. She was life, warm, palpitating,
wonderful.
Tarling frowned and rose stiffly from his chair.
He despised himself a little for this weakness of his.


184
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
Odette Rider! A woman still under suspicion of mur-
der, a woman whom it was his duty, if she were
guilty, to bring to the scaffold, and the thought of her
turned him hot and cold.
He passed through to his bedroom which adjoined
the sitting-room, put the wallet on a table by the side
of his bed, locked the bedroom door, opened the win-
dows and prepared himself, as best he could, for the
night.
There was a train leaving Hertford at five in the
morning and he had arranged to be called in time to
catch it. He took off his boots, coat, vest, collar and
tie, unbuckled his belt — he was one of those eccen-
trics to whom the braces of civilisation were anathema
- and lay down on the outside of the bed, pulling the
eider-down over him. Sleep did not come to him
readily. He turned from side to side, thinking, think-
ing, thinking
Suppose there had been some mistake in the time
of the accident at Ashford ? Suppose the doctors were
wrong and Thornton Lyne was murdered at an earlier
hour? Suppose Odette Rider was in reality a cold-
blooded — He growled away the thought.
He heard the church clock strike the hour of two
and waited impatiently for the quarter to chime — he
had heard every quarter since he had retired to bed.
But he did not hear that quarter. He must have
fallen into an uneasy sleep for he began to dream.
He dreamt he was in China again and had fallen into
the hands of that baneful society, The Cheerful Hearts.


THE NIGHT VISITOR
185
He was in a temple, lying on a great black slab of
stone, bound hand and foot, and above him he saw
the leader of the gang, knife in hand, peering down
into his face with a malicious grin — and it was the
face of Odette Rider! He saw the knife raised and
woke sweating.
The church clock was booming three and a deep
silence lay on the world. But there was somebody in
his room. He knew that and lay motionless, peering
out of half-closed eyes from one corner to the other.
There was nobody to be seen, nothing to be heard, but
his sixth sense told him that somebody was present.
He reached out his hand carefully and silently to the
table and searched for the wallet. It was gone!
Then he heard the creak of a board and it came from
the direction of the door leading to the sitting-room.
With one bound he was out of bed in time to see the
door Aung open and a figure slip through. He was
after it in a second. The burglar might have escaped,
but unexpectedly there was a crash and a cry. He had
fallen over a chair and before he could rise Tarling
was on him and had flung him back. He leapt to the
door, it was open. He banged it close and turned the
key.
“Now, let's have a look at you,” said Tarling grimly
and switched on the light.
He fell back against the door, his mouth open in
amazement, for the intruder was Odette Rider, and in
her hand she held the stolen wallet.
am


CHAPTER XXIV
THE CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER
He could only gaze in stupefied silence.
“You!” he said wonderingly.
The girl was pale and her eyes never left his/face.
She nodded.
“Yes, it is I,” she said in a low voice.
“ You!” he said again and walked towards her.
He held out his hand and she gave him the wallet
without a word.
“Sit down," he said kindly.
He thought she was going to faint.
“I hope I didn't hurt you? I hadn't the slightest
idea -"
She shook her head.
“Oh, I'm not hurt,” she said wearily, “not hurt in
the way you mean."
She drew a chair to the table and dropped her face
upon her hands and he stood by, embarrassed, almost
terrified, by this unexpected development.
“So you were the visitor on the bicycle,” he said
at last. “I didn't suspect—".
It struck him at that moment that it was not an of-
fence for Odette Rider to go up to her mother's house
186


CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER 189
sat rigid. Something in her attitude chilled him and
he dropped his hand and rose. When she looked up
she saw that his face was white and set. He walked
to the door and unlocked it.
" I'm not going to ask you any more," he said
quietly. “ You know best why you came to me to
night — I suppose you followed me and took a room.
I heard somebody going upstairs soon after I ar-
rived."
She nodded.
“Do you want — this?” she asked, and pointed to
the wallet on the table.
“Take it away with you."
She got up to her feet unsteadily and swayed toward
him. In a second he was by her side, his arms about
her. She made no resistance, but rather he felt a
yielding towards him which he had missed before.
Her pale face was upturned to his and he stooped
and kissed her.
“Odette, Odette!” he whispered. “Don't you
realise that I love you and would give my life to save
you from unhappiness? Won't you tell me every-
thing, please?”
“No, no, no," she murmured with a little catch in
her voice. “ Please don't ask me! I'm afraid, oh, I
am afraid!”
He crushed her in his arms, his cheek against hers,
his lips tingling with the caress of her hair.
“But there is nothing to be afraid of, nothing," he
said eagerly. “ If you were as guilty as hell I would


. CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER 191
Tarling started.
“Do you mean to say —” he said hoarsely. “Do
you mean to accuse —?”.
“I accuse nobody," said Milburgh with a wide
sweep of his hands. “I merely suggest that both Miss
Rider and myself are in very serious trouble and that
you have it in your power to get us safely out of this
country to one where extradition laws cannot fol-
low."
Tarling took one step toward him and Milburgh
shrank back.
“Do you accuse Miss Rider of complicity in this
murder?” he demanded.
Milburgh smiled, but it was an uneasy smile.
“I make no accusation," he said, “and as to the
murder –” he shrugged his shoulders. “You will
understand better when you read the contents of that
wallet which I was endeavouring to remove to a place
of safety."
Tarling picked the wallet from the table and looked
at it.
"I shall see the contents of this wallet to-morrow,"
he said. “ Locks will present very little difficulty —”
“You can read the contents to-night," said Milburgh
smoothly, and pulled from his pocket a chain, at
the end of which dangled a small bunch of keys.
“Here is the key," he said. “Unlock and read to-
night.”
Tarling took the key in his hand, inserted it in first
one tiny lock and then in the other. The catches


192
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
snapped open and he threw back the flap. Then a
hand snatched the portfolio from him and he turned
to see the girl's quivering face and read the terror in
her eyes.
“No, no!” she cried, almost beside herself, “no,
for God's sake, no!"
Tarling stepped back. He saw the malicious little
smile on Milburgh's face and could have struck him
down.
“ Miss Rider does not wish me to see what is in this
case," he said.
“ And for an excellent reason,” sneered Milburgh.
“Here!”
It was the girl's voice, surprisingly clear and steady.
Her shaking hands held the paper she had taken
from the wallet and she thrust it toward the de-
tective.
“There is a reason,” she said in a low voice. “ But
it is not the reason you suggest.”
Milburgh had gone too far. Tarling saw his face
lengthen and the look of apprehension in his cold blue
eyes. Then, without further hesitation, he opened the
paper and read.
The first line took away his breath.
“THE CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER.”
“Good God!” he muttered and read on. There
were only half-a-dozen lines and they were in the firm
caligraphy of the girl.


CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER 193
“I, Odette Rider, hereby confess that for three
years I have been robbing the firm of Lyne's Stores,
Limited, and during that period have taken the sum
of £25,000.”
Tarling dropped the paper and caught the girl as she
fainted.


MILBURGH'S LAST BLUFF
195
world, one living person, could place him in the felon's
dock and if she betrayed him —
Tarling had carried the girl to a couch and laid her
down. He went quickly into his bedroom, switching
on the light, to get a glass of water. It was Mil-
burgh's opportunity. A little fire was burning in the
sitting-room. Swiftly he picked the confession from
the floor and thrust it into his pocket.
On a little table stood a writing cabinet. From this
he took a sheet of the hotel paper, crumpled it up and
thrust it into the fire. It was blazing when Tarling
returned.
“What are you doing?” he asked, halting by the
side of the couch.
“I am burning the young lady's confession,” said
Milburgh calmly. “I do not think it is desirable in
the interests —”
“Wait,” said Tarling calmly.
He lowered the girl's head and sprinkled some of the
water on her face and she opened her eyes with a little
shudder.
Tarling left her for a second and walked to the
fire. The paper was burnt save a scrap of the edge
that had not caught, and this he lifted gingerly, looked
at it for a moment, then cast his eyes round the room.
He saw that the stationery cabinet had been disturbed
and laughed. It was neither a pleasant nor an amused
laugh.
“ That's the idea, eh?” he said, walked to the door,
closed it and stood with his back to it.


196
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Now, Milburgh, you can give me that confession
you've got in your pocket.”
“ I've burnt it, Mr. Tarling.”
“You're a liar," said Tarling calmly. “You knew
very well I wouldn't let you go out of this room with
that confession in your pocket and you tried to bluff
me by burning a sheet of writing paper. I want that
confession."
“I assure you —” began Milburgh.
" I want that confession,” said Tarling, and with a
sickly smile Milburgh put his hand in his pocket and
drew out the crumpled sheet.
“Now, if you are anxious to see it burn," said Tar-
ling, “ you will have an opportunity.”
He read the statement again and put it into the
fire, watched it until it was reduced to ashes, then beat
the ashes down with a poker.
“ That's that,” said Tarling cheerfully.
“I suppose you know what you've done,” said Mil-
burgh. “You've destroyed evidence which you, as an
officer of the law —”
“Cut that out,” replied Tarling shortly.
· For the second time that night he unlocked the door
and flung it wide open. “Milburgh, you can go. I
know where I can find you when I want you," he said.
“You'll be sorry for this,” said Milburgh.
“Not half as sorry as you'll be by the time I'm
through with you,” retorted Tarling.
“I shall go straight to Scotland Yard,” fumed the
man, white with passion.


198
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“You know?”
“Yes, Milburgh is your mother's second husband.”
Her eyes opened.
“ How did you find that?”
“I guessed that,” he smiled, “ and she keeps her
name Rider at Milburgh's request. He asked her not
to reveal the fact that she was married again. Isn't
that so ?”
She nodded.
“Mother met him about seven years ago. We were
at Harrogate at the time. You see, mother had a
little money and I think Mr. Milburgh thought it was
much more than it actually was. He was a very agree-
able man and told mother that he had a big business
in the city. Mother believes that he is very well off.”
Tarling whistled.
"I see,” he said. “Milburgh has been robbing his
employers and spending the money on your mother.”
She shook her head.
“That is partly true and partly untrue,” she said.
“Mother has been an innocent participant. He bought
this house at Hertford and furnished it lavishly; he
kept two cars until a year ago when I make him give
them up and live more simply. You don't know what
these years have meant, Mr. Tarling, since I discovered
how deeply mother would be dragged down by the ex-
posure of his villainy."
“How did you find it out? ”
“It was soon after the marriage,” said the girl.


200
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
to right a grievous wrong and to save my mother from
the shame and misery which would follow the ex-
posure of Milburgh's real character."
She looked at him with a sad little smile.
“I hardly realise that I am speaking to a detective,"
she said, “and all that I have suffered during these
past years has been in vain, but the truth must come
now, whatever be the consequences.”
She paused.
“And now I am going to tell you what happened
on the night of the murder.”


CHAPTER XXVI
IN MRS. RIDER'S ROOM
There was a deep silence. Tarling could feel his
heart thumping almost noisily.
“After I had left Lyne's Stores," she said, “I had
decided to go to mother to spend two or three days
with her before I began looking for work. Mr. Mil-
burgh only went to Hertford for the week-ends and
I wouldn't stay in the same house with him, knowing
all that I know.
“I left my flat at about half past six that evening,
but I am not quite sure of the exact time. It must
have been somewhere near then, because I was going
to catch the seven o'clock train to Hertford. I ar-
rived at the station and had taken my ticket, and was
stooping to pick up my bag, when I felt a hand on my
arm and turning, saw Mr. Milburgh. He was, in a
state of great agitation and distress and asked me to
take a later train and accompany him to the Florentine
Restaurant where he had taken: a private room. He
told me he had very bad news and that I must know.
"I put my bag in the cloak-room and went off with
him and over the dinner – I only had a cup of tea
as a matter of fact -- he told me that he was on the
201


IN MRS. RIDER'S ROOM
203
“He told you I was fond of you,” said Tarling
quietly and she nodded.
“He threatened to take advantage of that fact and
wanted to show you the confession.”
"I see," said Tarling and heaved a deep sigh of re-
lief.
“ Thank God!” he said fervently.
“For what?" she asked, looking at him in astonish-
ment.
“That everything is clear. To-morrow I will ar-
rest the murderer of Thornton Lyne!”
“No, no, not that,” she said, and laid her hand on
his shoulder, her distressed face looking into his,
“surely not that. Mr. Milburgh could not have done
it; he could not be so great a scoundrel.”
“Who sent the wire to your mother saying you were
not coming down?"
“Milburgh,” replied the girl.
“Did he send two wires, do you remember? ” said
Tarling.
She hesitated.
“Yes, he did," she said. “I don't know who the
other was to."
“It was the same writing anyway,” he said.
“But _”
“Dear," he said, " you must not worry any more
about it. There is a trying time ahead of you, but
you must be brave, both for your own sake and for
your mother's, and for mine," he added.
Despite her unhappiness she smiled faintly.


204
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“ You take something for granted, don't you?" she
asked.
“ Am I doing that?” he said in surprise.
“ You mean -” she went redder than ever, " that
I care enough for you — that I would make an effort
for your sake?”
“I suppose I do,” said Tarling slowly; " it's vanity,
I suppose?”
“ Perhaps it is instinct,” she said, and squeezed his
arm.
"I must take you back to your mother's place," he
said,
The walk from the house to the station had been a
long and tedious one. The way back was surprisingly
short, even though they walked at snails' pace. There
never was a courting such as Tarling's and it seemed
unreal as a dream. The girl had a key of the outer
gate and they passed through together.
"Does your mother know that you are in Hert-
ford?" asked Tarling suddenly.
" Yes," replied the girl. “I saw her before I came
after you."
"Does she know _"
He did not care to finish the sentence.
"No," said the girl," she does not know. Poor
woman, it will break her heart. She is — very fond
of Milburgh. Sometimes he is most kind to mother.
She loves him so much that she accepted his mysterious
comings and goings and all the explanations which he
offered without suspicion."


IN MRS. RIDER'S ROOM
205.
They had reached the place where he had picked up
the wallet and above him gloomed the dark bulk of
the portico with its glass house atop. The house was
in darkness, no lights shone anywhere.
“I will take you in through the door under the por-
tico. It is the way Mr. Milburgh always comes.
Have you a light ?”
He had his electric lamp in his pocket and he put a
beam upon the key-hole. She inserted the key and
uttered a note of exclamation for the door yielded un-
der her pressure and opened.
“It is unlocked," she said. “I am sure I fastened
it when I went in."
Tarling put his lamp upon the lock and made a little
grimace. The catch had been wedged back into the
lock so that it could not spring out again.
“How long were you in the house?” he asked
quickly.
“Only a few minutes," said the girl. “I went in
just to tell mother and I came out immediately."
"Did you close the door behind you when you went
in ? "
The girl thought a moment.
“ Perhaps I didn't,” she said. “No, of course not
- I didn't come back this way; mother let me out by
the front door.”
Tarling put his light into the hall and saw the car-
peted stairs half-a-dozen feet away. He guessed what
had happened. Somebody had seen the door ajar and
guessing from the fact that she had left it open that


206
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
she was returning immediately, had slipped a piece of
wood, which looked to be and was in fact the stalk of
a match, between the catch of the spring lock and its
sheath.
“What has happened?” asked the girl in a trou-
bled voice.
"Nothing," said Tarling airily. “It was prob-
ably your disreputable step-father did this. He may
have lost his key."
“He could have gone in the front door," said the
girl uneasily.
“Well, I'll go first,” said Tarling with a cheerful-
ness which he was far from feeling.
He went upstairs, his lamp in one hand, an
automatic pistol in the other. The stairs ended in
a balustraded landing from which two doors
opened.
“That is mother's room," said the girl pointing to
the nearest.
A sense of impending trouble made her shiver.
Tarling put his arms about her encouragingly. He
walked to the door of the room, turned the handle and
opened it. There was something behind the door
which held it close and exerting all his strength he
pushed the door open sufficiently far to allow of his
squeezing through.
On the desk a table lamp was burning, the light of
which was hidden from the outside by the heavily cur-
tained windows, but it was neither at the window nor
at the desk that he was looking.


IN MRS. RIDER'S ROOM
207
Mrs. Rider lay behind the door, a little smile on her
face, the haft of a dagger standing out with hideous
distinctness beneath her heart.


CHAPTER XXVII
THE LAUGH IN THE NIGHT
Tarling gave one glance before he turned to the girl,
who was endeavouring to push past him, and catching
her by the arm gently thrust her back into the passage.
“What is wrong, what is wrong?" she asked in a
terrified whisper. “Oh, let me go to mother.”
She struggled to escape from his grip but he held
her firmly.
“You must be brave, for your own sake -- for
everybody's sake,” he entreated her.
Still holding her arm he forced her to the door of
the second inner room. His hand felt for the electric
switch and found it.
He was in what appeared to be a spare bedroom,
plainly furnished and from this a door led, apparently
into the main building.
“Where does that door lead?” he asked but she
did not appear to hear him.
“ Mother, mother!” she was moaning, “what has
happened to my mother?”
“Where does that door lead?” he asked again and
for answer she slipped her trembling hand into her
pocket and produced a key.
208


THE LAUGH IN THE NIGHT
209
He opened the door and found himself in a rec-
tangular gallery overlooking the hall.
She slipped past him but he caught her and pushed
her back.
"I tell you, you must be calm, Odette," he said
firmly, “ you must not give way. Everything depends
upon your courage. Where are the servants?”
Then, unexpectedly, she broke away from him and
raced back through the door into the wing they had
left. He followed in swift pursuit.
“For God's sake, Odette, don't, don't,” he cried, as
she flung herself against the door and burst into her
mother's room.
One glance she gave, then she fell on the floor by
the side of her dead mother and flinging her arms
about the form kissed the cold lips.
Tarling pulled her gently away and half-carried,
half-supported her back to the gallery. A dishevelled
man in shirt and trousers whom Tarling thought might
be the butler was hurrying along the corridor.
“Arouse any women who are in the house,” said
Tarling in a low voice. “Mrs. Rider has been mur-
dered.”
“Murdered, sir," said the startled man, “ you don't
mean that?”
" Quick," said Tarling sharply, “Miss Rider has
fainted again."
They carried her into the drawing-room and laid her
on the couch and Tarling did not leave her until he
had seen her in the hands of two women servants.


210
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
He went back with the butler to the room where
the body lay. He turned on all the lights and made
a careful scrutiny of the room. The window leading
on to the glass-covered balcony where he had been con-
cealed a few hours before, was latched, locked and
bolted.
The curtains which had been drawn, presumably by
Milburgh when he came for the wallet, were undis-
turbed. From the position in which the dead woman
lay and the calm in her face he thought death must
have come instantly and unexpectedly. Probably the
murderer stole behind her whilst she was standing at
the foot of the sofa which he had partly seen through
the window. It was likely that, to beguile the time of
waiting for her daughter's return, she had taken a
book from a little cabinet immediately behind the door,
and support for this theory came in the shape of a
book which had evidently fallen out of her hand be-
tween the position in which she was found and the
book-case.
Together the two men lifted the body on to the sofa.
“ You had better go down into the town and inform
the police," said Tarling. “Is there a telephone
here?”
“ Yes, sir," replied the butler.
“Good, that will save you a journey," said the de-
tective.
He notified the local police officials and then got
on to Scotland Yard and sent a messenger to arouse
Whiteside. The faint pallor of dawn was in the sky


THE LAUGH IN THE NIGHT
213
house on three sides. He put on his lamp again but
the light was not powerful enough to carry the distance
required and he went forward at a jog-trot in the di-
rection he had seen the figure disappear. He reached
the pines and went softly. Every now and again he
stopped and once he could have sworn he heard the
cracking of a twig ahead of him.
He started off at a run in pursuit and now there
was no mistaking the fact that somebody was still
in the wood. He heard the quick steps of his quarry
and then there was silence. He ran on but must have
over-shot the mark, for presently he heard a stealthy
noise behind him. In a flash he turned back.
“Who are you?” he said. “Stand out or I'll fire!”
There was no answer and he waited. He heard the
scraping of a boot against the brick-work and he knew
that the intruder was climbing the wall. He turned
in the direction of the sound but again found noth-
ing.
Then from somewhere above him came such a trill
of demoniacal laughter as chilled his blood. The top
of the wall was concealed by the overhanging branch
of a tree and his light was valueless.
“Come down,” he shouted. “I've got you cov-
ered!”
Again came that terrible laugh, half fear, half deri-
sion and a voice shrill and harsh came down to him.
“Murderer! Murderer! You killed Thornton
Lyne, damn you! I've kept this for you — take it!”
Something came crashing through the trees, some-


214
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
thing small and round, a splashing drop, as of water,
fell on the back of Tarling's hand and he shook it off
with a cry, for it burnt like fire. He heard the mys-
terious stranger drop from the coping of the wall and
the sound of his swift feet. He stooped and picked
up the article which had been thrown at him. It was
a small bottle bearing a stained chemist's label and
the word “ Vitriol."


CHAPTER XXVIII
THE THUMB PRINT
It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Whiteside and
Tarling were sitting on a sofa in their shirt-sleeves,
sipping their coffee. Tarling was haggard and weary,
in contrast to the dapper inspector of police. Though
the latter had been aroused from his bed in the early
hours of the morning, he at least had enjoyed a good
night's sleep.
They sat in the room in which Mrs. Rider had been
murdered and the rusty brown stains on the floor
where Tarling had found her were eloquent of the
tragedy.
They sat sipping their coffee, neither man talking,
and they maintained this silence for several minutes,
each man following his own train of thought. Tar-
ling for reasons of his own had not revealed his own
adventure and he had told the other nothing of the
mysterious individual (who he was, he pretty well
guessed) whom he had chased through the grounds.
Presently Whiteside lit a cigarette and threw the
match in the grate and Tarling roused himself from
his reverie with a jerk.
“What do you make of it?" he asked.
Whiteside shook his head.
215


THE THUMB PRINT
217
his wife, who probably knows much more about the
murder than the daughter."
Tarling looked at his watch.
“Ling Chu should be here by now,” he said.
“Oh, you sent for Ling Chu, did you?” said White-
side in surprise. “I thought that you'd given up that
idea.”
“I'phoned again a couple of hours ago," said Tar-
ling.
“Hm!” said Whiteside. “Do you think that he
knows anything about this?”
Tarling shook his head.
“I believe the story he told me. Of course, when
I made the report to Scotland Yard I did not expect
that you people would be as credulous as I am, but I
know the man. He has never lied to me."
“Murder is a pretty serious business," said White-
side. “If a man didn't lie to save his neck, he wouldn't
lie at all.”
There was the sound of a motor below, and Tarling
walked to the window.
“Here is Ling Chu," he said, and a few minutes
later the Chinaman came noiselessly into the room.
Tarling greeted him with a curt nod, and without
any preliminary told the story of the crime. He spoke
in English — he had not employed Chinese since he
discovered that Ling Chu understood English quite as
well as he understood Cantonese, and Whiteside was
able from time to time to interject a word, or correct
some little slip on Tarling's part. The Chinaman lis-


218
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
tened without comment and when Tarling had finished
he made one of his queer jerky bows and went out of
the room.
“Here are the letters," said Whiteside, after the
man had gone.
Two neat piles of letters were arranged on Mrs.
Rider's desk, and Tarling drew up a chair.
“This is the lot?” he said.
“ Yes," said Whiteside. “ I've been searching the
house since eight o'clock and I can find no others.
Those on the right are all from Milburgh. You'll find
they're simply signed with an initial - a characteristic
of his — but they bear his town address.”
“You've looked through them?” asked Tarling.
“Read 'em all,” replied the other. “There's noth-
ing at all incriminating in any of them. They're what
I would call bread and butter letters, dealing with little
investments which Milburgh has made in his wife's
name — or rather, in the name of Mrs. Rider. It's
easy to see from these how deeply the poor woman was
involved without her knowing that she was mixing
herself up in a great conspiracy."
Tarling assented. One by one he took the letters,
from their envelopes, read them and replaced them.
He was half way through the pile when he stopped
and carried a letter to the window.
. “ Listen to this,” he said:
“Forgive the smudge, but I am in an awful hurry,
and I have got my fingers inky through the overturn-
ing of an ink bottle.”


THE THUMB PRINT
219
“Nothing startling in that,” said Whiteside with a
smile.
“Nothing at all,” admitted Tarling. “But it hap
pens that our friend has left a very good and useful
thumb-print. At least, it looks too big for a finger-
print.”
“Let me see it,” said Whiteside, springing up.
He went to the other's side and looked over his shoul-
der at the letter in his hand, and whistled. He turned
a glowing face upon Tarling and gripped his chief by
the shoulder.
“We've got him!” he said exultantly. “We've got
him as surely as if we had him in the pen!”
“What do you mean?” asked Tarling.
“ I'll swear to that thumb-print," replied Whiteside.
“It's identical with the blood mark which was left on
Miss Rider's bureau on the night of the murder!”
“Are you sure?”
“ Absolutely," said Whiteside, speaking quickly.
“Do you see that whorl? Look at those lineations!
They are the same. I have the original photograph
in my pocket somewhere.” He searched his pocket-
book and brought out a photograph of a thumb-print
considerably enlarged.
“ Compare them!” cried Whiteside in triumph.
“ Line for line, ridge for ridge, and furrow for furrow,
it is Milburgh's thumb-print, and Milburgh is my
man!"
He took up his coat and slipped it on.
“Where are you going?”


220
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
.“ Back to London," said Whiteside grimly, " to se-
cure a warrant for the arrest of George Milburgh, the
man who killed Thornton Lyne, the man who mur-
dered his wife - the blackest villain at large in the
world to-day!”


222
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
footed one came, because the blood is over the first
woman's footmarks.”
“How do you know which was the first woman and
which was the second ?” asked Whiteside, interested
in spite of himself.
“ The first woman's foot was wet,” said Ling Chu.
“But there had been no rain," said the detective in
triumph.
“ She was standing on the grass,” said Ling Chu,
and Tarling nodded his head, remembering that the
girl had stood on the grass in the shadow of the
bushes, watching his adventure with Milburgh.
“But there is one thing I do not understand, mas-
ter," said Ling Chu. “ There is the mark of another
woman's foot, which I cannot find on the stair, in the
hall. This woman walked all round the house; I think
she walked round twice; and then she walked into the
garden and through the trees."
Tarling stared at him.
“ Miss Rider came straight from the house on to
the road,” he said, “and into Hertford after me."
“ There is the mark of a woman who has walked
round the house,” insisted Ling Chu, “and, therefore,
I think it was a woman whose feet were bare.”
“ Are there any marks of a man besides us three?"
“I was coming to that,” said Ling Chu. “There
is a very faint trace of a man who came early, because
the wet footsteps are over his; also he left, but there
is no sign of him on the gravel, only the mark of a
wheel track.”


THE THEORY OF LING CHU
223
“ That was Milburgh,” said Tarling.
“If a foot has not touched the ground,” explained
Ling Chu, “it would leave little trace. That is why
the woman's foot about the house is so hard for me,
for I cannot find it on the stair. Yet I know it came
from the house because I can see it leading from the
door. Come, master, I will show you."
He led the way down the stairs into the garden,
and then for the first time Whiteside noticed that the
Chinaman was barefooted.
“ You haven't mixed your own footmarks up with
somebody else's?” he asked jocularly.
Ling Chu shook his head.
“I left my shoes outside the door because it is
easier for me to work so," he said calmly, slipping
his feet into his small shoes.
He led the way to the side of the house, and there
pointed out the footprints. They were unmistakably
feminine. Where the heel was, was a deep crescent-
shaped hole, which recurred at intervals all round the
house. Curiously enough, they were to be found in
front of almost every window, as though the mys-
terious visitor had walked over the garden border as
if seeking to find an entrance.
“They look more like slippers than shoes to me.
They're undoubtedly women's," said Whiteside, exam-
ining one of the impressions. “What do you think,
Tarling?”
Tarling nodded and led the way back to the room.
“What is your theory, Ling Chu?” he asked.


'224
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Somebody came into the house," said the China-
man,“ squeezed through the door below and up the
stairs. First that somebody killed and then went to
search the house, but could not get through the door."
“ That's right,” said Whiteside. “You mean the
door that shuts off this little wing from the rest of the
house. That was locked, was it not, Tarling, when
you made the discovery?”
“Yes," said Tarling, “it was locked.”
“When they found they could not get into the
house,” Ling Chu went on, “ they tried to get through
one of the windows."
“ They, they?" said Tarling impatiently. “Who
are they? Do you mean the woman?”
The new theory was disturbing. He had placed the
second actor in the tragedy — a brown vitriol burn
on the back of his hand reminded him of his exist-
ence — but who was the third ?
“I mean the woman,” replied Ling Chu quietly.
“But who in God's name wanted to get into the
house after murdering Mrs. Rider?” asked White-
side irritably. “Your theory is against all reason,
Ling Chu. When a person has committed a murder
they want to put as much distance between themselves
and the scene of the crime as they can in the shortest
possible space of time.”
Ling Chu did not reply.
“How many people are concerned in this mur-
der?" said Tarling. “A bare-footed man or woman
came in and killed Mrs. Rider; a second person made


226
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
cigarettes. Tarling spoke very little during the jour-
ney, his mind being fully occupied with the latest de-
velopment of a mystery, the solution of which still
evaded him.
The route through London to Scotland Yard car-
ried him through Cavendish Place, where the nursing
home was situated in which Odette Rider lay. He
stopped the car to make enquiries, and found that the
girl had recovered from the frenzy of grief into which
this terrible discovery of the morning had thrown her,
and had fallen into a quiet sleep.
“ That's good news, anyway," he said, rejoining
his companion. “I was half beside myself with anx-
iety.”
“You take a tremendous interest in Miss Rider,
don't you?” asked Whiteside drily.
Tarling bridled, then laughed.
“Oh, yes, I take an interest,” he admitted, " but it
is very natural.”
“Why natural? ” asked Whiteside.
“Because," replied Tarling deliberately, “Miss Ri-
der is going to be my wife.”
“Oh!” said Whiteside in blank amazement, and
had nothing more to say.
The warrant for Milburgh's arrest was waiting for
them, and placed in the hands of Whiteside for execu-
tion.
“We'll give him no time," said the officer. “ I'm
afraid he's had a little too much grace, and we shall
be very lucky if we find him at home."


THE THEORY OF LING CHU
227
As he had suspected, the house in Camden Town
was empty, and the woman who came daily to do the
cleaning of the house was waiting patiently by the
iron gate. Mr. Milburgh, she told them, usually ad-
mitted her at half-past eight. Even if he was “in
the country” he was back at the house before her
arrival.
Whiteside fitted a skeleton key into the lock of the
gate, opened it (the charwoman protesting in the in-
terests of her employer) and went up the flagged path.
The door of the cottage was a more difficult proposi-
tion, being fitted with a patent lock. Tarling did not
stand on ceremony, but smashed one of the windows,
and grinned as he did so.
“ Listen to that?”.
The shrill tinkle of a bell came to their ears.
“ Burglar alarm," said Tarling laconically, and
pushed back the catch, threw up the window, and
stępped into the little room where he had interviewed
Mr. Milburgh.
The house was empty. They went from room to
room, searching the bureau and cupboards. In one
of these Tarling made a discovery. It was no more
than a few glittering specks which he swept from a
shelf into the palm of his hand.
“If that isn't thermite I'm a Dutchman,” he said.
“ At any rate, we'll be able to convict Mr. Milburgh
of arson if we can't get him for murder. We'll send
this to the Government analyst right away, Whiteside.
If Milburgh did not kill Thornton Lyne, he certainly


230
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
discovered in a ditch on the Hertford road, four miles
from the house where the latest murder had been com-
mitted. This news came by telephone from the Chief
of the Hertford Constabulary, with the further in-
formation that the shoes had been despatched to Scot-
land Yard by special messenger.
It was half-past seven when the little parcel was
deposited on Tarling's table. He stripped the package
of its paper, opened the lid of the cardboard box, and
took out a distorted-looking slipper which had seen
better days.
"A woman's, undoubtedly," he said. “Do you note
the crescent-shaped heel.”
“Look!” said Whiteside, pointing to some stains
on the whitey-brown inner sock. “That supports
Ling Chu's theory. The feet of the person who wore
these were bleeding."
Tarling examined the slippers and nodded. He
turned up the tongue in search of the maker's name,
and the shoe dropped from his hand.
“What on earth's the matter? ” asked Whiteside
and picked it up.
He looked and laughed helplessly; for on the in-
side of the tongue was a tiny label bearing the name
of a London shoemaker, and beneath, written in ink,
“ Miss O. Rider.”


232 THE DAFFODIL MURDER
She turned her head to the cushion of the chair and
wept, and Tarling soothed her.
It was some time before she was calm but then she
could give him no further information.
" It was a shoe that mother liked because it fitted
her. We both took the same size ..."
Her voice broke again and Tarling hastened to
change the conversation.
More and more he was becoming converted to Ling
Chu's theory. He could not apply to that theory the
facts which had come into his possession. On his way
back from the nursing home to police headquarters,
he reviewed the Hertford crime.
Somebody had come into the house barefooted, with
bleeding feet, and, having committed the murder, had
looked about for shoes. The old slippers had been
the only kind which the murderer could wear, and he
or she had put them on and had gone out again, after
making the circuit of the house. Why had this mys-
terious person tried to get into the house again, and
for whom or what were they searching?
If Ling Chu was correct, obviously the murderer
could not be Milburgh. If he could believe the evi-
dence of his senses, the man with the small feet had
been he who had shrieked defiance in the darkness and
had hurled the vitriol at his feet. He put his views
before his subordinate, and found Whiteside willing
to agree with him.
“But it does not follow,” said Whiteside, “that the
bare-footed person who was apparently in Mrs. Ri-
da


WHO KILLED MRS. RIDER?
233
der's house committed the murder. Milburgh did
that right enough, don't worry! There is less doubt
that he committed the Daffodil Murder.”
Tarling swung round in his chair; he was sitting on
the opposite side of the big table that the two men used
in common.
"I think I know who committed the Daffodil Mur-
der,” he said steadily. “I have been working things
out, and I have a theory which you would probably
describe as fantastic.”
“What is it?” asked Whiteside, but the other shook
his head.
He was not for the moment prepared to reveal his
theory.
Whiteside leaned back in his chair and for a moment
cogitated.
“ The case from the very beginning is full of con-
tradictions," he said. “Thornton Lyne was a rich
man — by-the-way, you're a rich man now, Tarling,
and I must treat you with respect.”
Tarling smiled.
“Go on,” he said.
“He had queer tastes — a bad poet, as is evidenced
by his one slim volume of verse. He was a poseur,
proof of which is to be found in his patronage of
Sam Stay — who, by-the-way, has escaped from the
lunatic asylum; I suppose you know that?"
“I know that,” said Tarling. “Go on."
“Lyne falls in love with a pretty girl in his employ,"
continued Whiteside. “Used to having his way when


WHO KILLED MRS. RIDER? 235
Tarling sarcastically. “That doesn't wash, White-
side."
“No, it doesn't,” admitted the other. “But I'm
getting at the broad aspects of the case. Lyne comes.
He is met by Milburgh, who plays his trump card of
confession and endeavours to switch the young man
on to the solution which Milburgh had prepared. Lyne
refuses, there is a row, and in desperation Milburgh
shoots Thornton Lyne."
Tarling shook his head. He mused a while, then:
“It's queer," he said.
The door opened and a police officer came in.
“Here are the particulars you want,” he said and
handed Whiteside a typewritten sheet of paper.
“What is this?" said Whiteside when the man had
gone. “Oh, here is our friend, Sam Stay. A police
description.” He read one: “Height five foot four,
sallow complexion . . . wearing a grey suit and un-
derclothing bearing the markings of the County Asy-
lum. . . . Hullo!” .
“What is it?" said Tarling.
“ This is remarkable,” said Whiteside, and read:
“When the patient escaped, he had bare feet. He
takes a very small size in shoes, probably four or five.
A kitchen knife is missing and the patient may be
armed. Boot-makers should be warned...".
“ Bare feet!” Tarling rose to the table with a
frown on his face. “Sam Stay hated Odette Rider."
The two men exchanged glances.


236
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Now, do you see who killed Mrs. Rider?” asked
Tarling. “She was killed by one who saw Odette
Rider go into the house, and did not see her come out;
who went in after her to avenge, as he thought, his
dead patron. He killed this unhappy woman — the
initials on the knife, M.C.A., stand for Middlesex
County Asylum and he brought the knife with him
and discovered his mistake; then, having searched for
a pair of shoes to cover his bleeding feet, and having
failed to get into the house by any other way, made a
circuit of the building, looking for Odette Rider and
seeking an entrance at every window.”
Whiteside looked at him in astonishment.
“It's a pity you've got money,” he said admiringly.
“When you retire from this business there'll be a great
detective lost!”


CHAPTER XXXI
SAM STAY TURNS UP
“I have seen you somewhere before, ain't I?”.
The stout clergyman in the immaculatae white collar
beamed benevolently at the questioner and shook his
head with a gentle smile.
“No, my dear friend, I do not think I have ever
seen you before.”
It was a little man, shabbily dressed, and looking
ill. His face was drawn and lined; he had not shaved
for days, and the thin, black stubble of hair gave him
a sinister look. The clergyman had just walked out of
Temple Gardens and was at the end of Villiers Street
leading up to the Strand, when he was accosted. He
was a happy-looking clergyman, and something of a
student, too, if the stout and serious volume under his
arm had any significance.
“ I've seen you before," said the little man, “ I've
dreamt about you."
“If you'll excuse me," said the clergyman, “I am
afraid I cannot stay. I have an important engage-
ment.
“ Hold hard,” said the little man, in so fierce a tone
that the other stopped. “I tell you I've dreamt about
you. I've seen you dancing with four black devils
237


SAM STAY TURNS UP
239
“Now don't talk nonsense!” he said under his
breath, "and listen, my man; if anybody asks you
whether you have seen Mr. Milburgh, you haven't, you
understand ? ”
"Oh, I understand,” said the man. “But I knew
you! There's nobody connected with him that I don't
remember. He lifted me up out of the gutter, he did.
He's my idea of Gawd!”
They had reached a quiet corner of the Gardens and
Milburgh motioned the man to sit beside him on a gar-
den seat.
For the first time that day he experienced a sense
of confidence in the wisdom of his choice of disguise.
The sight of a clergyman speaking with a seedy-looking
man might excite comment, but not suspicion. After
all, it was the business of clergymen to talk to seedy-
looking men, and they might be seen engaged in the
most earnest and confidential conversations and he
would suffer no loss of caste.
Sam Stay looked at the black coat and the white
collar in doubt.
“How long have you been a clergyman, Mr. Mil- ·
burgh?” he asked.
“Oh — er — for a little while," said Mr. Milburgh
glibly, trying to remember what he had heard about
Sam Stay. But the little man saved him the labour of
remembering.
“They took me away to a place in the country," he
said, “but you know I wasn't mad, Mr. Milburgh.
He wouldn't have had a fellow hanging round him


SAM STAY TURNS UP
243
“She is at 304, Cavendish Place, so that it is very un-
likely that you will meet her for some time.”
He rose to his feet and he saw the man was shaking
from head to foot like a man in the grip of ague.
“ 304, Cavendish Place,” he repeated, and without
another word turned his back on Mr. Milburgh and
slunk away.
That worthy gentleman looked after him and shook
his head, and then rising, turned and walked in the
other direction. It was just as easy to take a ticket
for the Continent at Waterloo Station as it was at
Charing Cross. In many ways it was safer.


CHAPTER XXXII
THE DIARY OF THORNTON LYNE
Tarling should have been sleeping. Every bone anc
sinew in him ached for rest. His head was sunk over
a table in his flat. Lyne's diaries stood in two piles on
the table, the bigger pile that which he had read, the
lesser being those which Tarling had yet to examine.
The diaries had been blankbooks containing no
printed date lines. In some cases one book would
cover a period of two or three years, in other cases
three or four books would be taken up by the record
of a few months. The pile on the left grew, and the
pile on the right became smaller, until there was only
one book — a diary newer than the others which had
been fastened by two brass locks, but had been opened
by the Scotland Yard experts.
Tarling took up this volume and turned the leaves.
As he had expected, it was the current diary — that
on which Thornton Lyne had been engaged at the time
of his murder. Tarling opened the book in a spirit
of disappointment. The earlier books had yielded
nothing save a revelation of the writer's egotism. He
had read Lyne's account of the happenings in Shang-
hai, but after all that was nothing fresh, and added
little to the sum of the detective's knowledge.
He did not anticipate that the last volume would
244


246 THE DAFFODIL MURDER
thought. Suppose I left something unmistakably
Chinese? Tarling had evidently been friendly with
the girl . . . something Chinese might place him un-
der suspicion ..."
The diary ended with the word "suspicion ”- an
appropriate ending. Tarling read the passages again
and again until he almost had them by heart. Then
he closed the book and locked it away in his drawer.
He sat with his chin on his hand for half an hour.
He was piecing together the puzzle which Thornton
Lyne had made so much more simple. The mystery
was clearing up. Thornton Lyne had gone to that
flat not in response to the telegram, but with the object
of compromising and possibly ruining the girl. He
had gone with the little slip of paper inscribed with
Chinese characters, intending to leave the Hong in a
conspicuous place, that somebody else might be blamed
for his infamy.
Milburgh had been in the flat for another purpose.
The two men had met; there had been a quarrel; and
Milburgh had fired the fatal shot. That part of the
story solved the mystery of Thornton Lyne's list slip-
pers and his Chinese characters; his very presence there
was cleared up. He thought of Sam Stay's offer —
It came in a flash to Tarling that the man who had
thrown the bottle of vitriol at him, who had said he
had kept it for years — that was Sam Stay. Stay,
with his scheme for blasting the woman who, he be-
lieved, had humiliated his beloved patron.


248
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Yes, sir," said the cabman. “I happened to ask
him if he was looking for anybody and he said no,
and then went on to talk a lot of rubbish about a man
who had been the best friend any poor chap could
have had. My seat happened to be nearest the door,
that's how I got into conversation with him. I thought
he was off his nut.”
“Yes, yes, go on," said Tarling impatiently.
“ What happened then?”
“Well, he went out,” said the cabman, “and pres-
ently I heard a cab being cranked up. I thought it
was one of the other drivers, there were several cabs
outside. The eating-house is a place which cabmen
use, and I didn't take very much notice until I came
out and found my cab gone and the old devil I'd left
in charge in a public-house drinking beer with the
money this fellow had given him.”
“Sounds like your man, sir," said the inspector,
looking at Tarling.
“That's Sam Stay all right,” he said, " but it's news
to me that he could drive a taxi.”
The inspector nodded.
“Oh, I know Sam Stay all right, sir. We've had
him in here two or three times. He used to be a taxi-
driver — didn't you know that?”
Tarling did not know that. He had intended look-
ing up Sam's record that day, but something had oc-
curred to put the matter out of his mind.
“Well, he can't go far," he said. “You'll circulate
the description of the cab, I suppose? He may be


THE DIARY OF THORNTON LYNE 249
easier to find. He can't hide the cab as well as he can
hide himself, and if he imagines that the possession of
a car is going to help him to escape he's making a
mistake.”
Tarling was going back to Hertford that night, and
he had informed Ling Chu of his intention. He left
Cannon Row Police Station, walked across the road
to Scotland Yard, to confer with Whiteside, who had
promised to meet him. He was pursuing independent
enquiries and collecting details of evidence regarding
the Hertford crime.
Whiteside was not in when Tarling called and the
sergeant on duty in the little office by the main door
hurried forward.
“This came for you two hours ago, sir," he said.
“ We thought you were in Hertford.”
“ This " was a letter addressed in pencil, and Mr.
Milburgh had made no attempt to disguise his hand-
writing. Tarling tore open the envelope and read the
contents.
“Dear Mr. Tarling,” it began. “I have just read
in the Evening Press, with the deepest sorrow and de-
spair, the news that my dearly beloved wife, Catherine
Rider, has been foully murdered. How terrible to
think that a few hours ago I was conversing with her
assassin, as I believe Sam Stay to be, and had inad-
vertently given him information as to where Miss Ri-
der was to be found! I beg of you that you will lose
no time in saving her from the hands of this cruel


250
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
madman, who seems to have only one idea, and that
to avenge the death of the late Mr. Thornton Lyne.
When this reaches you I shall be beyond the power of
human vengeance, for I have determined to end a life
which has held so much sorrow and disappointment.
“M.”
Tarling was satisfied that Mr. Milburgh would not
commit suicide, and the information was superfluous
that Sam Stay had murdered Mrs. Rider. It was the
knowledge that this vengeful lunatic knew where
Odette Rider was staying, which made Tarling sweat.
“Where is Mr. Whiteside ?” he asked.
“He has gone to Cambour's Restaurant to meet
somebody, sir," said the sergeant.
The somebody was one of Milburgh's satellites at
Lyne's Stores. Tarling must see him without delay.
The Inspector had control of all the official arrange-
ments connected with the case and it would be neces-
sary to consult him before he could place detectives to
watch the nursing home in Cavendish Place.
He found a cab and drove to Cambour's, which was
in Soho, and was fortunate enough to discover White-
side in the act of leaving.
“I didn't get much from that fellow,” Whiteside
began, when Tarling handed him the letter.
The Scotland Yard man read it through without
comment and handed it back.
“Of course he hasn't committed suicide. It's the
last thing in the world that men of the Milburgh type


THE DIARY OF THORNTON LYNE 251
ever think about seriously. He is a cold blooded vil-
lain. Imagine him sitting down to write calmly about
his wife's murderer!”
“ What do you think of the other matter — the
threat against Odette?”
Whiteside nodded.
“There may be something in it,” he said. “ Cer-
tainly we cannot take risks. Has anything been heard
of Stay?"
Tarling told the story of the stolen taxi-cab.
“We'll have him," said Whiteside confidently.
“He'll have no pals and without pals in the motor
business it is practically impossible to get a car
away.”
He got into Tarling's cab and a few minutes later
they were at the nursing home.
The matron came to them, a sedate, motherly lady.
“I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour of the night,”
said Tarling, sensing her disapproval. " But informa-
tion has come to me this evening which renders it
necessary that Miss Rider should be guarded.”
“ Guarded ? ” said the matron in surprise. “I don't
quite understand you, Mr. Tarling. I had come down
to give you rather a blowing up about Miss Rider.
You know she is absolutely unfit to go out. I thought
I made that clear to you when you were here this morn-
ing?”
“Go out?” said the puzzled Tarling. “What do
you mean? She is not going out?"
It was the matron's turn to be surprised.


CHAPTER XXXIII
LING CHU — TORTURER
Much had happened to Mr. Milburgh between the
time of his discovery lying bound and helpless, and
showing evidence that he had been in the hands of a
Chinese torturer, and the moment he left Sam Stay.
He had read of the murder, and had been shocked,
and, in his way, grieved.
It was not to save Odette Rider that he sent his note
to Scotland Yard, but rather to avenge himself upon
the man who had killed the only woman in the world
who had touched his warped nature. Nor had he any
intention of committing suicide. He had the pass-
ports which he had secured a year before in readiness
for such a step (he had kept that clerical uniform of
his by him all that time) and was ready at a moment's
notice to leave the country.
His tickets were in his pocket, and when he des-
patched the district messenger to Scotland Yard he
was on his way to Waterloo Station to catch the Havre
boat-train. The police, he knew, would be watching
the station, but he had no fear that they would dis-
cover beneath the benign exterior of a country clergy-
man, the wanted manager of Lyne's Stores, even
255


256
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
supposing that there was a warrant out for his
arrest.
He was standing at a bookstall, purchasing literature
to while away the hours of the journey when he felt
a hand laid on his arm and experienced a curious sink-
ing sensation. He turned to look into a brown mask
of a face he had seen before.
“Well, my man,” he asked with a smile, “what can
I do for you?”
He had asked the question in identical terms of Sam
Stay — his brain told him that much, mechanically.
“ You will come with me, Mr. Milburgh,” said Ling
Chu. “It will be better for you if you do not make
any trouble.”
“You are making a mistake."
“If I am making a mistake,” said Ling Chu calmly,
“ you have only to tell that policeman that I have mis-
taken you for Milburgh, who is wanted by the police on
a charge of murder, and I shall get into very serious
trouble.”
Milburgh's lips were quivering with fear and his
face was a pasty grey.
“I will go,” he said.
Ling Chu walked by his side, and they passed out
of Waterloo Station. The journey to Bond Street re-
mained in Milburgh's memory like a horrible dream.
He was not used to travelling on omnibuses, being
something of a sybarite who spared nothing to ensure
his own comfort. Ling Chu on the contrary had a
penchant for 'buses and seemed to enjoy them.


LING CHU – TORTURER
- 261
Ling Chu stopped him with a gesture.
"I am perfectly well aware of what I am doing,"
he said. “ Now listen to me. A week or so ago, Mr.
Thornton Lyne, your employer, was found dead in
Hyde Park. He was dressed in his shirt and trousers,
and about his body, in an endeavour to staunch the
wound, somebody had wrapped a silk night-dress. He
was killed in the flat of a small lady, whose name I
cannot pronounce, but you, will know her.”
Milburgh's eyes never left the Chinaman's and he
nodded.
“He was killed by you," said Ling Chu slowly,
“because he had discovered that you had been rob-
bing him, and you were in fear that he would hand
you over to the police.”
“ That's a lie," roared Milburgh. “It's a lie — I
tell you it's a lie!”
"I shall discover whether it is a lie in a few mo-
ments," said Ling Chu.
He put his hand inside his blouse and Milburgh
watched him fascinated, but he produced nothing more
deadly than a silver cigarette case, which he opened.
He selected a cigarette and lit it, and for a few minutes
puffed in silence, his thoughtful eyes fixed upon Mil-
burgh. Then he rose and went to the cupboard and
took out a larger bottle and placed it beside the other.
Ling Chu pulled again at his cigarette and then
threw it into the grate.
" It is in the interests of all parties," he said in his
slow, halting way, “that the truth should be known,


262 THE DAFFODIL MURDER
both for the sake of my honourable master, Lieh Jen,
the Hunter, and his honourable Little Lady."
He took up his knife and bent over the terror-
stricken man.
“For God's sake don't, don't!" half screamed, half
sobbed Milburgh.
“This will not hurt you," said Ling Chu, and drew
four straight lines across the other's breast. The
keen razor edge seemed scarcely to touch the flesh, yet
where the knife had passed was a thin red mark like
a scratch.
Milburgh scarcely felt a twinge of pain, only a mild
irritating smarting and no more. The Chinaman laid
down the knife and took up the smaller bottle.
"In this,” he said, “is a vegetable extract. It is
what you would call capsicum, but it is not quite like
your pepper because it is distilled from a native root.
In this bottle,” he picked up the larger, “is a Chinese
oil which immediately relieves the pain which capsicum
causes."
" What are you going to do?” asked Milburgh
struggling. “You dog! You fiend!”
“With a little brush I will paint capsicum on these
places.” He touched Milburgh's chest with his long
white fingers. “Little by little, millimetre by milli-
metre my brush will move, and you will experience
such pain as you have never experienced before. It is
pain which will rack you from head to foot, and will
remain with you all your life in memory. Sometimes,”


264
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
and mental anguish he reproduced faithfully not only
every word, but every intonation, and the Chinaman
listened with half-closed eyes. Then, when Milburgh
had finished, he put down his bottle and thrust in the
cork.
“My master would wish that the little woman
should escape danger," he said. “To-night he does
not return, so I must go myself to the hospital — you
can wait.”
“Let me go,” said Milburgh. “I will help you."
Ling Chu shook his head.
“You can wait,” he said with a sinister smile. “I
will go first to the hospital and afterwards, if all is
well, I will return for you.”
He took a clean white towel from the dressing-
table and laid it over his victim's face. Upon the
towel he sprinkled the contents of a third bottle which
he took from the cupboard, and Milburgh remembered
Do more until he looked up into the puzzled face of
Tarling an hour later.


CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE ARREST
Tarling stooped down and released the cords which
bound Milburgh to the couch. The stout man was
white and shaking, and had to be lifted into a sitting
position. He sat there on the edge of the bed, his
face in his hands, for five minutes, and the two men
watched him curiously. Tarling had made a careful
examination of the cuts on his chest, and was relieved
to discover that Ling Chu — he did not doubt that the
Chinaman was responsible for Milburgh's plight — had
not yet employed that terrible torture which had so
often brought Chinese criminals to the verge of mad-
ness.
Whiteside picked up the clothes which Ling Chu
had so systematically stripped from the man's body,
and placed them on the bed by Milburgh's side. Then
Tarling beckoned the other into the outer room. -
“ What does it all mean?” asked Whiteside.
“ It means," said Tarling grimly," that my friend,
Ling Chu, has been trying to discover the murderer of
Thornton Lyne by methods peculiarly Chinese. Hap-
pily he was interrupted, probably as a result of Mil-
burgh telling him that Miss Odette Rider had been
spirited away.”
265


266
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
He looked back to the drooping figure by the side
of the bed.
“He's a little bigger than I,” he said, “but I think
some of my clothes will fit him.”
He made a hasty search of his wardrobe and came
back with an armful of clothes.
“Come, Milburgh,” he said, “rouse yourself and
dress."
The man looked up, his lower lip trembling pathet-
ically.
“I rather think these clothes, though they may be a
bad fit, will suit you a little better than your clerical
garh," said Tarling sardonically.
Without a word, Milburgh took the clothes in his
arms, and they left him to dress. They heard his
heavy footfall, and presently the door opened and he
came weakly into the sitting-room and dropped into a
chair.
“Do you feel well enough to go out now?” asked
Whiteside.
“Go out?” said Milburgh, looking up in alarm.
“Where am I to go?”
“To Cannon Row Police Station," said the practical
Whiteside. “I have a warrant for your arrest, Mil-
burgh, on a charge of wilful murder, arson, forgery,
and embezzlement."
“Wilful murder!” Milburgh's voice was high and
squeaky and his shaking hands went to his mouth.
6-You cannot charge me with wilful murder! No, no,
no! I swear to you I am innocent !"


THE ARREST
267
" Where did you see Thornton Lyne last?” asked
Tarling, and the man made a great effort to compose
himself.
“I saw him last alive in his office," he began.
" When did you see Thornton Lyne last?" asked
Tarling again. " Alive or dead."
Milburgh did not reply. Presently Whiteside
dropped his hand on the man's shoulder and looked
across at Tarling.
" Come along,” he said briskly. “It is my duty as
a police officer to warn you that anything you now say
will be taken down and used as evidence against you at
your trial.”
" Wait, wait!” said Milburgh. His voice was.
husky and thick. He looked round. “ Can I have a
glass of water?” he begged, licking his dry lips.
Tarling brought the refreshment, which the man
drank eagerly. The water seemed to revive something
of his old arrogant spirit, for he got up from his chair,
jerked at the collar of his ill-fitting coat — it was an
old shooting-coat of Tarling's — and smiled for the
first time.
“ I think, gentlemen,” he said with something of his
old airiness, " you will have a difficulty in proving that
I am concerned in the murder of Thornton Lyne. You
will have as great a difficulty in proving that I had any-
thing to do with the burning down of Solomon's
office — I presume that constitutes the arson charge?
And most difficult of all will be your attempt to prove
that I was in any way concerned in robbing the firm of


268
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
Thornton Lyne. The lady who robbed that firm has
already made a confession, as you, Mr. Tarling, are
well aware.” He smiled at the other, but Tarling met
his eye.
"I know of no confession,” he said steadily.
Mr. Milburgh inclined his head with a smirk.
Though he still bore the physical evidence of the bad
time through which he had been, he had recovered
something of his old confidence.
“The confession was burnt,” he said, “and burnt
by you, Mr. Tarling. And now I think your bluff has
gone on long enough.”
“My bluff?” said Tarling, in 'his turn astonished.
“What do you mean by bluff? "
“I am referring to the warrant which you suggest
has been issued for my arrest," said Milburgh.
“That's no bluff.” It was Whiteside who spoke,
and he produced from his pocket a folded sheet of
paper, which he opened and displayed under the eyes
of the man. “And in case of accidents ...” said
Whiteside, and deftly slipped a pair of handcuffs upon
the man's wrists.
It may have been Milburgh's overweening faith in
his own genius. It may have been, and probably was,
a consciousness that he had covered his trail too well
to be detected. One or other of these causes had kept
him up, but now he collapsed. To Tarling it was
amazing that the man had maintained this show of
bravado to the last, though in his heart he knew that
the Crown had a very poor case against Milburgh if


THE ARREST
269
the charge of embezzlement and arson were proceeded
with. It was on the murder alone that a conviction
could be secured; and this Milburgh evidently realised,
for he made no attempt in the remarkable statement
which followed to do more than hint that he had been
guilty of robbing the firm. He sat huddled up in his
chair, his manacled hands clasped on the table before
him, and then with a jerk sat upright.
“If you'll take off these things, gentlemen," he said
jangling the connecting chain of the handcuffs, “ I will
tell you something which may set your mind at rest on
the question of Thornton Lyne's death."
Whiteside looked at his superior questioningly, and
Tarling nodded. A few seconds later the handcuffs
had been removed, and Mr. Milburgh was soothing his
chafed wrists.
The psychologist who attempted to analyse the con-
dition of mind in which Tarling found himself, would
be faced with a difficult task. He had come to the flat
beside himself with anxiety at the disappearance of
Odette Rider. He had intended dashing into his
rooms again, though what he intended doing there-
after he had no idea. The knowledge that Ling Chu
was on the track of the kidnapper had served as an
opiate to his jagged nerves; otherwise he could not
have stayed and listened to the statement Milburgh was
preparing to make.
Now and again it came back to him, like a twinge of
pain, that Odette Rider was in danger; and he wanted
to have done with this business, to bundle Milburgh


MILBURGH'S STORY
273
grew husky —“those who were dear to me,” he re-
peated, “would be visited with my sins of omission.
“Miss Odette Rider had been dismissed from the
firm of Lyne's Stores in consequence of her having re-
jected the undesirable advances of the late Mr. Lyne.
Mr. Lyne turned the whole weight of his rage against
this girl, and that gave me an idea.
“The night after the interview — or it may have
been the same night — I refer to the interview which
Mr. Tarling had with the late Thornton Lyne — I
was working late at the office. I was, in fact, clearing
up Mr. Lyne's desk. I had occasion to leave the office,
and on my return found the place in darkness. I re-
connected the light, and then discovered on the desk a
particularly murderous looking revolver.
“ In the statement I made to you, sir," he turned to
Tarling, “I said that that pistol had not been found by
me; and indeed, I professed the profoundest ignorance
of its existence. I regret to confess to you that I was
telling an untruth. I did find the pistol; I put it in my
pocket and I took it home. It is probable that with
that pistol Mr. Lyne was fatally shot."
Tarling nodded.
“I hadn't the slightest doubt about that, Milburgh.
You also had another automatic pistol, purchased sub-
sequent to the murder from John Wadhams of Hol-
born Circus.”
*Mr. Milburgh bowed his head.
“That is perfectly true, sir,” he said. “I have such
a weapon, I live a very lonely kind of life, and "


276
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“Yes,” said Mr. Milburgh, as though the idea had
not struck him before, " yes, it did that. I had sent
Miss Rider off in a hurry. I begged that she would
not go near the flat, and I promised that I myself
would go there, pack the necessary articles for the
journey and take them down in a taxi to Charing
Cross.”
“I see," said Tarling, “ so it was you who packed
the bag ? "
“Half-packed it,” corrected Mr. Milburgh. “ You
see, I'd made a mistake in the time the train left. It
was only when I was packing the bag that I realised
it was impossible for me to get down to the station in
time. I had made arrangements with Miss Rider that
if I did not turn up I would telephone to her a quarter
of an hour before the train left. She was to await me
in the lounge of a near-by hotel. I had hoped to get
to her at least an hour before the train left, because I
did not wish to attract attention to myself, or," he
added, " to Miss Rider. When I looked at my watch,
and realised that it was impossible to get down, I left
the bag as it was, half-packed, and went outside to the
tube station and telephoned.”
“How did you get in and out ? ” asked Tarling.
“ The porter on duty at the door said he saw no-
body.” !
"I went out the back way,” explained Mr. Mil-
burgh. “It is really the simplest thing in the world
to get into Miss Rider's basement flat by way of the
news behind. All the tenants have keys to the back


MILBURGH'S STORY
279
“ No, that I am perfectly certain about,” said Mil-
burgh readily. “I remember thinking later how fool-
ish it was to bring an overcoat out and not use it."
“ Go on," said Tarling.
“ Well, I reached the station, called up the hotel, and
to my surprise and annoyance Miss Rider did not an-
swer. I asked the porter who answered my 'phone call
whether he had seen a young lady dressed in so-and-so,
waiting in the lounge and he replied 'no. Therefore,"
said Mr. Milburgh emphatically, “you will agree that
it is possible that Miss Rider was not either at the
station or at the hotel, and there was a distinct pos-
sibility that she had doubled back.”
“ We want the facts,” interrupted Whiteside. “We
have enough theories. Tell us what happened? Then
we will draw our own conclusions.”
“ Very good, sir," replied Milburgh, courteously.
“By the time I had telephoned it was half past nine
o'clock. You will remember that I had wired to Mr.
Lyne to meet me at the flat at eleven. Obviously, there
was no reason why I should go back to the flat until a
few minutes before Mr. Lyne was due, to let him in.
You asked me just now, sir," he turned to Tarling,
“whether I had my overcoat on, and I can state most
emphatically that I had not. I was going back to the
flat with the intention of collecting my overcoat, when
I saw a number of people walking about the mews
behind the block. I had no desire to attract attention,
as I have told you before, so I stood waiting until
these people, who were employees of a motor-car com-


MILBURGH'S STORY
281
which one had to pass to reach Odette's flat by the back
way.
“I opened the door of the flat,” said Mr. Milburgh
impressively, “and walked in. I had extinguished the
light when I went, but to my surprise I saw through
the transom of Odette's bedroom that a light was
burning within. I turned the handle, and even before
I saw into the room, my nose was assailed by a smell
of burning powder.
“ The first sight which met my gaze was a man lying
on the floor. He was on his face but I turned him
over and to my horror, it was Mr. Thornton Lyne.
He was unconscious and bleeding from a wound in the
chest,” said Mr. Milburgh, “and at the moment I
thought he was dead. To say that I was shocked
would be mildly to describe my terrible agitation.
“My first thought — and first thoughts are some-
times right -- was that he had been shot down by
Odette Rider, who for some reason had returned. The
room, however, was empty, and a curious circumstance,
about which I will tell you, was that the window lead-
ing out to the area of the flat was wide open."
" It was protected with heavy bars," said Tarling,
“so nobody could have escaped that way.”
"I examined the wound,” Milburgh went on, nod-
ding his agreement with Tarling's description, “and
knew that it was fatal. I do not think, however, that
Mr. Thornton Lyne was dead at this time. My next
thought was to staunch the wound, and I pulled open a
drawer and took out the first thing which came to my


CHAPTER XXXVI
AT HIGHGATE CEMETERY
Odette Rider sat back in a corner of the smooth-
running taxicab. Her eyes were closed, for the inle
evitable reaction had come. Excitement and anxiety
had combined to give her the strength to walk to the
cab with a firm step which had surprised the matron;
but now, in the darkness and solitude, she was con-
scious of a depression, both physical and mental, which
left her without the will or power for further effort.
The car sped through interminably long streets — in
what direction she neither knew nor cared. Remember
that she did not even know where the nursing home was
situated. It might have been on the edge of London
for all she was aware. Once, that was as the car was
crossing Bond Street from Cavendish Square, she saw
people turn and look at the cab and a policeman pointed
and shouted something. She was too preoccupied to
worry her head as to the cause.
She appreciated in a dim, vague way the skill of the
taxi-driver, who seemed to be able to grope his way
through and around any obstruction of traffic; and it
was not until she found the cab traversing a country
road that she had any suspicion that all was not well.
Even then her doubts were allayed by her recognition
284


286
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
He was gripping her by both wrists, glaring down
into her face, and there was something so wolfish, so
inhuman, in the madman's staring eyes that her mouth
went dry and when she tried to scream no sound came.
Then she lurched forward towards him, and he caught
her under the arms and dragged her to her feet.
"Fainted, eh? You'll faint, me lady,” he chuckled.
“Don't you wish you might never come round, eh?
I'll bet you would if you knew ... if you knew!”.
He dropped her on the grass by the side of the road,
took a luggage strap from the front of the cab, and
bound her hands. Then he picked up the scarf she had
been wearing and tied it around her mouth.
With an extraordinary display of strength he lifted
her without effort and put her back into the corner of
the seat. Then he slammed the door, mounted again
to his place, and sent the car at top speed in the direc-
tion of London. They were on the outskirts of Hamp-
stead when he saw a sign over a tobacconist's shop, and
stopped the car a little way beyond, at the darkest part
of the road. He gave a glance into the interior. The
girl had slid from the seat to the floor and lay motion-
less.
He hurried back to the tobacconist's where the tele-
phone sign had been. At the back of his fuddled
brain lingered an idea that there was somebody who
would be hurt. That cruel-looking devil who was
cross-examining him when he fell into a fit - Tarling.
Yes, that was the name, Tarling.
It happened to be a new telephone directory, and


AT HIGHGATE CEMETERY
287
by chance Tarling's name, although a new subscriber,
had been included. In a few seconds he was talking
to the detective.
He hung up the receiver and came out of the little
booth, and the shopman, who had heard his harsh, loud
voice, looked at him suspiciously; but Sam Stay was
indifferent to the suspicion of men. He half ran, half
walked back to where his cab was standing, leaped into
the seat, and again drove the machine forward.
To Highgate Cemetery! That was the idea. The
gates would be closed, but he could do something.
Perhaps he would kill her first and then get her over
the wall afterwards. It would be a grand revenge if
he could get her into the cemetery alive and thrust her,
the living, down amongst the dead, through those little
doors which opened like church doors to the cold, dank
vault below.
He screamed and sang with joy at the thought, and
those pedestrians who saw the cab flash past, rocking
from side to side, turned at the sound of the wild
snatch of song, for Sam Stay was happy as he had not
been happy in his life before.
But Highgate Cemetery was closed. The gloomy
iron gates barred all entrance, and the walls were high.
It was a baffling place, because houses almost entirely
surrounded it; and he was half-an-hour seeking a suit-
able spot before he finally pulled up before a place
where the wall did not seem so difficult. There was
nobody about and little fear of interruption on the part
of the girl. He had looked into the cab and had seen
vas


288
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
nothing save a huddled figure on the floor. So she was
still unconscious, he thought.
He ran the car on to the sidewalk, then slipped down
into the narrow space between car and wall and jerked
open the door.
“Come on!” he cried exultantly. He reached out
his fingers — and then something shot from the car,
something lithe and supple, something that gripped the
little man by the throat and hurled him back against
the wall.
Stay struggled with the strength of lunacy, but Ling
Chu held him in a grip of steel.


CHAPTER XXXVII
LING CHU RETURNS
Tarling dropped the telephone receiver on its hook
and sunk into a chair with a groan. His face was
white — whiter than the prisoner's who sat opposite
him, and he seemed to have grown old all of a sudden.
“What is it?" asked Whiteside quietly. “Who
was the man?”
“ Stay," said Tarling. “Stay. He has Odette !
It's awful, awful!”
Whiteside, thoughtful, preoccupied, Milburgh, his
face twitching with fear, watched the scene curiously.
“ I'm beaten,” said Tarling — and at that moment
the telephone bell rang again.
He lifted the receiver and bent over the table, and
Whiteside saw his eyes open in wide amazement. It
was Odette's voice that greeted him.
" It is I, Odette!”
“Odette! Are you safe? Thank God for that!”
he almost shouted. “Thank God for that! Where
are you?”
“I am at a tobacconist's shop in -" there was a
pause while she was evidently asking somebody the
name of the street, and presently she came back with
the information.
289


290
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
“But, this is wonderful!" said Tarling. “I'll be
with you immediately. Whiteside, get a cab, will you?
How did you get away?”.
" It's rather a long story," she said. “Your Chinese
friend saved me. That dreadful man stopped the cab
near a tobacconist's shop to telephone. Ling Chu ap-
peared by magic. I think he must have been lying on
top of the cab, because I heard him come down by the
side. He helped me out and stood me in a dark door-
way taking my place. Please don't ask me any more.
I am so tired."
A half an hour later Tarling was with the girl and
heard the story of the outrage. Odette Rider had re-
covered something of her calm and before the detec-
tive had returned her to the nursing home she had told
him the story of her adventure.
“I must have fainted,” she said. “When I woke
up I was lying at the bottom of the cab, which was
moving at a tremendous rate. I thought of getting
back to the seat, but it occurred to me that if I pre-
tended to be faint I might have a chance of escape.
When I heard the cab stop I tried to rise, but I hadn't
sufficient strength. But help was near. I heard the
scraping of shoes on the leather top of the car, and
presently the door opened and I saw a figure which I
knew was not the cabman's. He lifted me out, and
fortunately the cab had stopped opposite a private
house with a big porch and to this he led me.
“Wait,' he said. “There is a place where you may
telephone a little way along. Wait till we have gone.'


LING CHU RETURNS
291
“ Then he went back to the cab, closed the door
noiselessly, and immediately afterwards I saw Stay
running along the path. In a few seconds the cab had
disappeared and I dragged myself to the shop - and
that's all."
No news had been received of Ling Chu when Tar-
ling returned to his flat. Whiteside was waiting and
told him that he had put Milburgh into the cells and
that he would be charged the following day.
“I can't understand what has happened to Ling Chu.
He should be back by now," said Tarling.
It was half-past one in the morning and a telephone
enquiry to Scotland Yard had produced no informa-
tion.
"It is possible, of course," Tarling went on, “that
Stay took the cab on to Hertford. The man has de-
veloped into a dangerous lunatic."
“ All criminals are more or less mad," said the
philosophical Whiteside. “I wonder what turned this
fellow's brain.”
“Love," said Tarling.
The other looked at him in surprise.
“ Love?” he repeated incredulously and Tarling
nodded.
“ Undoubtedly Sam Stay adored Lyne. It was the
shock of his death which drove him mad.”
Whiteside drummed his fingers on the table thought-
fully.
“What do you think of Milburgh's story?” he
asked and Tarling shrugged his shoulders.


296
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
When Tarling had finished the documents, he looked
across the table.
“Thornton Lyne was killed by Sam Stay,” he said,
and Whiteside stared at him.
“ But —” he began.
“I have suspected it for some time, but there were
one or two links in the evidence which were missing
and which I was unable to supply. Let me read you
the statement of Sam Stay."


CHAPTER THE LAST
THE STATEMENT OF SAM STAY
“My name is Sam Stay. I was born at Maidstone
in the County of Kent. My age is 29 years. I left
school at the age of 11 and got mixed up with a bad
set and at the age of 13, I was convicted for stealing
from a shop, and was sent to Borstal Institute for four
years.
“On my release from Borstal I went to London and
a year later was convicted of house-breaking, receiving
a sentence of twelve months' imprisonment with hard
labour. On my release from prison I was taken up by
a society which taught me motor-driving, and I secured
a license in another name as a taxi-cab driver and for
twelve months drove a cab on the streets. At the end
of that period I was convicted for stealing passengers'
baggage and was sent to prison for 18 months.
“It was after my release from this term of imprison-
ment that I first met Mr. Thornton Lyne. I met him
in the following manner. I had been given a letter
from the Prisoners' Aid Society and went to Mr.
Thornton Lyne to get a job. He took a great interest
in me and from the very first was the best friend I had
ever had. His kindness was wonderful and I think
there never was a man in the world with such a beauti-
ful nature as his.
297


THE STATEMENT OF SAM STAY 299
“So that when Mr. Lyne told me that the girl was
beautiful, this idea struck me that I would have re-
venge upon her. I was living in Lambeth at the house
of an old lag, who practically took nobody but crooks
as lodgers. It cost more than ordinary lodgings but it
was worth it, because if the police made any enquiries
the landlord or his wife would always give wrong in-
formation. I went to this place because I intended
committing a burglary at Muswell Hill with a man who
was released from gaol two or three days before me,
who knew the crib and asked me when we were at
work one day if I would go in with him on the job.
I thought there might be a chance of getting away with
the stuff, if I could get somebody to swear that I
hadn't left the house that night.
“I told the landlord I had a job on the 14th and
gave him £i. I saw Mr. Lyne on the 14th at his house
and put the idea up to him. I showed him the vitriol
which I had bought up in the Waterloo Road and he
said he would not hear of my doing it. I thought he
only said that because he did not want to be mixed up
in the case. He asked me to leave the girl to him and
he would settle with her.
“I left his house about 9 o'clock at night, telling
him I was going back to my lodgings. But really I
went to the block of flats in the Edgware Road where
this girl Rider lived. I knew the flat because I had
been there the night before at Mr. Lyne's suggestion to
plant some jewellery which had been taken from the
store. His idea was that he would pinch her for theft,


THE STATEMENT OF SAM STAY 301
“He walked about the room as though he was look-
ing for something and again I was afraid that I should
be discovered after all, but by and by he went out and
came back with a small suit-case. It was after he
had gone that I saw poking out of the pocket of the
overcoat which had been hung on the hook, the butt of
a pistol. I didn't quite know what to make of it, but
thinking that it was better in my pocket than in his if
I were discovered, I lifted it out of the pocket and
slipped it into my own.
“After a while he came back as I say and started
packing the bag on the bed. After a while he looked
at his watch and said something to himself, turned out
the lights and hurried out. I waited and waited for
him to come back but nothing happened and knowing
that I would have plenty of time if he came back again
I had a look at the pistol I had. It was an automatic
and it was loaded. I had never worked with a gun in
my life, but I thought I might as well take this as I
intended committing a crime which might land me in
jug for the term of my natural life. I thought I might
as well be hung as go to penal servitude.
“ Then I put out the lights and sat down by the
window waiting for Miss Rider's return. I lit a cig-
arette and opened the window to let out the smell of the
smoke. I took out the bottle of vitriol, removed the
cork and placed it on a stool nearby me. It was a
wide-mouthed bottle because this man in gaol had told
me that the only way to throw it was from a bottle
where all the stuff could come out at once.


302
THE DAFFODIL MURDER
"I don't know how long I waited in the dark, but
about eleven o'clock as far as I can judge I heard the
outer door click very gently and a soft foot in the hall.
I knew it wasn't Milburgh because he was a heavy man.
This person moved like a cat. In fact, I did not hear
the door of the bedroom open. I waited with the
vitriol on the stool by my side, for the light to be
switched on, but nothing happened. I don't know
what made me do it but I walked toward the person
who had come into the room.
“Then, before I knew what had happened, some-
body had gripped me. I was half-strangled by an arm
which had been thrown round my neck and I thought
it was Milburgh who had detected me the first time and
had come back to pinch me. I tried to push him away
but he struck me on the jaw.
“I was getting frightened, for I thought the noise
would rouse the people and the police would come and
I must have lost my head. Before I knew what had
happened I had pulled the gun out of my pocket and
had fired point-blank. I heard a sound like a thud of
the body falling. The pistol was still in my hand and
my first act was to get rid of it. I felt a basket on
legs in the darkness. It was full of cotton and wool
and stuff and I pushed the pistol down to the bottom
and then groped across the room and switched on the
lights.
“As I did so, I heard the key turn in the lock again.
I gave one glance at the body which had fallen on its
face and then I dived for the alcove.


THE STATEMENT OF SAM STAY 305
She did not look at him, but played with the blades
of grass she had plucked.
“Are you going abroad?” she asked.
“ We are," said Tarling.
“We?” She looked at him in surprise. “Who
are we?”
“I am referring to myself and a girl to whom I
made violent love at Hertford,” said Tarling and she
dropped her eyes.
“I think you were sorry for me," she said, " and
you were rather led into your wild declaration of -
of —”
“Love?" suggested Tarling.
“ That's the word,” she replied with a little smile.
“ You were led to say what you did because of my
hopeless plight.”
“I was led to say what I did," said Tarling, “ be-
cause I loved you."
“Where are you — we — going?” she asked awk-
wardly.
“To South America," said Tarling, “ for a few
months. Then afterwards to my well-beloved China
for the cool season."
“Why to South America ?” asked the girl.
“ Because," said Tarling, “I was reading an article
on horticulture in this morning's papers and I learnt
that daffodils do not grow in the Argentine.”
THE END


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