LIBR
NERA
GEN,
RARY
ANA
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TITAS
1812
HIGA
SIENEN
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UAVE
MICH



88
В 397 ти
1939











MURDER GOULD NOT KILL
Reuben Foster, a young artist, while taking a walk,
witnesses a murder committed in an automobile.
He is too late to reach the murderer. In the car
he finds a terrified girl bent over the dead body
of her father. He drives the girl to her fiancé,
and though he wishes to get clear of the
case, his strong attraction to the girl in-
volves him in it. What follows is a
thrilling succession of climaxes that
will leave the reader breathless.
An enthralling romance adds
the piquancy of passion
to the thrills of
murder.





MURDER
COULD NOT
KILL
GREGORY BAXTER
New York, THE MACAULAY COMPANY


Published 1934
By The MACAULAY COMPANY
All Rights Resetoed
Mini,
Printed in the United States of America


2,
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Homepage
MURDER COULD NOT KILL





CHAPTER
Kat I had
NO ONE COULD HAVE MISTAKEN THE FRIGHTENING SOUND THAT
disturbed the still night; it was a woman's cry of horror-
not of pain.
After midnight in the district round the Bayswater stretch
of Hyde Park little traffic is to be expected. The sole pedestrian
in sight was a young man walking sharply west from Marble
Arch. He heard the cry.
He started—looked round-saw nothing-ran forward and
stared in the direction from which he thought the cry had
come. Barely fifty yards away, two cars were drawn up in
the middle of the quiet side street just off Bayswater Road,
a limousine and a saloon, the limousine almost directly in
the other car's path, its tail practically touching the saloon's
bumpers. He recalled he had noticed them pass him a few
seconds before.
A man was stepping stealthily from the off-side running
board of the saloon. He darted forward and swiftly entered
the limousine. The whole incident was over in a flash.
There was something so furtive and even sinister in the
movement, as it was glimpsed by the young man, that he was
instinctively urged to precipitate action.
Sprinting towards the limousine, as it moved away, he
caught up with it before it had gathered speed. Jumping
nimbly on to the running board he was just able to grab the
door handle. “Stop!” he shouted impulsively to the driver.
"Stop!” The man paid no attention to him, but continued to
accelerate.
In the semi-darkness he could see nothing clearly. He
peered into the interior. He heard a guttural exclamation,
then an arm shot out and the hand, reaching for a hold,
snatched violently at him. He swerved away, and resisted, as
best he could in his precarious position, this attempt to dis-


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
lodge him, but was suddenly struck full on the face. The
unexpectedness of the blow, more than its actual force, caused
him to relax his grip of the door handle. He fell headlong
on to the road.
As he fell what seemed almost ludicrously to impress itself
on his mind was the sight of the clawing hand with its length
of white arm up which the loose shirt cuff and jacket sleeve
had slipped. He saw no face; the occupant of the limousine
must have had his wits about him to the extent of ducking
as he thrust and struck so awkwardly.
But the mental vision vanished as his head hit the street.
Fortunately he had pitched first on his shoulder in a rolling
fall, and the impact of his head on the roadway was not suf-
ficiently severe to make him entirely lose consciousness. It was,
however, sufficiently severe to daze him. Picking himself up,
mechanically knocking the dust from his clothes, he gazed
after the rapidly retreating car. The night was too dark and
the light too uncertain for him to distinguish its make or
to read its number plate.
Robin Foster was a fairly level-headed young man, not
disconcerted, and with more of the quality of action than is
generally accredited to an artist, which calling he followed.
But he realized he had stumbled upon some crime of un-
usual character, and at once hastened at a run to the saloon
car, still drawn up in the middle of the road. The inside of it
was in darkness and there was no movement as he ap-
proached. He opened the door, felt for and found the light
switch, and flicked on the current.
Under the soft interior glow he saw the sagging figure of
an elderly man in evening clothes; saw, with a shudder, the
blood that from a wound in his temple trickled down his
cheek and on to his coat. Beside him, on her knees, was a
girl. Her head had fallen forward on to the seat-apparently
she had fainted.
“Good God!” Robin exclaimed in astonishment and horror.


10 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
"Finger-prints,” came his unspoken thought, followed by
the whimsical reflection, “I have learned something from the
fillums.” He whipped from his pocket a handkerchief and
wound it cautiously round the pistol. “Production No. 1,” he
murmured and stowed it away carefully.
Bending inside the car again he saw the girl had returned to
consciousness. He touched her shoulders and heard her faintly
moan. He leaned over her, and raised her. Her eyelids flick-
ered; opened wide. Uncomprehendingly for a moment or two
she met his solicitous gaze, then an expression of terror crossed
her face.
"Father!” she cried, and with an effort rose, sinking back
on to the seat. She glanced briefly at the motionless figure be-
side her and, sobbing, hurriedly turned her head away.
“Your father,” said Robin. “I'm sorry. I'm afraid - "
He left his fear unexpressed. Even in face of this tragedy
he could not withhold from his feelings admiration of her
unusual beauty. His artist's eye was fascinated by her strong
but exquisitely proportioned features. Her eyes were large and
lustrous, set under slightly heavy but perfectly formed eye-
brows. Her hair was a rich deep auburn, and she was blessed
with the exquisite creamy complexion which is so often the
glowing complement of hair of that alluring color. Although
they had blanched her cheeks, the shock she had sustained
and the grief she was suffering were unable to mar her charm.
As she gazed at Robin in puzzled wonderment the shadow
of a new fear entered her eyes. She definitely shrank from
him, and he thought he understood the significance of the
gesture. Hastily he proceeded to reassure her as to his identity.
He stepped back into the road and remained at the door.
"My name's Foster-Robin Foster. I was passing along and
I heard you scream,” he explained. “I saw the other car move
away. I chased after the hounds and tried to get them to stop,
but-well, as a matter of fact I only got a clip on the chin-
strap and was spun into the road for my pains."


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Who was it? Why, why- ?" she cried in semi-hysteria,
beating a clenched fist on the seat beside her.
“Look here,” interrupted Robert brusquely. “What's best to
be done? Get a doctor? Perhaps your father isn't- " He
stopped, annoyed that he could have thought to give her
hope when he knew there was none.
“I can drive a car," he continued, speaking quickly. "The
best thing is the nearest hospital or until we come to the first
policeman. Or to your home? Do you live far from here? Or
I can get help from one of the houses round here and we'll
carry your father there."
“No, no. There's no one at home. I am quite alone—now.”
The girl shook her head. "I want to be with friends with
some one we know. Go back-to 82 Charles Street, the Berke-
ley Square one. Mr. Peter Lessing's house. We have just left
there. He is a friend. He will help. It's no distance away.
Please, please hustle.”
“Yes; yes; I'll hurry all right. I know the place."
Robin jumped to action. He slammed the door; slipped
into the driver's seat, started and turned the car. Not merely
from curiosity, but also to help the girl to keep from com-
pletely breaking down, he questioned her sympathetically over
his shoulder as they rolled along.
“It all happened so suddenly. I was given no time to think,"
she answered in lifeless tones. “I was taking father home from
Peter Lessing's house. I wasn't pushing fast when that other
car suddenly dropped from nowhere and seemed to keep
running alongside us quite deliberately. Father was in the
corner seat here with the window open to get the air. He
called out to me-just as we took the corner-he seemed angry
and almost frightened.”.
"What did he call out?” Robin asked gently as she paused
and he heard her sob. He was afraid she was going to be un-
able to continue. But she rallied and answered:
“ 'Laurie, what on earth is that car doing? Get right ahead
9. Father was in the
called out to me with the window


12 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
of it or drop behind.' I fancy he leaned forward just then and
as he spoke there was a funny dull sort of smack. Before I
could turn around to see what it was, that other car shot past
and cut in in front of me. That took all my attention for the
moment. I had to jam on the brakes to prevent crashing into
them. I stopped dead. So did the other car.
“I saw a man tumble out almost before it had stopped. I
think he was in evening clothes. He had a sort of scarf wound
round the lower part of his face and a soft hat drawn right
down over his eyes. I guess that was so he couldn't be recog-
nized. He was at our car in a jump and I heard him pull open
the door. I was badly scared by this time, though I really didn't
know why, and I swung completely round in my seat. I saw
him with his hand in the inside pocket of father's coat. At that
I reached for him—then I saw the blood. ... Oh, God!”
There was a break in her voice when she resumed. “I tried
to get to father. I fancy I must have screamed just then. I re-
member nothing more until I saw you bending over me. For
a moment I thought that you—"
"Naturally. I understand,” Robin said soothingly. He did
not care to trouble her with questions at such a time, but he
could not restrain himself from asking tentatively:
"London is not your home?"
"No, we are Americans. We have been over on a visit to
London for some little time. Dexter is my name-Laurette
Dexter. Our home is in New York.”
They had now reached their destination and there was no
occasion for further speech. Characteristically Robin leaped
out of the car and dashed up the short flight of steps leading
to the heavy outside door of 82 Charles Street, Mayfair. The
girl more slowly followed him.
The street was empty, the house in darkness. He pressed the
bell-push peremptorily and continuously.
Full two harrowing minutes, during which neither spoke,
passed for them before he heard the welcome sound of hasty,


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
shuffling feet approaching along the hall, then a chain rattled;
the key turned and the door was cautiously set ajar by an
elderly manservant in a dressing-gown, who stood blinking in
the light he had switched on, his eyes still heavy with sleep or
the lack of it.
“Miss Dexter!" the man ejaculated in astonishment as he
caught sight of her standing at Robin's side, and threw the
door wide open. “Why, whatever-"
“Something dreadful has happened, Simmons," Laurette
interrupted him. "Fetch Mr. Lessing, please.”
"Urgently,” commanded Robin. “Mr. Dexter has been seri-
ously hurt. Then come back and help me to carry him in."
"God bless my soull Just one second, sir, while I tell the
master.” He turned and waddled hastily upstairs, leaving
Robin and Laurette Dexter standing impatiently and
anxiously at the door.
Simmons—“Mr. Lessing's butler," Laurette explained—did
not waste any time, however. He made wonderful speed, and
was back almost immediately. He and Robin lifted the body
of Sherwood Lee Dexter carefully from the car and carried
it into the house.
“This is dreadful, sir, dreadful,” Simmons declared fear-
fully, eyeing askance the blood on the head and face of their
burden. “However did all this come to happen?”
"Don't worry about that now,” replied Robin. “Is Mr. Less-
ing coming down?”
"At once, sir. Better take poor Mr. Dexter in here. Amazing
how heavy a body turns when life's gone, wouldn't you say,
sir?”
Robin Foster did not answer.
Backing to a door off the hall the butler pushed it open
with his shoulder and continued into the door, a large apart-
ment, half library, half study.
“Will you please switch on the light, please, Miss Dexter?”
he asked.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
15
Briefly he explained the circumstances, stressing the urgency
of the case. While he was at the instrument, which stood on a
small desk in a corner of the room they occupied, he studied
Robin carefully. .
He saw a tall, fair-haired, pleasant-looking young man, well-
groomed but not too fashionably dressed, with a cheerful,
rather nonchalant air. His humorous blue eyes, set in irregular
but attractive features, conveyed the impression that they
habitually looked on the bright side of things, although now
the light in them was somber enough. The mouth and chin
gave a hint that this easy-going young man might on occa-
sion discard his nonchalance-could meet an unusual situation
with resolution and courage.
Robin was conscious of the other's scrutiny, and realizing
that in the circumstances it was not unreasonable-indeed,
very natural-submitted to it without resentment. For his part,
he was interested in Mr. Lessing. He had vaguely heard about
him. He assumed his social position was unquestioned from
the newspaper references to him and the group photographs
he saw from time to time in various periodicals. He knew by
repute that he was a man of great wealth and some prom-
inence who appeared to entertain lavishly.
Lessing was a man of very striking appearance, between
thirty-five and forty years of age, tall, erect and broadly built.
His dark hair was flecked with gray at the temples and his
strong, deeply lined, clean-shaved face and dark, brooding
eyes were those of a man who seemed to have suffered much.
His cultivated charm of manner when he spoke completely
effaced his normal, almost austere expression. His first action,
after he replaced the telephone receiver, was to pour out a
glass of brandy from the decanter his butler had brought, and
take it to Laurette, now seated with clasped hands and rigid
but calm countenance.
“Drink this, my dear," he said as he presented the glass.
“It will brace you up."


16 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
As she obeyed he walked over to the window and with
astonishing strength ripped a heavy velvet curtain from its
fastenings, and as unobtrusively as he could laid it over the
motionless figure on the couch. Then, almost with a challenge
in his stare, as though he had been meditating the action, he
suddenly confronted Robin Foster, who through all this had
remained motionless, standing at the side of the fireplace, his
hands behind him and his lively eyes fixed frankly on Lau-
rette Dexter.
“Now, Mr. ?”
“Foster is my name—Robin Foster."
The other inclined his head courteously in acknowledge-
ment of the self-introduction, at the same time slightly raising
his eyebrows.
"The name is somehow familiar. I have heard of you, I
think, or seen your name somewhere. Please tell me what
happened.”
"If I may suggest-you'd perhaps get the hang of it better
if Miss Dexter told her story first.”
Lessing made no vocal reply to this, but turned to Laurette
Dexter, who had seated herself with her back to the couch.
She had returned the empty glass to the discreetly watchful
Simmons and was staring at the floor with her hands again
clasped on her lap.
"My dear, do you feel are you able ?"
She nodded and smiled wanly.
“Oh, quite. I feel much stronger, thanks. I realize what we
must face.” She told him quickly what had happened. Then
Robin took up the story and gave his account of events.
Lessing's brows were furrowed in solemn wonderment.
"You say you did not see the face of either of the men?”
he asked Robin, from whom his intent gaze had seldom
shifted.
"No. Impossible. I wasn't given time for that."
“The car--you say you saw nothing of its number, make, or


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 17
anything special about it that you would recognize again?
Nothing whatever?”
"No, nothing of significance. I have an idea it had no num-
ber plate. If it had, it had been obscured. It was, I think, black
-an ordinary type of medium-sized limousine like hundreds
of others in London to-day. I didn't see the bonnet.”
“What about you, Laurette?” Lessing proceeded. "Did you
see anything at all that might in any way enable you to
identify the car or the man again?” .
She shook her head.
"I got a glimpse of him only for a moment as he came into
the car. His scarf and hat kept me from seeing anything of
his face."
“As he came into the car," repeated Lessing musingly.
“That's a strange thing. I don't quite understand that.”
The others looked at him in astonishment.
“Why strange?" Robin asked after a brief silence. “He had
to clamber wholly or partially into the car to get into Mr.
Dexter's pocket, hadn't he?”.
"Quite. Nevertheless, I don't quite understand why he
should want to get into Mr. Dexter's pocket. I hardly think
my poor friend was in the habit of carrying such a great sum
of money about with him that a stranger would be ready to
commit murder for it."
“What other idea could any one have had for murdering
'him?” Robin countered.
"Exactly." "
From the dryness of Lessing's tone, however, it was clear
that he, at any rate, did not consider that the robbery theory
carried an adequate explanation of the reason for the crime.
As the other made no further comment, “I collared one valu-
able clue,” Robin observed, taking from his pocket the hand-
kerchief enclosing the pistol he had picked up. He laid it
gently down on the table beside which Lessing stood and dis-


18 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
closed the handkerchief's content. “Better" leave it so till the
police come along. Likely to be finger-prints on it, you know."
Lessing looked at him reflectively out of the corner of his
eye.
“Yes, exactly. It should be very useful. Where did you find
it?”
“On the floor inside Mr. Dexter's car. Obviously it was
dropped by the man who shot him.”
Before Lessing could reply the front door bell shrilled
loudly. “Scotland Yard,” he observed quickly, and stood
quietly waiting


20
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
part they had been cases in which the principals had been
people with little publicity attaching to their identities-cases
of mean streets and sordid motives. He sensed that this case
was different-the individuals who appeared to be involved
were at any rate on a higher social scale and there was a
barely suppressed professional light in his eye as he listened
to Robin and Laurette give their respective accounts of their
relations to the crime.
As their statements ended he pondered, remarked, “Well,
that seems to tally,” then stretched his tall figure importantly.
“Now, Mr. Foster, please,” he said, “I'm going first to ask
you some questions. We're taking a note of your replies, re-
member, so you aren't forced to answer those you don't want
to.”
“Why shouldn't I want to?" asked Robin in amazement.
"Good Lord, you don't think — ” He fell silent as realization
came to him that his story might not have been implicitly
accepted. Well, perhaps they were right to be sceptical all
round. “Go ahead,” he added shortly.
"You say you picked up this automatic pistol on the rug
inside Mr. Dexter's car? Your statement is that you thought
it might be useful for finger-prints?”.
“Yes. As I have told you, I picked it up by the silencer on
the muzzle and put it very carefully in my handkerchief with-
out touching the butt or any part of it."
"I see. Strange, isn't it, that the murderer dropped his
weapon? And inside the car. You'd have thought he'd be
more careful.”
"You would, but I can't help that. Isn't it a piece of luck,
though, that he wasn't?”
"H'm. That - remains to be seen. Almost looks as if he
dropped it on purpose-laid it there-unless he was drunk
and didn't know what he was doing."
"He may have been flurried. The whole affair was all a
matter of seconds, remember," observed Robin.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
21
"I'm not likely to forget," commented the inspector. “But,
assuming—until we have a report on the caliber of the bullet-
this was the weapon used, surely he had time to pick it up
again? It was lying clear, I take it?"
"I quite agree, and certainly I saw it easily enough,” Robin
said unhesitatingly.
“I see. I notice you carry gloves in your overcoat pocket, Mr.
Foster,” the inspector proceeded abruptly.
Robin looked at him in some astonishment, then down at
the finger-tips of his gloves protruding from the side pocket
, of his coat, thereafter re-directing his frank gaze inquiringly
at the inspector. He felt inclined to be witty at his expense,
but restrained the impulse. It was hardly the occasion for
witticism. He said nothing, but glanced at Laurette sitting
so pathetically alone.
“This man who you say hit you when you jumped on the
running-board of his car—did he wear gloves?”
“I didn't notice. It was pretty average dark, you know, but
I don't think he did. If he did, they must have been more or
less flesh-colored. But I simply cannot say anything definite
about his hands, and I'm not going to."
"I see: Yet you will realize that if the man who held the
pistol wore gloves there isn't likely to be any finger-prints?”
"No, I can't say I had thought of that; it's quite clear,
though, it would be so." He flushed as he realized the impli-
cation, but looked the C.I.D. man square in the face. He felt
rather angry at this cross-examination when all he had tried
to do was to be helpful. Before he could speak the inspector
continued:
“Of course, you wouldn't mind us taking an impression of
your finger-prints, Mr. Foster, merely as a matter of form?”.
Robin colored a deeper shade of red; this was almost going
too far.
"I would mind very much. I'm hanged if I like figuring in
criminal records. But-oh, well-no, I have no objection."


22 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
will on
they won't be
the fact that his caseruck him as
“Thank you. There may be finger-prints on the pistol which
will help us.”
“Well, they won't be mine," Robin said sharply, and he
was becoming really angry. The fact that his eagerness to help
had resulted in bringing him under suspicion struck him as
ironically unfair. “What does all this mean? What are you
implying?”
“I'm implying nothing, Mr. Foster," the inspector answered
sternly. "You will admit-and even if you don't, let me tell
you—it is my duty to consider the case with an open mind,
and yours to render all assistance.”
Mr. Lessing had been observing this slightly heated passage
closely, and now interposed.
“May I say a word or two, Inspector? I am sure we are all
anxious to render assistance, and I think I may be able to tell
you something that should perhaps prove of value.”
“Glad to hear it, sir.”
Robin Foster, still ruffled, moved his eyes from Inspector
West and looked again across at Laurette Dexter. She was
watching him. He felt his heart beat faster as he sensed the
definite sympathy in her look. Then she dropped her eyes
again.
“I have reason to believe that poor Sherwood Dexter's mur-
der was premeditated,” said Peter Lessing in incisive tones.
“I do not think its purpose was mere robbery."
“Yes?" said the inspector. That was the sole comment, but
every pair of eyes in the room was now on Lessing.
“It is decidedly a strange story. Before dinner this evening,
when we were alone in this very room-I was chairman of the
meeting at which he was speaking to-night-he quite sud-
denly seemed to lose control of himself. He confessed no less
than that he feared for his personal safety-indeed for his very
life. I had noticed he was not his usual self at all, had asked
him what was wrong, and he confided in me almost with a
sense of relief. He seemed terribly worried, at the same time
-
-
-
-
-


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 23
furiously angry, and admitted as much. Told me that he had
heard that an old enemy of his had turned up here in London.
He was afraid I might say he was certain, that this person
had followed him from the other side and that he definitely
meant him serious harm. Frankly, he left me with the abso-
lute conviction that he was in deadly fear of him. Not that
Sherwood Dexter lacked courage-far from it-but he dreaded
the other would give him no chance. That the blow would
fall unexpectedly.”
“Did he tell you who this old enemy was?”
“Of course. A man named Rufus Brett. It seems that in the
old days they were partners in the enterprise that ultimately
brought Dexter his colossal fortune. Oil, I think. They had
both been among the early settlers in the old Indian Terri-
tory—what I believe were called the Oklahoma Boomers.
Brett sold out just too soon, and ever after alleged that he had
been tricked by Dexter into doing so. That, of course, was
false. I am sure of that. Mr. Dexter was a man of the utmost
probity. It is unnecessary, really, for me to say so. Brett, from
what I could gather, is a thorough-going waster-a disrepu-
table drunkard, and something of the old-timer gambling
desperado with that.”
"Were you in any way surprised that Mr. Dexter chose you
as his confidant?"
"Not at all. It was very natural in the circumstances. I am
engaged to his daughter."
“I see. It was very natural, then, as you say, Mr. Lessing."
The information seemed to throw the inspector off some
previous line of thought. He was silent for a space.
Robin glanced across at Laurette, whose eyes were fixed on
Lessing. He tried to read her thoughts, but found her ex-
pressing baffling. So she was engaged? For the first time he
noticed the diamond ring she wore. Vaguely he felt disap-
pointed, and as he realized the fact was inwardly amused.
He was not usually so susceptible.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
27
She shook her head. The inspector saw she was becoming
agitated, and continued soothingly:
"Perhaps his private papers will explain a lot that is puz-
zling. Now, tell me, did your father ever speak to you of
Brett?”
"Only occasionally-never directly. I would say he didn't
like him, though; I realized that. It seemed as though he'd
always treated Brett kindly, but the man had turned against
him. Latterly he'd been doing things to injure poor dad.
Whatever the situation was, Brett created it all himself. It all
came from his side. Not that I ever learned the reason. And I
know myself dad used sometimes to give him money. I hap-
pened once to see a check he had made out to him.”
"Gave him money, eh?” The inspector faced Lessing, and
remarked quietly but significantly, “There's almost a savor of
blackmail there, don't you think, Mr. Lessing?”
The other ignored the question, which, indeed, had been
more a comment spoken in a way that did not demand an
answer. Lessing realized the detective was insinuating that he
might have been mistaken in his opinion of Dexter's absolute
probity.
Inspector West now sent his glance once or twice from
Laurette Dexter to Robin Foster, was on the point of speaking
to the latter, then apparently changed his mind and unex-
pectedly said to Laurette:
“Where did you first meet Mr. Foster, Miss Dexter ?”
Laurette showed astonishment. "Why, to-night, of course,”
she answered.
“Never saw him before?”
"Never."
"I see. Well, it all seems clear enough, yet ..." The inspec-
tor looked down at the sergeant bent over his notebook, and
met his gaze complacently, before he turned to Mr. Lessing
again. His tone as he addressed him was magisterial:
“Your suggestion then is, sir, that this man Brett is Mr.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 29.
“Maybe the ambulance, sir; but I hadn't expected it quite
quickly."
Lessing crossed the floor and opened the door of the room
call for Simmons, but already the butler, who had been
vaiting in the hall, was hurrying to answer the summons
of the bell.
A minute later he apologetically entered and with evident
repidation approached his master. Those in the room had
awaited his coming with interest and watched in silence.
The inspector had temporarily suspended his interrogations.
“Yes, Simmons, what is it?” Lessing asked curtly.
"Rather a peculiar sort of a-gentleman, sir. Says he wants
to see Mr. Dexter.”
All there stared at the speaker. “Dexter?" echoed the in-
spector. “Here?”
"I did not disclose anything about the poor gentleman, sir,"
the well-trained servant said, still addressing his master. “I
thought it better not to."
“Quite right. Did he say why he has called at this unearthly
hour? Or what he wanted Mr. Dexter for?"
“Just says it's urgent, sir-he wants to see him. Keeps on
repeating he must see him, and that he will."
“Extraordinary. Did he give his name?”
“Yes, sir, I asked him for that. He says his name, sir, is
Rufus Brett.”
Which of the group was most astonished no one could say.
All were almost ludicrously taken aback. In the lightning ex-
change of glances that followed each saw the other's complete
and blank bewilderment.
The inspector was the first to speak.
“We'd better look into this, quick."
He took a swift stride across the room, but Lessing shot out
a hand to detain him.
"One moment,” he said. “Don't you think he'll be safer
indoors? Simmons, bring him in.”


CHAPTER
now III
THE MAN WHO ENTERED WAS OF STRIKING APPEARANCE-STRIKING
in an uncouth way. With a slouching, determined gait, sug-
gestive of a latent reserve of force, he advanced without any
diffidence towards the little group awaiting him.
He was, as Laurette had said, of medium height and stocky
build. He had a large-brimmed, black, high-crowned sombrero
still on his head. He had no overcoat, and his dark suit was
somewhat dusty. What linen was visible was badly soiled, nor
were his boots even remotely clean. His square, powerful face
was faintly blotched but predominantly grayish in hue, the
face of the chronic alcoholic addict. It obviously had not re-
cently seen a razor.
Across his cold blue eyes which, under heavy white eye-
brows stared vacantly from one to the other of the people
about him, he passed a none too clean hand. Then he seemed
to realize he still had on his hat and removed it, saying:
"Pardon me, folks." His hand moved to run through his thick
shock of long white hair, which, with his unshaven face and
dark clothes gave him quite an apostolic air.
When he spoke again his articulation was thick and slurred,
but not sufficiently so to hide the aggressiveness of his voice.
"It's Dexter I've come around to see; my old side-kicker,
Sherwood Lee Dexter, and you can gamble your ultimate peso
I'm goin' to do so. He don't appear among you gents. He
don't show up on the horizon. Yet I reckon that's his auto-
mobile outside. Where is he located?”
No one answered immediately. All, even the matter-of-fact
police officials, felt the drama of this astounding turn to the
situation—a situation which bore most hardly upon Laurette
Dexter, who was unable to conceal her shuddering horror at
Brett's proximity. The detectives regarded him intently, and
in Inspector West's scrutiny there was a suggestion of be-
30


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
31
wilderment. Lessing and Robin were standing somewhat be-
hind the inspector, clearly leaving him to make the first move.
“Where is Sherwood Dexter?” Brett again demanded
thickly. “It's no use him trying to side-step me. Why, my old
friend Sherwood'll be as happy to see me as a wet dog."
Both in speech and aspect he suggested intoxication. He was
plainly dazed, yet appeared to be a cunning old hand with all
his wits about him. He swayed slightly as he stood looking
continuously from one to the other, moving his head, it
seemed, only with great difficulty. Inspector West walked up
to him.
"What's your name?” he asked peremptorily.
“Didn't that flunkey guy hand it out?" was the somewhat
defiant reply.
“Please answer my question,” persisted the inspector quietly.
He well knew the mentality of people in this condition.
"My name? Sure, you can have my name. I have no call
to be ashamed for it. Rufus Brett, that's what they call me.
An' they call me that since I was christened that way. Roar-
ing Rufus in the old days, an' my voice ain't completely left
me yet.”
“Why do you want to see Mr. Dexter?”
“That's my own private business, an' don't you step in be-
tween us.” The reply was given with a touch of anger and a
stupid assumption of dignity. “Now don't you all start to
crowd me. Dexter knows why I want to see him, all right.
Where's he got to?".
Peter Lessing interposed. “Are you aware, sir, that you have
intruded? This happens to be my house."
“Then it's your call, mister, but it don't shake my resolution
none."
"And this,” Lessing continued, indicating Inspector West,
“is a detective officer."
“The hell you say!" was the stranger's only comment, which
he made without removing his gaze from Peter Lessing.


32
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
"How did you know Mr. Dexter was here?” the inspector
asked.
"Oh, say, that was as easy as changin' a dollar for a blind
man. Why all this buttinski business, anyway? I called up
his swell house about fifteen minutes since. He sure does
things in great shape all right, does Dexter. Spends his money
-my money-like a gusher. They told me over the wire he
hadn't come back yet an' that Miss Dexter had come around
here to fetch him back in his own auto. And right here is the
little lady herself, huh?”
He turned, made Laurette a clumsy bow, then for a mo-
ment looked as if he intended to go towards her. Laurette
shrank back with a gesture of loathing and apprehension.
The inspector touched Brett's arm and restrained him.
“S’all right, s’all right,” Brett mumbled indignantly. “No
one has any call to get scared of Rufus Brett if there ain't no
incitement to. I wouldn't turn a sour front on the little dame
for worlds-not for worlds. She's a dandy li'l girl for surema
durn sight too sweet for that no-good shyster, Sherwood
Dexter."
“Will you be quiet, sir!" said Lessing at this, stepping for-
ward, his eyes glittering in anger. “Remember where you are,”
he added. His displeasure once more under control, he turned
to Inspector West: “I think your course is clear.”
"Let him talk, sir, let him talk," the inspector said sooth-
ingly in a low aside. “I'll keep him in hand.”
"What might be the cause for all this hostile unpleasant-
ness, anyhow?” Brett demanded in a bemused affectation of
haughtiness. “I'm sure regretful if I've pestered into a private
party. I offer you my apologies, gents. I'm not desirous to bust
into your game. Only I got to locate my old friend Dexter.
It sounds a mighty dry house, anyhow. Ain't there any drink
around?” he added inconsequently.
Ignoring this inconsequence, the inspector continued: “You


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
say you telephoned to Mr. Dexter's house a quarter of an
hour ago?”
"I sure said so."
“Where were you before that?”
Brett blinked.
“Where was I before that? You've asked a mouthful.
Though it don't nohow concern any of you gents, that cer-
tainly is a question I'd be wishful to answer. Durn me if I
know, mister. And say, that ain't all. I'm fretful to know
where I've been for them days past. I don't know if it's a day
or a year. I just want to hear. I sure would.”
"I see. You can't tell us, eh?”
"Tell you! I want to hear myself. No; durned if I can figure
it out nohow."
For the first time Brett seemed to have found a subject of
conversation that definitely interested him.
“See here,” he continued confidentially, “I've given myself
a perpetual everlastin' headache trying to reconstruct my hap-
penings and I just can't get nowhere on it. I'm plumb beat.
Hasn't nobody around here gotten any sort of a wet drink?
I've been on a skate heaps o'times, but it's never stung me like
this before. Dead tough, I call it.”
“Too bad,” Robin Foster murmured almost involuntarily.
“Yes, too bad.” Although Brett's head was beginning to sink
forward on his chest he caught the remark. He almost stag-
gered to a chair and sat down. "Too durn bad,” he muttered
again; “I reckon I'm all stung to a whisper.” He sagged in the
chair and seemed on the point of falling asleep.
“May I suggest you give him a drink, sir?” the inspector
asked Mr. Lessing quietly. “I can't imagine what he's been up
to, but he seems pretty well all in. He's dazed, as it is, but not
too stupid. With another spot we might be able to revive him
for a minute or two. I'd like to keep him talking. He'll be less
guarded now than later."
“As you wish,” Lessing acquiesced, and went out.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
35
"Business! Ain't got none, though I've been every durn
thing in this world but a choir-boy.”
“You carry a gun since you came over?”
“Why, yes, I got to admit it. I'll allow I feel a whole lot
more comfortable toting a gun. They make 'em nice an'
handy now-not like when we'd to carry around a pesky great
forty-five. But- "
“Have you got it now?”.
Brett stared sharply, his whole countenance changed as he
involuntarily moved his hand shakily but smartly to his jacket
pocket. He stared hard at his questioner. “No, I ain't got it.
First thing I noticed when I come to. Some guy's sure been
dealin' me cards from the bottom of the deck. That comes
o' hitting the stuff too plenty. Guess I'll catch a cold now
goin' around without it. But what's your concern with this--
all?” he continued, the brandy making him aggressive.
“Come over here."
The inspector guided him by the arm across the room to
within a few feet of the table on which the pistol lay.
"Is that yours?” he asked. “Recognize it?”.
"Holy blue smoke! Sure, it's mine! But who's fixed this on
the barrel? A silencer if ever I see one! Where d’you find it?”
He stretched out a confident hand to lift the weapon, but the
detective, who had exchanged a sardonic glance with Peter
Lessing over these ejaculations, guided his arm quietly aside
and drew him away from the table.
"It was found,” he said sternly, “on the floor inside Mr.
Dexter's car-his automobile-less than an hour ago."
There seemed to penetrate to Brett's bemused mind a vague
uneasiness. His aggressive mood developed. He almost
shouted:
"See here! Who's doin' all this? What's gettin' you? Cut out
this gabfest stuff. Where's Dexter? That's what I want to
know. That's what I come here for. Think you can run over
me because you've got your own bunch back of you, huh?"


36
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
Instead of replying, the detective, turning him round,
pushed him forward to the couch at the distant end of the
room, and stooping down pulled back the velvet covering
from the dead man and the lighter cloth from the now livid
face.
Brett stared aghast. “Great God!” he said, and stood blink-
ing. Then after a long pause; “Well, well, well, Sherwood. To
think as you passed out with your boots on, after all. I won-
der who put the crape on your door at the finish? I wonder
who else you crossed?"
Peter Lessing and Inspector West exchanged glances.
Rufus Brett turned aside from the body and pulled himself
erect. Something of the haze that obscured his brain seemed
to have been cleared away by the sudden shock. There was a
gleam of intelligence in his eyes. “Do you guys mean that
I ?”
"You'd better not say any more," interrupted the inspector,
who had unostentatiously moved between Brett and the door.
“I have to warn you- "
At that the other appeared to realize what was in store for
him. The old hard-bitten pioneer came to life. Quicker than
it can be told-quicker than would have been deemed possible
for a man of his years so befuddled as he had been, Brett
leaped forward and as he moved, struck and passed. With
the effortless skill of long practice he had stooped and
smashed his left full drive into the detective's stomach.
Utterly unprepared, with a grunt the inspector slumped
heavily to the floor, nearly knocking over Robin Foster as he
dropped. The seated sergeant was instantly on his feet, but he
had to clear the desk before him. For the moment he was
completely checked.
For Brett, now at the door, had snatched up a heavy chair
and faced about as the other two men started to advance on
him.
"I'll brain the first that comes for me!” he shouted, swing-


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
37
ing up the chair threateningly, and brandishing it in readiness
as easily as though it were a mere toy.
The others, the sergeant hemmed in by the desk, hesitated.
West was out for the moment. No one moved. A smashed
skull was the certain fate of the first man to rush in-even if
they all charged and rushed Brett at the same moment some
one would get it.
No one could catch him from the rear. There were no
auxiliaries within call. To move to a bell was to court dis-
aster, and at the best could fetch only a feeble old manservant
who might by chance be still lurking about in the hall.
Robin thought of the pistol. His head turned towards it.
Finger-marks or not, he would risk it. But instantly, even as
though reading the working of his mind, Brett acted.
Glancing at Laurette to make certain she was out of the line
of fire, and swinging the chair again, he flung it from him
with all his force. They all instinctively ducked, but it flew,
not at one of them, but straight at the cluster of lights hang-
ing from the centre of the ceiling.
It was over in a second. There was a crash-a tinkle of
glass as the hanging lamps were torn from their hold-a
crackling thud as the chair smashed on the wall-darkness.
Laurette uttered a cry. Simultaneously the men surged for-
ward towards where they thought Brett stood. Robin grabbed
and closed with a struggling figure and at the same time
found himself assailed. A hand felt for his throat and he
rained blows at his assailant's face. He heard a crash and an
oath as if some one had fallen heavily, then, swaying with his
man, he pitched headlong. In the darkness and in the mêlée
that ensued it was impossible with any certainty to know who
was who.
In the midst of the whirl of bodies gripping and striking
blindly in the darkness, falling over furniture, Robin, still
struggling with, as he thought, Brett, saw a faint shaft of light
as the door leading from the room into the hall was swiftly


38 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
opened. He shouted a warning as a figure unmistakably
passed through. Then the door was closed.
Breaking away from his opponent, who, he discovered from
his voice, was no other than the sergeant, he made for the
door. The sergeant followed. They found themselves involved
with Peter Lessing, who cursing almost inaudibly, swept them
aside, and himself tore the door open.
Straight across in front of them was the old butler seated on
the hall floor leaning against the wall groaning, with his hands
across his stomach. Just before they bundled through they
heard the outside door being shut.
They dashed for it, Peter Lessing leading. They wrenched
it open in time to hear the purr of the self-starter in Sherwood
Dexter's limousine merge into the throb of the engine. For an
instant the figure of Rufus Brett showed at the wheel, then the
car was away, accelerating swiftly. The sergeant behind
Lessing sounded his whistle, but in a flash the car had whirled
round the corner of Berkeley Square.
Shouting was futile. In response to the whistle a policeman
-the one who had accompanied them earlier-came running.
But he was at the wrong end of the street. At that time of
night, with the trafficless roads, even a stranger in London
could get away easily unless swiftly checked.
Robin Foster, standing straightening his collar beside Less-
ing and the ruffled sergeant, expressed these views shortly.
The others agreed and turned back into the house, Lessing
passing a word of sympathy and commendation to Simmons,
who was now seated in his hall chair painfully recovering his
wind. Otherwise he appeared to be comparatively unhurt.
Inside the room Inspector West listened to what they each
had to say, then, although still suffering from the effects of
the blow he had sustained, spoke quickly to Laurette:
"Could you oblige us with your car's number, Miss Dexter,
and the make? We'll soon have him stopped. And Mr. Less-
ing, while I use your telephone, please see that no one touches
that pistol or the glass out of which Brett drank.”


40
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
and charm had exercised on his usually indifferent self an
extraordinary spell.
Despite the strain and sorrow he felt she must be enduring,
she maintained a remarkable calm, and at the house in Por-
chester Crescent Mr. Dexter had leased for his stay in London,
received Robin on more than one occasion when their con-
versation had not been entirely devoted to the sad side of her
affairs. Although, as he discovered, she had friends in London,
endless introductions, and many acquaintances, her fiancé,
Peter Lessing, seemed to be the only other person whose
company she really desired.
She could not leave London Scotland Yard had courteously
intimated as much. She had faced the ordeal of the pre-
liminary inquest bravely, but was made to realize that further
similar ordeals would almost certainly follow. In fact, although
Robin had not even hinted at this, he was uneasily conscious
that Scotland Yard regarded her with a certain vague sus-
picion.
i
The reason for this suspicion he could not fathom. It seemed
to him ridiculous and cruel. He frowned as the reflection
again passed through his mind.
He was now on his way to see her. He was returning after
a sitting, snatched at one of the intervals, given him by a
theatrical star, a caricature of whom he was doing for an
illustrated weekly. It had suddenly occurred to him that he
could time his movements to arrive at Laurette's house not
long after dinner. He recalled she had told him she intended
that evening to remain indoors, and he wondered if, with-
out being guilty of intrusion or presumption, he could venture
to ask her out to indulge in some mild form of amusement.
He knew that while she most sensibly fought against it, she
had occasional fits of brooding, and he wanted to assist in re-
lieving her melancholy if he could.
On the impulse he turned to his right and had almost
reached her house from the west, striding briskly along in the


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
41
cool night air, when he halted in astonishment. Under the
light in the portico of her house he saw her dressed for out-
doors standing with a man. It was not this circumstance that
occasioned his astonishment; it was the appearance of the man
she was with.
He was undersized and rather shabbily dressed-of the
lower London East End race-course type, Robin decided.
From Laurette's attitude he would almost have said that she
regarded her companion with some degree of repugnance.
It was this that made Robin involuntarily stop to watch the
pair.
The man moved down the steps, glancing furtively from
side to side, and the gesture made Robin draw closer into the
shadow. Laurette followed her strange companion.
In the street the man dropped back slightly as if he did not
quite know whether he should walk with or behind her. She
spoke a word to him and they set off at a brisk pace together
in the opposite direction to where Robin stood.
He felt emphatically he could not let them go. He watched
them with some apprehension, then impulsively commenced
to follow them. Ordinarily he would have been ashamed to
do such a thing-ordinarily it would never have occurred to
him. But in the circumstances he felt he was justified.
Under the portico light it had appeared clear to him that
Laurette was far from being at her ease—and he had learned
what a strong-willed, self-reliant type of girl she was. What-
ever business she had in hand, it did not appeal to her.
As he followed them he tried to make up his mind what to
do. He was afraid, somehow, that if he overtook and addressed
them his presence might prove unwelcome. There was quite
a suggestion of secrecy in their movements.
Twice they turned corners, then again as they reached
Leinster Gardens.
It was his observation of Laurette's apparent misgiving that
made Robin resolve to follow them farther. Whatever motive


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
43
to understand why she had ventured into such an establish-
ment with such an escort.
He was completely puzzled, even alarmed, yet as completely
undecided as to what he should do. He felt he hardly now
would care to show himself to her. The fact that he had fol-
lowed her, although he had done so with what he considered
good reason, might prove annoying-even embarrassing-
even. ... He felt afraid of what he might discover, and
thought of going away. Yet something made him stand his
ground.
The impulse came to him to go straight into the bar,
through the swinging doors of the main entrance, and wait
events there; but he restrained that impulse, and after cogita-
ting decided to watch until she came out again. So he re-
mained on the opposite side of the street, lounging in the
convenient doorway. He recollected that he was wearing a
white linen collar, and accordingly turned up the lapels and
collar of his jacket, pulled his hat over his eyes and thrust
his hands into his pockets, knowing how easily flesh tints show
in the dusk.
.
His self-imposed and unpleasant vigil was, however, more
extended than he had looked for. A full half hour passed;
then came closing time—and “The Man with a Scythe" began
to disgorge its garrulous customers. But none from that side
door under the archway. He waited on, as in little groups
dallying clients were passed through the now closed doors.
The minutes dragged by, but neither Laurette nor, so far as
Robin could see, the little man who had accompanied her,
emerged. .
Now Robin began to feel seriously alarmed. Lessening
groups that stood lingering round the doors and dotted about
on the other pavement gradually dispersed. The lights in the
front windows of the public-house went out, and that little
corner of London began to put itself to bed.
He moved in some agitation beyond the range of the tav-


44
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
ern's windows and began to pace up and down in growing
apprehension. He could not remain passive in face of this.
Should he try to effect an entrance into “The Man with a
Scythe" to see if Laurette were all right-or was it a matter
for the police? He would look foolish, of course, if he in-
formed the police and it were discovered that nothing really
was wrong, and that Laurette, with the supreme self-confi-
dence of the modern miss had merely been pursuing her own
private if unconventional affairs. There was still a light, he
noticed with a sense of relief, at one of the several plain
house-windows above the shop-apparently indicating the not
unusual fact that the proprietor, probably, lived on the
premises.
While he was still considering what he should do he heard
the sound of the unbolting of the side door, one-half of which,
as he moved back to the better point of observation in the
doorway, opened to reveal Laurette.
In the brief glimpse he had of her as the light shone on her
face he saw she was unusually pale. Otherwise she was her
normal self. She emerged without turning her head and reach-
ing the street set off briskly in the direction she had come.
There was something of an anti-climax in her safe reappear-
ance, but at any rate he was relieved that apparently no harm
had befallen her.
Had he been absurd in his fears? After all, why should he
think that harm might befall her simply because she visited
a public-house with an ill-assorted escort? That visit had its
strange side, undoubtedly, but Robin was not her confidant
in all her plans and private affairs. He began to feel he had
behaved rather ridiculously. Why, in all probability, when he
spoke to her she would voluntarily tell him of her visit and say
why she had made it.
This reflection determined him not to let her know that he
had followed her. Not that he felt ashamed of having done
so-in his heart he knew he had been honestly impelled to it


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 45
by fears for the safety of one whom he-well, whom he had
come to admire more than any woman he had ever known.
But it would be difficult to explain to her convincingly why
he had experienced those fears. Yes: it would be better for
him not to try.
He moved after Laurette with quickened step, purposely
allowing her, however, to reach Leinster Gardens before he
overtook her.
“I thought it was you, Miss Dexter,” he began as he reached
her side.
She stopped with a start and stared at him, sudden fright
in her eyes. Then she smiled. “Oh, it's you, Mr. Foster.” Im-
mediately she was perfectly composed again. Pale she was,
but Robin thought she appeared almost pleased with herself,
as if something had recently happened which had given her
cause for gratification. “A bit off your usual track, isn't it?”
she added, with a note of challenge in her voice.
Or so Robin thought. At the same time he reflected that
his conscience may have made him imagine it. He did not
immediately reply.
“Well, we needn't exactly take root here," Laurette said,
"let's move. As you might guess, I'm heading for home.”
He fell into step with her, and, as they walked, replied as
nonchalantly as he was able:
"I've been taking a stroll. I was at the Lyric, doing a draw-
ing of Norman Ashcroft for that series of caricatures running
in the Stage Chronicle. I think I told you of them. I started
to walk home to my digs., and-well, I'll admit I'm in this
particular district because I was actually contemplating ring-
ing your bell to ask if you would care to come out somewhere
with me anywhere."
Laurette did not answer, so he went on rather hurriedly:
"I say, Miss Dexter, I'm sorry. Perhaps it was presumptuous,
and I know it's not my job, but I hate to think of you be-
ing—"


CHAPTER
“BAYSWATER MURDER
“News OF WANTED Man
“RUFUS BRETT, FOR WHOM THE POLICE HAVE BEEN SEARCHING IN
connection with the murder last Tuesday of Sherwood Lee
Dexter, the American millionaire, was traced early this
morning to the premises above 'The Man with a Scythe,' a
public-house in the Paddington district. When the police
arrived, however, he had gone, having apparently received
warning of their coming. Interrogations are proceeding, and
an early arrest is expected.”
This item in the stop-press column of his newspaper leaped
to Robin Foster's eyes as he sat at breakfast the following
morning. He had been early astir. The events of the previous
night had set his mind working restlessly, and he had not slept
at all soundly. His first reaction to the news was the shock
of utter bewilderment. The words, “The Man with a Scythe,"
seemed to emerge in huge letters from the printed page and
stamp themselves into his senses to the exclusion of all else.
Laurette! What had she been doing there?
Then, suddenly, in an instant all his vague doubts and fears
crystallized. Could it be possible that she had known Brett
was in hiding in “The Man with a Scythe"? Was it she who
had warned him that the police were on his track? Then he
tossed aside the newspaper and laughed at the folly of his
mental indictment. His suspicions dissipated themselves again
-lost shape, as reflections in a quiet pool lose shape when
the wind ruffles its surface. Like a cooling breeze to blur the
clear-cut picture projected for that instant into his mind came
the thought: more probably it was she who had informed the
police where Brett was hiding.
GC


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
And yet. ... He reached for the newspaper and stared at
the words. Why had she not told him last night? Why on
earth should she maintain secrecy on such a matter? Espe-
cially, in the circumstances, with him? He became increas-
ingly puzzled and worried, and felt he could not rest until he
had seen Laurette Dexter and received an explanation from
her.
At first he had thought of telephoning, then decided it
would be better to see her.
When he called at her house, to his astonishment he learned
that she had not yet breakfasted.
"It isn't like Miss Dexter, sir," the friendly maid-servant as-
sured him with a welcoming smile. “She's usually up and
about early. Perhaps you would care to come in and wait? I'll
let her know you are here."
Fifteen minutes passed before Laurette descended to the
morning-room where Robin, harassed with anxiety, awaited
her impatiently,
She, too, appeared worried, he thought, and to his aston-
ishment she was slightly frigid in her attitude. He sensed this
as she quietly returned his cheerful greeting. Hitherto on the
few occasions when he had called on her she had expressed
herself pleased to see him and made him feel that she sincerely
was. No such expression came from her now, and the fact
made him more than ever puzzled and a little embarrassed.
“I simply had to come along to see you," was his opening
remark.
“Yes?” she returned. “Do please sit down, won't you. Don't
stand about there on one leg like that.” Her request was more
petulant than playful and Robin, by no means slow in the
uptake, chose to interpret it as a suggestion that he should
waste no time in saying what he had to say.
He noticed that she passed a hand wearily across her brows,
closing her eyes as though in pain.
“Aren't you feeling well?” he asked sympathetically,


50
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Oh, I'm all right. I didn't mean to sleep so long this morn-
ing, that's all. I am rather annoyed with myself—I have so
much to do. I have a slight headacheman unusual thing for
me. I don't suffer from that female weakness, the headache
complex.”
"Would you rather I came back later? Actually I want to
speak to you rather importantly, and perhaps it may take some
time."
From where she had seated herself directly facing him she
watched him closely, with an expression of misgiving that sat
ill on her beautiful face.
“Not at all,” she replied quietly. "If it is important you had
better tell me now. We can always make time for important
things."
"You have seen the news-heard they are definitely after
Brett?"
She looked at him coldly, nodded, but made no other reply.
“You don't seem so pleased as I would have expected,"
he continued, slightly irritated.
At that she turned abruptly away.
"Pleased is hardly the word. You surely don't expect me
to register delight over the thought that a human being is—
is likely to be hanged?”
She spoke in level tones but there was an undercurrent al-
most of suppressed hysteria in her voice. Deliberately she
seemed to avert her face from Robin's gaze.
“Sorry. I hardly meant it in that way,” he returned, “al-
thought, after all, there's no need to be squeamish about the
matter. Brett deserves all he gets, it seems to me. Consider the
circumstances. The fellow shot your father. Surely you need
waste no sympathy on him."
“Can we be so sựre that he did?”
His eyes widened in blank amazement. He looked at her in
silence, making no attempt to conceal his complete and utter


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 51
stupefaction. Had she suddenly stood on her head he could
hardly have been mode astonished.
"I say,” he said slowly, “that's a bit of a bombshell, coming
from you. You've never even suggested such a thing before.
Nor has any one else. Of course he's the man who did it. Who
else could have done it when we consider all the facts? We
know Scotland Yard compared the finger-prints on the auto-,
matic pistol I found with those Brett left on the tumbler he
had a drink from in Peter Lessing's house. He admitted the
pistol was his. One shot had been fired from it. The bullet
found agreed with the remaining cartridges and with the
markings in the barrel, and so on. That seems pretty con-
vincing, even if the authorities had any doubts, and so far as I
can gather they have none at all.”
“I admit it seems so. But what if that gun had been stolen
from him and used by some one else? Some one who had
taken mighty good care not to leave the impression of his own
finger-prints on it?” She asked the question challengingly.
Somehow or other Robin felt uncomfortable, and at the
same time definitely annoyed.
“I hadn't considered that possibility,” he retorted, “although
-yes, I do now remember it was suggested by Inspector West
that the pistol might have been laid in the car deliberately.
I hadn't thought it necessary. You, yourself, know that some
old grievance existed between Brett and your father. The case
against him seems staggeringly clear.”
She shook her head.
"Has it not struck you,” she parried quietly, “that it is
strange Scotland Yard has been unable to discover the slight-
est trace of the automobile which Rufus Brett is supposed to
have used to overtake ours? A car, remember, you yourself
saw, but can't describe in any way accurately. It is more or less
proved that he could not own an auto-a car. Yet your police
have not been able to trace that he even hired one. They have
combed every hiring agency and garage in London without


52 : MURDER COULD NOT KILL
result. They're terribly slick on these things here. I suppose it's
because you're all so law-abiding and anxious to help.”
"It isn't difficult to find a reasonable explanation of that,"
Robin countered. “Maybe whoever he hired it from was in the
game with him, and naturally they've kept mum; or it may
have been a private car borrowed from a private individual.
You remember that inspector chap suggested he would prob-
ably have pals.”
· "The man I saw wore a small English soft hat and had a
white scarf wrapped around his face. When Brett came to Mr.
Lessing's house that night he had a distinctively American hat
and no scarf.”
"Don't you think you may be mistaken about the hat? You
admitted at the time that everything happened so unexpect-
edly you had little opportunity to notice details.”
"That is so, but-well, I just feel that the man who came
into our car hadn't a hat like Brett's. And I'm sure about the
scarf.”
“That doesn't take you very far," Robin almost smiled.
"He would leave his scarf in the car, I expect.”
“True enough. Of course one can really find explanations
for anything, I suppose."
She spoke in despondent tones and again passed a hand
over her eyes. Then she said more briskly:
"But he did telephone here just around the time of the
murder, as he said he did. That also is true. It has been
checked. Now, why should he have done that? It doesn't seem
at all like the action of a man who had just committed such a
fearful crime."
“You know Scotland Yard's explanation. A feeble endeavor
to provide an alibi. The sort of futile imbecility, in short, that
would occur to a man whose mind was fuddled with drink, or
dope.”
“Dope! Exactly!” Laurette exclaimed almost triumphantly.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 53
“Eh?” ejaculated Robin, staring at her. As she remained
silent he continued seriously:
“Miss Dexter, I frankly cannot understand what has hap-
pened to you. What on earth has made you suddenly swing
over like this? You have never suggested any of these doubts
to me before, or to any one else so far as I know. Don't you
want the creature to be caught? After all, it was your father.
Sorry to be so very personal, but even in the matter of his
will isn't it to your advantage? You well know the main
condition of that will.”.
“It's an advantage that in the circumstances I should just
hate to take.” Her lips set in a firm line and her eyes flashed
with a hint of anger. “I think it's a diabolic condition, and I
don't care if it's never fulfilled.”
“But, Laurette," persisted Robin, unintentionally dropping
all formalities in his earnestness, “whatever are you saying?
You can't chuck away a colossal fortune like that. I admit it's
most unfortunate that you should be involved so intimately
in such an unhappy business; but after all, hang it, you surely
wouldn't want a murderer, even if the person murdered were
nothing to you, let alone your own father, to get off scot free?"
Despite his effort to keep the discussion in a state of sweet
reasonableness, he had reached a pitch of mild indignation. At
his tone, and perhaps at his use for the first time of her Chris-
tion name, the pallor of Laurette's cheeks changed to a faint
pink.
"Of course I quite realize how it must appear to you, Mr.
Foster, so we'll leave it at that. And now—tell me the real
reason for your call.”
“The reason I had, apparently no longer exists. I thought
you had come to look on me as a friend. My inevitable interest
in the case made me want to have a talk with you about it. It
may sound rather lame but that's all.”
"I did consider you as a friend-once. But was it your idea
of friendship to spy on me last night?”


54
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
Her tone was contemptuous, and it flicked Robin on the
raw. He felt his cheeks flush crimson, and for a moment he
avoided her eyes. So all along she had known he had followed
her last night! That explained the change in her attitude
towards him. Yet last night. ... Thoroughly uncomfortable,
he stood up, but forced himself to face her again.
“I had no intention of spying, as you call it,” he said quietly.
“I think you are unfair, judging me without first giving me a
chance to explain. I happened to see you leave this house with
a fellow you didn't seem too sure of. I thought of overtaking
you-but for various reasons I didn't. One was that I might be
intruding-putting my foot in it, I mean. But when I saw he
was taking you into a rather low quarter I followed not from
any motive such as you imply. I wasn't being impertinently
inquisitive—I was really concerned for your safety.”
“Quite unnecessarily,” she commented coldly. “And having
satisfied yourself as to my safety perhaps you will tell me
what you intend to do now.”
"What I intend to do? What on earth are you talking
about?” he queried blankly.
"Talking about! I don't wish to be unfair or unjust or what-
ever you care to call it, but you'll allow me to conclude you
intend to continue in your good work, Mr. Foster."
Robin felt moved to downright anger at this. “You're speak-
ing in riddles,” he exclaimed. “Don't you accept my explana-
tion of why I did follow you?”
“I suppose I must. I'll say, though, that I'd be more ready
to accept it had you been frank with me.”
“You mean I should have told you I'd followed you? Per-
haps I should have done so—but we can only do what we
think best at the moment. When you didn't say where you had
been-I gave you the chance, remember-I thought it better to
keep quiet. After all, there was no harm done. When I saw
you were quite safe, and required no help from me, I realized
it was no further concern of mine. I'm sorry you take it as


56
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“You mean-surely you can't mean you intended helping
him?"
“What do you think I intended to do, then?" she retorted
defiantly.
“But, good God, do you realize ?” He broke off and in
agitation began to walk about the room.
“I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my
heels,” he said. “This is the complete knockout. Do I under-
stand your intention was to try to help him to escape?”
Robin's genuine agitation seemed to affect her in his favor.
She regarded him with a more sympathetic eye, and her voice
assumed a kindlier note.
"Perhaps I did not mean to help him definitely to get away.
I did mean, however, to keep him out of the hands of the
police for a spell. I reckon you look at these things a bit dif-
ferently from us. You're more worshipful of law and order,
and all that sort of thing. Guess we're still only half-civilized
on that count, or perhaps it's only me. Anyhow, I had spoken
to him and learned certain vital things I am satisfied are true.
These compelled me to believe he could not be the guilty
person after all. Make no mistake-I intended to help him un-
til I could follow up what he has told me.”
“Oh, but this is absurd!” declared Robin, stopping in front
of Laurette and throwing out his arms hopelessly. “These vital
things you speak of! Doesn't it remotely occur to you that the
police can look into them better than you? He has only to
tell his story to them and let them act on it. Until this mo-
ment, I thought you were more anxious than any one of us
to lay hands on Brett. What else could you be? I certainly was.
Not for any personal motive. After all, the personal motive is
yours.”
“My personal motive can be left out of it,” she returned.
“You yourself have said the case against him is clear. Well,
it is so clear, in fact, I admit it-that I don't think your police
will worry to listen for one little moment to what he has to


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
say. Or they might listen—they're very courteous—but-and I
don't blame them—they will not believe. He can't just explain
where he was at the time of the murder—where he was even
the day before; and it's really only just personal feeling based
on what I've learned from him that makes me certain there
is more in the case than there obviously seems to be."
“That's clear enough,” Robin commented bitterly. He could
not dismiss the unwelcome reflection from his mind that her
explanation was dangerously weak.
He advanced a step towards her, meeting her gaze with
steady eyes; his usually merry face grimly sobered.
"Is that all you have to tell me, Laurette? It is merely be-
cause you think he is innocent that you have been shielding
him?"
Her look was as unfaltering as his.
“No. It is not merely because of that. There is another rea-
son. But that is something I simply cannot tell you."
The slightly hasty gesture of dissatisfaction he was about to
make was not completed when he saw at that instant how
overwrought she was—the suffering that showed in her eyes.
“Miss Dexter-Laurette-please. Believe me I am only
anxious to help you; surely you can see that? You must have,
ever since we met. I want to help you more than any one in
this world. Surely you can explain-make me under-
stand? I may still be able to help you.” He continued eagerly.
"Don't you see what you may have let yourself in for? They'll
believe-good God, they'll believe you had a part in the death
of your own father!"
“How dare you! How could any one believe that? The
mere suggestion is monstrous!” But the indignation of her
words conflicted with a sudden wave of apprehension that
passed across her face.
“I know it's monstrous,” Robin said soothingly. "I hated
even to say so. But surely it's better that I should tell you.
You must consider what every one will think. Don't you ·


58
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
realize that at best you will be suspected, questioned, and
suffer hell generally?”.
He moved closer.
“Laurette, from that very first moment I saw you—"
She interrupted him hastily.
“Yes, Robin, I know, I know you want to help me. You
have been so very kind to me. I am most grateful. Bless you
for it. But I can't tell you everything. Not yet. I know I'm
asking a great deal. I don't know exactly what you intend to
do, but ”
“What do you think I intend to do?”
"Well, as a law-abiding citizen I suppose you've no alterna-
tive but to tell the police. Don't think I don't appreciate your
position. I do. I won't blame you. No doubt I deserve all I
get.”
He looked at her, his brows drawn down in perplexity.
"I'm afraid my not telling I never had any intention of
telling-won't keep the police from learning you visited Brett
at 'The Man with a Scythe.'”
“Yes it will.” Her voice was assured. “I know it will. You
see,” she explained hurriedly, “your police were told he was
there by the proprietor, the man who sheltered him in the first
place—they were old friends. We arranged that before he
came away. We saw no other means of keeping Mr. Marks-
the proprietor-out of trouble. He explained to your police
by telephone that he had become suspicious of a man who had
taken up lodgings at his tavern two days ago—that he thought
he might be Rufus Brett. Of course, before he telephoned we
arranged for Brett to leave.”
The audacity of this statement staggered Robin. Even in his
bewilderment, however, he did not fail to perceive that she
or Mr. Marks, bright ladl-had acted as though problems such
as those which had confronted them were commonplace.
“A moment, Laurette.” Despite the serious nature of the
discussion, he could not repress a faint smile. Almost there


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 59
was something ludicrously incredible in her attitude, and his
sense of humor asserted itself. Then quickly he became grave
again. “Let's get this clear. You arranged all that before he
came away. You know where he is now, then?"
“Why—why, of course! You know, too, don't you?-that's
what we've been talking about.”
"Is it? Well, I don't know. Where is he?”
At that she suddenly flushed, frowned, pondered a moment,
and did not speak until she was victorious in the struggle she
was making to regain her self-control. Then in a calm, clear
voice she answered:
“In this house."


CHAPTER
V
VI
ROBIN WAS RAPIDLY BECOMING CHEERFULLY SEASONED TO SUR-
prises. Nevertheless, this last revelation that Brett was here
in Laurette's house was more than he had bargained for. He
was staggered. He stood facing her in spellbound silence for a
space. Then he abruptly turned away and simply subsided
limply into a chair. He realized to the full the awkwardness
and seriousness of his position in the affair. One thing stood
out clear: on no account could he be a party to the defeating
of justice—yet that meant the betrayal of Laurette. It must
truthfully be confessed that under his breath he swore heartily.
“This is the very devil. I almost wish you hadn't told me,”
he muttered at last. “I know I asked, but—" He paused.
"Sorry to appear egotistical yet you must see how it places
me. Laurette, what are you going to do with him? I feel a
beast saying it, but the circumstances force me to: I must re-
fuse to keep silent on such a matter. You must hand him over
to the police without a moment's delay, otherwise "
“Don't worry,” she said quietly. “I am not suggesting you
should become an accessory after the fact, as I think you call
it. He intends to give himself up to-day. That's at his own de-
sire; he himself insists on it. I would have been willing to try
to help him get away—I admit it to you. I needn't give you his
reasons: I have argued it all out with him, but he just won't
have it. He's afraid, like you, that I will get into serious
trouble. He says I've done enough."
“I'm relieved to think the fellow has so much sense left.”
Robin remarked emphatically, with a sigh of profound relief.
“Phew! That's comforting news. That takes a load off my
mind. All we have to consider now is how best he can hand
himself over without implicating you.”
"You'll come in with me to that extent?" she asked, joy
60


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 61
showing in her face for the first time in their discussion. “I
might have known you would!”
“My dear Laurette! Of course I will.” Robin was exuberant
now that he realized matters were to proceed more according
to the dictates of law and order. “Let's examine the situation
quickly and seriously. First and very important: any danger
that Brett may reveal that you've been helping him? You
needn't be afraid they'll squeeze it out of him. These methods
are not yet in our curriculum."
"No, Brett won't tell.” Her tone was decisive. "I'd go the
limit on that.”
“Good. Now next we take his pal at the pub. What about
the people at "The Man with a Scythe'?”
“Only two were in the know—the proprietor, Joe Marks,
and one other. That has been arranged.”
“The servants here?”
"None of them know anything about him. I opened the
door myself for him late last night, put him in a box-room at
the top of the house, and locked the door. I keep the house
keys myself, and that room has never once been used since
we took over the place. Indeed, no one ever goes near the
whole top floor at any time.”
“What about Mr. Lessing? Why he lent himself to this —"
“But he didn't!" she interrupted. “Of course he knows noth-
ing about it.”
"Laurette! What on earth's coming next! You don't mean
to say you did not speak to your fiancé about Brett as you
have been speaking to me? Do you actually tell me that he
doesn't know you have been helping him?"
She shook her head.
“He doesn't. It may sound strange, I know; and perhaps it
might not strike you, yet it isn't at all strange. You see my
relationship is different. I could not ask my fiancé to take
me on trust in this affair as I have asked you. He would
have been perfectly entitled to demand why I wanted to help


64 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
turned over without any feel of resistance. A look of aston-
ishment crossed her face as she realized that the door had
already been unlocked. She looked at Robin in alarm, then
entered, and Robin, following her, heard her utter a gasp,
almost a scream of horror. He pushed in beside her to dis-
cover the cause.
The room, which was lit only by one small window placed
right in the center of the slanting ceiling, was unoccupied.
That, however, was not all that had occasioned Laurette's
alarm. The one chair the room contained was overturned, one
of its legs having been broken off, and on the dusty, uncov-
ered wooden floor were traces of slithering feet.
“What! Where? Oh, Robin, what can have happened?”
Laurette stammered blankly.
"God knows,” Robin answered soberly, and fear entered his
heart also as he saw some small dark stains beside the plain
couch set against the wall. Some rugs and pillows on it were
tossed untidily over it and the floor. He stooped down and
touched one of the stains with a finger. “Blood," he said
quietly, looking up at her. He straightened himself and faced
her. “There seems to have been a pretty fierce scrap. There's
been more than one visitor here."
"But what can it mean? I-I—" She halted, her eyes wide
open in suspicious dread.
"That's what we have got to find out," he replied grimly.
“Steady, now! Don't let's get panicked. We may get some sort
of clue.”
He looked up at the window, drew a finger along the lower
part of the woodwork; then shook his head.
"Nothing came in or went out there, that's certain. Some
marks would have shown. See-the dust hasn't been disturbed
at all. ... Tell me: what condition was Brett in? Was he
aggressive? I mean, was he inclined to be violent-liable to
go off at the deep end? Had he been drinking when you met
him?"


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Not to any extent. He was rather dazed but not in any
way violent. As if he had been on a terrible bout of drinking
and was pulling round. Oh, I'm afraid-afraid something
terrible must have happened.”
“It looks like it. All these marks on the floor don't suggest
to you that somehow or other he worked himself into a frenzy,
injured himself, and went off of his own accord, do they?”
“No, no. I am sure it could never have been anything like
that. He was more than grateful for the sanctuary I gave him.
It's not in the least likely he would go off without letting me
know. No, it's not that.”
“Well, it can't have been the police who have collared him,
that's clear, so we eliminate that. You'd have heard all about it
if that had been the case. So if it's kidnapping-though Lord
knows, why kidnapping?-it's been done from inside the
house. There's either a traitor in your camp or an entry has
been forced or made somehow. You say you had the only key.
of this room?"
“So far as I knew. When you rent a house and get the keys
handed over you don't usually reckon on duplicates."
“That's true. The lock hasn't been forced or anything?"
Robin continued, stepping across to examine it. “No; the
door has been opened in the ordinary way—the bolt has been
turned back without any damage being done. A key or an
expert lock picker. It must have been opened by some one
with another key or a lever. It's an ordinary simple lock.
What servants are there in the house?”
"A cook-housekeeper—an elderly person, Mrs. Deeming-
and two servant girls, Mary and Elsie, and my own maid,
Beaton. There's also Ethridge, the valet-chauffeur. He was
taken on with the car—it's only hired by the month—but he
lives out.”
Robin pondered for a moment.
"I'm afraid this is where our troubles begin," he said. “It
must have been one of your own household who opened this


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
"I think so. Wait-let's test it. I'll run down to my room.
You jump around a bit. Try to imitate a rough house."
Robin smiled as he did her bidding and admired her prac-
tical mind.
When Laurette returned she said: “Well, I did hear, but
not so's you'd notice if you hadn't been holding your breath
and waiting for it. Your oldish English houses are mighty
solid.”
“Where do the servants sleep?”
"Right at the bottom of the house, in the basement at the
back.”
“Then it isn't very likely or even possible they would hear
anything unless it were an absolute riot.”
"That is so. Otherwise they'd surely have raised an alarm
or made some inquiry. Unless, of course ” She broke off.
“D'you know I-I'm beginning to feel seriously alarmed about
these women here. Surely they're not all in league against me!
No, they can't be. I refuse to think these very ordinary, decent
people are in a plot. There must be some other explanation.”
“I'm afraid we can't get away from it that some one in this
house opened that door. And whoever did it doesn't care if
you know it. There's a pretty cunning brain at work what-
ever the game is. Don't you see,” Robin continued excitedly,
"any questions you may ask won't take you very far. They
could see that a mile away before they started. What ques-
tions can you ask? You can't say you have been hiding here a
man wanted for murder and who has now mysteriously dis-
appeared. No one would believe either one story or the other.
They'd think you crazy or else would report the matter to
the police, and then! No. We've been consommé-ed with the
utmost delicacy and completeness, but—what or who is behind
the idea of the kidnapping? That's the weirdest thing of all.
We are further in the soup if anything serious has happened
to Brett. One point is clear: we can't go to the police now-
for your sake-until we find him again."


68
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“It's real good of you to suggest you're going to accom-
pany me into the soup,” Laurette thanked him with a rather
wan smile. “You talk as though you were there with me af
ready. It is rather too much to ask of you, though. Why
should you be dragged into this unpleasantness? I am the
person who has made a mess of things. I think I should at
least try to get out of it alone.”
“My dear Laurette,” said Robin, affecting a cheerfulness
which really he was far from feeling, "we are together in this
affair. Don't worry. We'll see it through all right. Our imme-
diate problem is: who the devil is it that has wafted Brett
away? And why?”
away, problem orry. W


CHAPTER
VII a
THE CLIÉNTÈLE OF THE “NEGRESCO” IS IN THE CATEGORY KNOWN
as mixed. In Edwardian days it was a favorite resort of light
comedy stars, past, present, and future, and of the more sport-
ing section of what was then called the Upper Ten: a de-
scription embracing that fashionable coterie of more or less
youthful habitués of London's West End who had little to
do and in the majority of cases ample cash resources with
which to do it. Those who lacked the underpinning of wealth
had resources of another kind. The “Negresco's” gaudy opu-
lence, regarded in those days as the ultimate expression of
luxury, has long been known for what it is, and all attempts
at redecoration have failed to disguise its inherent structural
vulgarity. Only complete reconstruction could do that. And as
its prestige declined, so, in a social sense, did the character of
its frequenters.
To-day its chief patrons are saturnine, hook-nosed gentle-
men and that class of women who, when they figure on a
police charge sheet, as they not infrequently do, are rather
unfairly accorded the dubious professional standing indicated
by the phrase, “Described as an actress.” The saturnine gentle-
men have the volubility and wealth of gesture which derive
from an Eastern origin, and have their business, as any one
who cared to listen to their conversation for a moment or two
would discover, in the vicinity of Wardour Street and Shaftes-
bury Avenue.
Seated at one of the small tables in the lounge, Robin Foster
surveyed the company assembled. It was still early in the day
and the place was half empty. In a few minutes he satisfied
himself that so far as he could observe the man he sought was
not present. He hailed a waiter.
"I'm looking for some one here," he said, “I believe he
comes here regularly.”


70 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Yes, sir?" the waiter returned politely. “What is his name,
sir?"
Leisurely Robin dipped his hand into his trousers pocket
and extracted two half-crowns. He slipped these across the
glass-covered table and the waiter's fingers descended on them
with a murmur of thanks. He looked inquiringly at Robin,
who explained:
"I don't know his name. That's where I want your as-
sistance. I can tell you one distinctive thing about him that
may help, though. He has had an accident to one of his hands
-the right, I think. The fingers seem partially webbed.”
“Oh, now I've got you, sir,” the waiter answered. “You
mean Mr. Gordon-Mr. Maurice Gordon. Yes, his right hand
is queer. He once told me how it happened-he's quite an old
customer, you know. His hand got poisoned-copper poison-
ing I think it was and when it got what you might call all
right again as far as the poisoning goes, blowed if a sort of
skin hadn't grown up almost half-way between the fingers.
That was when he was just a nipper, sir. In those days they
weren't so clever with the knife, and it seems as it would be a
bit of a risk to operate now. But it doesn't inconvenience him
at all-not in his business. He makes a book, you know.”
As he imparted this last piece of information his gaze met
Robin's in polite but increased inquiry.
“Yes,” Robin thought it wise to say—in any case he now
did know. "I know he makes a book. I may want to do a
little business with him. What's the best time to get him?"
"After lunch, sir. He always comes into this lounge for
coffee and a fine round about two o'clock. You'd get him
then, sure.”
"That will suit me first rate. I'll look in again about that
time. Thanks very much.”
“Shall I let him know who ...?"
Robin hesitated.
"Well,” he said at last, “I tell you what you might do. When


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
71
you see me here again you could point me out to him and say
I'd be obliged if he'd join me for a minute or two. Tell him
I won't keep him long."
He rose, acknowledged the waiter's grateful obeisance with
his usual pleasant smile, and went out.
He had reason to feel pleased with that few minutes' work,
he reflected. Almost he had thought he was on a fool's errand.
Before he left Laurette's house that morning she had repeated
to him certain points of the conversation she had had with
Brett, seeking to convince Robin of his innocence and to find
some means whereby it might be proved.
It was Brett who had told her of the existence of the web-
fingered man. He had declared this man was the last person
he could recollect having met prior to the murder of Mr. Dex-
ter. He had encountered him in the "Negresco," had had a
few drinks with him, and then remembered no more until
he had found himself wandering through the West End-
some thirty hours later, as he had subsequently discovered. It
was then he had telephoned to Mr. Dexter's house, thereafter
calling at Mr. Lessing's.
It had been Laurette's suggestion, almost her wish, that if
Robin could find and establish contact with this web-fingered
man—that was the only clue to recognition of him Brett could
give—he might discover something helpful. For his part,
Robin had felt that Brett had been romancing, but nevertheless
had cheerfully agreed to put the matter to the test. It was the
obvious thing to do in the circumstances, and he was glad
now that he had done it. Clearly whatever Brett had told
Laurette—and Robin would have given a lot to know what
that was—it had not all been false.
In regard to Laurette herself, Robin was intensely disturbed.
Try as he would he was quite unable to imagine any reason
for her extraordinary conduct. He had given his word that he
would trust her, help her, yet he could not but feel extremely
uneasy over the amazing change in her whole attitude.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
It was plain she no longer thought Brett was the man who
had shot her father. She simply refused to credit it. Robin
believed he now knew her well enough to be assured that
otherwise she would never have schemed to assist him to es-
cape arrest. Equally, however, it was plain that more had gone
to implant this conviction in her mind than the little she had
told Robin. She was quite frankly keeping something back
from him; something that necessarily was of tremendous im-
port.
As he walked, unconsciously he shrugged his shoulders.
Well—perhaps she would confide in him later. Whether she
did or not he was her partner in the course of conduct on
which they were set. Meantime, he would get some highly
necessary work done and snatch a hasty lunch.
At two o'clock he returned to the “Negresco," re-entered
the lounge and found a seat at a table. Looking round he
sought the eye of the friendly waiter, who, comprehending,
immediately inclined his head and crossed to where three
men sat at one of the tables. The waiter bent over them,
and the member of the trio whose back was towards Robin
swung sharply round and looked searchingly across at him.
This man had an undoubtedly Semitic countenance. The
amused thought flashed through Robin's mind that although
his name might indeed be Gordon, the Jordan more probably
than Speyside had seen his forefathers.
After staring at Robin for an instant the man rose and
came smartly over to his table. He was of sturdy build and
middle height, rather over-dressed in the somewhat flashy
fashion which is the hall-mark of so many of the race-going
fraternity, and there was about him that curious air of being
always on the defensive that is characteristic of so many of
them.
Robin, rising, greeted him by name, and adding, “Will you
please sit down,” motioned him to the chair opposite. They
both seated themselves.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
73
"You may think all this rather strange", Robin continued
amiably, “but I hope you will excuse me when I explain. I
won't detain you long. Meantime, will you have something
to drink?”
"Not for me,” Gordon replied abruptly as he watched him
under his heavy lids. He spoke in a thick, oily voice which
definitely established his kinship with the lower type of He-
brew. "I have had all I want to drink with my friends."
"As you wish. My name-".
"You want to make a bet?” Gordon interrupted.
"No. It's true I suggested to the waiter I did. I merely
wanted to stifle his curiosity. My business is rather more
serious."
"I know your name all right. It's Foster, ain't it?” the other
proceeded swiftly before Robin could continue. "Robin Fos-
ter?”
Robin leaned back in his chair. He could not conceal his
astonishment, nor did he make any effort to do so. “Well,
I'll be damned,” he said smiling. “How the devil did you
know?"
The other twisted his lips in a sneering smile. “That don't
take much doing when your photograph's been plastered all
over the newspapers in their song-and-dance about this here
Bayswater murder."
“Yes, of course, confound it; so it has. I had hoped no one
would be able to recognize me from them. Hanged if they flat-
tered me much. They were bad enough to make me look like
the murderer myself.” He laughed unaffectedly, but Gordon
did not even smile. He continued to scan Robin unemotion-
ally but keenly with those heavy-lidded eyes.
“I recognize you all right. You see, I've got a bit of an
interest in the schemozzle. I'm what you might call in on it
myself.”
Robin hesitated, as well he might. This was the last thing
he could have expected. Here, he realized in a flash, was ex-


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
75
“What took you down?” Robin persisted, endeavoring to
keep his voice as casual as he could.
“Their advert., of course. What d'you think? Immediately
they advertised for information about his movements I goes
straight down to hand 'em mine. They didn't say as they've
found any one who saw him after me, did they?”.
"No, no," Robin assured him hurriedly. “They didn't.
Really, as we are both in a sense mixed up in it, all I wanted
to hear from you yourself was what you thought of Brett."
"Thought of him? Damned little, I can tell you. He's noth-
ing more nor less than a regular old booze-fighter."
“He—was merely a chance acquaintance, then?"
"See here!" Gordon exclaimed abruptly. “Since the Yard
told you about me what the hell's the sense of all this? You're
an artist, ain't you. What you working up to? Want to lift
my face, too? Of course he was a chance acquaintance! What
you gettin' at? I didn't know him from a bleedin' Eskimo be-
fore he started chinning to me in the 'Negresco'."
"I quite understand how you feel, Mr. Gordon. I must seem
rather an inquisitive person, I admit. You mụst please forgive
me. Scotland Yard did not tell me much. Hardly anything. I
don't suppose they are very communicative at any time, and
naturally I am more than a bit curious, being involved in the
wretched affair as I am. So I'll frankly be very grateful if
you'll tell me what precisely happened. Was he drunk when
you met him?"
“Drunk? He was full to the neck and his back teeth a-wash.
He could stand, but that was about all. 'Course it didn't take
me long to get damned fed up with his Wild West stuff, but
I was doing nothing at the time and I'd been mug enough to
have one or two with him. So I didn't like to leave him too
flat-you know what I mean? I felt half sorry for the blighter.
Told him to get back to his hotel and lay down. He asked for
my arm, so I left the 'Negresco' with him, but when we got a
little way along the street he began to attract too much atten-


76 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
tion for my taste-a bit too much peas-in-the-pot for me; so I
advised him to get a taxi back to his hotel quick-he seemed
to know enough for that—and sleep it off. Whether he took a
taxi or not I don't know. That's the last I saw of him and I
wasn't sorry, I give you my word. Wish I'd never clapped
eyes on the old gonoph. He's been a bigger dam’ nuisance
than a boil on your elbow. I've had more nosey-parkers round
my feet over it than if I owned the fav’rit for the Derby."
Robin accepted the hint.
"I know," he said, smiling. “I've had it all myself, and here
I am passing it on to you. All the same, I'm very much
obliged to you, Mr. Gordon. Sure you won't have a drink?"
“No; that's all right,” Gordon grunted, and without further
speech, rose and went across to rejoin his friends.
Ordering a drink for himself by way of paying his footing,
Robin finished it quickly, and departed.
His initial essay in the art of criminal investigation had
yielded nothing of value. He had established the fact that
Brett had undoubtedly been in the company of Maurice Gor-
don before the murder, but apparently that fact had been
known to the police from the beginning. And since inevitably
the police must have followed it up, he might as well dismiss
it from his mind as being quite unimportant. Had it had any
significance the police would have acted on it. Apparently
they accepted Gordon's story—and they would not do so
without good reason.
So Robin had no other course than to accept it also. He
had not been impressed by the man-he did not like his type
-but he had to admit he had been commendably frank. Ap-
parently he had been equally so with Scotland Yard. He
would hardly have ventured there had he not had a perfectly
clear conscience in such a matter as the doping of Brett for
this was what Brett himself had suggested had happened, and
Laurette, in her conversation with Robin, had declared that
she shared his belief.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
It was possible, of course, that Gordon knew more than he
had revealed to the police, and had hastened to them to tell
his story to allay suspicion. But Robin rejected that idea. It
was far more likely-in fact, it was almost certain—that Brett's
story was the one which was false. Having won Laurette to
his side-miraculously, it seemed to Robin-he was pitching
the best tale he could devise.
Laurette herself provided the weirdest puzzle of the whole
affair. As he threaded his way along the crowded pavements,
Robin could not still the small voice within him which in-
sisted: “You are being fooled.” Strange that she had confided
in him to a greater extent than she had confided in her fiancé,
Peter Lessing-or said she had. There was the rub. Had she?
The thought was disloyal to the trust he had more or less
promised to repose in her. And yet. ... He could not get out
of his mind that she had revealed that morning it was Lessing
who had told her that he, Robin, had been following her the
previous night. Precisely in what way had Lessing learned
that?
Robin stopped dead in his tracks, and almost laughed
aloud. “Much more of this and I'll go dippy!” he said to
himself. But the whole embroilment was too serious for mirth.
He moved on again, turning it all over in his mind.
Yes: since Lessing had learned about him why had he not
asked Laurette the reason for her visit to “The Man with a
Scythe”? For whoever had observed Robin must surely have
observed Laurette, too.
True, she had suggested to Robin that he might not have
been followed all that way—had seemed alarmed at the pos-
sibility that he had. Had her alarm been real or assumed? If
real, the implication was that she was afraid to admit Lessing
to her confidence.
Devilish odd. After all, she was engaged to the fellow. Was
it possible that Lessing knew all about her visit to "The Man
with a Scythe" and deliberately was lying low? If so, why?


78
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
Now Robin found it impossible, though he tried to direct
his thoughts in a different direction, to refrain from reaching
the startling surmise: what if Lessing and Laurette were
accomplices? ... Accomplices in what? ... Why had Less-
ing kept him under observation last night-as apparently he
had? Dammit, what right had the fellow to do that?--what
cause?
Sudden wrath welled up in him. He would not be stalked
and hoodwinked any longer. He made a swift decision: he
would see Peter Lessing—and at once.


CHAPTER
Sant VIII
THEY STOOD FACING EACH OTHER—THE ONE, TALL, HEAVILY
square, and commanding, almost too immaculately dressed,
with a slight trace of pomposity in his bearing; the other,
lithe, debonair, carelessly attired and easily poised. Yet Robin
Foster did not feel quite so much at ease as he endeavored to
appear.
Lessing had received him, but not with very good grace.
“This is an unexpected honor, Mr. Foster,” he had said, in
tones implying that it was as unwelcome as it was unexpected,
and Robin had been forced to reply as though the thinly
veiled insult had escaped his notice.
What has aroused this obvious antipathy to me, he asked
himself as he endeavored to keep his response, “Yes, it prob-
ably is a trifle unexpected,” in a commonplace tone.
His anger had cooled down somewhat. Even in his sense of
righteous grievance he was conscious that he displayed con-
siderable temerity in bearding this man with only a rather
unusual form of accusation to justify his abrupt call. Lessing's
reputation in the world of finance, his apparent social posi-
tion—these made him a formidable person for a friendless
artist openly to criticize in his own house.
“You say it is a personal matter,” Lessing proceeded, re-
garding him with what Robin felt in an uneducated person
would have amounted to downright suspicion. “Will you
please be seated.”
Robin formally thanked him as he indicated a chair and
was on the point of accepting the suggestion when he paused.
The other was standing somewhat majestically on an opulent
Alaskan bearskin before the massive fireplace, and it occurred
to Robin that if he sat while Lessing stood he would be placed
at a distinct moral disadvantage. He encouraged the thought
as much as anything to maintain his belligerent mood. Always
79


80
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
frank, to himself he cheerfully admitted that he was just a
little bit daunted. So he definitely checked the movement he
had made to seat himself and replied:
“What I have to say won't take long, Mr. Lessing. I prefer
to remain standing unless you also sit.”
“Indeed," was the cold comment, “you are very particular
about arranging your setting. I should have imagined the
privilege was mine. However, as you will. Would you mind
coming to the point? I am, as you can readily guess, however
much or little you know about me, an extremely busy man.”
“Oh, well,” Robin replied, his confidence returning with the
exchange of verbal shots, “it is very much your business that
I've come about."
“That, perhaps, you will allow me to decide when I have
heard what you want," said Peter Lessing with a slight sneer,
“I have already told you I am very busy."
This air of superiority was all that was required to fire
Robin to open anger. With the words his assurance returned.
“Never mind that," he retorted sharply. “If you want me to
get to the point, here it is—what right have you to have my
movements followed ?"
Lessing was in no way perturbed.
“Every right, I think, as has transpired. You have heard of
the pot calling the kettle black, Mr. Foster.” He raised his
voice slightly. “A man, sir, who follows a lady as you followed
Miss Dexter last night requires to have his movements over-
looked, nor has he any right to complain if they are."
Robin was unprepared for this counterattack, but he quickly
rallied.
"Complain, indeed!” he exclaimed. “Don't imagine I've
come here with any whining complaints to you. I've come here
to ask you what the devil you mean by it. I have explained to
Miss Dexter the reason for what I did and she has accepted
my explanation. I shall accept your implied reason, weak
though it is for there are certain things behind it I am totally


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 81
unable to understand. I take it you mean I was shadowed be-
cause I was seen following Miss Dexter ?”
“You may take what you please. I would ask you what
right have you, sir, to communicate in any way with Miss
Dexter or to visit her?”
"If you are going to adopt that tone," answered Robin
warmly, “I must refer you to the lady herself. But in the
meantime there's another point on which I'm entitled to en-
lightenment. Who followed me and why?”
“That is my business."
“Exactly! That's why I'm here. But it happens to be mine,
too. I want to know where I stand.”
What Robin was most anxious to learn was whether or not
Lessing knew that he and Laurette had been at “The Man
with a Scythe.” He could hardly ask him outright-he dared
not, for it was just possible that by doing so he would un-
necessarily incriminate Laurette. On the other hand, if Lessing
knew, what use was he going to make of the knowledge?
Robin could not burke the fact that he himself might be
landed in a decidedly unpleasant position.
“I should imagine you stand outside the whole affair. You
have no need to worry—so long as you restrain your curiosity.”
Lessing's reply rather astonished Robin. Quite unexpectedly
it had an almost placatory note. His slight pause before his
last sentence was very well done. Robin sensed that he was be-
ing discreetly informed that for him silence was the best policy
—that if he pursued that policy no embarrassment would come
to him. He wondered if he had adopted the wrong measure of
approach. Also he found himself wondering if he were right
in surmising that Lessing himself would not mind if the
whole thing were dropped. He thought he would try a more
friendly tone.
“Mr. Lessing, that is just the point. Perhaps we can reach
an understanding. Won't you be more frank with me? It is


82
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
Miss Dexter herself I am concerned about. I know she is your
affianced wife, but— ".
"I am glad you condescend to recall the fact.”
“That's all very well,” retorted Robin, stung into anger
again, “but you seem to forget or overlook my position.”
“Position, sir," repeated Peter Lessing, pulling down his
brows. “I was not aware you had one where either Miss
Dexter or I are concerned. What do you mean?"
"Is it necessary for you to ask? I have a certain right to
know your intentions, since circumstances have implicated me
in the matter.”
“Circumstances ? Oh, I see,” rejoined Lessing, throwing back
his head and puckering his brows, as though carefully con-
sidering this fresh aspect. Then he added with cutting sar-
casm: “You, I fancy, wish to be recompensed for your gal-
lantry, and so on, is that it? Now I begin to comprehend. Of
course, of course: I might have guessed. A sum of money,
perhaps ?"
Robin's face flushed and his right hand was involuntarily
clenched as he returned Lessing's blandly insolent stare. In
an instant, however, he recovered himself.
“Apparently it suits you to be insulting, Mr. Lessing, and to
dodge the real issue. What your reason is I don't know. It is
of Miss Dexter I am thinking, not of myself.”
“Then I would counsel you to think of her no further.” The
words came like a whiplash. “Permit me to retain the honor
of doing all the thinking that is necessary in that connection.
That lady's affairs have nothing to do with you. You can re-
member that with advantage.”
Now Robin made no attempt to conceal his feelings. He
would have none of this high-handedness. This was too much
to swallow.
"Look here! Don't you talk to me like that. Just come off
your perch and talk business. I know nothing of you and care


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
nothing for you. I refuse to be impressed. I take a man as I
find him, and if you're not man enough "
As he spoke, Robin Foster's voice died on his lips through
his sheer astonishment at the amazing change that came over
Peter Lessing. Under the blast of the other's words Lessing's
head jerked forward, his features were almost convulsed, and
his eyebrows moved with a simian twitch. He seemed to be
transformed.
"You!”—he exclaimed furiously—“you miserable six-a-penny
artist! You cheap scribbler. You dare to come to any gentle-
man's house and speak like that. To me!” He took a step for-
ward and his right arm shot out menacingly with the fingers
extended, shaking with rage. “Get out! And if I find that by
any means you try to
Then his voice, too, died away. He, in his turn, saw Robin
Foster change countenance, visibly start, draw one foot behind
the other, and stand with clenched fists almost in an attitude
of expectant defense.
But it was the direction of Robin's intense gaze that reduced
Lessing to silence. He followed that gaze with his own, and
the eyes of both for a brief instant rested on Peter Lessing's
outstretched forearm from which, in his excitement, the sleeve
had been forced up almost half way and taken the wide
starched linen cuff with it.
Instantly the arm was dropped. Lessing drew in his breath
audibly and bit his lower lip. He glanced for a moment to-
wards Robin staring at him fixedly, then he turned away,
running his tongue round his lips.
"I think, Mr. Foster," he said smoothly, “you will realize
there is nothing to be gained by prolonging this conversation,
interview-call it what you will. I resent your intrusion and I
can only hope that in future you will keep yourself to your-
self, and retire to the society to which you belong. I have given
you a word of advice on that already, so I can only hope you
may profit by it. You will be good enough to leave me, sir.”


86 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
brought to justice or she forfeited her claims as heiress. If Brett
had been made the victim of a plot to implicate him-a
"frame-up," as they called it—with her connivance, why should
she now withdraw from the plot? Why should she run away?
Cold feet? Remorse? Robin shook his head in a feeling of
shame that he should even for an instant allow his thoughts to
take such a course.
Yet, despite his finer feelings, the unwelcome thoughts per-
sisted. What if this extraordinary creature, Brett, had been
made the victim of a "frame-up” without her connivance?
Might that not to a large extent explain Lessing's behavior,
even although it did not explain Laurette's so far as it con-
cerned her inexplicable championship of Brett?
Peter Lessing a murderer! The idea was ridiculous. It was
to this negative train of thought that he endeavored to turn his
mind. Yet it refused to pursue that line for long. After all,
Lessing had shown something very like alarm when he had
spotted him looking at the scar on his arm. Why should he,
if he had no real cause?
There was only one thing to do in the circumstances—the
only thing he, as a decent citizen, could do: see Scotland Yard
immediately, and convey his suspicion, for them to make of it
what they—
“Look where you're going to, sir! Confound you.” The
speaker was a tall, silk-hatted man of the rapidly disappearing
Indian Colonel type, slightly shabby-genteel, with a white,
tobacco-stained moustache, with whom Robin, deep in his
somber reflections, had collided as he took the corner into
Berkeley Street.
“I am extremely sorry, sir,” said Robin coming down to
earth as he recovered from the collision. “I hope I haven't
hurt you.”
“You hope you haven't hurt me," repeated the choleric
gentleman, querulously. “That doesn't bring much comfort
to me, does it? 'Pon my soul, you young men of to-day are


88 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
initial discussion. I can only repeat that I am extremely sorry
I bumped into you. I hope I didn't hurt you."
“Dammit, sir, don't make it worse by arguing,” retorted
the other, whereupon Robin, amused at this example of die-
hard pertinacity, realizing that no damage had been done and
recalling his serious mission, abruptly raised his hat out of
respect for age and passed on his way.
As a taxi crawled along the curb beside him he hailed the
man and took the door handle.
“Go down Whitehall,” he said to the driver as he entered,
having all an Englishman's natural reluctance to appear the-
atrical by giving such an address as Scotland Yard, “then I'll
tell you."
Slowly they began to move ahead with the stream in the
inevitable jam in Berkeley Street, and eventually crept into
Piccadilly, where, the traffic thinning slightly, they crossed
without delay into the head of St. James's Street.
Robin was leaning back at his ease, trying to collect his
thoughts and get some sort of focus on things as he ruminated
on that day's events, when his cogitations were rudely inter-
rupted. There was a violent bump at his back, an audible oath
from the taxi-driver; something from behind on their near
side seat sent them headlong into an island.
The taxi stopped with a jerk—so drastically was it checked
that Robin was thrown forward from his seat. He tried the
near-side door, found it jammed, and climbed down through
the other. Out of a low-set sporting saloon car stopped at the
curb a man jumped and ran across to them.
"I do hope nobody's hurt,” he said.
The taxi driver turned to him angrily and growled: “T'aint
your bleedin' fault that nobody ain't killed. I'll trouble you
for your name and address as well as your number," and his
voice died away in an automatic grumble at the carelessness of
some people.
“Certainly,” said the newcomer, a well-dressed and obviously


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 89
well-educated man. "My name's Dowson. Look, there's my
number, you can check it. My insurance will meet any claim
you make, and there's a fiver to recompense you for any loss
while your 'bus is in dock.” He turned to Robin. “I'm most
frightfully sorry. I was dodging a stupid woman up there and
misjudged my angle slightly. I'm very annoyed this has hap-
pened. If you are in a hurry I shall be only too happy to run
you wherever you're going.”
"All right,” said Robin easily, fishing a letter from his pocket
and handing the taximan the envelope. “That's my name and
address, driver. I don't suppose you want witnesses. It looks
like a pure accident.”
“Of course it was," interjected the other. “I'm frightfully
sorry, but there it is. You don't want me, do you, driver?”
"No, sir," replied the driver more cheerfully, having realized
that while probably not a salve for any sore, a fiver "ready"
was a wonderful healing agency for injured feelings. “I can't
kick at what you've done. It looks like a bit o' real bad luck,
that's all. You've behaved handsome, I will say."
“Well, it was bad luck and you're a sportsman to take it
that way. In any case, I'll see you won't be out of pocket for
what accidentally was certainly my fault.” As he turned to
cross to his car standing at the pavement—“Where are you
making for?” he asked Robin.
"I don't want to frighten you," Robin answered with a
smile. “It sounds rather swish, but I'm on my way to Scotland
Yard."
"I say!” exclaimed the other almost admiringly, as one who
envied another involved with authority. “Right you are. I'll
whisk you there in no time. Half a second till I have a look,"
and he bent forward and touched his off fore mudguard. “Yes,
it's buckled a bit, but I think the bumpers took most of the
shock.”
From the way the stranger slipped his engine into action
and sent the car forward Robin realized that he was in the


90
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
hands of an expert, and he leaned back in the low-set swing-
ing bucket seat, stretching his legs with a feeling of comfort
as the car pushed swiftly but smoothly down towards St.
James's Palace. Rather to his astonishment his companion, in-
stead of going along Pall Mall, shot across the foot of the street
and slipped down the lane between the Palace and Marl-
borough House.
“Look here," ejaculated Robin, when he saw what the other
had done, “aren't you giving yourself a bit extra going through
at the Admiralty? You'll have to crawl through the whole
merry-go-round.”
The other laughed.
“Oh, no, trust me. I know my London.”
Still further to Robin's astonishment he swung to the right
on entering St. James's Park at The Mall, and headed for
Buckingham Palace.
"You see," Dowson continued, “we can whisk round here
by the Palace where there's no traffic to check us, down along
Birdcage Walk, and I'll have you in Whitehall in half the
time that we'd take if we went into the Trafalgar Square
circus. 'Matter of fact, your man ought to have gone straight
along Piccadilly instead of bringing you down St. James's
Street. However, that's all over. I'll have you there in a matter
of seconds."
And certainly at the speed they were going Robin had to
admit that his new-found acquaintance knew what he was
doing. As they took the turn opposite Wellington Barracks the
driver referred to their collision.
"Matter of fact," he said, “I didn't want to hurt the poor
devil's feelings, but that fellow who was driving you was
completely in the wrong, quite apart from this old dame that
I dodged. However, his 'bus will come out probably all the
better for the overhaul, and this wing of mine is perhaps
rather a let-off for me. Hello! Oh, damn!"
The exclamation came from him in tones of intense exas-


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
91
peration as the car seemed to lose way. He thrust several times
at his clutch and mancuvred his levers, but the car still slowed
down.
"Sorry," he remarked, as he turned the vehicle into the
side, “I won't be a second. I think I know what it is," he added
briskly. “Just sit tight.” He slipped out at the off door and,
whistling blithely, walked round the front to the other side,
opening the door just beside Robin. He leaned forward to lift
something from the floor-and in a flash Robin felt his throat
gripped and himself heaved backwards over the swaying seat.
Before he could realize it he was lying on the floor of the car
with the other bending over him, steadily choking him with a
hand that seemed made of steel. Robin's left hand had been
gripped as he was pitched backwards, and it was now pinned
under his aggressor's left knee. He seized the restraining wrist
with his right hand and wrenched frantically but could make
not the slightest impression. He endeavored to raise his legs,
but his feet were jammed and held down by the two seats.
He felt his senses going, and with his right hand struck with
all his strength at the face above him, a face entirely devoid
of emotion. The owner of it merely thrust his head forward
out of reach and continued to squeeze Robin's throat.
The place had been well chosen. There was little traffic at
that side of St. James's Park, and from a passing car the
spectacle of a man, with one leg in and one out, stooping in-
side a saloon car would appear so commonplace that it would
cause no comment.
Too late Robin realized that he had walked into a trap.
Not far from him a whole battalion of soldiers were quar-
tered, ignorant that murder was being slowly enacted almost
at their gates. This reflection intruding surprisingly into his
anguished mind, somehow spurred him to fresh resistance. He
wriggled, twisted, struck-but the implacable figure above him
seemed only to increase the diabolic strength of his grip. In a
final desperate effort-Robin almost fractured his ankle as he


92
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
made it-he wrenched his right leg free and kicked frantically
at the panel of the off-side door. The door gave. It swung open
and was almost immediately wrenched clean from its bearings
by a passing car which, with a shout from its driver, the clash
of shattered glass and a wild screech of brakes, pulled up a
short distance beyond. Robin heard a savage curse and the
grip on his throat was relaxed. His assailant straightened him-
self and stood quite calmly outside the car.
Robin lay for a brief second almost incapable of movement,
then, as his breath returned, he recovered himself somewhat
and pushed his right foot out of the off-side doorless entrance
and rested it on the ground. He brought his other leg round
and sat on the floor of the car for a moment, indifferent to
what might happen. Mechanically he reached back for his hat,
placed it on his head, stood up, smoothed his collar and
clothes, and moved round towards the other side of the car.
He stopped at the bonnet.
A few yards away he found a leather-faced, gray-haired
woman with a lighted cigarette in a long holder in her hand,
violently objurgating his assailant. He, having also lighted a
cigarette, was listening in bland silence to her amazing
volubility, apparently content to wait for her to stop. He took
in Robin with a single glance but otherwise paid him no at-
tention. The fellow's sang-froid compelled Robin's respect de-
spite the murderous assault. The door lay ahead of the car,
half on the roadway and half on the path, while farther on
the car of the irate lady stood with a bent mudguard and a
badly bashed bonnet to bear witness to the result of his lucky
kick.
As he tenderly felt his throat he looked about on all sides,
but nowhere was a policeman in sight. One or two passers-
by, seeing the damage and hearing the altercation between the
lady and his late aggressor, had begun to gather round. Robin
remained where he stood in the background and thought
quickly


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
93
His first impulse was to wait until this polished-looking
gentleman was disengaged from his present pressing business
and resume physical contact with him on fairer terms. He
looked tough but Robin itched to spoil his appearance even at
the risk of spoiling his own. Dowson's calm and complete
ignoring of the man he had tried to strangle—and so nearly
succeeded-infuriated Robin. At that moment nothing would
have pleased him more than to give the fellow "a damned
good hiding”—that was how his feeling expressed itself in his
mind. But even in his wrath he realized he had more im-
portant factors to consider than his own personal inclination.
Despite himself he seemed now to be very seriously involved
indeed.
Who had inspired this murderous attack on him? Who but
Peter Lessing? His reflections about that gentleman instantly
crystallized. He was convinced it had been no mere unpre-
meditated assault—the chance outrage of a madman or a swell
thief. There was nothing of the lunatic about this smooth-
mannered gentleman-he was devastatingly sane. Robbery,
too, was out of the question. At that instant he was cour-
teously handing over something to the still irate driver of the
other car; apparently for the second time in a few minutes he
was parting with his name and address: probably false.
What irritated Robin most was that he appeared perfectly
at his ease. He seemed to have not the slightest apprehension
that Robin would give him in charge, or if he did foresee that
possibility it certainly did not distress him. This fact also
helped to decide Robin on his immediate course of action. He
was concerned now with bigger game. His last doubts re-
garding Lessing's true character had been removed. It was
with Lessing he had more importantly to deal. This satellite
of his could be dealt with subsequently, there would be little
difficulty in laying hands on him later, even if the name and
address he was using were fictitious. He could be traced
through his car; Robin made careful mental note of its make


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
95
to be settled with. And quick. But not in the usual way.
We've got to think out something new. See? Blindfold's the
word. I don't know precisely what he'll have told Scotland
Yard, but it will have been enough to make it necessary for
us to be in no way connected with whatever accident cuts
short his promising young life. We've got to think out some-
thing—something so tucked in at the edges that they can't
possibly get a line on us. Meantime, you'd better lie low in
case they get after you.”


CHAPTER
BUT ROBIN DID NOT SEE INSPECTOR WEST. ON INQUIRING FOR THAT
official he was informed that he was out. Frank as ever in his
communings with himself, he realized that this was something
he had subconsciously almost hoped for, and experienced a
sense of relief on receiving the information. He found himself
hastily—almost as if he feared West might appear-assuring
the sergeant at the inquiry desk that it did not matter: his
business was not important: he could see the inspector on
some other occasion.
Outside on the street again as he walked away, with this
curious sense of relief, he examined his reasons for his change
of front. He scarcely required to—they were sufficiently clear.
At the last moment he had suddenly realized, with something
akin to horror, that in the course of an interview with Inspec-
tor West it was almost inevitable that Laurette Dexter must
be incriminated in connection with Brett's mysterious disap
pearance. West would have been practically certain to ask
Robin what had taken him to see Lessing; what had led to
the quarrel which had resulted in his perturbed feeling that
actually he had identified Lessing as Sherwood Dexter's mur-
derer. Unless Robin had deliberately lied to him, it was doubt-
ful if he could possibly have escaped full confession.
And such an admission, without first seeing Laurette and
informing her of his intentions, seemed to him a most dam-
nable betrayal. No, in the circumstances, recalling his promise
to help her—an impulse which he now, in view of subsequent
events, rather regretted—the least he could do was to let her
know of his realization of the significance of the whole affair.
He hailed a passing taxi. Leaning back in it, he recovered
his equanimity and smiled grimly as he was whirled back
past Wellington Barracks. He bent forward to glance at the
veritable scene of his escape from Lessing's hireling. The taxi
96


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 97
in Tenduld be list who w
swung round in front of the Royal Palace where the King, he
observed, was in residence, and he wondered what His
Majesty's thoughts would be if he could realize that amongst
his subjects was an obscure artist who was positively living in
an atmosphere of murder and attempted murder. A glint of
autumn sun on the wicked-looking bayonet of the sentry
made Robin remark half aloud, “Bothered if I don't think I
ought to get some sort of weapon myself if this is going to
go on. I wonder where they sell these things.”
When he reached Porchester Crescent, as he was paying
off the driver her heard the door behind him open, and
turned to see Laurette in street clothes giving a final pull to
her gloves as she stepped out and the door was closed behind
her.
He looked up at her in surprise.
“Oh, hello!" she called down to him—there was no mistak-
ing the delight in her voice. “I've got to confess I had just
about given you up.”
“I didn't think you had any intention of going out,” he re-
joined, too serious to respond to her banter. He was slightly
astonished at her good spirits.
“Nor had I; but the Sister Anne act rather gets on one's
nerves after a little while. I waited and waited, but not hear-
ing from you-however, here you are: what shall we do? Like
to come back in and have tea and talk there?”
By this time she had joined him and stood by his side.
“Well, now that you are dressed for outdoors- " He
halted, then added abruptly, “Do you wish this taxi?-where-
ever you're going.”
"Of course not." She looked at him in mild amazement and
reproof. "Where I'm going can wait. How would it be if we
took a walk through the Park? That'll suit me all right.”
Ordinarily the invitation would have set Robin's heart beat-
ing faster, but in his present unsettled state it was all he could
do to murmur polite acceptance. Her amazement-for


98
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
Laurette was by no means unconscious or even diffident about
the human feelings she inspired in him-deepened; and in
silence they walked round towards Park Lane, crossed the
busy roadway and entered Hyde Park.
“I'm afraid,” he began at last, “I have no good news to
report."
“I guessed as much," she commented quietly.
“I saw our man all right; I thought I was on what hunting
people call a breast-high scent, and saw a kill ahead, but”-
and as he spoke his voice assumed its natural bright and
cheerful tone“I ran slap into a dead end. A complete fade-
out. Web-fingers can't help us.”
Briefly he related the details of his conversation with
Maurice Gordon.
She made no effort to conceal her disappointment. For
some time she did not speak, then she asked: “Did you feel
he is genuine. I mean in this deal?-you didn't feel he was
keeping anything back?”
"I feel there wasn't anything he had to keep back. He
certainly was none too pleased at a stranger barging in and
cross-examining him, but we can understand that. Honestly,
I was quite glad he didn't retaliate in the same direction to
any extent.”
“What did you say his name was ?-Maurice Gordon? What
precisely is he?"
"Sorry, I forgot that. My brain doesn't seem to be working
very well to-day.”
“Indeed it isn't,” Laurette broke in, glancing at him with
keen speculation in her gaze. “One would almost say you
had swallowed some soothing syrup.”
As he thought of the amount of soothing syrup he had
assimilated that afternoon Robin laughed uneasily.
"He's a commission agent—that's what we call a bookie
here-a bookmaker, you know. Not a very prepossessing
gentleman—a rather truculent type of Sheenie. He looks as if


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
99
he had been a bruiser in his youth-rather a well-built fellow,
and seemed to be in pretty good training still.”
“So you reckon there's nothing to be got in that quarter?"
“Nothing whatever. I'm frightfully sorry, Laurette, but there
it is. I'm afraid you're on a hopeless quest.”
“I am, eh? I wonder! I notice you don't say we are—Robin.”
It was the first time she had deliberately addressed him by
his Christian name. He flushed, became embarrassed that he
was unwillingly forced to ignore the obvious advance, and
perhaps to cover it abruptly demanded:
"Where had you intended going just now?”.
“Charles Street,” she replied, equally abruptly.
The foreboding that had been with him since their meeting
was realized.
“Charles Street,” he repeated. “To see Peter Lessing?”.
“Certainly: who else? May I not go to see my fiancé? Surely
you have no objection?”
“I?” he said quickly. “Why—why on earth should I have?"
“Please don't ask me. I was judging by your expression.
Your face certainly seems to express disapproval.” As he re-
mained silent she proceeded in gentler tones, “Actually it
was you, Robin, who put the idea into my head. Waiting for
you, waiting to hear if you had seen this man at that café-the
“Negresco”—I began to wonder if I hadn't been wrong in
deciding not to confide in Peter. I'm being very frank with
you, Robin. I may seem to have an easy conscience, but really
I'm dead scared over what I've done and what I haven't done.
I'm frightened, and that's saying something, Robin. It's a new
sensation for me, and I don't like it one little bit. It came back
to me that you had been staggered when I told you I'd said
nothing about Brett to my fiance, and somehow, when I began
to turn it around in my mind, something made me realize I
was perhaps being unfair to him. You were generous enough
to take me on trust; surely he will, too."
Robin's eyes narrowed.


100 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“I see. You mean you're going to tell Lessing what you told
me?"
“Yes. When my mind's once made up I'm all for swift
action and nothing will stop me. I simply can't spell the word
risk then.”
“You mean to tell him that and nothing more?”
"I can't tell him moremnor is it necessary: not yet. I hope
to tell you both before long."
“That may not be necessary—I mean, to tell us both. It's
only fair to let you know, Laurette, that I went myself to see
Mr. Lessing a little while ago."
She stopped walking. Staring at him in astonishment, almost
in alarm she asked quickly, angrily:
“You did! About what?”
"About my own personal affairs. I quite naturally wanted
to know why he was having my movements followed.”
“Yes: well: go on: what happened?”.
Despite himself, he smiled at the recollection of what had
happened then and after.
“Oh well, he-he more or less ordered me out of the house.
Looking back on it I'm not sure that I blame him. I'm apt to
be precipitate. Anyhow I don't mind; in any case I began it,
as the kids say. However, if I may use the expression, I gave
nothing at all away about you, if that's why you look so up-
set-but in any case, that wouldn't have mattered since you're
going to tell him all about it yourself.”
"You do agree that I should tell him, then?” she asked,
a glint of anger in her eyes.
"By all means! I don't pretend to control the situation." He
could not keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice. “And I
fancy it should produce some interesting developments.”
They had resumed their walk and went forward for some
paces in silence. Then: “What's come over you, Robin
Foster?" she questioned him quietly. “This isn't like you."
Agitated, annoyed with himself at hurting her, as it would


MURDER COULD NOT KILL IOI
appear, he made a sweeping gesture with his arms. "Look
here," he said recklessly, “I'll promise you this. I'll sit tight
on all I know—at any rate, in the meantime, although I
shouldn't. That's a fair enough offer. I'm sick of the whole
affair. And as there's nothing more I can do to help you, as
you call it, I might as well retire. Instead of being a help I
seem to be developing into a hindrance."
Her step quickened quite perceptibly.
“So you're a quitter," she said bitterly.
“I leave you to judge that yourself by all you know of me."
“Oh, I know I shouldn't have said that. I know it's unfair
of me even to ask you, but ".
She turned to him appealingly.
"I'm afraid you must form whatever opinion of me you
like.” It took a great deal on Robin's part to adopt the tone
he did. “I can't see, however, that I can do anything more to
help you. Anything more than I have tried to do.”
“But must you throw me off like this because you see no
immediate possibility of helping me further? God knows I
don't wish you to run around like a bloodhound all day long
merely because-because—well, for the sake of a stranger, but
I did think- " Her voice died away as Robin made no move
to speak. They had now reached the west side of the Marble
Arch sweep. She seemed to wait for him, and when he still
remained silent Laurette stopped. When she spoke again her
voice had completely changed. Lacking nothing in spirit it had
become quite defiantly independent. “You know the hellish fix
I'm landed in. You don't want to be mixed up in it. All right!
As you say over here, stout fellow! I appreciate even if I
don't understand your attitude. Well, it won't be the first time
I've played a lone hand. In the meantime, after that, Mr. Fos-
ter, I shall finish my walk and perhaps everything else-
alone.”
Robin accepted his dismissal and bowed without a word. As
she walked away from him, with proud face, her head held


102 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
high, he would never have believed what was actually the
case-that for the first time she could remember she felt bit-
terly in need of that essentially feminine tonic, a good cry. She
was hurt at what she considered his harsh desertion, in a
measure unable to understand it. It hurt all the more because
even in the brief period she had known him she had grown
very fond of him. This feeling she had for him she never at-
tempted to deny, even to herself; sometimes, indeed, she had,
with a sigh, contrasted it against her matter-of-fact, conven-
tional acceptance of Peter Lessing as her affianced husband.
The only consolation she could take, while it assuaged her
wounded vanity, did nothing to relieve her sense of loneliness,
for, woman-like, despite her self-reliant nature, she tried to
find comfort in attributing Robin's behavior to jealousy.
Well, here was Charles Street and here was Peter Lessing's
house. As she looked at the perfectly decorated exterior, the
impression it gave of luxury and good taste struck her with a
feeling of comfort. Here, at any rate, was intelligence, strength,
and wealth. Here she would find the assistance and sympathy
she had expected from Robin Foster-in which expectation
she had been so grievously disappointed. She had been foolish
ever to fear that Peter Lessing would be less trustful than a
comparative stranger.
She heard the click of the inside handle as it was turned in
response to her touch on the doorbell. Once more she was
completely mistress of herself. She was glad to see the grave,
impassive face of Simmons, most typical of elderly butlers,
and found herself wondering how on earth he kept the russet
tint of his complexion in the heart of a gray and grimy city.
“ 'Afternoon, Simmons,” she responded to his inclination of
welcome as she stepped into the hall and he gently closed the
door behind her. He stood with his head slightly to one side,
looking at her with a fatherly air of expectation and the deep
approval of a connoisseur who had seen many, many smart
ladies throughout his career.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 103
"Mr. Lessing?” Laurette said interrogatively, observing that
the butler did not immediately usher her forward. “Is he not
in?"
“Well, Miss, yes, the master is in. But he has someone with
him at the moment. He gave strict instructions he was not to
be disturbed. Of course, we did not know you would call. I'll
just— "
“No, no, please don't trouble him,” replied Laurette briskly
to conceal a feeling of disappointment. “I know Mr. Lessing
is extremely busy. He did not expect me. I did not telephone.
I really came out for a little exercise and just walked this
length hoping to find him disengaged. If you told him I were
here he would stop what he's doing, and I don't want that.”
She smiled on the old man. “I want to be a help to him, not
a hindrance.”
“Very good, Miss. You know how it is with the master. Not
only is he always busy, but he hasn't had his worries to seek
since that dreadful evening-perhaps I shouldn't have spoken
of it. Terribly worried he's been, poor gentleman. Terribly
worried-forgive me mentioning it, Miss, but he does seem to
have taken it to heart.”
“Naturally, Simmons, naturally, and you needn't apologize
for mentioning it.”
“You see, Miss,” the butler. remarked confidentially, “it fell
so unfortunate-like. Such great friends they were, he and Mr.
Dexter, and to think as they quartelled, Miss, the last time
they were together.”
"Quarrelled?” repeated Laurette" slowly, almost as if speak-
ing to herself.
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” the old butler said in some
trepidation, “I thought-perhaps I didn't ought to have "
“Oh, that's all right, Simmons. You certainly were quite
right.”
Then with a flash of insight and to encourage him she


104 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
added, “As a matter of fact ..."-pausing there to let the
garrulous and kindly old servitor take up his tale.
“Ah, yes, Miss, I thought you might. You see, I happened
to overhear Mr. Dexter and the master having words over
that letter your father had received. I had a call to go into
the room about something just then. They were both very
angry, I could see that. Terrible pity it was.”
For a moment Laurette, her nerves frayed by conflicting
emotions, put out her hand on the long Adam hall table to
steady herself.
"Don't let it worry you, Simmons,” she said in a voice that
she hardly recognized as her own, but which clearly produced
no effect of the unusual on the butler. "It was nothing, and
naturally I wouldn't say to Mr. Lessing that you had even
thought it worth while mentioning to me.”
“Oh, no, Miss, please. I forgot myself for a moment, perhaps,
but I feel so sorry for all concerned.”
Laurette took a step to the outer door, which the old man
hastened forward to open. The light from the street steadied
her, and it was in her normal tones that she found herself
saying almost involuntarily: “Yes, Simmons, thank you very
much for your sympathy. At a time like this one needs all
the sympathy one can get, and welcomes it.” Then she con-
tinued, without looking at him, as if she feared her expression
might betray her. "Do not tell your master that I called. I
shall probably telephone to him. Good afternoon, Simmons.”
She found herself walking back towards Park Lane feel-
ing that her whole world was tumbling about her ears.
Quarrel? Letter? What did it mean? She had known noth-
ing of either. In her disquiet she began to walk hurriedly. It
was difficult to think coherently out in the open. Oh, to re-
gain the peaceful atmosphere of her own cozy den in Por-
chester Crescent! Yet she could not bear to sit still in a taxi;
this mental disturbance demanded physical action for its
abatement.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 105
Eventually she neared her house, having retraced her steps
through the Park. As she stood for a moment waiting for an
opportunity to cross the road she started and stared in amaze-
ment at the running figure of a woman. The woman had
emerged from the direction of Porchester Crescent and was
literally sprinting in the direction of an Eastward-bound 'bus
drawn up at the Bayswater Road stopping place close by.
Laurette recognized her. It was Beaton, her own personal
maid.


CHAPTER
GLADYS BEATON'S 'BUS JOURNEY FINISHED NEAR THE END OF
Oxford Street, not far short of Tottenham Court Road. She
descended opposite Wardour Street, crossed and hurried along
this busy little thoroughfare until she reached the entrance
to a small commonplace building where a rounded brass plate
was displayed with the legend: “Maurice Gordon, Ltd., Com-
mission Agents.”
She passed through the entrance, ran swiftly up the stair-
case to the first floor, and opened a door on the right hand
side of the passage. The office in which she found herself had
the usual appurtenances of that of a commission agent in a
small way of business. In this outer room three clerks, two
girls and a man, were engaged writing, with telephones beside
them.
At Beaton's entrance the man looked up. He was pale,
lanky, sharp-eyed and youthful. His expression, as his gaze
fell on the visitor, plainly showed that he recognized her; it
equally plainly showed that he was considerably taken aback.
Quickly he jumped to his feet and strode over to her as she
stood at the counter.
“Quick! What's 'appened? What's brought you 'ere?” he
asked in an alarmed whisper.
“Nothing, Mr. Benson," she replied smiling. “Why, every-
thing's very all right. Is Maurice in? It's him I want to speak
to."
“Yes, he's in,” said the other, looking at her apprehensively,
"but. ... Well, I s'pose you'd better see 'im since you're
’ere. Quick, now; don't raise a shine over it.”
He lifted the flap of the counter, passed her through and
led the way to the door of an inner apartment. He knocked,
and without waiting for an answer gently opened it, edging
the woman inside before him.
106


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
107
Maurice Gordon was seated at his desk, bending laboriously
over as if writing were not his most congenial task. He turned
at the noise, and sprang to his feet as he saw Gladys Beaton.
Although his mouth opened he appeared so astonished as to
be incapable of speech or movement. Then he leaned towards
her, snatched at her wrist, and pulled her roughly forward.
“Quick, out with it!” he said, almost livid with apprehen-
sion. “What's gone wrong?”
“Nothing, Maurice; nothing has gone wrong. You're hurt-
ing my arm. Don't look at me like that. You frighten me.”
The quaver in her voice testified to the truth of her final re-
mark, as she glanced in alarm from one to the other of the two
men.
"Frighten you! Half-murdered Isaac! D’you mean to tell me
you come along here, and—you're sure there's nothing
wrong?”
“What could there be? I came along just to see you-to tell
you everything was all right. And now all you can do is
carry on like this. I thought you'd be pleased.”
She sank into a chair and took a folded handkerchief from
her bag. Dabbing the cambric to her nose reproachfully, she
repeated tearfully:
"And I thought you'd be pleased.”
“Pleased! Oh my God! Can't you see I'm delighted,"
Gordon snarled.
He curtly jerked his head to the man Benson as a signal to
withdraw, making an angry grimace of disgust as he did so.
When the door was closed again he turned and stood over the
woman almost threateningly.
“Now you've blinkin' well done it, you— !" he said
savagely.
"Oh, Maurice, dear, don't say such things. Don't be so angry
with me. What have I done wrong? I did all that you told me
to do, didn't I?"
“Of course you did,” he snarled. “And why the hell


108
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
shouldn't you? A bad moment for you if you hadn't, I can
tell you."
Gladys Beaton now began to weep unaffectedly.
Angrily Gordon slumped into his chair.
“Oh, for heaven's sake quit that sniffling. Sufferin' Lazarus!
Can't you see for yourself what you've done? What the hell
made you come here?”
“I just wanted to tell you, Maurice, dear, that everything
was all right.” With an effort she checked her sobs. “You
know you told me what to say if Miss Dexter or any one
started to ask questions of me about last night. Well, she
didn't ask me anything at all: not a word. She hasn't ques-
tioned any of the maids either. She hasn't said a word about
it. Yet she knows he's gone. She found that out this morn-
ing when Mr. Foster called. They both of them together went
up to the room where she had put him. I know—though I
kept out of sight-and she must have seen the mess. Yet she
hasn't said a word. That seemed a bit strange, and I wanted
to let you know.”
“Fat lot o' help you are! Didn't I explain to you, you
stricken fool, that it was more than odds-on that she'd say
nothing about it? How the blazes could she, without giving
herself away? I put you wise what to say just in case she did
speak. But though she hasn't said anything, that doesn't mean
she hasn't twigged nothing, or that she's not doing nothing.
Didn't I tell you you hadn't to be seen with me at any price?
-not till things blows over, anyway. Blast it all: can't I never
make you understand? She knows it was one of you in that
house helped whoever took old Brett away—she's bound to
know. She's no fool that one. She'll be keeping her eye on all
of you till she finds out which one it was—or else that nosey-
parker Robin Foster will the blinkin' shyster. Nice
schlemozzle you've most likely made of it by comin' here."
"Oh, no, Maurice, dear, you mustn't think I'm so soft as all
that. I was extra careful. My lady was going out, when she


I10
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
word. I'll ring you—I'll post you a line. Dammit, I thought
you said you loved me? Give me half a chance! D’you want
to risk my neck?”
Her head moved in terrified disavowal; but she still did not
go. She stood silent, disconsolate. But even in the disappoint-
ment over her mission the unfailing feminine instinct asserted
itself, and after fumbling in her bag she began to repair
with her powder puff the ravages of her tears. She quite
realized her lover's impatience, and hurriedly put the beauty-
aid away when his unpleasant gaze caught hers.
“Well, give us a kiss, Maurice, dear, before I go.”
“There's a good girl, now," the Jew responded with relief
as he put his arm round her waist. He kissed her vulgarly
with a resounding smack, at the same time edging her for-
ward to the door and reaching for the handle.
“Run along quick now," he whispered. “Take the Tube to
Notting Hill Gate and then walk or 'bus it home. No hang-
ing about. And for your own sake go careful. Keep your
mouth well shut. Stick like glue to the Notting Hill gag if
any one says anything."
He opened the door, watched her walk quickly through
the outer apartment and outside, then hailed his henchman
brusquely:
“Here, I want you, Benson."
Benson came forward and followed him into his room.
Gordon carefully shut the door.
“What's the trouble, Maurice?" Benson asked anxiously.
“Trouble? Hell! I'm scared stiff! Sit down.”
As the other obeyed, Gordon himself sat down and bent
forward across the table that separated them.
“These blasted skirts!” he said. “Damned if you can trust
'em an inch. I told the bird to keep away~well, you saw for
yourself. Can you beat it! 'Comes here for no perishin' reason
at all: none. Wants to see me: miaow-miaow; must see me
and all the rest of the sloppy game-and risks our necks over
cily shut Maurice : f! Sit cont do


MURDER COULD NOT KILL III
the head of it. I hate the lot of 'em in a job like this, but it's
the only way we can work the fools. That's bad enough, but
she comes here on top of that young swine Robin Foster's
nosing around—'remember his dial in the papers?”
“You mean this one that was with the Dexter girl last
night?”
"Who else should I mean?” Gordon growled. “Well, I got
something to tell you about him. He hooked me after lunch in
the “Negresco"-couldn't dodge it. Not that I wanted to, for
I had a cast-iron alibi and it might have been worth the
chance to learn just what he knew. He'd been there earlier,
pumping Jim the waiter about me. A proper workman, I give
you my word. Didn't know my moniker, but knew I had this
blasted mitt. I know it'll get me put away one of these days.”
“May I die! But ’ow could 'e 'ave knew about you?" Ben-
son asked fearfully.
“Don't you see?” Gordon wiped his forehead. “This old
shlemiel Brett must have had time to mouth to that Dexter
shiksa. God knows what game she's up to. He'd got enough
daylight through his brain-pan to be able to wise her as he had
been with me in the “Negresco” last Tuesday. I somehow
thought the old perisher had piped that I'd doped him. When
she got her hooks into him I suppose he must have coughed
up all he knew and could remember. She's wised this Foster
bloke and either off his own hook or shoved on by her 'e's
got nosey."
“That's a cramper, an' no error. How much d'you think
he's rumbled?”
"It fair beats me," answered the other as he got to his feet
and started to move nervously about the little room. “I'd a
dam' hard job keeping him off the scent, I give you my word.
But I fancy I bluffed it off all right.”
“How's that?"
"Can't you see the bleeder was in queer street himself? If
he dropped it as it were through Brett they'd got the office


II2
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
about me-well, where the hell has he tripped over Brett, eh?
What tale could he pitch about that, eh? Though what the
blue sarah old Dexter's daughter wanted with Brett fair
knocks me stiff. What game has she got on, eh? That's a
teaser, eh? Beats me to put either a head or a tail on that!
Bother me if I didn't actually have to keep this here Foster
from wandering into the trap he was laying for his own
bleedin' self. See? If I had once let that perisher blow the gaff
on his-self and I hadn't gone right off to Scotland Yard
what'd he have thought? See? ... Damn you! Much help
you are!"
“Ah, that would ’ave made 'im proper suspicious," com-
mented Benson.
“Oh, it's dawning on you, is it?" sneered the other. “Nice
blinkin' mess we'd have been in. I wouldn't have taken a hun-
dred quid to have risked Scotland Yard again. Makes me feel
damp all down my back to think of it. If it wasn't for the brass
that's in it I'd say no more jobs like this for me, I give you
my word solemn. If we hadn't had such a raspin' bad time
with the book I wouldn't look at it for rouble the money."
"Bit o' luck for us you faced up at Scotland Yard at the
word 'Go' and pitched the tale there."
“Yes—and who thought o' that if I didn't, eh? Well, that
little visit o' mine let me hand this here Foster his way out;
to kid him I thought the 'tecs had piped me off to him.
Blimey, he didn't half jump at the chance to swallow that-
bait, hook, and sinker. Easy money he were, and no more
suspicions about me now than a school-kid. All the same, if
the boss lets up, I'm through with his jobs from now on;
brass or no brass. I give you my word.”
Benson shook his head dubiously. “I don't like it, Mauri e;
I don't like it.”
“Like it! Blast you; who the hell's askin' you to like it?
D’you think as I'm in love with it myself? The whole flinkin'
business is getting too peas-in-the-pot for me. First thing I


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 113
did was to ring through to the boss to tell him all about it,
so as he could handle it his own self. It's a take five-to-two
shot that though he sung dumb about it this here Foster and
the wench will get the label on us."
As he spoke the telephone on the desk behind him rang
out clearly.
"My luck! This must be him," he said, glancing at Benson,
as he hastened to answer the summons.
Holding the receiver to his ear he listened with a worried,
frowning face.
"Yes, it's Gordon all right,” he answered sulkily. "Yes.”
Curiously deflated in his demeanor he sank into his chair,
drawing a pad of paper towards him. From time to time he
made notes, contributing to the telephonic conversation noth-
ing more than monosyllables indicating understanding. Even
in these monosyllables it was noticeable that his tone became
more and more despondent.
At last he ventured the sentence: “Look here, if it comes off,
what's the money this shot? I'm getting windy, I don't mind
telling you."
Apparently the answer satisfied him, for he replied, “Oh,
all right," adding, "Benson's in this too: is that right?" He
nodded involuntarily, gave the assurance, “All right, then,”
finally remarking in an aggrieved voice, “Well, I don't see
that you've any call to say that I've never let you down yet,
have I?” before hanging up the receiver.
He drew the pad closer on which he had made notes,
examined his writing, then tore off the top sheet. Observing
that in his concentration the weight of his pencil had marked
the underlying sheets, he carefully stripped off these, and,
slowly lighting a cigarette, applied the match to the pieces of
paper. Only when they had burned out in the ash tray before
him did he turn to his plainly impatient assistant.
"Well, Ben,” he said grimly, "it looks like another perishin'
job for us before we're through with this little lot."


CHAPTER
a
XII
i
DAVID LANGLEY, RISING THIRTY, LEAN, CLEAN SHAVEN BUT NOT
in any outward fashion remarkable, sat in his shirt-sleeves
writing furiously at a desk in an untidy third floor single-
window room near Ludgate Circus.
His one enthusiasm, life interest, and hobby was the theater.
As a somewhat precocious urchin, consequent upon a wild and
secret infatuation he had been smitten with for the resplen-
dent and well-nourished principal boy of the first pantomime
to which he had been taken, he had conceived an enduring
passion for the stage and all things connected with it. Now, in
his early manhood, he spent an appreciable portion of his
time expressing regret that he had ever done so. That, how-
ever, his many friends knew, was merely a pleasant and harm-
less affectation. It would have been easier for a dipsomaniac
to give up drink than for Langley to give up his association
with theaterdom.
Being the fortunate possessor of a fair private income, some
years previously he had, with the reformatory enthusiasm of
youth, launched a monthly publication called the Stage
Chronicle, which in its early days had been consecrated to
uplift and devoted to the more highbrow aspects of the
dramatic art. Not only had this noble pioneering almost ex-
clusively employed Langley's whole income but it began even
to encroach on his capital, which threatened to grow small by
degrees and most unbeautifully less. This hard, practical fact
had sobered his fervor and induced wisdom in his editorship.
Some one else could carry the banner of artistic revolution-
he, Langley, had to live. So the Stage Chronicle had quickly
changed its policy, and thenceforward concerned itself chiefly
with the popular theater and the average playgoer;
and actually at the present time was no longer a drain on his
financial resources but was more than paying its way.
114


116 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Modesty, my lad, modesty. Most unbecoming. You're like
that Johnnie in a story I once read who unconsciously used to
portray the true character of his sitters. He came to a sticky
end if I remember rightly. You'd better watch out.”
“I had no idea I was so good; thanks for the hint,” Robin
answered, smiling. "This opens up a fresh train of thought.
It must, of coạrse, strike you that you're not paying me nearly
enough?”
“You would pounce on that. Good God, have you no soul
above mere lucre? Where's all your art for art's sake? Look
at the kudos I'm getting for you in the theatrical world!
Thanks to David Langley, editor of that bright and brilliant
publication, the Stage Chronicle, you're becoming a power in
West End stageland; the stars are beginning to eat out of your
hand. You owe all to your fairy godmother—that's me. Here,
cast your eye on this, my lad.”
He rummaged among the confusion of papers in front of
him and eventually disentangled from the mass a letter writ-
ten in a large, sprawling hand. He pushed it over to Robin,
then leaned back in his chair to watch him as he sat down on
the only other chair in the room to read it.
The letter, addressed to the editor of the Stage Chronicle,
was written from the Pyrrhic Theater:
Dear Sir, I have been keenly interested in the black and
white work appearing in your pages signed “Foster.” I
wonder if you could arrange for this artist to do a carica-
ture of me in the manner of your “Pertinent Portraits”? I
would have written to him direct, but was not sure if
Foster is actually his name. Of course, I do not ask that the
drawing should be reproduced in your valuable paper-I
am not writing in the hope of publicity. I myself would
pay “Foster” his customary fee.
Sincerely,
BARBARA VAN BUREN.


118
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“In what way?”
“In this way, my lad. What do you think it is that impels
them to feel what I forbid any contributor to this paper to
call 'the lure of the footlights'? Why should they want either
dumb or vocal to show off their forms divine or deplorable
nightly to their fellow creatures-audiences composed either of
overfed low-brows or underfed highbrows; or both? Exhibi-
tionism, my lad, sheer shameless exhibitionism! A particularly
virulent form of it, too. Why don't they go in for doing an
honest job o' work instead? I tell you honestly I don't know
how the devil I allowed myself to get involved with them in
it all.”
Langley was now mounted surely on his hobbyhorse, and
he set her into a canter. Robin Foster decided to finish his
cigarette, so crossed his legs and submitted in amused silence
to the egoist on egoism.
“Of all the spurious ways of earning a living, acting seems
to me the most preposterous. And less than one per cent of
them do act. What first takes a girl on to the stage? A desire
to get people to look at her, that's all! They give me a pain
amidships, the whole burlesque outfit-from top to bottom.”
"Shame. Has your latest misleading lady handed you the
ice-bowl and given you the dull thud?" Robin asked ma-
liciously. “You should take more exercise, Langley; shake
yourself up a bit. You're getting groovy. I can't see that ex-
hibitionism's got anything to do with it. In any case, you've
been bitten by that yourself, or you wouldn't have started
this ‘valuable' paper-wasn't that what our lady-friend called
it? I think it's you she's after. Seriously, what motive had
you other than to have people say, 'Lo! look what a clever
fellow this is'? I suppose the same applies to me; to every
artist in every sphere. It's the unescapable human desire to
produce and the equally human desire for praise. The fact
that his name is definitely attached to his work pleases the ill-


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
119
requited artist as much as the exiguous shekels he receives-
almost as much,” he added with his attractive grin.
“Yes. I'll try that on you at the end of the month,” Langley
rejoined, with a grim smile. “I'm glad you've mentioned the
shekels.”
"I mentioned them to remind you that they do definitely
enter into the matter, and I chucked in a saving clause, for I
recalled in time the sage remark of some unknown philos-
opher that art for art's sake would be splendid were it not
for the necessity of food for the stomach's sake. Personally, I
think any one who goes on the stage, and can get away with
it, is a very sensible person. Consider the average London
chorus girl. She can knock out a fiver a week and have quite
a good time without playing the fool in any way, whereas if
she went into an office or one of those places where she would
find your honest job o' work, she would be lucky to touch
half that. No, no, Langley, old chap, be brave and let who
will be misogynous. You send her along an extra large box
of chocolates; those ones with liqueurs inside 'em and make it
up with her. You'll find your liver will readjust itself.”
"Nothing to do with my liver, my lad. It's my clear, cold,
penetrating intellect. However, to return to this Van Buren
woman. I'll have to do something about her letter. Are you
going to take it on?"
“Yes, certainly. I like American women; those I've met.
They're generally anyway, I like 'em. You say she really
is a good actress?"
"First class. The play's not, though. It's a réchauffé; merely
old-fashioned heavy melodrama cut and spiced up to suit the
modern style. I don't know why on earth they brought it
over to London. Some one with plenty must be backing it
good and heavy. I should imagine it's been losing money right
from the start.”
“You haven't heard who is behind it?"
“No, I can't say I have. Despite the fact that some one must


120 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
be, it's only fair to say that there's been none of the usual
rumors about the Van Buren.”
“That relieves my artless, unsophisticated mind," smiled
Robin, and after exchanging a little “shop" with his friend and
editor, he pitched the stub of his cigarette in the empty fire-
place and departed.
That evening, having arranged the appointment, he went to
the Pyrrhic Theater.
He arrived at the stage-door just as the curtain had fallen
on the first act, and when he was shown into Barbara van
Buren's dressing-room he found her there, seated before her
three-sided table-mirror intently completing some readjust-
ment of her make-up.
She saw him reflected before her: did not rise, but received
him warmly enough, throwing out a hand for him to touch in
greeting.
“So you're the Mr. Foster,” she said in a deep, rich voice.
“It's very nice of you to come right along. I do like people
who get on with it and don't lurk about.”
Robin murmured something conventional and studied her
in silence as she continued to peer into the different angles of
her mirror. Even from her reflections and although her face
was loaded with make-up for the footlights, he could see she
was a very beautiful woman of a luscious creole type. He
judged her to be in the early thirties.
Rising, she drew her wrap closely round her, unconsciously
or indifferently-so it seemed—permitting him to glimpse
that she was in déshabillé. He suppressed a smile as he re-
flected that David Langley's cynical comment would be: arti-
fice become second nature. She certainly was very lovely. She
said a word to her dresser hovering attentively near, and the
woman left the room. The actress then pulled her chair away
from her dressing-table and sat down in it, directly facing
him. She indicated a chair to him.
“Please sit, Mr. Foster. Now, do you think I'm liable to


122
M
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
charm, simple good manners, and unaccented voice were the
result of rigid self-discipline and tireless training. The result
was certainly worth the effort.
“Well-why don't you go ahead? Don't you intend to make
a few notes?" she proceeded in a tone of mild surprise. “Don't
say you've lost your pencil,” she added smiling.
"I make my notes mentally,” said Robin. “I work directly
from memory-my visual memory is naturally good and I
have trained it as well; it simplifies this sort of work im-
mensely.”
"In that case, if you merely want to look at me and talk to
me, do have a cigarette to relieve the painful process-painful
to you, I mean," she hastened to add pleasantly. She passed
him a silver cigarette box. “If you care for a drink, help your-
self. There's a bottle and a syphon behind you."
Robin declined and she continued:
"You're quite a young man, Mr. Foster; have you done
much? I mean, have you exhibited at all-or had any shows
on your own? Forgive me if I'm showing provincial igno
rance of your reputation. I am a stranger in London, you
know."
“Not enough to make forgiveness necessary. I have no claim
to fame. A good deal of black and white work, some portraits,
and I've done designs for one or two revues. I've had no time,
really, to think of a show so far, but I'm kept busy enough,
and I like my job.”
He wandered into light conversation, leading her to talk
about herself and to give her views of London and New York
audiences-conversation which for both was all too soon in-
terrupted by the return of the dresser, who passed warningly
near, then stood ostentatiously forward, carrying an evening
frock over her arm.
“I'm sorry you'll have to go, but here is Mrs. Harrison ready
for me, so I'm afraid it's time for me to dress, Mr. Foster,"


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
123
Barbara van Buren reminded him. “Do you think you have
got me anyway near fixed?”.
“I think so,” Robin assured her as he rose.
“Would you care to go in front? You say you haven't seen
the show. Perhaps you'll find what's still to come sufficient for
you. Frankly I'm not fond of the play, although it gives me a
rather meaty part, but it was a chance to come over, and it
had good backing.”
"Thanks very much, Miss van Buren. I would like to see
you from the front.”
Robin was quite sincere in this. He found himself extraor-
dinarily although quite dispassionately interested in the
woman, who seemed to him devoid of all affectation and
blessed with a personality that was vividly attractive.
She herself sent a messenger to the stage manager and
passed her visitor over to his goodwill. When the curtain rose
Robin occupied a seat in the stalls.
He soon realized that the play was a rather crude study of
the eternal courtesan—the predatory Jezebel. Barbara van
Buren portrayed the rôle of a woman whose influence in
various men's lives proved tragic, although in each instance
her victims rather unconvincingly preserved their infatuation
for her, even when conscious of her depravity and duplicity,
and even when their fond weakness brought disaster to other
than themselves.
The last act showed her as the woman-with-a-past but a past
that had been purified. She had met the one man who inspired
her with the spiritual love that she had learned is poles apart
from more self-indulgent passion, and their marriage had been
arranged. Here Miss van Buren lifted the play out of its
bathos and gave the measure of her histrionic range. From
the wanton she transformed herself into a virginal creature,
not superficially in the traditional mold, but in a manner that
held the very essence of actuality. It was startlingly impressive.
She succeeded in conveying the conviction across the footlights


124
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
that the promised life of happiness that lay before her she
would surely attain and, what is more, that she deserved to
attain it. That was an audacious and successful counterblast
to the conventional treatment of the hoary theme.
Unfortunately the author had been quite unable to support
the effort and lapsed feebly into conventionality at the close.
The way of the transgressor had to be shown as hard. Justice
had to be done. Into the woman's life came retribution—she
was shot by the wife of one of her victims.
As her assassin presented the pistol at her breast, exclaim-
ing, “If ever I have done anything I glory in, I do it now,"
Barbara van Buren, cornered, drew herself up to her full
height to receive the mortal blow. She did not portray fear, re-
gret, or defiance. Her characterization was that of a woman
who had always been prepared to go to any lengths to get
what she wanted, but who equally had always been prepared
to pay the price if and when it were demanded—as it was de-
manded now.
That was the mental picture Robin took away with him of
Barbara van Buren herself, and when the following evening
he called again and saw her in her dressing-room he realized
it was this aspect of his interpretation of her character that
he had quite involuntarily emphasized in his pastel drawing
of her.
She studied the portrait for a few moments in silence, then,
letting it drop on her lap, looked across at him with a reflec-
tive pucker of her brows.
"I wouldn't say you'd fallen in love with me, exactly," she
remarked, but the good-humored tone in which she spoke
deprived the remark of any suggestion of irritation or com-
plaint. “Clearly I impress you as rather a hard person, Mr.
Foster?"
“That's how I see you,” Robin answered, indicating the
sketch by a nod of his head but with his disarming smile.
“Sorry if you don't like it.”


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 125
"But I do. I like it tremendously. Probably for just that
reason. It's exceptionally good-a really impressive piece of
work. It's the most convincing thing of me I've seen. You
know, I'd love to have you paint a portrait of me-a full-dress
affair. I'm certain you would make something big of it.”
“I'd be honored if you'd sit for me. I should like to do it.
You fascinate me."
As she opened her eyes wide and regarded him quizzingly
he added serenely:
“I mean as a subject. Like you, I believe I could do some-
thing worth while. From the painter's point of view you are
sympathetic. That's more than outsiders can realize. “The
Actress' I'd call it-show you at your dressing table from an
unusual angle, with all your paraphernalia, and try to portray
your double personality through your reflection in the mirror,
as you are making up.”
"You believe I have a double personality, then?” she asked
demurely.
“That's a low estimate,” he smiled. “I mean what I feel
are your two major personalities.”
“I see. This pose you suggest is how you first saw me, isn't
it?”
“Yes. I admit I was immediately impressed. I seemed to
sense-oh, I don't know precisely how to explain it unless
by the word I have used-sympathy. At any rate, I responded
to the effect I felt you wanted to produce."
His frankness seemed almost to disconcert her. For an in-
stant her eyes were troubled. She turned her glance away and
looked down at the drawing lying between her hands on her
knees. When she faced him again, however, her face showed
unaffected amusement.
"I am not sure that you're not accusing me of trying to
vamp you, Mr. Foster. You are a very direct person indeed.
You surely realize that it is one of the essentials of my pro-
fession that I should instinctively try to impress every one I


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
meet? It has become an ingrained habit. You see, I'm per-
fectly honest about it, so there's no need for you to flatter
yourself that I adopted special measures in your case.”
Robin flushed, although he could not be offended by her
raillery. As David Langley would have told him, he had
"asked for it.”
"I didn't intend to imply that I was so beastly conceited,
Miss van Buren,” he answered, meeting her eyes frankly.
“The effect produced was utterly impersonal, I assure you! I
speak as an artist-I hope I am one. I was studying you as a
picture, not as a woman.”
“That's worse and worse, for it's most unflattering; still,
it's a relief to know I'm not in any peril," she teased him.
“Seriously, though, Mr. Foster, I'm anxious to have you paint
this portrait of me. You interest me; so that makes us quits.
There won't be too much time, however-I'm afraid the show
won't last much longer, and I might have to return at once to
New York. Let's see. This is Friday. I'm going down to
morrow to spend the week-end at my cottage at Wichington,
in Bucks. Will you be my guest? There will be one or two
other rather nice people, and I think you'll find them amus-
ing. I could give you an hour or two there for a few pre-
liminary sketches—if you wish to make any."
Without hesitation Robin accepted the invitation. Quite
spontaneously he had become influenced with a desire to paint
her portrait. Already in his mind he visualized it as better
than in his heart he feared it would be; or could be. Yet the
inspiration was there, so hope was stirred. And while the
impulse was strong within him he was eager to give it rein.
Nor was he so hypocritical with himself as to affect to be
oblivious to the attraction she had for him as a woman. She
had a tonic quality and a sense of humor which appealed to
him keenly, especially at this time when-deep down in his
heart he admitted it-he was dispirited because of his break
with Laurette. Far more deeply than he allowed himself


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
127
openly to realize, he was grieving over that rupture, although
his pride and common sense would not permit him to try to
restore their friendship.
“That's grand!” Barbara van Buren commented, on his ac-
ceptance. “You won't worry if I ask you to travel down by
train, alone? I haven't a car in this country, and am depend-
ent on other people. My tepee is no distance from the station
-it's called 'Four Acre Cottage.' A man Prosser and his wife
run it for me. They'll expect you. There's a bit of a squash in
the car I'm going by, as it is, otherwise-
“That's all right,” Robin assured her. “If you tell me what
station to go to, and when. I suppose you'll go down
after. ..." .
Some one knocked at the door of the dressing-room, and,
following her call, it opened to admit a tall man in evening
clothes, handsome, but with a curious nervousness in his bear-
ing that contrasted strangely with the self-possession in his
voice. “Evening, Babs.” He advanced quickly, to grasp her
nonchalantly extended hand, at the same time throwing a
swift glance of inquiry at Robin.
"Evening, Gideon. Don't say you're in front again! It makes
me quite giddy to think of the number of times you've seen
the show."
"I couldn't see it too often, Barbara, as you know, when
you're in it.” The words were not spoken light-heartedly, but
in all seriousness, and the woman frowned. But she made no
verbal comment.
"Mr. Foster," she called, raising her voice slightly "this is a
friend of mine, Mr. Gideon Trevor-Mr. Robin Foster. You'll
probably meet down at Wichington,” she added, as the two
men shook hands, “so it's as well to become acquainted now.”
Under the other's scrutiny Robin felt almost uncomfortable.
There was nothing offensive in it-nothing in it to suggest
that he was regarded as an interloper-but it evinced an in-
terest that seemed disproportionate to the circumstances.


128
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
e in there, Sect is har
I'll try t
“Oh, so you're coming down to Wichington to-morrow?”
Trevor at length remarked genially.
“Yes, Miss van Buren has just invited me."
“And he doesn't know anything about the trains, Gideon,"
she interjected. “Put him au fait, will you, please? We shan't
be going down until after the show, so I suppose practically
the last train will suit-unless you'd like a few hours' solitude
down there, Mr. Foster?”
“The prospect is hardly inviting, however comfortable,”
Robin returned, smiling. “I'll try to make my arrival coincide
with yours.”
“That's the spirit! And talking of spirit, Gideon, there's
some hooch of various kinds in that cupboard there. Entertain
Mr. Foster while I change-you can remain here so long as
you confine your attention to that particular entertainment.”
There was a dryness in her tone which divested the remark
of much of its essential vulgarity, and Robin realized it was
directed solely at Trevor. He guessed that the man was pur-
suing her with his attentions—his behavior seemed to make
this obvious. His eyes followed her every movement with a
look of mingled adoration and desire. Robin had a feeling of
embarrassment when he detected it; it was as though he had
stumbled upon an intimate secret inadvertently revealed.
Barbara van Buren caught Trevor's gaze, and held it with
her own.
“Get busy with the glasses, Gideon,” she said coldly, almost
warningly—“but leave me right out-nothing for mine. The
call boy will be around in a minute or two, so if you've gone
before I get back, Mr. Foster—though I hope you won't be-
au revoir until to-morrow night.”.


CHAPTER
Kann
XIII
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT BARBARA VAN BUREN SAT IN FRONT OF
the large three-paneled mirror in the unusually comfortable
and well-appointed dressing-room habitually allotted to the
leading lady in the Pyrrhic Theater, putting a few finishing
touches to her outdoor toilette. Humming a cheerful tune, she
pulled on her hat, tucked in a few loose wisps of hair under
it, and regarded the fascinating result revealed in the triple
glasses with a complacent satisfaction that was entirely jus-
tified.
Two people stood watching her—her elderly dresser and
Gideon Trevor. The dresser supported the blankly indifferent
expression of one who had witnessed the identical process so
frequently that familiarity with it, while it had not bred con-
tempt-her deep-rooted respect for the profession prevented
that-had rendered her naturally unresponsive. But the man's
regard was frankly admiring. Leaning slightly against the
wall he kept his gaze steadily fixed on Miss van Buren's re-
flections.
She veered half round in her chair and over her shoulder
said brightly to the dresser, “All right, Polly, that's everything,
thank you very much. Good night. You'll be around Monday,
usual time," and again faced her center mirror.
The woman wished her good night in turn and with a half
bow to Gideon Trevor left the room, noiselessly closing the
door after her.
“I suppose,” said Trevor, after a long silence, with a some-
what forced jocularity, "we now may reasonably say that our
star is at last alone.” He came forward from the wall and
moved a few steps towards her.
The slight frown that so readily puckered Barbara van
Buren's forehead reappeared for a moment, then lifted. She
smiled and teasingly replied: "Oh, be your age, Gideon."
129


130 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“But I really mean it,” he persisted, his voice dropping into
an anxious key.
“All right, Gideon, the star is alone,” she said indifferently;
"and quite defenseless if you are going to turn on the machine
gun of your undying love. I just hate to ,be unkind, but all
the same it's hardly worth while starting in to shoot, be-
cause"-she glanced at the watch on her wrist—"we'll be leav-
ing in a few minutes."
"You will—I shan't be coming."
She looked up in astonishment, her whole attitude and
manner changed.
“I thought you were? I understood it had been definitely
arranged. What's gone wrong? What's happened to make you
change your mind?”
"I haven't changed my mind, Barbara. I never had any in-
tention of coming. I thought you realized that.”
“Now you're handing out puzzles,” the actress retorted
sharply. “I just don't know what you mean. When Robin
Foster was here last night you showed every intention of
coming; now, didn't you?”
“That's right. I had to let him fancy so; naturally. What
d'you think? Surely you understand that. And by the way,
Barbara, Mr. Lessing doesn't know that Foster and I met last
night. I haven't told him. I thought it safer not to. He'd raise
hell with me if he knew."
"Why? Why should he? Look here, Gideon, what microbe
has got hold of you? Why all this sudden mystery? You seem
to have quite a lot under your hat. Come down to earth and
say something, or I'll get cross with you."
The man appeared puzzled. He moved round to the edge
of her dressing-table and, bending forward, leaning both his
hands on it, looked impressively into her face.
"Barbara? You're not trying to tell me that you don't know
what's behind this little week-end party of yours?” he asked
seriously. He watched her expression closely. “See here, Bar-


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 131
bara, you've no need to play the little white-haired girl with
me. I'm in on it, too—though I wish to God I weren't. I've
got no alternative-you have. That's what makes me so as-
tonished to find you've taken a hand.”
Her head went back with an irritable, arrogant gesture.
“I've had week-end parties before, haven't I? What's wrong
with having another one-or another dozen if I choose? What
you're getting at, I reckon, is that I was requested to ask
Robin Foster down."
"Exactly. You're not trying to hand it to me you thought
it was because Peter Lessing had decided to take an interest
in his artistic career, are you?”
Barbara van Buren ignored the speer, but thought for a
moment. Her white teeth biting at her lower lip indicated her
rising agitation.
"I hadn't worried about that,” she answered finally. “I knew
Peter had his reasons, and that was just good enough for me.
I did what I was asked to do, and at the same time I pleased
myself. I want Foster along. I like the boy, and I consider he's
a darned clever artist. I think he'll make a dandy portrait of
me."
“No doubt he would-if ever he got the opportunity.”
"What do you mean by that, Gideon?” She spoke so an-
grily that involuntarily he jerked his head away. “Cut that
stuff right out, or I certainly will get cross with you."
“I'm sorry, Barbara, but that seems to me the more reason
why we should try to get it all clear if we can. I really am
beginning to think you don't realize what you've let yourself
in for."
“What have I let myself in for, then? Tell me that.” Her
attitude had grown tense, her voice cold and deliberate.
“Seems to me you know a darned sight more than I do,
though it's mostly my affair I'd say."
"Look at it square. D’you think it's on the level?” Trevor
continued grimly. “Didn't it at all strike you that any of the


134
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Oh, don't get sloppy, Gideon," she interrupted with a gen-
uine laugh. “Good girls and bad girls went right out of fash-
ion some years back, and if you men feel tearful about it you
can thank yourselves for showing us the track. We aren't
worrying any."
"I hate to hear you talking that way, Babs. It isn't like your
real self. I know it isn't. It's all so cold and callous.”
“Wrong noise, Gideon-it's practical.”
There came a knock at the door, which opened, and a
woman cloaked and wearing a heavy veil looked in. Barbara
started as she recognized her visitor.
“Hullo, Hester, my sweet,” she said; “just slipped along to
say good night?”
“Yes, I just looked in,” the newcomer replied, rather diffi-
dently entering.
“This is my friend, Gideon Trevor-Hester Rogan," Bar-
bara explained with a wave of her hand.
Trevor bowed. It struck him as decidedly strange and un-
usual to sce any woman connected with the theater so heavily
veiled.
Hester Rogan walked forward and the two women em-
braced, Barbara kissing her with a sincerity of affection that
made the kiss quite different from the orthodox peck that is
the custom-of-the-trade in theatrical circles. At the same time
she placed a hand across the other's shoulder, almost turning
her round, as though anxious to get her out of the room im-
mediately.
"You must run along home, dear-and take great care of
yourself,” she said. “You weren't looking any too well in the
show to-night. Get along quick, now-I'd advise you to take a
taxi.” She moved with her to the door and showed her out
almost as if she were in a fidget to be rid of her. In the door-
way she added: “I suppose everybody's gone? Seen anybody
around?”
"Nobody but the stage manager," Hester Rogan answered,


136 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
somehow queer. Something about her face, you know, that
seemed unreal.”
“Unreal's the word—but how much you wouldn't believe.
Yet she was an uncommon good-looker in her day—and
heading for the big lights. She'd have been more of a noise
on the stage than I am if-oh, well-what's the use! I've seen
stacks of photographs of her taken before her accident, and
you just wouldn't recognize Hester as the same woman.”
“What went wrong-train smash or something like that??"
“Hotel fire. Oh, don't start thinking back-you wouldn't
remember it; it didn't occur here. And Hester Rogan wasn't
at all her name in those days."
“It occurred to me, Babs-forgive me for mentioning it-
but you didn't seem too feverish for her company just now,”
he hazarded with the air of one who would have said more
had he dared.
She threw him a sharp suspicious glance, then smiled.
“Well, she might rather have been in the way—for various
reasons,” she replied calmly.
She sauntered back to the dressing-table, drew off her heavy
rings and slowly, as if thinking, dropped them negligently
into her bag. Picking it up with her gloves she again looked
at her diamond-framed wrist-watch and said somewhat
pointedly: “Time is getting on.”
He accepted the observation as a hint that if he had any-
thing further of moment to say he had better say it now.
“It is, Babs. Won't you tell me-have I not said enough?—
do you mean to go through with this Foster business? If you
do, well, I have nothing more to add except that I'm still on
the level with you—and Peter Lessing. It's the steepest thing
I've ever had to face up to, but- "
Sharply she swung round on him.
"Back to that again, are you? I do wish you wouldn't be
so darned persistent. Seems to me you're jumping into a game


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 139
But you're too late. How can it be fixed in time? He's well
on the railroad now—that, I suppose, was part of the scheme.
Telephone the cottage and leave a message for him when he
arrives?”
The man looked at her with an apprehensive movement of
dissent. “Great God, no!—that would put the tickets on us
both. And the message wouldn't be delivered either. Your
man, Prosser, has been put wise, and squared. He'd split, and
then- ” He paused and snapped his fingers significantly.
"No," he went on, “one of us will have to get in touch with
this—with Foster himself. The train"-he held his head aslant
reflectively—“is due at— ".
He broke off with a start of alarm as footsteps sounded in
the passage outside. They came nearer, a firm, assured tread.
The door was pushed open and Peter Lessing, in full evening
kit, with a thin, unlined black overcoat hanging on his arm,
stepped confidently into the room.


CHAPTER
FOR A MOMENT LESSING STOOD AT THE DOOR MOTIONLESS, AL-
most as though expecting the others to applaud his magnifi-
cence, then, with something of a flourish, he removed his silk
hat and advanced to Barbara, who extended to him her right
hand. There was a suggestion of routine in the action. He
bowed with a proprietary air and brushed her hand with his
lips. As he raised himself erect again, still holding her hand,
he smiled boldly at her. The effect produced by his demeanor
was astonishing, and to Gideon Trevor infinitely galling. Her
eyes fell almost girlishly under his ardent gaze. He released
her hand and turned to Trevor, who had moved slightly away
from the pair.
“Evening, Gideon," he said easily. “I thought I'd find you
here. 'Been explaining to Barbara something about our little
scheme?"
"No," the other answered quickly. "I thought it best to
leave you to do that.”
“But you've told her, surely, that you're not going down to
Wichington?”
“Oh, yes; I've told her that. But I don't think Miss van
Buren is greatly concerned about my not going down."
"You've said it, Gideon," she assured him, with a sudden
burst of gaiety. “No, Peter, what I'm concerned about is your
backsliding. What I want to know is why you're not coming
down. Why, I thought that was the real reason for the party.”
“No, not quite, my dear. I'm not accompanying you."
“Why?" she demanded challengingly.
"I have changed my mind, that's all,” he replied casually,
although he glanced searchingly at Gideon Trevor as he
spoke. “I find I have some things to do in town. Besides ..."
He went no further, but smiled complacently.
140


142 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
i
"Don't worry, Gideon,” Lessing returned with a smile. “I
appreciate the delicacy of your motive, but I've got no secrets
from you or from Barbara either. None that matter, anyhow.
If I do have any secrets, well, they're safe—they've got to be
with both of you.”
“Let's in on this one, then,” Barbara said brusquely.
He fixed her with an intent stare.
“There may be a little accident happen to-night, my dear,"
he told her, speaking slowly, “to a member of your party. Oh,
don't worry, not while he's with you-you'll be concerned
only incidentally. But if any questions are asked, remember
my name is not to be mentioned as having any connection
either with you or with your party. I've never heard of it.
The others don't count. There's no need to worry about them.
They don't know me, and think the whole razzle is entirely
your affair. They've been chosen very carefully, too-people
of irreproachable reputation. Real top-notchers. So that goes."
“Accident!” Barbara exclaimed. “What sort of accident?
No, no! You can't! I know you mean Robin Foster. What's
he ever done to you?”
“What he's done doesn't count,” Lessing answered suavely,
"and don't you get frightened over the possibility of any
trouble coming to you. That part has all been seen to. You'll
find you've no cause to worry. Things will just happen as per
contract. Everything's ready and arranged. It's just what I'm
· telling you that's got to be paid attention to. So don't lose
your grip on yourself. Don't get rattled. I imagine your young
artist friend can look after himself. He'll have to," he added,
with a significant glance at Trevor. “He ought to feel mighty
flattered at your sudden interest in him.”
"Oh, quit that,” rejoined Barbara, angered into vulgarity of
voice and gesture, "and leave me right out. I'm having noth-
ing to do with this. Get that? You're talking as though you're
God Almighty. What's coming to Robin Foster? That's what
I want to know. What do you mean to do to him?”.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
143
Peter Lessing did not answer in words. Instead, without re-
moving his eyes from Barbara van Buren's he, with studied
insolence, placed his silk hat on the back of his head, pressed
it down, and continued to stare coldly at her. She endeavored
bravely to return his stare, but after a brief struggle her eyes
dropped and she forced a smile.
“Oh, all right, Peter,” she said resignedly, "have your own
way. It's not my funeral. So long as you're sure there's noth-
ing coming to me, whatever you're up to."
"That's the spirit-and I can give you that assurance,”
Lessing returned, winking coarsely to Trevor, who affected
not to notice the vulgarism. “And now I think you'd better
run right along and wait for your friends outside. Sorry to
put you to that inconvenience, my dear, but as I told you I'm
not to be brought into this racket in any way whatever. I
don't want any of them coming into the theater for you and
finding me here. It might cause complications. They're just
about due now, anyway, are they not?"
“Just about,” she assented dully. "I'm all ready. Nowait.
Just half a second before we go. I nearly forgot it's Saturday.
I want to leave a note for the stage manager."
She turned again to her dressing-table and, sitting down
without removing her gloves, drew a writing pad towards her
and tore off a sheet. Without raising her head she asked,
“Gideon, didn't Hester Rogan say he was still around here?"
“Yes, she did.”
"Then that's all right." Scribbling rapidly in pencil she com-
pleted a message, folded over the sheet of notepaper and ad-
dressed it. “This is for him. Do me the small favor of taking
it to him, Gideon—you'll find him somewhere about. If he's
not in his room-up the steps on your left, then first door on
the right-he's sure to be somewhere back stage. Look around
for him, Gideon, please, and see that he gets it-it's rather
important. Good night. Come along one day next week,” she
added with a smile.


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 145
feline grace, allowed a sigh of ecstasy to escape her lips and
with a whimsical smile shook her head deprecatingly at her
own surrender to sensuousness.
“I just love you, Peter, when you bully me and knock me
about. There must be a large spot of the prehistoric woman
in me, I'm afraid. But I do wish you would tell me what
game you're up to. You scare me sometimes, you know. I
love it as a thrill, but not as a diet. Won't you come across ?”
Lessing kissed her again rather patronizingly. There was
something unpleasantly stereotyped in the manner of his
caress. “Just fancy my darling Barbara not knowing me well
enough by now to remember that my motto is the same as the
great Palmerston's—Never apologize and never explain.' Stay
in your own charming sphere, my dear; be content to fill the
rôle of frecreation for the warrior. No woman I've ever
known has ever played the part more pleasingly. Just be your
own sweet self, and leave "
“Now, now, Peter, don't you start that kiss-baby business
again, please. You know I just hate it.”
“I won't if you promise not to ask questions I don't intend
to answer.” His words had just a suggestion of anger. She
shrugged her shoulders in admission of defeat, and instantly
he grew amiable again. “Come on, Barbara; hustle. It's time
we were off. I'm scared these people will fall in on us.”
Without further speech she switched off the lights and they
passed out of the room together.
“You run on ahead,” he said, when the door had been
closed behind them, “I want to go up to my office for a min-
ute. I left some papers there. I shan't be long. See you outside.
But don't bother to wait a single second if the car turns up.
Get right away."
She glanced at him with an anxious start of suspicion, but
his manner was so assured and matter-of-fact that her mind
quickly cleared of its distrust and she raised her lips to his.
Briskly he made his way to the flight of steps along the


146 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
passage, and even in the dark ran up them quickly. He was
on familiar ground. On the first landing, also in darkness, he
saw a glint of light at the foot of one of the doors. He pushed
the door open.
“Hullo, Denny, everything all right?” he asked the man
inside, the sole occupant of the tiny room, who was busily
pulling on an overcoat.
"Oh, good evening, sir! Yes, everything is all right, Mr.
Lessing.”
"That note you got from Miss van Buren just now—I'd
like ” He stopped as he saw a look of surprise cross the
other's face.
"Note? What note, sir? I got no note from Miss van
Buren.”
“You didn't? A note wasn't delivered to you just now, then
-a few minutes ago?"
“No, sir.”
“Been in your room long?”.
“For the past half hour, sir. Haven't left it."
Peter Lessing's face involuntarily changed. He himself
knew it, and turned away to hide his altered expression. For
a second his whole aspect was utterly transformed. A stranger
looking at him would have said he had become a different
man. The corners of his mouth dropped cruelly, his lips dis-
appeared into a thin snarling line, and his eyes glinted fero-
ciously. Then almost at once he had himself in control, his
normal unruffled countenance came through.
“That's all right then, Denny," he said, confronting the
man again. "It wasn't important and she probably decided not
to bother about it to-night. There's no necessity to mention it
to her at any time—understand? See you on Monday. I'm just
hurrying off. Good night.”
A minute later he was at the stage door of the Pyrrhic
Theater. He drew back into the shadow as he saw Barbara
van Buren conversing boisterously through the window of a


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 147
le w huge car drawn up at the curb. Beside him, already in the
ess, shadow, stood Gideon Trevor.
ush: A white fog, rather unusual at that season of the year, had
come down, but not so heavily as to obscure objects near at
may hand. The car was a silver-painted limousine. Its occupants
were noisily hilarious.
Cynically Lessing smiled to himself as he considered them.
M. He knew all four. It had been he, in fact, who had suggested
their inclusion in the party. Their characters socially, if not
To morally, were beyond reproach.
They were the younger son of a sporting peer; a prominent
stockbroker who late in life had decided to indulge in some
of the gaiety he had avoided in his younger years while ac-
quiring his wealth; a young Society woman, married, but so
infrequently seen with her husband that one one could have
accused her of being unfashionable; and a whilom American
film star, now the wife of a princeling of Georgia. This last
had paid extravagantly for the privilege of assuming the dig-
nity of Princess but still considered it worth it, and in London
had become prominent by reason of her quite regal patronage
of the stage; a patronage that was somewhat discounted, how-
ever, by her insistent anxiety to play leading parts herself.
As Barbara entered the car the voices of the occupants low-
ered slightly to the joint burble of a gushing, enthusiastic
welcome. Then the silver-painted omnibus—it was little else
-slid smoothly forward.
Lessing and Trevor watched it go.
“That's that,” commented Lessing grimly. He slipped his
arm through the other's. “Come, Gideon, it isn't far to Charles
Street and I should like a walk.”
Carefully picking their way from Shaftesbury Avenue cor-
ner across the Circus they strolled westward on the club side
of Piccadilly towards Berkeley Street. Their talk was of busi-
ness, chiefly financial. Trevor thought he had never found
Peter Lessing so affable or so bright, and wondered at it in the


148
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
circumstances, wondered that a man embarked on the project
of cold blooded murder did not betray in any way evidence
of an uneasy conscience. But he himself had his own present
worries to think of. Surreptitiously he glanced at his watch.
They reached the door of 82 Charles Street. As Lessing re-
moved his hold on the other's arm to insert his latchkey,
Gideon Trevor, who had been coughing increasingly in the
fog, drew back and said:
"I must really go and get something for this infernal cough
of mine. I can see it's going to be troublesome. I won't hold
you up for more than five minutes."
“No, no, man, you don't need to do that,” said Lessing,
reaching out to take Trevor's arm again. “Come right inside,
Gideon. I can fix you up. I've got a whole pharmacy of
things."
Trevor developed a further outbreak of coughing and at
the same time evaded his employer's detaining hand.
“Thanks, but your pharmacy list doesn't cover my pectoral
candy. Unfortunately it's the only thing that settles this cough
of mine. I've learned that by experience. It will take me only
a few minutes. I'll just dash back to Trimmer's, in Piccadilly
and get a supply. I don't want to be coughing all night. I'll
let myself in. I've got my key."
Indecision showed for a brief instant in Lessing's figure,
then he shrugged his shoulders and indifferently said, “As
you wish. Have it your own way."
He went into the house and closed the door while Trevor,
still coughing, moved slowly down the steps.
“Just go to bed, Simmons,” Lessing said to his butler who,
having heard the key in the lock, came forward to take his
hat as he entered. “I shall be here when Mr. Trevor comes
back. He's just gone along to a Piccadilly drug-store to get
some stuff for his throat. Bad cough.”
“Yes, sir, nasty touch of fog to-night. Thank you, sir. Good
night, sir.”


CHAPTER
un XV
“AH, HERE WE ARE, SIR," WAS THE GREETING OF THE STATION-
master of Wichington as he welcomed Robin Foster's descent
from a third-class compartment with as much courtesy as if
he had been a director of the Company. "You'll be for ‘Four
Acres,' aren't you, sir?” he added as he received Robin's suit-
case and placed it on the platform.
“Yes, Miss van Buren's,” said Robin, handing over the re-
mainder of his belongings.
The other continued breezily:
"It's not worth while hiring, although we do have the one
car along-bye in the village. Why, it's no distance to walk,
and if you take the road I'll show you; I'll send Sam along
with your case and the rest of your things just after you.
He'll be there nigh as soon as you are.”
Robin, who appeared to be the solitary disembarking pas-
senger, thanked him, and delivered up his half ticket; to-
gether they passed out from the tidy little station. The sta-
tionmaster pointed through the dark autumn night.
“Down to the foot of this road you go, sir. Turn sharp to
the right there, and then go over the stile you'll see. You
can't miss it. Follow the path over the shoulder of that hill
which we call Wichington Clump, and you're making an
angle which will fetch you straight down on to the main
Clobham road, and there you'll see 'Four Acres.' It's the first
house on your left hand going straight on in that direction.
'Stands just a bit back off the road. 'Pity there wasn't a moon,
because it's rather dark, but you can't possibly miss it. Good
night, sir, and thank you, sir," he added, as Robin suitably rec-
ognized his amiability and assistance.
Although he knew Buckinghamshire fairly well, Robin had
never actually been in this particular backwater. He breathed
the heavy scent of hay and clover and, with the keen appre-
150


152 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
end of the crazy pavement leading from its gate. A faint
chorus of yapping was the first answer to his ring, then the
door was opened by a manservant. Robin recalled that Bar-
bara van Buren had told him her country wigwam was run
by a man and his wife. He remembered the name.
“Good evening, Prosser,” he greeted him in his usual cheer-
ful tones.
"Good evening, sir. You will be Mr. Foster? Please to come
in.”
“Yes. Thank you,” said Robin, entering and gently brush-
ing aside two Pekingese which had come forward to snuffle
round his feet.
"I expect you came over the hill. Your luggage will be
following, sir?” continued the man inquiringly.
“Yes, your stationmaster said-oh, there he is; at least it's
his acolyte, the infant Samuel,” he added, as he saw in the
light thrown through the doorway down the path a figure
appear, no doubt Sam, bearing his fardels with lusty rustic
ease.
These deposited, and Samuel adequately requited, the ser-
vant, an individual of about fifty years of age, with a slightly
disarming air and a shifty eye which did not in the least
appeal to Robin's frank nature, stood with contracted brows
tapping his chin with a forefinger.
"Er-I have a message for you, sir; Miss van Buren and
her party are having a little-forgive the expression, sir-a
rag to-night-or this morning, I should almost say, sir-at
"The Three Choughs,' the inn across at Clobham. There are
one or two of her friends down from Town who also are
staying here, and some neighbors, and she instructed me to
ask you if you would please to go across just as you are, with-
out troubling to change; and would you care to take some
refreshment first. She said this fresh arrangement had been
made too late for her to let you know before you caught your
train. If you would just please to come this way, sir.”


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
153
So saying, Prosser turned and led the way to a door off the
comfortable little entrance hall with its inglenook fireplace.
He opened it, passed his hand round the jamb of the door-
way, and switched on the light. Pushing the door back with a
slight inclination of the head and hand he ushered Robin in.
Robin stepped forward and looked round admiringly. The
room, although a closer inspection might have disappointed a
connoisseur of genuine antiques, presented a delightful en-
semble with its low oak-beamed ceiling and well-chosen
Cromwellian-period furniture. On a long refectory table in the
center of the polished parquetry floor stood a handsome, deep-
sided, old copper tray, laden with bottles and glasses, a silver,
or at any rate a white metal, cocktail shaker amongst them.
This, with a discreet indication of a smile, Prosser lifted, and
holding it almost affectionately he said:
"I don't know if it will suit your taste, sir, but this is a
special cocktail from Miss van Buren's own recipe. I was told
to offer you this with her compliments as a, what she called,
'ving donnour'.”
"Oh, yes, smiled Robin, “I see what you mean-the oppo-
site of a stirrup-cup, eh? Sort of putting out the 'Welcome'
doormat in a tumbler.”
“Yes, sir. I believe the expression is from the French.”
"Well, by all means,” said Robin. “I feel my journey justi-
fies it as much as my wish to appreciate Miss van Buren's
‘vin d'honneur'."
"One of the smaller tumblers, sir, or a cocktail glass?"
"Oh, the tumbler, by all means, the tumbler, Prosser. Let's
emphasize our appreciation."
He took the filled glass which the man offered him, smelled
it, looked at it against the light, then saying, “Well, I rec-
ognize neither the color nor the aroma, but 'God bless the
work', anyhow,” he drank half of it. He paused, pursing his
lips.
"Rather a fiery particle, but dashed pleasant. Extremely


154 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
hospitable.” And he finished the contents of the glass. “Well,
that is that, Prosser. Oh, dammit! We should have kept that
lad, the infant Samuel, to show me the way."
He moved towards the door as he spoke.
“ 'Fraid he'll be gone, sir,” said the servant quickly. “And
he goes another direction home in any case-over behind
here. That's how Mr. Brill, the stationmaster, was able to send
him across conveniently. But you'll have no difficulty, sir,
none whatever. Clobham lies just right along this road to the
left hand, a continuation of the way you would have come
from Wichington station if you had taken the road instead
of the path over the hill. All you require to do is to hold
straight on. It's the first village you come to and it isn't a half-
mile away. The road enters it right opposite to the inn. Miss
van Buren said that if you didn't feel equal to the short walk
I was to ring through to the village and get Crawley to drive
you across in his car; but it's a lovely night, sir, although
it's very dark, and you will be there before that lazy loafer at
Wichington could get his old car here—if he isn't away on
another job. Miss van Buren said she thought you would be
the sort of athletic gentleman who would rather like the
walk.”
stationmaster, commented, “Evidently they're determined I
shan't lose my figure down here.” He strode out into the
entrance hall. “Let's see, I didn't bring a walking-stick with
me; this is quite a good-looking article”—and selecting an ash-
plant from a Chinese jar that did duty as an umbrella stand,
he returned his hat to his head and stepped towards the still
open outside door.
Just at that moment behind him in the little hall the tele-
phone bell rang, clear and insistent. Automatically he stopped,
although he did not quite know why he did so.
Prosser, with a murmur of "Excuse me, sir,” moved over to
the instrument. After one or two “Hellos" he reluctantly


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 155
answered, “Yes.” He repeated “Yes” once or twice, then hesi-
tated. “Who is speaking?” he at length asked. Apparently
whoever was at the other end had retorted sharply, for with
a slight shrug of his shoulders the servant turned to Robin.
"I beg your pardon, sir, will you please to speak. It's some one
calling you."
“Me?” exclaimed Robin, laying down the walking-stick;
“calling me? Oh, yes, of course! No doubt a message from
Miss van Buren.” He stepped across to the telephone. As he
moved he felt almost as if he had had too much to drink.
“Devilish strong cocktail that," he said to himself, “or else
my head's getting light. Perhaps it's this blood pressure they're
all talking about nowadays.” At the telephone he said aloud:
"Hello, yes, this is Robin Foster. Who is speaking?”
To his astonishment an unknown voice, a man's voice
speaking hurriedly, replied: “Never mind that. I thought
I'd timed your arrival. Quick-listen! I'm doing this in your
own interests. If you value your life don't— ".
There followed a sharp sound as if a door or a window had
been slammed shut. Then silence.
Robin went through the usual puzzled antics of any one
whose telephonic conversation has been cut short, but failing
to get any response he clicked the receiver back on its hook
and, mystified but smiling, said almost to himself: “Don't
what? ‘Don't go down the mine, Daddy'! It almost looks as
if the kettle were going to boil over again. I must really sell
the farm and get away to sea."
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Prosser.
"Oh, nothing, Prosser, nothing at all. I was really only
soliloquizing."
"It was not from Miss van Buren?” persisted the servant.
"Eh?” said Robin. "Oh, no. No; I think it probably was
some of my friends who are a bit tight, playing tricks. Or
perhaps one of Miss van Buren's party. I don't know, and I'm
not sure that I care. I say, Prosser, how high up are you here?”


156
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Not more than six or eight hundred feet, sir."
“Then it can't be the air. What exactly is in that damned
cocktail you gave me? I feel quite light-headed.”
“Just gin and some flavorings, sir. It's Miss van Buren's own
recipe. Are you going over to 'The Three Choughs,' sir?"
“Oh, yes, dammit, I'm going. Wasn't that Miss van Buren's
message?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Then of course I'm going. Why d'you ask? Give me my
stick—at least it's not mine, but I'm just taking it. Good
night, Prosser; I don't know whether or not you'll be in bed
when we get back-"
"I think not, sir, I usually lock up no matter how late."
And he stood watching Robin until he had reached the end
of the flagged path and passed out of sight behind the trees
that sheltered “Four Acres" from the road.
“Straight along to the left," murmured Robin, stepping
out.
Although he had to confess that he felt or imagined he felt
the effect of the cocktail in his head, it had not affected his
legs; and he strode along briskly, wondering what sort of
roystering would be waiting for him at “The Three Choughs.”
He tried to elucidate the mystery of the telephone message
he had just received, but gave it up. He could make neither
head nor tail of it. He whistled a tune in time with his step.
He felt his usual light-hearted self, but could not suppress a
slight tinge of annoyance that he should have to participate
in this merriment to-night; probably more drink and very
late-or very early-hours. Such, he reflected, was not con-
ducive to good painting; and Robin took his work, and espe-
cially this chance that had been offered him, very seriously
indeed.
As he paced along the twisting, slightly descending road
with its heavy borders of tall trees rising away on the rolling
wooded hillsides on either hand, he heard the distant hum


158
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
thrown down flat on his stomach so violently and quickly that
actually his chest and mouth struck the roadway before he
could move his hands forward or upwards in the slightest
degree to save himself. In the same instant some one, leaping
on him from behind, gripped and held down the back of his
neck, at the same time seizing his left arm and forcing it
up behind him in a secure hammerlock.
Even a trained athlete would have been winded by the
fall, and Robin Foster, although a stout fellow enough, had
during his sojourn in London had little time, away from his
work, to devote to athletics. For a second or two he was prac-
tically knocked out, then an instinctive, angry resentment at
the assault surged up and made him try to heave this un-
welcome assailant off his back. He succeeded in turning half
over when the other, shifting his grip from the back of his
neck to his chin, leaned his weight on him and forced his
head back until Robin felt that either his shoulder or his
neck must give. Still he writhed and gamely did his best to
turn.
He heard a voice-a voice somehow familiar—and wonder-
ment was interwoven for a moment with his anger.
“Quick, move your hand and I'll give him the kosh.”
Where had he heard that voice before? As the restraining
hand was removed Robin wrenched round his head, but
before he could glimpse his second assailant, before he had
time to draw another breath, a blow thudded behind his left
ear: he felt as if he were shooting down the empty shaft of a
lift and consciousness left him. . .
It was not astonishing that he had thought the voice fa-
miliar. It was the voice of the man he had met in the “Ne-
gresco”—Maurice Gordon.
Gordon straightened himself and proceeded to coil up the
loop of stout cord attached to a small packet of sand tightly
sewn into a leather casing. As he stowed the weapon away
he remarked to his confederate still bending over Robin's


• MURDER COULD NOT KILL 159
recumbent figure: “Neatest little quietener ever invented,
Benson. Never hardly leaves a mark.”
Methodically he adjusted the flap of his side pocket.
“Now, then, grab 'im head and heels; bloomin' lucky for
us we were able to pitch on this stretch of road as has been
newly repaired. I'll lay a shade of odds no footmarks will
show here. All the same, keep shufflin' your feet-don't lift
'em.”
Together they seized the limp form of Robin Foster and
hurried almost at a run diagonally across the road ahead of
the car. Gordon stopped, and they callously let their burden
drop.
“Quick! Here, gimme the flask.”
He seized a flat cork-stoppered bottle of whisky the other
held out to him. With brutal indifference he turned Robin's
head back with his foot, stopped and carelessly poured a
quantity of the spirit between his parted teeth. Bending down
farther, he sniffed and said, “Yes; that ought to work it a
treat."
Stepping back he surveyed his handiwork.
"Now, smart's the word. Run the car to get both the near
wheels over his neck, see? And a clearer case of a drunk man
bein' killed by a heavy car through an accident and left lying
by a nasty blinkin' road-hog was never fixed up nicer. There's
dam' little chance of anybody comin' along for a bit on this
here quiet road—but breeze up, Bennie. Back you get into the
'bus and spin her along careful. Switch on the headlights and
I'll give you the line. You got to get it right first shot, re-
member."
"What's reely the blinkin' idea, Morrie? Why don't we just
out 'im an' be done with it?"
“ 'Cause them's my instructions, see?” said Gordon savagely.
"And they suits me all right. Better that than having the
busies nosing around. ... I give you me word, the boss
thinks of everything. Got to make it look like an accident, says


160 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
he, and tells me just how to fix it. An' here it is, all nice and
proper, just as he said.”
“What about the marks?” insinuated the rat-like Benson
shrewdly. “They'll show on 'is neck and nowhere else. 'Adn't
we better prop him up, an'-"
“Oh, shut your face and get on with it!” interrupted his
companion irritably. “Nobody won't look for that. It'll be too
clear an accident. All they'll look for is the car what done it.
All the same, though the brass is good, there's too much
bleedin' risk about this sort o'stuff. I'm through with it after
we touch for this job.”
"Same here,” said Benson with fervor.
In their haste and excitement, their vision obscured by the
sidelights of their car shining in their faces, they did not see
nor hear the other car which slipped up with all lights out
and now was stopping behind their own. It was the sound of
some one descending from it that first engaged Gordon's ear.
He seized the other's arm.
“God!” he whispered; "who's this?”
A slight, boyish figure in jodhpur riding breeches ap-
proached them. Peering through the darkness, straining his
eyes, Gordon in mingled alarm, astonishment, and rage let
fall from his lips the name of the intruder.
He was not deceived in his recognition. The newcomer was
Laurette Dexter.


CHAPTER
AT THE SIDE OF THE ROADWAY THE TWO MEN PAUSED, IRRESOLUTE,
staring dumbfounded. It was clear that the sudden intrusion
had momentarily staggered them, affecting each in a different
way. Feverishly Gordon's mind occupied itself with this un-
welcome complication that had arrived in their well-arranged
plans, while Benson, dependent upon his stronger-willed com-
panion, fearfully waited for him to take the initiative.
In Gordon the impelling instinct of self-preservation quite
naturally came uppermost. He had his own skin to think of,
he reflected viciously; to hell with his other plans!
"If she's alone it's easy,” he whispered, screwing up his
eyes in an attempt to project his vision through the light of
the headlamps of their own car into the darkness beyond.
“Come on, we'll have to chance it.” Raising his voice he
stepped forward. “Now, then,” he began in a bullying tone,
"what the —”
Simultaneously Laurette Dexter moved towards him and
shot her right arm to the level of his chest.
"Put up your hands! Turn round and go back," she com-
manded, in an imperative voice that betrayed neither fear nor
hesitation.
Gordon's answer was a coarse, mocking laugh, but he
nevertheless checked his forward progress.
"You want a smacking, my dear," he said almost good-
humoredly. Then his accent changed. "Perhaps you'll get
something else before we're through with you, you interferin'
bitch!"
“Rush her! rush her!” suggested his confederate in an urgent
undertone. “She's got a gun, but won't never fire.” Together
they dashed forward.
“Smack!” went the automatic-and Gordon with a savage
161


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 163
taught the pair of them a momentary lesson, but realized too
well the type with which she was dealing to relax her vigi-
lance for a second.
“Where had you him hidden?” she demanded. “No, keep
moving,” she added, as he halted to turn to her in blank
astonishment.
“I don't know what you mean, Miss. Hidden? Why,
her ” Abruptly he fell silent as though enlightenment had
suddenly come to him, and in the same instant Laurette was
seized with a feeling of doubt and dread. Was she wrong in
her surmise?
“Who is it?" she cried, standing erect by the prostrate
figure.
"Party as 'ad come to stay with Miss van Buren, at her cot-
tage back there."
“Who is it, I ask you?"
"Foster's the name.”
“What!” exclaimed Laurette. “Oh, my God! Quick! Strike
a match.”
Benson took a petrol lighter from his pocket, snapped it
open, struck the flint, and held the thin light above the
motionless form lying on the road.
“Kneel down and raise his head,” ordered Laurette. “And
remember! You try any tricks and I'll shoot you in the
stomach.”
“For God's sake, Miss! I give you my word solemn, I was
acting under orders. I wouldn't on no account be mixed up
in this sort o' game if I could help it. Trust me, Miss."
"I won't.” She bent forward, recognized Robin Foster, and
could not restrain an exclamation of pain and amazement at
seeing him in this plight. His eyes were closed; there was no
sign of life in him. Then, puzzled, she bent still lower. “Is he
unconscious ... or-or drunk? Quick, tell me."
“He's not badly hurt, Miss-straight. I'll tell you every-
thing,” came the reply in an anxious whisper. “We was to


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 165
had it not been that she knew that with two such characters
she dared take no risk of coming within arm's reach of either,
Benson succeeded in heaving Robin into the back of her four-
seater.
“Leave him on the floor and let his head rest on that off-
side door,” she said, and after he had got him propped up:
“Now loosen his collar and shirt neck. ... Now come out
and shut the door behind you. . . . Now come back.” She
maneuvered his progress until they had reached the tail of
the other car. “Stop!” She faced him. “Listen, you damned.
scoundrel,” she said. “What was the idea behind all this? Who
put you up to it? Come on, out with it!”
He cringed before her, but an expression of sly cunning un-
wittingly crossed his features.
“S'welp me, Miss, I dunno. I gets all my orders from Gor-
don there—straight, I do."
Laurette realized further interrogation was useless.
“I've got nine live cartridges still in this gun," she said. "I'm
going to use two of them”-and she calmly fired a shot into
one of the back tires of the other car. “Now come round to
the bonnet. Move quickly!” She repeated the process with one
of the front tires. “That leaves me with seven. I see you have
two spares, so you can amuse yourself putting them on. I'm a
dead shot, and if either of you attempts to move before I get
away you'll get a bullet plumb through your head. Under-
stand? What will happen to you for this night's work I leave
you to guess. Now turn round and walk down the road that
direction. Never mind that man Gordon—I'll take care of
him."
She stood and watched Benson go forward for a short dis-
tance in the direction she indicated.
"Stand there!" she called, and then, satisfying herself that
Gordon prone on the ground was still out of action, she
nipped into her car, put her automatic on the seat beside her,
zigzagged the vehicle swiftly round and in a few seconds it


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 169
Stopping the car, she watched him as he climbed cautiously
out.
“You feel all right? You're not going to fall down and
swoon, or anything like that?”
"Oh, no,” Robin replied, again feeling the aching spot on
his head. “I'm reviving rapidly.”
She switched off all her lights and followed him out of the
car.
"The 'bus should be all right down there," she remarked. “I
don't want to risk leaving it out on the main street in case
our friends should come back this way and recognize it.
a safe chance."
When, after a lengthy wait, the door opened and the land-
lord recognized her, he hesitated as he stared wonderingly
at Robin. Laurette laughed.
“It's all right, Mr. Bristow. I'm very sorry to bother you at
this time of night. There has been a slight accident-no, no,
nothing serious; but you might send or bring up something
for this gentleman to my sitting-room."
"Very good, madam. What will you have, sir?”
"I'll just have a simple whisky and soda,” said Robin-
“Scotch, please. A large one,” he added, as he thought of
what he had just passed through.


CHAPTER
a
XVII
SEATED, A FEW MINUTES LATER, BESIDE HER ON THE OLD-
fashioned Victorian ottoman which adorned Laurette's sitting-
room, Robin had almost finished his very welcome drink
when with a boyish gesture his hostess, reaching across, appro
priated his glass and said brightly, “Let me have one little
sip of that. I think I've earned it.” She swallowed a mouthful.
"Here's to happier days, Robin."
Unconsciously his heart warmed to her. It was difficult to
reconcile with the doubts and fears that troubled him this
easy friendliness of hers. Was it sincere? Had she forgotten
that they had last parted on unhappy terms? There were so
many aspects of the conduct of this strong-willed personality
which puzzled him! What was Laurette doing here at all?
He had gathered that she had coolly rescued him from the
men who had attacked him; but, so far, their conversation
had yielded nothing beyond this. Did she know who these
men were? Had she been concerned in their schemes? The
suspicion stabbed him like a knife. Yet in her attitude she was
frank and carefree, so far as all the extraordinary circum-
stances allowed. He resolved to have it out with her. Physi-
cally he was himself again, and his brain was once more alert.
The spirit had restored him to normality.
"I think we can do with them,” he answered her toast,
smiling a trifle grimly. “This is the most staggering business
I've ever even dreamed of in all my young life. Can you-help
at all to explain it?”
"Perhaps between us we may,” said she. “Let's start at the
beginning. You tell your story first.”
Robin did so.
When he had finished her eyes were sparkling with excite-
'ment and wonder. She had listened to him breathlessly, but
had refrained from interruption.
170


172 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
kidney took up their headquarters down here—that is, at 'The
George' farther along. I felt I was on the verge of big things.
It instantly occurred to me that they had Brett somewhere
Brett I thought it was. Naturally I hadn't the wildest notion
that you were anywhere around this vicinity. However, to go
back a bit. Less than an hour ago they set off in their car. I
followed them. Regardez this workmanlike and comfortable
kit.” She stretched out her shapely legs in their buff-colored
breeches and clicked together the heels of her stout brown
shoes. “And this,” she went on, as she brought out the little
automatic and balanced it in her hand. She examined the catch
for a moment to see that it was secure, then replaced the pistol
in the side pocket of her sporting jacket. She resumed her
story:
“I had my hat-brim well down over my eyes and wore that
big mac which has a collar that would hide any face. My
breeches added to the general disguise even if they had been
looking for me—which of course they weren't, so it quite
simply followed that when I saw them push off I slipped
along after them with my lights out. Thank God I was in
time.” She related in detail the adventure that had resulted in
his rescue.
“You actually plugged this hound Gordon, then?” he ex-
claimed in open-eyed admiration.
"I did; bang in the shoulder, just to teach him respect for a
lady. 'Matter of fact, they looked ugly for a second so I just
decided to throw a scare into them right away and stop the
nonsense." '
"You're a topper, Laurette!" He put his hand over hers. “I
can't begin to tell you how I admire you and how grateful I
am."
"Don't try. I believe I rather enjoyed it all-but understand
it I cannot. Can you? Why should they want to kill you—
and to make it look like an accident-it's got me completely


I4
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
me what you have, I think I had made up my mind to end
it. The pitiful thing is that I do believe you're right. Oh,
horrible! I have what's called supporting evidence. Just after
you left me at Marble Arch that day I learned accidentally
from Simmons, Peter Lessing's butler-I didn't see Lessing
himself, by the way, nor have I since. I left without doing so
after I heard what Simmons had to say. It staggered me.
Briefly, it was this—that there had been a serious quarrel that
night before the murder—the first I had heard of it.”
"Good Lord,” said Robin, “that's an eye-opener. You don't
know what they quarreled about?”
"Some letter, I gather. I don't know what letter it could
be.” She rose again restlessly. “But still I can't understand for
what earthly reason they tried to kill you."
“Can't you?” said Robin with a rather mirthless laugh.
“You know, Laurette, it's time some pundit wrote a learned
monograph on 'The Motor Car: Its Influence on the Criminal
Tendencies of the Human Species.' I think I can.” He told her
of the attempt made on his life after he had left Lessing's
house. This to-night was merely a revival of hostilities, he
explained. “At any rate, that's as it seems to me. You see,
Lessing saw I had suddenly recognized him through that
curious-looking scar on his arm. He tried to-remove me be-
fore I could split, for I went to Scotland Yard— ”
"Robin!”
"It's all right,” he assured her hastily, “I didn't see any one.
Inspector West wasn't in. Believe me, I meant to keep you
out of it some way or other. I had no intention of telling about
Brett, but it seemed to me I simply had to inform the police
of my suspicions about Lessing. Yet in the end I didn't. I
thought they could keep until Brett reappeared or something
definite happened, but I'll confess I'm very worried about the
whole business. It seems to me we are treading on dangerous
ground too long. That's the point we have got to. What are
we going to do now?”.


176
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
being unduly conceited, that the affection was not altogether
one-sided. He stood up and approached her.
“Right you are, Laurette; we'll have another go."
"Good man.” She laid her hand for a brief instant affection-
ately on his arm.
He flushed, made as though to embrace her, then checked
the movement and proceeded soberly. “There are still a few
things we have to get clear about. Do you think it possible
that Lessing realizes you're not so sure of him—that you sus-
pect him in any way? Does he know you're down here?”
She shook her head.
“No, he may have thought I've cooled off a bit, but he
doesn't just understand how completely my feelings towards
him have changed. I must say,” she added frankly, “I didn't
give him any indication. I wasn't sure until-well—until now.
I sent him a message, of course, that I was leaving town. I
said I was going into the country for a few days, but didn't
tell him where, nor did I tell any one at Porchester Crescent,
So that's all right.”
“What about Gordon and his pal? Have they to get off
scot free?"
“Gordon hasn't, anyway,” she reminded him tersely. “Don't
you think they can keep? Naturally they won't squeal about
to-night's happenings; they daren't. There's just one point
that's been passing through my head-this Miss van Buren
whose portrait you were to paint. Isn't it strange that she-"
“Good Lord, Laurette," he interrupted hastily, “I'd for-
gotten about her for the moment, but you're surely not sug-
gesting she's had anything to do with it! No, no; Gordon and
company, under Lessing's orders, merely made use of the
lucky opportunity my trip down here handed to them.”
“Yes?” drawled Laurette. “Then isn't it curious they were
down here more than a full day beforehand?”
He stared, looked at her frowningly.
“Damn!” he exclaimed, “that is curious. Even more curious


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 177
is that telephone message I got. Who could know I would be
at the Van Buren's cottage except herself and perhaps her
other guests? Perhaps it came from them. Perhaps one of
them 'phoned from "The Three Choughs,' where, as I told
you, they're all having a rag of some sort to-night. I say,
what about going over there and doing a little intelligent in-
vestigating? In any case, out of courtesy I ought to call and
we can have a look-see without offending. She must be in
rather a fizzle to know what has happened to me. In the
ordinary way I should have been there long ago. Not that I
feel like indulging in a song-and-dance with her crowd now.
Frankly, Laurette, I'd like to get back to London."
"I was thinking the same myself. There's no reason why I
should stay here any longer. I was quite wrong in my first
guess that they had got Brett hidden down here. It was an-
other game that was on the carpet. I think I'll settle with Mr.
Bristow now, and travel up right away.”
“Then I'd like to come back with you if you'll have me,”
said Robin.
"Have you?” echoed Laurette warmly. For a moment it
seemed as if she would say something more, but she checked
her impetuosity and turned away.
“Before we go, Laurette, let me have a look at that auto
matic pistol of yours.”
Obediently Laurette produced it. Before taking it from her
he asked, “Is it loaded?"
"Partly. As you know I have squibbed off one or two."
“Do I require to be reminded ?” he rejoined, smiling gaily.
"Before I fumble with it just explain the mechanism to me
and let me have it. You'll be driving, remember.”
Within ten minutes they were both packed in her car again.
"First stop 'The Three Choughs,'” said Laurette cheerfully,
as she slipped in the clutch.
The car sped along the road up which they had come, and
in a few minutes they were swinging along that straighter


178
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
section of highway between the wooded banks where Robin
had been attacked. Simultaneously they cried: "Here's the
spot.” Laurette slowed down the car until its powerful head-
lights swept far ahead.
“No trace," Robin remarked.
“I didn't expect to find any,” she returned. “You can bet on
it that friend of Gordon's put in a harder spell of work with
these spare wheels than he's ever done in his life before.
They'd beat it like scalded cats. I know the breed.”
When they ran into Clobham main street they saw quite
a number of cars drawn up in front of “The Three Choughs,"
from which came strains of music. The windows of the first
floor were brilliantly lit, and the indication seemed to be that
revelry was well under way.
“Well, what's the program? Will you come up?" asked
Robin, as Laurette steered the car to the opposite side of the
road and stopped.
"What do you think? It will be interesting seeing how she
takes your story. If I may make the suggestion, Robin, I
wouldn't tell her too much, although, of course, there's no
need to keep quite quiet about any of to-night's work. Yes, I'd
rather like to meet her. But I say! Don't go walking into a
hotel, even a rustic pub, carrying a pistol in your hand,” she
added smiling. "They'll think there's going to be a holdup.”
His scattered thoughts and the general excitement had made
him forget he was still holding her automatic in his hand.
He laughed and hurriedly slipped it into his side pocket. .
As they entered the inn a matronly person, evidently the
landlady, greeted them interrogatively. "Madam van Buren's
party? This way, please. Just go right upstairs. They have
the whole upper floor.”
Laurette stopped. She pondered for a moment.
"You run upstairs yourself, Robin; perhaps it would be
better if you could fetch Miss van Buren down here. We don't
want to complicate the conversation. Besides, if I come up


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
179
they may make a fuss and want us to stay and all that sort of
thing, and I must really get back at once—whether you come
with me or not,” she added mischievously.
He grinned at her cheerfully as he went briskly up the
staircase past the foxes' masks and sporting prints that covered
the walls. On the first landing he found himself at the
entrance to a room, the door of which had been lifted from
its hinges. Inside about a dozen couples, mostly in evening
dress, were dancing to the vigorous accompaniment of a
pianist and two fiddlers.
He stood in the doorway. Barbara van Buren, as she was
moving round, suddenly caught sight of him and an expres-
sion of fervent relief showed on her vivid features. Immedi-
ately she released herself from her partner and hurried across.
“Why, Robin Foster,” she exclaimed. “I am so glad to see
you at last. What on this earth happened to you? I was getting
terribly worried about you."
As Robin looked at her while he uttered a greeting it was
clear to him that she was sincere in what she said. She had
been worried about him.
"When you didn't arrive here," she went on, "I telephoned
to 'Four Acres' and found you had actually set off from there
more than an hour ago. I began to wonder if you had lost
your way.” There was a slightly nervous quality in the laugh-
ter with which she accompanied her words.
The music ceased for a moment, and calling to some one
over her shoulder to excuse her Barabara took Robin's arm
and led him along the corridor.
“Let's go in here for a minute; it's some one's bedroom, but
it doesn't matter."
The chintz-hung room was illuminated by two candles on
the dressing-table. Barbara sat down on the bed and patted
the coverlet beside her in invitation.
"I'd just as soon stand, Miss van Buren, thanks," said
Robin. “As a matter of fact I don't want to stay. I'm going


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 181
foot for 'The Three Choughs.” He then related what had
befallen him on the way.
She heaved a sigh of relief as he finished his story. The
sigh was in no way affected. From her heart she was thank-
ful that at least she had escaped being a party to a dastardly
crime. Her thankfulness over that dispelled for the time being
her feeling of uneasiness about Gideon Trevor's interrupted
message. She caught hold of his hand.
“How glad I am nothing worse happened, Mr. Foster,” she
said. “But why should this happen to you? What was the
reason for it, do you know?”
He shook his head but answered brightly, “Somebody
doesn't love me, it's clear.”
"Were you very badly hurt?" she proceeded in a voice of
concern.
“I collected a bad clout on the back of the head. I'm prac-
tically all right now, though.”
"Your head? Let me see. Sit down here beside me.”
For the second time within the hour he had the pleasure of
undergoing a tender examination by fair hands. “It's almost
worth it,” he reflected with quiet amusement. “I don't think
you'll find any mark, Miss van Buren,” he said aloud. “But
I can assure you I was clouted all right.” He laughed infec-
tiously as he rose, and she joined in his laughter gratefully.
“This friend of yours, Mr. Foster, the friend that got you
away from these men-how fortunate it was he should chance
on the scene. Who was it?”
Robin hesitated, then, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture
of indifference, smiled. “It wasn't a he. It was a lady, Miss
Laurette Dexter.”
Barbara let herself slowly slip from the bed to stand on her
feet. She stared at him in amazement.
"Miss Dexter,” she repeated in a hushed tone. "Why "
“You know her?” Robin asked sharply.
“I know of her,” she answered. “Who in this world doesn't?


182
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
The newspapers haven't failed to supply us with all the in-
formation they could obtain both about her—and about you."
“Of course, of course. I'd forgotten that. She's downstairs
now as a matter of fact, with her car. She's going to run me
up."
Barbara moved towards the door and in so curious a tone
that Robin gazed at her in astonishment said, “Say, I want to
meet Miss Dexter. Why didn't you bring her up? Come right
along and introduce us.”
She opened the door before he could reach the handle and
he perforce followed her into the passage. Barbara hurried:
she almost ran downstairs. Without waiting for Robin to
effect an introduction she went straight forward to where
Laurette Dexter stood examining with an air of slight bore.
dom the old-fashioned pictures and hunting trophies on the
walls.
“Good evening. I'm Barbara van Buren. Mr. Foster has just
been telling me of your adventure to-night. Absolutely thrill-
ing! And so courageous of you. I'm so anxious to hear more
about it. Won't you change your mind about going up to
town and just stay right here to join my party, Miss Dexter?"
Laurette, smiling, studied Barbara with interest; and stand-
ing there in her coat and breeches contrasted in her own mind
her appearance with that of this elegantly gowned and darkly
vivid beauty. “I'm afraid not, thanks ever so much. Any other
time I'd have loved to, but just now I really must get back
to London. I'm sorry.”
“That is a pity. And you're robbing me of one of my guests
as well.”
“He is at liberty to remain if he chooses,” said Laurette
pleasantly, as she closed her opened coat and commenced to
button it.
“Oh, that's all right,” Robin hastily intervened. “I'm not
being taken against my will. I have already explained to Miss


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 183
van Buren.” Somehow he had become conscious of a curious
electric tenseness in the atmosphere.
“Can't I still persuade you?” persisted Barbara. “I should
like to have had you, you'll meet some very nice people. And
I always wanted to meet you, Miss Dexter, a countrywoman
of my own.”
Lifting her eyebrows in faint astonishment Laurette ob-
served: “It's very nice of you to say so, but again, really, no
thank you."
"Perhaps you are anxious to inform the police of what
happened to-night,” Barbara agreed. “That's natural enough.
Haven't you done so here, by the way? Don't you think the
local police should be informed? Perhaps they know of these
two men.”
Laurette and Robin exchanged a quick glance. Robin did
not know what to say, what reply he should make. The silence
was broken by Laurette.
"As a matter of fact, Miss van Buren,” she said decisively,
"we are not thinking of informing the police at all-not at
the moment, at any rate. We both feel we have had enough
publicity, and”—a gracious smile covered the barb of her
words—"we thought perhaps it would be unpleasant for you
to be brought into the matter; as of course you would be. It
would have to be explained why Mr. Foster was down here."
There was indecision in every line of Barbara van Buren's
attitude, but she replied sharply enough, “Please don't allow
any consideration for me to affect your arrangements. You
have your own reasons, no doubt.” She glanced swiftly from
one to the other. Her lips came close together, and with a
sudden spurt of vindictiveness she added: “Probably you do
not wish your fiancé to feel unduly worried.”
“Meaning?” demanded Laurette, facing the woman
squarely.
“Why, Mr. Peter Lessing, is it not? I have seen photographs


184 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
of both of you frequently enough in the illustrated papers.
You are engaged to him, are you not?”
Barbara's gaze it was that wavered and fell.
“I was,” rejoined Laurette then, curtly and significantly.
“Good night, Miss van Buren.” And turning without even
glancing at Robin she stepped through the entrance door.
Raising his hat Robin also said good night, leaving Barbara
van Buren dumb, her hands clasped in front of her.
So she stood in silence, her eyes fixed not on the two dis-
appearing figures, but on some vision beyond her present
environment, as if suddenly she had seen the gates of some
long-dreamed of paradise slowly open.


CHAPTER
a
XVIII
THE LIGHT FROM A STREET LAMP IN LADBROKE ROAD SHONE ON
the features of a man unobtrusively pacing to and fro sentry-
wise within a short area near the entrance to No. 144. They
were revealed as the features of Inspector West. For the past
fifteen minutes the inspector had kept patient vigil there-as
patient, that is, as was possible in the circumstances. It was
after two o'clock in the morning and an hour previously he
had been compelled to rouse himself from sound sleep and
tumble from a comfortable bed at the call of duty.
In recent days life had seemed to him anything but one long
sweet song. Lack of success in the hunt for Brett had occa-
sioned comment from his superiors and gone far to disturb
his ordinarily equable temper; and it was only the hope that
the latest development which had brought him here might
yield some fruitful result that kept him from encouraging a
feeling of resentment over his broken night's rest.
The approach of a car along the otherwise-deserted road
arrested his attention, but there was not the slightest altera-
tion in his attitude as he closely watched it. The car slowed
down as it met and passed him, crawled alongside the curb
for a few yards, and stopped. From it descended Robin Foster.
The inspector, who had turned as he observed the car's speed
slacken, walked towards it unhesitatingly.
Intent solely on his own affairs, unaware of the detective's
interest, Robin, whose back was turned towards West, raised
his hat and waved a cheerful good night to the driver of the
car, the engine of which had been kept running. The driver,
Laurette Dexter, responded gaily to Robin's parting salutation
as she drove away.
He turned and stepped briskly across the paved walk to
the door of No. 144. He was fumbling for his key when In-
spector West hailed him quietly.
185


188
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
€
to me, a man's, informed me he was speaking in my own
interest. 'Don't,' he said then he was cut off.”
“That was all?"
“That was all."
“You didn't know what he meant?”
"Hanged if I did!”
“So you went off to 'The Three Choughs’?”
"I did."
“Well?”
Robin realized it would be foolish to try to hide anything.
If Inspector West knew so much as he had already disclosed,
he probably knew a great deal more. He told him what had
happened.
“Wouldn't you call that rather amazing?” the detective
queried calmly.
“Wouldn't you?” countered Robin, smiling.
“Do you know a man named Gideon Trevor?”
"Yes; that is, I met him once. Last night, Friday night, I
mean, in Miss van Buren's dressing-room at the Pyrrhic
Theater. He seemed to be a friend of hers. That's the only
time I've met him.”
“I see. It was he who telephoned to you, Mr. Foster."
"Gideon Trevor. Good lord! What on earth was he playing
at? Have you seen him-do you know?"
"We don't know exactly. Gideon Trevor was found mur-
dered in a telephone kiosk near Berkeley Square just before
midnight.”
"Murdered! My God!” His eyes fixed on the inspector's,
Robin laid down his glass on the floor beside him and leaned
breathlessly forward.
"Shot. Shot through the heart," the detective continued. “Of
his murderer no trace.”
"What motive, you think?" asked Robin, tensely.
"The motive would seem to have been to prevent him get-
ting his message, whatever it was, through to you."


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 189
With a faint whistle of horrified wonder Robin sank back
in his chair. His brain was in such a tumult that he experi-
enced a sense almost of physical hurt. More than ever it was
plain to him now that to conceal anything from Inspector
West would be directly criminal; that he would have to re-
veal to him all he knew. And yet-Laurette. He would have
to keep silent as to the part she had played in the disappear-
ance of Rufus Brett. On this point, now that he felt in his own
mind that Brett was innocent, he was no longer troubled with
the twinges of conscience that formerly had assailed him. It
might suffice to reveal to the inspector his suspicion of Peter
Lessing. Whatever he revealed, however, it would have to be
presented in such a way that if Laurette herself were individ-
ually interrogated, as without doubt she would be, her replies
would not conflict with his own. Not for an instant had the
detective deflected his steady stare.
"Mr. Foster," he said, "there's something in all this business
that makes me think there's some one keeping us in the dark.
Should that be found to be the case it will go hard with the
culprit. This murder of Gideon Trevor has given me an ink-
ling. Can you guess why I have moved quickly? Let me make
it clear. Trevor's body was found by a police officer going
his rounds. It could only have been a few minutes after the
actual murder. The case was instantly taken in hand by the
Division. They got in touch with the telephone exchange and
there was no difficulty in establishing when the last call had
been made from that box, and to whom it was made. A serv-
ant in Miss van Buren's cottage told them you had got the
call all right. It was your name that brought me in. As you
know I'm busy on the Bayswater case, with which your name
has been intimately associated. The superintendent dealing
with the Trevor case rang me up and told me of the coinci-
dence. I at once got out of bed, came along and waited for
you here. Now, what have you to tell me?”.
“Quite a lot, Inspector," replied Robin, now more at ease.


190 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
"Thanks for putting the full facts before me. I appreciate it.
Just what is it that's puzzling you most?”
"Why there should be this arrangement to kill you.”
“Good man. On it like bird,” Robin complimented him,
still somehow irrationally exhilarated by the atmosphere in
which his life had become enveloped. “Before I give you all
my own impressions and suspicions there's one thing I would
like to ask you. Do you think this is possible? You will
recollect that on the night Sherwood Dexter was shot I was
shoved off the running-board of the other car. All I saw was
the hand and arm that thrust at me and eventually shoved
me off. Beyond the fact itself, I could recollect nothing about
it that was unusual.”
“Quite, that was your story," the detective remarked
patiently.
"Well, do you think it is possible that, seeing that same
gesture repeated, I should then recollect something strange
about the arm that I'd forgotten before?”.
Frowning, Inspector West for the first time diverted his
gaze and appeared to take a profound interest in the lack of
polish on his boots.
"You hit the ground, didn't you, when you fell? But you
said you weren't stunned.”
"Not quite, but I certainly was very nearly knocked out.”
“Seems to me quite possible, then," the detective observed
cautiously. “Medical records do show, I believe, that a sudden
blow, even a very slight concussion, will produce a blank in
relation to the events that have preceded the shock for any-
thing from a few seconds to weeks or months."
"Admirably put, Mr. West,” said Robin with a grin. “Well,
a few days ago I was again threatened with an outstretched
arm-on that arm I saw an odd twisty scar. And by the Lord
Harry! rightly or wrongly I suddenly recollected that on the
arm that shoved me from the car there was precisely the same
scar."


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 191
"Is that so?” said the inspector, making a not-too-successful
effort to disguise his keenly aroused interest. "Whose arm?”
“Mr. Peter Lessing's.”
"What?” The detective jerked forward; he had spoken in
a whisper. He clapped his hands on the side of his chair. “By
God, Mr. Foster, I will have some of your whisky, after all.
It's going to be dry work saying all I've got to say without it.”
Robin was smiling as he assisted the other to a drink. He
felt immeasurably relieved that at last he had revealed his sus-
picion to officialdom. It had weighed on his mind very heavily.
"But it's almost unbelievable," resumed Inspector West,
muttering to himself; "unbelievable.” He looked up at Robin
as he was handed his glass. “Why didn't you let me know
this at the time?"
"Because like you I thought it was unbelievable. It seemed
absolutely absurd.”
“Why more absurd then than it is now?"
"Because twice I have had a narrow squeak from being
done in. Who wants to cut short my bright young life? Who
but Peter Lessing. He saw that I recognized that scar. Tried
to get me, or at any rate one of his hired men did, before I
called on you at the Yard-for I did call to see you,” he ex-
plained, "that very afternoon. You weren't there, and—and
somehow when I cooled down I felt it was rather a cock and
bull story I had to tell. I hate appearing a fool at any time, so
I just let it slide. But this damnable affair down at Wiching-
ton shows now it isn't-not by the devil of long chalk. It was
to look like an accident, remember. Why an accident? Why,
because Lessing must think I spoke to you that day and that
you know about the scar. My shuffle-off, he would argue,
would have to be worked without him being in any way im-
plicated.”
"I see. I wonder. Dammit, man, I believe you're right.”
The detective drank, and having done so stared with a con-
sidering eye at the amber-colored liquid remaining in his glass.


192 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
He occupied himself thus, twisting the tumbler reflectively
for a full minute before he spoke again.
"I can see you have been thinking about the case," he ob-
served at last. “Well-there's never any harm in looking at it
from another person's point of view. Mistake to be egotistical
in our job. Let's proceed as if your suspicion were correct-
that Peter Lessing is the man we want. Now, what object
could he have in shooting Sherwood Dexter?”
“I have wondered myself from the moment I saw that scar.
I confess I am completely stumped. There doesn't seem to
have been any motive, as far as we know.”
"I don't agree with you, Mr. Foster. The motive's so clear, it
seems to me, that I'm astonished now I didn't consider him
as a likely party before. He's engaged to Miss Dexter, isn't
he?”
Robin was about to correct him in this particular, almost
triumphantly; then he reflected that meantime he could let
the statement stand in order to permit West to develop his
argument straightforwardly. So he nodded in response to the
other's look of inquiry.
"Well, and isn't Miss Dexter her father's heiress? Lessing
told us he knew nothing about Mr. Dexter's will, but assume
he was lying--assume he did know about the will-it follows
that he knew that if Mr. Dexter were to be wiped out some-
body had to pay the penalty for the crime else the money
didn't fall to his daughter. He seems to have been pretty
well in Dexter's confidence—he'd be pretty close to him
naturally enough, since he was his prospective son-in-law.
Dexter, we know, had told him about Brett; that he was
scared Brett was after him. That, by the way, seems true
enough; in some way Brett must have been after him, or why
hasn't he faced the music? He must be unwilling to do so.”
He broke off and meditatively tapped his forehead. “That's
an odd thing. I'm beginning to wonder if old Dexter didn't


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
193
deliberately tell Brett the condition of his will in the hope
that it would stop any dirty work.”
“A sort of insurance," commented Robin.
“Precisely! There he was, then-Lessing, I mean—presented
with an ideal chance to arrange a neat job if only he could
lay hands on Brett-which somehow or other he managed to
do. How's that?"
“In some respects quite good. I must say so because I
thought along these lines myself.” Robin smiled disarmingly.
“There's some pretty serious holes in it, though. In the first
place, Lessing's a rich man. His style suggests it, anyhow.
Why, then, should he want Dexter's money?"
"Ten millions—it's round about that sum, I believe-is a
temptation even to a rich man.”
“Granted. Since he was marrying Miss Dexter, however
wasn't that almost as good as having it? It only meant wait-
ing a bit, and if he needed any ready cash surely Mr. Dexter
would have been good enough for a hefty sub. Frankly, that's
what makes the whole theory sticky. I can't understand him
doing what we think he did merely for the money. Even
although there was such a devil of a lot of it.”
Inspector West drew down his brows. He was obviously
reluctant to admit this as a flaw in the theory he had de-
veloped.
“Do you know anything about Lessing?” Robin asked.
"Personally, I mean. His past reputation and so on.”
“Quite a lot. We went into that, of course. Must say he
seems all right. As all right, that is, as many another man in
the city. Rather important man-of his type. Seven or eight
years ago he was a nonentity, was hard up, but he took a shot
at company promoting and was lucky. Some of his transac-
tions were pretty near the bone, hit or miss, as it were. If he
had missed he'd have been for it, but his luck was in. He
appears always to have hit. No; you could say he had been


194 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
near shady at times, but since his deals were never blown on,
nothing more.”
“He's not in deep water financially at the moment, requiring
money urgently?”
The inspector shook his head.
"No, financially he appears to be all right. His credit's good.
I admit it-he could certainly have borrowed as much money
as he liked on the strength of his position as Sherwood Dex-
ter's son-in-law to be. That is a puzzling point. It was that
which made me eliminate him from my list of probables right
at the start.”
The two men pondered for a time. Robin took up the con-
versation again.
“Another thing I haven't been able to get a focus on. When
we got back to Lessing's house that night he certainly ap-
peared to have got out of bed. Quick work if he had managed
to get back and prepare the scene so carefully. And I remem-
ber the door was bolted and locked. Afterwards, too, you
yourself asked the butler when he had locked up and he said
immediately after Mr. Dexter had gone. Pretty heavy lock,
you may remember. I can hardly think Lessing could himself
have unbolted the door afterwards without being heard.”
“What if the butler himself were leading us up the garden?"
"No, I don't think so. I think Simmons is straight. If
we're on the right track about Lessing, Simmons is an essen-
tial part of the respectability he's been carefully surrounding
himself with.”
“You seem very sure about Simmons. Any other reason
than his nice kind face?"
"Yes, Simmons let slip something to Miss Dexter that I
fancy our friend Lessing would have preferred to have re-
mained unsaid.”
"Is that so? What was that? ... Indeed!” he said signifi-
cantly when Robin told him of Simmons' disclosure that
there had been a quarrel between Dexter and Lessing before


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
195
the two men had parted company. “Over some letter, you say?
It may be whatever was in that letter doesn't really concern
the case, but the fact of that quarrel is very material. Con-
sidering it hypothetically-suppose the quarrel were serious;
suppose Lessing thought that as a consequence there was a
possibility of Dexter objecting to him marrying his daughter?
That would make him sit up, eh? We must never lose sight
of motives. He would see himself losing the Dexter millions."
"It certainly would make him sit up! I see your point. The
only thing against it that occurs to me is that Lessing must
obviously have laid his infernal plans some time previously
—with poor Brett, I mean.”
“True; but this quarrel may have been the final one of a
series, for all we know.”
“In that case, O. K., chief,” said Robin, broadly smiling.
There was a whimsical look on the inspector's face as he
let his gaze rest on his host for a brief space in silence.
“Now, we'll become a bit more personal, Mr. Foster. I'll
take a little walk up your street. How did it come about that
Mr. Lessing made this threatening gesture to you which re-
sulted in your seeing the scar on his arm?”.
The whimsical note in the other's manner had not escaped
Robin. He was quick to surmise the thought that perhaps had
inspired it.
"Green-eyed jealousy had something to do with it,” he an-
swered promptly. “I was told to diminish my interest in his
fiancée.” .
"Just so. I guessed as much. Now we'll go back for a mo-
ment. You mentioned a little while back that there have been
two attempts to do you in, as you put it. When was the first?
Tell me about it.”
"Just after I left Lessing's house that afternoon." He gave
the details.
“But, man alive,” the inspector expostulated, “you mean to
say you allowed this to happen to you and made no effort to


CHAPTER
XIX
a
-
uten made only too clear tatt
BARBARA VAN BUREN HAD NEVER EXPERIENCED A WEEK-END IN
the country she had enjoyed less. Try as she would she was
unable on Sunday morning adequately to fulfill her duties as
the carefree hostess of “Four Acres." She was too much caught
up in her own thoughts to be able to devote any part of them
to consideration of her guests' entertainment.
Events that were to her of momentous import had followed
so bewilderingly on the heels of one another! It had been a
frightening shock to her to discover that her lover, Peter
Lessing, was a man who was trafficking here in England in
murder. So much had been made only too clear to her by his
own revelation that her invitation to Robin Foster to join
her party at Wichington had been designed to facilitate that
pleasant young man's removal from this world.
She knew Peter Lessing was no saint, knew more of his
past history than he dreamed of, but until now in her inter-
course with him there had been no thought of or contact with
crime. When Robin had shown up safe at “The Three
Choughs” she had experienced relief almost beyond expres-
sion. Even more for Lessing's sake than for Robin's or her
own she had been thankful that the plot to murder him had
failed. That she had tried to contribute to this failure did not
trouble her; it was unnecessary and impossible for Lessing
she thought, ever to learn that. Nor did she reflect overmuch
on the reasons Lessing might have for clearing Robin Foster
from his path; in his private affairs she had no interest other
than as they might affect her love for him.
For she loved him with all her being—illogically, foolishly.
Despite an underlying brutality that his cultivated charm
normally concealed-or perhaps because of it-he stirred
within her feelings no other man in her life had ever been
able to inspire. She was aware of every despicable element in
199


200 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
y so ah
less
be dans
his character—yet could not subdue the passionate affection
she felt for him. She bad given herself so freely to him, so
completely! No logic could operate in such a love as hers.
So it was that when Laurette Dexter had disclosed that her
engagement to Peter Lessing was at an end Barbara had
glimpsed again the happiness she feared she had for ever lost.
For this it was she had so cunningly schemed! She had forgot-
ten all else in her joy at the news of this unexpected
triumph. ...
Then on Sunday afternoon came bitter disillusion. To dis-
pel the joy that reigned in her heart-joy so abounding that it
had left no room for other less pleasant emotions—there
arrived a bundle of the day's newspapers containing reports
of Gideon Trevor's death. She had almost fainted under the
shock. Her house of cards, so recently erected, collapsed in a
heap. ...
She could not fail to see how perilously this fresh develop
ment affected her. In vain she tried to dislodge from her mind
the conviction that Trevor must have met his death at Peter
Lessing's hands, or at the hands of some one acting under
his orders. Somehow or other, she reluctantly argued, he must
have learned of Trevor's intention to warn Robin Foster, and
had fatally interrupted Trevor in the act of conveying that
warning. It seemed inevitably to follow that if he knew of
Trevor's attempted treachery he also knew of her own; and
his knowledge must of necessity drastically affect the relation-
ship between them.
Fear overwhelmed her. Lessing she knew to be ruthless, im-
placable; a man who would terribly revenge himself upon
any one who opposed his plans. Her gathering mental agony
impelled her to desperate measures. Whatever the conse-
quences, it was impossible for her to delay seeing him. She
must discover how she stood.
That decision made, she had excused herself to the mem-
bers of her house party, and leaving them to their own cheer-


204 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“You can't treat me like this, Peter,” she said. “I won't
stand for it. What have I done to you? Can't you see that
what I tried to do was more for your sake than for my own
or anybody's? I only wanted to keep you from murder. What-
ever your reason was, I did so want to keep you from that.”
He turned to look at her curiously. “Well, you weren't suc-
cessful,” he reminded her.
“No. No. And yet I still want to help you. Isn't that proof
of my love? Peter, you're not regretting that Laurette Dexter,
are you? I'm glad, glad! There's no one to come between us
now."
Still there was that curious look in his eyes as he studied her
eager face. As if he had made a pleasing decision, he suddenly
smiled. “It's not her I regret,” he said, “it's ” He checked
himself. “You're a marvelous woman, Van Buren. I suppose,
after all, I ought to forgive and forget.”
At the change in his demeanor she breathed a heartfelt sigh.
"Oh, Peter,” she whispered again, and her arms encircled his
neck. This time he responded to the caress. She kissed him
hungrily. He allowed himself to be caught up in her emotion.
As ardently as she, he held her in his arms.
The telephone ringing interrupted their embrace. Releasing
her quickly, he strode to the bookcase on which the instru-
ment stood.
“Stay where you are, Barbara,” he commanded, fixing her
with his look as he lifted the receiver. His new-found gentle-
ness had vanished. “Yes," he said eagerly in reply to the voice
at the other end, "go ahead, it's I all right. Yes. That's all
right, then. Come now. Better use the conduit. There's a mix-
up all round. Tell you when you get here."
He replaced the receiver and re-addressed Barbara.
"Sorry, my dear, but I'm going to have a visitor. Important
business.”
"That's all right, Peter,” she answered happily. "So long as
we're friends again I just don't care about any other darned


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 205
thing. You have forgiven me, haven't you? You know I didn't
want to cross you. I wanted to keep you from—that. You
know how I love you."
“Sure, I know," he rejoined tenderly, taking her face be-
tween his hands and kissing her lightly on the lips.
“And there's no danger that they'll find out about Gideon
Trevor? These men at Wichington; if they're caught, won't
they- "
“I thought you told me,” he interrupted brusquely, “that
Foster and Miss Dexter said they had no intention of inform-
ing the police?"
"They did; they did," she assured him. “But if they should
change their minds?”
"It won't matter—to me,” he replied with a careless, arro-
gant laugh. “You'd think I was a kid writing in his first
copybook. I never walk into a thing blindfolded. That's part
of my procedure, my dear Barbara. These men don't even
know of my existence. Don't you worry your pretty head, I'm
all right-now I've got you on my side," he added signifi-
cantly. She was about to speak, but he checked her with a
smile. "We'll have a long talk about it all later on. It's better
that this person who's coming shouldn't see you here. I'll be
along at the theater to-morrow night certain. See you then."
While he was speaking he had opened the door for her and
she walked out past him. It was characteristic of him that he
swept up his ring from the table as he followed her. He
escorted her to the street door himself, opened it, and wished
her a friendly good-by.
His face had lost its friendly aspect, however, when he
closed the door again and with swift, light steps recrossed the
hall. It was grim and purposeful. He hailed his butler, who
had appeared in the offing on hearing the sound of the doors.
“Simmons,” he said to him, “I'm going in here," indicating
the library on the right hand of the hall. “Under no circum-
stances am I to be disturbed.”


206 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
“Very good, sir,” said the old man.
Peter Lessing passed in. He did not turn the key in the lock,
but, reaching to the top of the door, noiselessly slipped up a
small bolt to secure it. Deliberately facing a distant corner he
seated himself with his back to the Charles Street windows,
expectantly waiting. He had not long to wait. A slight scratch-
ing noise came from behind what appeared to be a cupboard
door in the room. He jumped to his feet, hastened forward
and opened that door without making a sound. Out of the
shelf-lined recess thereupon revealed stepped the man who
had driven the car in which Robin Foster had nearly met an
untimely end in Birdcage Walk.
The newcomer did not speak, but as he sidled past looked
at Lessing in anxious inquiry. Lessing closed the door of the
recess carefully before he demanded:
"Nobody saw you?”
"No; I don't think so. Why?”.
“I'm afraid the kettle's boiling over, Dowson. We'll have to
watch our step. It's almost certain we are being watched.”
The gravity in Lessing's voice chilled the other. Perceptibly
his manner lost some of its customary nonchalance. He moved
into the center of the room, produced a cigarette and tapped it
nervously for a time against his silver case before lighting it.
“What's gone wrong? News from Wichington?”
“Everything. Yes.” Lessing answered the double question
brusquely. His voice was tense and businesslike. “Gordon and
Benson were held up; they got away all right-but so did
Foster, damn him.”
"I was afraid so. When I didn't see any report of the
accident. Then Trevor— "
“No, Trevor was stopped in time,” Lessing interrupted
grimly. “Unfortunately more than Trevor seems to have
known about my little arrangement. I have just learned that
Laurette Dexter was down there. What do you make of that?


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 207
She arrived just as they were doing their job. Be damned if
she didn't hold them up herself, and get Foster clean away.”
Dowson, who had seated himself, stiffened in his chair.
“Miss Dexter did? I say! This beats the band. What a pair of
stiffs! How in heaven's name did she come on the job?"
“That's what I'd like to know. The fact remains she was
there, and that's bad enough. She couldn't have been there by
accident-could she?” he added angrily. “Somehow or other
she must have got wind of something. I'm beginning to won-
der if all along— But it's a waste of time to wonder now.
The fact that she was down at Wichington is enough. If it
weren't, I received a further pleasant hint this morning. She
sent me back my ring. You know what that means in the
polite circles in which up till now we have moved."
There was an accent of venom developing in Lessing's
otherwise calm recital which made Dowson watch him with a
furtive, half-fearful air. In the silence that followed he seemed
undecided as to the comment he ought to make. At length he
ventured:
"Hard luck! I thought she was yours for keeps.”
“Don't be a fool, damn you.” Lessing swung round on the
other angrily. “You talk as though I were a half-baked pup.
Don't you see the mess we're in? Everything we've schemed
for is bust higher than a kite now. The game's blown on.
Everything hung on my getting that girl and marrying her.
Now that's through we'd better do some quick thinking if
we're going to save our own hides. The best thing we can do
is to make a quick jump for it while there's time. You got
your passport?” The other nodded. “I've got more than an
idea that the police are just about ready to throw the net.”
Dowson made an uneasy movement in his chair.
“What makes you think that?”
"Think? Oh, hell! Can't you see it sticking out a mile?
Can you see that West refusing to listen to what Foster
had to tell him? I knew the young cub saw that blasted scar,


208
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
and the way he at once steadied himself showed me he
thought he recognized me. Haven't I gone over all that al-
ready? Where's your head? Have some sense. On top comes
this bungled mess-up down at Wichington. If the police find
Gordon or Benson-God knows where they've gone to cover,
but if they haven't made a job of it I'll skin them alive-
they'll split they were commissioned by Trevor to put it all
through. They've never heard of me—we took dam' good care
of that, but the fact that Trevor was in my employ will hand
even that heavyfooted inspector something pretty near a cer-
tainty. And you ask what makes me think so! I tell you, I'm
growing hot round the collar. I'm taking no more chances.
I mean to quit and clear-I know the signs.”
"When?"
“Right away-to-morrow night. You'll come with me if
you're wise. Why they haven't come after you before this beats
me to know. Foster must be the biggest bonehead ever if he
hasn't given West a tag on you that would put him on your
track with both feet. I don't like it one little bit. 'Looks to me
as if we're being given rope till it suits him to ” He broke
off, jerked his hands in the air as though he were pulling tight,
a noose; and Dowson, muttering, “Oh, chuck it,” shivered.
“Where are you heading for?” he asked anxiously. “Where's
the safest place? The States?”
Lessing glanced at him sharply, and then slowly shook his
head. “I know nobody in the States. The Continent for mine.
If we can get the length of Germany we're safe. I have busi-
ness contacts there, in any case. Makes my getaway feasible. I
still can cover tracks if they don't drop the lid on me before
I go."
"My God, I'm with you!” exclaimed Dowson fervently.
“You'll help me out, won't you?”
"We've got a loose end to tuck in first,” said Lessing som-
berly, as though setting forth a condition. “We've got to think


CHAPTER
San XX
IN HIS OWN LITTLE CIRCLE PERCY BINNING HAD THE REPUTATION
of having an eye for a pretty girl. Having discovered that
curiosity is a definite feminine weakness, he deliberately culti-
vated that mysterious quality which results in its possessor
being ranked as quite a lad. Among the female element of the
neighborhood in Pimlico in which he resided, he had earned
the proud designation of sheik, the ladies who bestowed it
upon him being happily unaware that actually these desert
kings are usually unpleasant-looking, malodorous old rascals.
His early innocuous successes in that delectable locality had
made him ambitious to put his sex appeal to sterner tests, and
in the chemist's shop in Tottenham Court Road where he was
an assistant he made assiduous use of his not infrequent op-
portunities to exercise his dashing charm on those feminine
customers who, if not precisely of a higher social position
than his own, seemed by their attire to have touched a
brighter world. Percy, in short, was one of that vast army of
well-meaning and rather harmless youths whose only offense
is their vanity and vivid imagination. Any Mrs. Potiphar who
really meant business would have incurred his grave and
virtuous displeasure.
There entered a customer now whom he, in his local jargon,
quickly summed up as being a regular peach. Percy's heart
literally jumped as his lips automatically gaped to reveal those
white teeth which were a magnificent advertisement for the
multifarious dental concoctions whose merits he so often
pressed with appropriate grimacing. The lady approached him
and answered his greeting graciously.
“My name is Miss Dexter. I would be glad of your help in
a certain matter."
Such an appeal never failed to arouse in Percy the most
sympathetic attitude.
.
212


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 215
bought quite a lot? Did you, by any chance, ask her if she
were taking it herself?”.
“As it happens, I did, madam. We've got to know where
we stand, if you follow me. At any rate, we had some con-
versation. I had a little chat with her and she offered me the
information that she was really buying it for a friend.”
"Perhaps she is, of course. Perhaps I am concerning myself
unnecessarily. But really I would like to know more about this
drug. What it's used for and what its action is."
"In various operations, madam. For instance it's used in
maternity cases. This Twilight Sleep business, you know. It
induces partial anæsthesia.”
"Ah, it does. That's very interesting, Mr. -"
“Binning's the name, madam; Percy Binning, at your serv-
ice."
Laurette acknowledged the introduction gravely. “Thank
you so much. You are being very helpful, Mr. Binning,” she
said. “I assure you I do appreciate it."
“A pleasure, madam, and I tell you what,” said Percy, now
almost purring and entirely ready to give her his full confi-
dence. “We'll just have a look at the B.P.C.—that's our British
Pharmaceutical Codex,” he added importantly. “Won't take
more than half a jiff, madam.”
He disappeared swiftly into the rear of the shop and re-
turned carrying a heavy volume which with a knowing air he
deposited on the counter in front of Laurette. He rattled
through the index, swished over the pages and half swung
round the book so that Laurette could also read it.
“Here we are, here's the whole bag o' tricks.” He pointed
a tobacco-stained finger and read out: “Hyoscine resembles
atropine in its paralyzing effect on peripheral nerve endings.
Its action in this respect, however, is quicker, more powerful
and less lasting.'” He began slightly to paraphrase. “It doesn't
produce the stimulating effect that atropine does upon the
brain. Depression of the motor area is pronounced from the


216
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
first, therefore much used as a hypnotic. There we are: “Seda-
tive, when it is generally given hypodermically.' There's the
bit I told you about the treatment of alcoholic habits. The rest
just explains the doses and so on. There's what I told you
again,” and he quoted, “ 'Partial anæsthesia—so-called twilight
sleep-does not claim that it abolishes pain, but rather that it
removes the memory of the event.'”
Glancing up at Laurette he saw that her eyes were sparkling
with excitement. “Removes the memory of the event, eh?" she
repeated. “I'll say that's very interesting. You have been most
helpful, Mr. Binning. Thank you ever so much."
Closing the book he watched her rather anxiously. “You
don't think there's been anything wrong, do you, madam? I
wouldn't like to you know, although I've acted quite cor-
rectly-you know how it is. Better if you can keep out of
trouble in our line. I don't want to be dragged into anything,"
he added, wondering if he had been wise in allowing himself
to be dazzled by the beauty of this unexpected and so unusual
visitor.
“I realize that,” said Laurette sympathetically. “No, I don't
think there has been anything wrong that will concern you in
any degree whatever. I must really apologize for troubling
you."
“Granted; but all the same, if your maid comes again for
more what am I to do? Refuse to give it to her? Of course if
I did she'd just walk round to some other chemist's and get
it there."
"Don't worry. Somehow I don't think she will visit you
again, Mr. Binning," said Laurette slowly, as she rose. "Once
again, many thanks for your courtesy and help.”
“Not at all, madam, not at all,” said Percy, assuming his
customary fascinating farewell manner and dashing round
the end of the counter to open the street door. “Always ready
to oblige a lady, I assure you, and happy to see you back any
time you want anything in our line yourself.”


218
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
chemist's in Tottenham Court Road—I'm speaking from the
Tube Station—and then went with whatever it was she had
bought to the Pyrrhic Theater. She didn't wait there long
each time she went-only long enough-so the inquiry man
told me—to deliver a message or else her purchase at the
chemist's. I have just left that chemist's. Fortunately there's a
very impressionable young man there. I think he liked my
accent. At any rate, without much effort I got him to tell me
all I wanted to know. Robin! Beaton's been buying hyoscine.
You remember how all along I have been suggesting Brett
had been drugged? It's my belief they're holding him some-
where and still drugging him. Somebody in that theater has
a hand in it, and knows where he is. What d’you think of all
that? This drug seems to bring about loss of memory. How's
that, artist man?”
“My dear, you've missed your vocation. You're sure you
never worked with Pinkerton? Now we're quits! Remember
you made the same accusation against me? By George, I feel
you're probably bang on the right track!”
“Attaboy, as we don't really say in the States so often as you
people seem to think. Where shall I meet you, then? I don't
want to interfere with your work more than I can help, so if
you like we need not meet till evening and I'll see you outside
the theater. How would that do?”
“Splendidly: I have a lot in hand just now. Say ten minutes
before the curtain goes up. I suppose I'm disclosing my ple-
beian upbringing, but I really hate to wander in late treading
on other people's toes."
"Five minutes past eight, then; in the foyer."
Robin would have whooped with delight had he been able
to see Laurette at the moment she replaced the receiver. She
smiled, touched her lips with her fingers and wafted the sym-
bol of a kiss in the direction of the mouthpiece.
They met that evening as arranged. Never to Robin's eyes
had she appeared more beautiful or more completely at her


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
221
to return to America at once-not with the credit of having
participated in a London West End success, but with the
unjust discredit of having participated in a London “Alop.”
Transatlantic voices debated the situation vehemently but
despondently.
Barbara van Buren remained aloof from all discussion. She
encouraged none of the others who came seeking her views.
Alone in her dressing-room, made up for her first entrance,
she sat reflecting on the unexpected development. She felt
bitterly hurt that news of it had reached her not through Peter
Lessing as she would have expected, but just in the ordinary
way from the manager of the company. Hurt and vaguely
uneasy she felt-but she purposely stifled her unease.
At least Peter might have told her privately of his intention
to withdraw his backing. That he had blandly ignored her in
this connection puzzled her. It puzzled her even when she
reflected that he might have realized she would be sure to put
forward objections. On previous occasions he had not shown
himself in the least diffident about acting contrary to her
wishes, nor had he ever shown the slightest hesitation about
letting her know he intended to do so. Why this change now?
Inevitably her mind reverted to their last meeting. Since she
had spoken to him on the previous day in his home she had
heard no word from him, and was suspicious because of the
indifference to her feelings this implied. However, he was in
the theater, she reassured herself; she had learned he was in
the front of the house. Of course he would come round to see
her at one of the intervals or at the close of the performance
and then, no doubt, everything would be explained. Yet in her
heart there was no real conviction that this would be so.
There was a knock at the door and a voice: “May I come
in, darling?"
“Why, sure, Hester," Barbara called, turning round in her
chair as she recognized the speaker, and Hester Rogan en-
tered.


222 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
She was trembling, and Barbara looked up at her with
quick solicitude. Rising, she put her arm round her.
“Tough luck, my dear, but don't take it too much to heart.
A bit of a blow, all the same, isn't it? Just when we thought
the show was finding its feet, too."
“Yes. Yes. I'm sorry about that, it's bad enough—but darling
-oh, I feel so scared and so upset.”
She sat, almost collapsed into a chair, and Barbara hastened
to the small wall cupboard.
"You shouldn't let it get you like that, Hester,” she said.
“You'd better have a spot of something to put a little heart
into you."
She filled and returned with a glass, and despite the other's
feeble protest insisted on her drinking the spirit it contained.
"Thanks, darling," Hester murmured gratefully, handing
back the glass; "but you've got me wrong. It isn't the show
coming off so unexpectedly that's upset me. Something worse
than that. It's terrible. I just can't understand-it.”
“Why, whatever is the matter? You're shaking still.”
Barbara became definitely alarmed. Even under her elabo
rate make-up Hester's face betrayed the distortion of positive
terror, and her eyes moved strangely.
“Whatever is wrong?” Barbara repeated, drawing a chair
alongside her friend's. She took Hester's hand in hers and
held it while she looked into her face.
"Barbara, darling, it's incredible," Hester blurted out
hysterically, "but I might have killed you to-night if I hadn't
found out in time. Killed you!”
- “Hester!" Barbara van Buren drew back in quick suspicion.
There was a latent look of fear in her own eyes now. “What
do you mean?”
It was in a quick whisper that her friend replied:
“You know that prop automatic I use in the third act? You
know how I always keep it in my own bag just to make sure
there will be no hitch about its being properly loaded-you


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 223
remember that time when it wasn't, and the whole show was
ruined in a horse-laugh? Well, ever since, I have always kept
a tag on it myself. Each night before I leave the theater I slip
in another blank from a drawer, keeping the magazine clip
fully charged. I did so last night—I'm sure I did. Thank God
I happened, quite by chance, to look at it just a minute ago.
Barbara! The top cartridge wasn't a blank.” Her voice
dropped to a still lower key. “It was live."
Barbara's fingers closed convulsively over the other's. “Hes-
ter,” she breathed.
With a gesture of pitiable helplessness the woman appealed
to her. Her voice rose almost to a cry:
“I'm sure I could have made no mistake; I'm certain it
was a blank I put in!”
“But where did the other come from you hadn't any live
cartridges, in any case, had you?” she demanded at last
sharply.
For a moment Hester hesitated.
“Yes, I'm afraid I had,” she answered slowly.
"Apart from any other reason, isn't that dangerous to leave
such things lying around even in a drawer?”.
"I didn't think so, dear; the pistol is always with me."
“Look at me, Hester. Was it purely by chance you exam-
ined that pistol to-night?”
The other averted her eyes. "It really was,” she replied after
a brief pause. “Oh, I don't know! In a way perhaps it wasn't.
Why shouldn't I be frank with you, darling? You know how
I am suffering; you know I haven't a long time to live. I
think I'd have ended it all months ago had it not been for
you. You have been so good to me.” She was silent for a
space, then continued in a monotonous undertone:
“When I learned the show was finishing to-night I thought
the time had come for me to finish, too. I realized I was going
to lose you. Thank God I did. Thank God I did! It saved
me from killing the one person I have to love in this world.


224 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
It seems to me that Providence arranged it.” Her voice took
on a fervent note. “I feel it was a sign. In return for that, I
promise you, Barbara, I won't think any more of-of- "
“My poor darling.” There was genuine affection in Bar-
bara's voice as she bent forward to kiss her. “Don't ever think
of such a thing again, I beg you. You're not going to lose
me. We'll stick together, don't you worry! I'll look after
you."
She rose, stepped to the mirror on her dressing-table and
studied the reflection of her face. Her eyelids had narrowed,
her lips were pressed together in a thin dangerous line. So,
for a few seconds she stood unmoving, then abruptly swung
round on Hester with her hands behind her clutching the
edge of the table tensely.
“It's terribly serious, Hester. You couldn't have made any
mistake in a matter like that, could you?" she asked. “There's
no possibility that by some terrbile chance you yourself put in
that live cartridge?”
Before she replied Hester raised a hand to lay it across
her throbbing temples.
“None; unless I'm going right clean out of my mind. The
cartridges are kept in different boxes, the boxes are in dif-
ferent drawers; I know it couldn't have been me, for the
blanks are loose—the others are in a clip.”
"Anybody been in your dressing-room that you've heard
of?”
“I've had no visitors. But somebody has been in my room.
Just at the foot of my dressing-table I found a cigarette end
on the floor just by the door. I was curious about that. I don't
smoke, as you know; daren't, not with my trouble."
Barbara took a quick step towards her. “You didn't throw
that cigarette end away?" she demanded sharply.
“No, I didn't. It's still there."
“Let's have a look.”
Pess I'm going her boxes, the boxca me for the


226
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
a man you once knew. You were so struck by the resemblance,
in fact, that you asked me if by any chance he had a scar on
his right forearm. I told you no; he had no scar. I lied to you.
He has.”
Hester placed her hand quickly to her mouth, but too late
to stifle the gasp that came from it. Her eyes staring, opened
wide, she looked at Barbara in silence. It was as if she were
speaking to herself when she muttered: “Then it is Jack
Sheean.”
“Yes," answered Barbara; “that's who it is. When you told
me your story, that was enough.”.
“Why did you lie to me, darling?” The question was asked
in a quiet, calm voice.
"I loved him.” Barbara spoke as though no other explana-
tion were necessary.
"You, too,” Hester murmured. “But knowing who he was,
knowing his character, what he had been to me, what he had
done to me! ..."
“I know. I know. I loved him.”
It was now Hester's turn to assume the role of comforter.
Her expression saddened as she saw the other's torment. "I
think I understand.” She touched Barbara's shoulder tenderly. -
"You were afraid ”
"I was afraid that if you once knew Lessing was really
Jack Sheean," Barbara interrupted, "that that would be the
end of my romance.” Her lips twisted into a rueful smile.
“Romance!" she repeated in contempt. "Mary, pity women!"
She closed her eyes. When she opened them again she re-
sumed calmly: .
“Though the man fascinated me I knew him for what he
was. I was under no illusions. I was afraid, too, for you. Had
he known that you were in possession of his secret, if you had
revealed that, God knows what he might have done to you.
I made use of your information. I used it for my own ends.
When he became engaged to Sherwood Dexter's daughter


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 227
there was trouble between us. He swore to me it would make
no real difference—it was only her money he wanted. But I
knew he was lying. It couldn't help but make a difference-
and Barbara van Buren has never played second fiddle yet.
But I couldn't change him. It was fade out or fight. I could
see I was going to lose him otherwise, so I made a fight for it.
I wrote a letter to Sherwood Dexter. I didn't sign it: I dis-
guised the handwriting; I told him who and what the man
his daughter was going to marry really was. I reckoned that
would put an end to the engagement if anything could. I
tell you I made that letter convincing. It could not be ignored.
Then Sherwood Dexter was murdered."
“That sounds to me just like what Jack Sheean would do,"
Hester interjected. She had listened intently to Barbara's story,
her whole body shaking in the intensity of her conflicting
emotions. '
“No, no, I don't think that. Not from what the papers say.
It seems clear enough that Dexter's old enemy, this man Brett
must have done it. No, I think that was just Peter's luck.
He prides himself on always turning up good cards. But
old man Dexter had spoken to him about the letter all right.
I got that information only yesterday.”
“Does he suspect you sent it?"
“That's what I don't know. What has happened to-night
makes it look as if he did. It was Peter Lessing, Hester, who
put that live cartridge in your automatic. And yet how could
he suspect me? How could he know that I had learned who
he really was? Of course, he knows some one has his secret.
The letter to Sherwood Dexter would tell him that. He must
have wondered-been anxious. Has he never spoken to you,
Hester, never come right face to face with you in London
here?”
Hester Rogan slowly shook her bowed head.
"No. He has seen me only on the stage, and even if he
did talk to me face to face he would never recognize the


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 229
“Meantime, we've donned the motley: on with the show!"
she cried.
Hester Rogan watched her go, and when she had gone
sat down and relapsed into brooding thought.


232
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
out of sight. Not until this happened did Hester's hand drop
to her side.
Almost automatically Barbara van Buren had gone through
the familiar motions of her part, had sunk to her knees and
gracefully swayed sideways preparatory to falling prone, but
the spattering volley, the changed aim, and Hester's fixed stare
directed at the stage box, had arrested her movement, quickly
startling her into forgetfulness of her rôle. She had followed
Hester's gaze with her own in time to see the fate that had
overtaken the man she had loved. In horror she uttered a
cry and pressed her hands to her eyes to shut out the sight.
There was instant commotion in the wings, shouts from
the flies, where one of the limelight men had seen what had
happened. The quick command was given to ring down the
curtain, and as, a moment later, it descended, the stage
manager, a marvel of self-possession, appeared before it. At
the same time all lights in the auditorium were switched on.
He raised his hand to stay the incipient panic in the stalls,
where the tragedy had been observed and realized, and in a
powerful but calm fortissimo announced that there had been
an accident, that the play could not proceed to its finish. His
commercial instinct made him add that in any case there
had only been a few minutes to go. He apologized for the
contretemps and assured the audience of his complete con-
fidence that they would disperse quietly.
Curiously enough, there was at first very little wild ex-
citement among the audience itself. Those in the distant and
cheaper parts of the theater who, by reason of their greater
numbers and the inexplicable influence of mob psychology
likely to operate there, might have lost their control or even
enjoyed the thrill of expressing their excitement, had not been
able to see precisely what had occurred. They had realized
that Hester Rogan had behaved strangely. They were able
to grasp that she had done something not in the piece and
having fired her pistol at some one in a stage box had pro-


236 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
"Certainly—tell them I said so. That's sufficient,” he said
authoritatively, and waved Robin to the stalls exit.
As quickly as they could they made their way to the door
at the back of the box through the small crowd of sensation-
mongers clustered there, kept at a distance by one of the
theater attendants, while another shepherded them out. Robin
hurriedly spoke to the nearer of them.
“We are round to see Inspector West inside there," he ex-
plained. “He knows we're coming: said we could."
At that moment West himself appeared in the doorway.
“All right,” he sang out to the attendant; “let that lady and
gentleman pass.”
They pressed forward to the open door. Robin, looking
into the interior of the box, saw two men were there, one
bent over Peter Lessing's motionless body on the floor. Lau-
rette, in the background, did not look, and Robin immediately
drew back.
West closed the door and followed him. “Nothing more to
be done in there,” he said.
He turned to the attendant beside him. “I want you, Ser-
geant, to remain here until I return, or until you hear from
me. Under no circumstances must you allow any one in. My
man will look after things inside.”.
He turned to Robin. “Well, Mr. Foster,” he said with grim
geniality, “here you are. Always about when there's some-
thing doing, eh? You've a first-class scenting nose. I may as
well tell you we were only waiting till the show was over to
arrest the occupant of this box. 'Could have done it earlier,
of course, but wanted to see what he was up to till the last
minute. He intended to make a run for it to-night. He
couldn't know that your two friends of the Clobham Road
have been luckier than he has—they're in the cells." He
glanced slyly at Laurette. “That smack the lady caught Gor-
don in the shoulder was twice useful. At the finish they had
to squeal for help, and the doctor did the rest. Well—that's


238 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
and walked in. As he did so the manager appeared as though
he were moving out.
“I'm from Scotland Yard,” said West.
“Yes, Inspector, we were expecting you,” said the other.
“Want me just now?”
“No. I'll let you know. I want to see Miss Rogan."
The woman he sought was there, sitting in an attitude of
waiting. Beside her was Barbara van Buren. Robin and Lau-
rette followed West inside the room, the inspector halting to
address his man, who was standing against the wall at the
side of the door.
"You go up and lend a hand in the box, Peffer," he in-
structed him quietly. “Relieve Keable; he's got some tele-
phoning to do."
“Very good, sir,” answered Peffer, and the next instant had
closed the door behind him, very softly.


CHAPTER
THE TWO WOMEN HAD WATCHED THEIR ENTRANCE IN SILENCE.
They seemed in no way surprised by the visit; plainly they
had expected something of the sort. But over Barbara's face
there did pass a decided flicker of astonishment as her eyes
alighted on Robin Foster and Laurette Dexter. Quickly, how-
ever, she resumed her aloof, resolute expression, and as she
rose to her feet gave no formal sign of recognition.
Hester remained seated. She did not appear at all distracted
or perturbed. Her attitude was almost one of complete in-
difference.
Ignoring West, Barbara fixed her attention on Robin and
Laurette. Her proud stare implied that she was politely curi-
ous as to their reason for being there; it almost conveyed that
she definitely challenged their right to be there.
Sensing this, Laurette moved at once towards her and mur-
mured in sympathetic tones:
"What a dreadful ordeal for you, Miss van Buren. Mr.
Foster and I were in the theater enjoying the performance,
and had intended to come around to see you at the finish-
with your permission.”
Barbara acknowledged the information with the single com-
ment "Indeed?” as she raised her eyebrows, but remained
stubbornly frigid. It was clear she considered that the infor-
mation did not supply an adequate explanation of their pres-
ence. Both Laurette and Robin felt embarrassed at being made
to feel that they had intruded, when fortunately the sound
of West's voice provided relief. They turned to watch him.
He was standing over Hester Rogan.
"You are Hester Rogan?” he said, as a statement of fact
rather than as a question. “I am a police officer, Inspector
West. You know what my business is, and ".
"Well, if I don't I can guess it, officer," returned Hester
239


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 241
him. I knew, for example, that he was a murderer in fact,
just as to-night he was by intention.”
“Of whom?” demanded the detective sharply.
"Of Gideon Trevor."
Despite his effort to maintain a composure as complete as
that of the two women, both of whom seemed strangely, al-
most frighteningly calm, West could barely repress an excla-
mation at this fresh revelation. Instantly and without com-
punction he plied Barbara with searching questions, all of
which she answered frankly, not seeking in any way to pal-
liate her own conduct. In a few minutes he was in possession
of most of her story. He heard from her of the part she had
played in the Wichington affair, and how, repenting when she
had learned of its criminal significance, she had sought to
warn Robin through Trevor. She revealed that Lessing with
characteristic callousness had practically admitted to her that
he had been the murderer.
“As to that,” commented the detective, tapping his jacket
pocket, “I may have some proof here-his revolver. One
would hardly say it was usual for a man to go theater-going
carrying a revolver. Eh, Mr. Foster?”
He cast a glance at Robin, and speaking in a low voice
added, “Must say you've been mixed up with a fancy crowd.”
Then he confronted Barbara again.
Throughout the detective's interrogation she had kept her
eyes on him, never for an instant allowing herself to look
at Robin or Laurette. She did not take her eyes from his now.
It was West who averted his gaze, to turn to address Hester.
“And you merely decided to shooting Lessing because you
discovered he had tried to make you kill your friend? A
drastic measure. It hardly sounds convincing in a country like
this where we don't recognize the Unwritten Law.”
Hester shook her head.
“That wasn't at all why I killed him. It goes further back
wher)"


242 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
than that. I had a bigger score against him. I only discovered
to-night who he was.”
“Yes; what do you mean by that? Wasn't being Peter
Lessing bad enough?”
“Lessing wasn't his name when I knew him ten years ago.
It was Jack Sheean."
“Jack Sheean? Jack Sheean? The name's somehow familiar.
Will you please tell me more about this person.”
“Why, certainly. I'll tell you all there is to know. Sheean
was a swell American crook when I first met him in New
York. How I met him doesn't matter now. I got to know him
intimately—to my sorrow. One day he played a low-down
game on some of his gang and they got after him. That was
always his way. Whenever he felt the draught he'd slip out
from underneath and put the other fellow in the wagon.
Things were looking mighty unhealthy, but he staged a fake
suicide-and got away with it. All his pals believed he had
drowned himself; he arranged matters very neatly. So he
escaped their further attentions. He lay low for a bit, but they
were too close, and he just had to get out of the States. I
thought I was ace-high with him, but I should have known
better. I accompanied him across to Europe. We were staying
in Hamburg, and there was a fire in our hotel. It was a pretty
disastrous affair-you'll recall it. Made a sensation at the time.
A good many lives were lost. Sheean thought mine was
amongst them and who could blame him for thinking so?”
She laughed bitterly, suddenly bent forward in her chair in
obvious pain, and held her hand firmly to her left side. Bar-
bara moved towards her in quick concern, but Hester mo
tioned her away, with an attempt at a grateful smile. In a few
moments she resumed:
“You see, he had tried to assist that Hester Rogan should
be among the missing-locked me in the bedroom while pre-
tending he was trying to help me to get out, when all he
meant to do was to get quit of me and save his own skin.


244 MURDER COULD NOT KILL
spoke. “Why, though, did you keep his secret? What object
had you? Why didn't you tell Miss Rogan? Were you
afraid?"
“Just that,” Barbara answered. “Afraid all round. In any
case, I wanted the knowledge for myself. I saw how it might
be useful to me.” Unexpectedly she swung round on Lau-
rette. “Miss Dexter, I was mad when I heard of your en-
gagement to Peter Lessing. He was after your money, I know,
but that was going to make no difference to me. I sent an
unsigned communication to your father, telling him who
Lessing really was, in the hope that it would make him insist
on your breaking off the engagement. He must have spoken
to him about it, but I hope you believe me when I say I am
sorry to refer to your bereavement now.”
At Barbara's mention of this letter, West, Robin, and Lau-
rette exchanged swift understanding glances. It was left to
West to speak.
“I see. I see,” he repeated. Under his unruffled exterior there
was a hint of solid satisfaction. “It's all dovetailing together,
slowly but surely. I even recall now where I saw Sheean's
name. That was puzzling me.” In his feeling of complacency
he could not refrain from explaining:
“Yes, it was when we were going into Lessing's antecedents.
We traced him back to that fire in Hamburg ten years ago.
Reading the files I traced his name amongst those of the vic-
tims. Among the rescued was Peter Lessing. We'll never know
for sure what happened, but it seems clear enough. Sheean
must have seen his chance; got hold of the real Lessing's
papers and assumed his identity. It was an unequalled oppor-
tunity to wipe a dirty slate clean and make a fresh jump-off
on new ground. No doubt many of the bodies of the victims
would be unrecognizable in any case. Yes, Sheean seems to
have struck it lucky from that day on. The real Lessing must
have been one of those solitary souls, friendless, without rela-
tives. As a matter of fact, when we did try to trace his history


MURDER COULD NOT KILL
245
before that fire we could discover nothing about him at all,
not even where he hailed from."
There was an unfamiliar sympathetic look on West's face
as once more he turned to Hester. He laid his hand gently
on her shoulder.
“In my private capacity, Miss Rogan, I can't say I blame
you so much. If ever a man deserved the death of a dog he
did. But it isn't for me to say that. I am a police officer, you
know, and—”
“That's all right; that's all right. Please don't worry about
me. There's no call to do that, for I haven't long left for
worrying.” She sensed his look of suspicion and smiled up
at him, sadly shaking her head.
“No. I don't mean I'm going to try to find a quick way out.
Don't get apprehensive about that. I'll let what will be, be. I
recognize there's the hand of the Lord in this, and that I was
chosen to be His humble instrument of justice. But I'm a sick
woman. I just haven't long to live, that's all.”
Touched to quick sympathy Laurette Dexter moved for-
ward and sank on her knees beside the afflicted woman, tak-
ing one of her hands tenderly in hers.
“Let me help you, Miss Rogan,” she said, “any way I can.
I'm an American like you. Please count me as a friend.”
“That's just too sweet of you—Miss Dexter, isn't it? But
nobody can help me now. I'm really quite happy, for I'm long
prepared.”
With her free hand she patted Laurette's arm in gratitude.
Robin had also moved forward. Mingled with admiration
for her courage pity for Hester Rogan was in his heart. There
was something profoundly poignant and touching in the
woman's atitude, her story, her pitiful life. As she sat there,
still with her stage make-up on her face, wearing the clothes
of her stage part, she seemed to him a perfect symbol of
human suffering. She was one of the world's unfortunates, a
woman inevitably destined to misery.


CHAPTER
now XXIV
ROBIN AND WEST PROCEEDED SILENTLY ALONG THE PASSAGE AND
up the stairs which Ackland, with a wave of his hand, indi-
cated from the doorway of Hester Rogan's dressing-room.
Everything appeared very still. It was as though the recent
tragedy had hushed the whole theater to quietness.
The steps were unlit and their progress was slow, for West
cautioned extreme care. What his precise intention was Robin
did not know, but he was glad that he had been invited to
lend his assistance. That he had been invited suggested that
the inspector, although he must now have realized that Robin
and Laurette had kept him uninformed on important points,
yet did not bear them any grudge. For Laurette's sake Robin
was anxious to propitiate the detective in every way possible.
Although actuated by honest intention as they had been, he
quite foresaw that when final explanations came to be given
West could, if he were so disposed, make things very un-
pleasant for both.
Directly facing them on the first landing was a door marked
“Manager.” A thin light showed along its foot. Without
knocking West tried the handle; it yielded, and he walked in,
Robin at his heels. The occupant of the room, a man in eve-
ning dress, rose from the desk at which he was writing and
stared at the intruders with anxious inquiry.
“What is it, Mr. West?”
"Oh, it's you? Forgive the unceremonious intrusion. I
didn't know who might be in here. This isn't what's known
as Lessing's room, is it?"
“Oh, no. Mr. Lessing's room is on the floor above. Do you
want to get in?"
“Yes.”
"I'm afraid you will have some difficulty. He always kept
248


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 251
allowed him to sit, and then, finding no weapon, stepped
back.
"I don't know what you're after, but I'll see you pay for
this,” Dowson said. “What is it you've got against me? I've
done nothing."
“No? I fancy you're too modest. Better think again, my lad.
The more you say the easier time you're likely to have.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Dowson per-
sisted. “I tell you I'm merely here on private business, waiting
for Mr. Lessing."
“You'll wait a long time for him.”
“What do you mean?” There was no doubt of the intensity
of Dowson's alarm. His fingers began to move nervously as
he gripped the arms of the chair on which he sat, and his
head began to quiver in panic.
"Just that he's fixed all right ... all right.”
West smiled at him disarmingly, and then with abrupt
severity demanded: "How often do you dodge in through
that trap entrance from the mews to Lessing's house in
Charles Street? Do you remember using it the night you mur-
dered Sherwood Dexter-eh?"
The man's nerve left him completely: “I didn't do it. I
didn't do it, I tell you," he cried. “It was Lessing shot him.
I had no idea he was going to do it. I only drove the car.
I did as I was told. I had to, I tell you. I'd never have gone a
yard with him if I'd known. That's the truth. I swear it!"
"You only drove the car, eh? Acting under orders, eh? Just
as when you tried to do in Mr. Foster, eh? Well, we may
give you the benefit of the doubt. You see, as I told you, the
franker you are the better it may pay you.” He looked across
at Robin as though inviting appreciation of the success of his
bluff.
Robin raised his eyebrows significantly. He had listened
with contempt to Dowson's pitiful confession.
"I gather,” West went on, “that you had been instructed to


MURDER COULD NOT KILL 253
When, a minute or two later, he returned with Laurette,
having in the meantime excitedly told her as much as he
could of what had happened, the detective was still as he had
left him, standing beside Dowson, on whom he had slipped
a pair of hand-cuffs. He nodded to Robin to take his place,
walked to the door in the corner of the room and opened it.
It gave on to a smaller room, a more than usually well-
furnished bed-dressing-room in which was a modernly
equipped toilet stand. The room had ample space for a couch-
bed placed against one of the walls. On this lay a burly figure.
West recognized it instantly as that of Rufus Brett.
He was fully dressed, but fast asleep. . . . Or drugged?
... The latter, the detective realized, as he bent over him,
observed his slow, heavy breathing and raised his eyelids.
The man seemed unharmed otherwise.
Laurette had followed the detective.
“Here you are, Miss Dexter," he remarked quietly to her
over his shoulder. “Your guess if it were a guess—was cor-
rect all right. Here's our man.”
Ignoring his reproof, she pressed past him anxiously.
"Is he all right?" she murmured, as she knelt beside the
couch and touched Brett's puffy face.
“Yes, don't worry," said the detective ironically, astonished
at her concern for such a person. “There's nothing much
wrong with him. He's doped, but not dangerously, I shouldn't
think.” He continued to watch her wonderingly. “You seem
extremely interested,” he added, and after a pause addressed
her in a compelling voice: “I feel you have still a lot to tell
me, Miss Dexter."
"I have,” she answered simply, as she rose and looked
straight at him. “I am mighty interested. I have reason to be.
Rufus Brett is my father.”
"What!”
Robin also had heard her. He was too astounded even to
gasp.


256
MURDER COULD NOT KILL
narration, and clapped a hand on his shoulder—"what were
you going to do with him, eh? You and Lessing mean to take
Brett with you?”
Dowson, a figure of hopeless despair, nodded feebly.
“What did you intend to do with him, eh? ... I think I
can guess. Come on!” Without force but firmly he assisted the
other to his feet and led him towards the door, remarking to
Laurette as he did so, “We'll get an ambulance for Mr. Brett.”
There was the faint hint of a smile on his mobile face as,
reaching the passage, he turned and spoke to them. They
became suddenly conscious that they stood very close together
-Robin's hand, indeed, was laid on Laurette's arm.
“Kindly follow on," said Inspector West, and in the now
genial voice there seemed to both the assurance of forgiveness.
“But don't keep me waiting too long."