is








THE THOUSANDTH CASE
by
GEORGE DILNOT
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1933


PR1NTKD IN TBI U.S.A.


To
TOD ANDERSON





K it 3
CHAPTER
CONTENTS
MM
I.
An Essay in Blackmail .
• 7
II.
Bill Dawkins Gets a Job
. 13
III.
The Golf Course Murder
• 23
IV.
Silke Makes an Offer
• 33
V.
The C.I.D. Confers .
. 46
VI.
Old Ugly ....
• 55
VII.
A Stab in the Fog .
. 66
VIII.
Suspicion ....
• 73
IX.
Solly Vanishes.
. 82
X.
Burnt Paper .
. 94
XI.
Nearly an Alibi
. 102
XII.
The Missing Docket
. i13
XIII.
Rance Falls Into a Trap
. 124
XIV.
Ordeal by Water .
. 135
XV.
Dorothy Intervenes
. 145
XVI.
Maud Refuses to Talk .
. 156
XVII.
Who Opened the Door? .
. 169
XVIII.
Dawkins Receives a Visitor
. 176


CONTENTS
CMrma
PAOB
XIX.
190
XX.
The Finding of the Car .
■
203
XXI.
A Sideline in Detection .
■
215
XXII.
Which of Eight?
•
223
XXIII.
Rance Gets a Surprise .
■
231
XXIV.
A Step Forward
•
241
XXV.
The Trap
•
251
XXVI.
The Raid
•
261
XXVII.
The Murderer .
•
271
XXVIII.
A Tea-Party .
•
282


8
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
months ago you wouldn't have winked an eyelash at
an earthquake. Your nerves are all shot to tatters.
What it is I don't know and don't care, but something
will bust if you go on brooding like a hermit. Come
along. I'll give you six shots."
Silke shook off the hand with impatience.
"I thought so," he began, steadily enough. "I
reckon this is some of Dorothy's work." His
control snapped abruptly and his voice became a
high-pitched snarl. "See here, Hickling! When
I want medical attention I'll ask for it. I'll not
have you nor anyone else nosing about my personal
affairs. Get that."
He half turned and then swung back towards
Hickling with clenched fists and blazing eyes.
"Go away, you blasted meddling puppy. Beat
it while the going's good."
Dr. Hickling would have belied his flame-coloured
head if he had not thought of an impulsive retort,
but remembrance of his professional dignity checked
him.
"Don't agitate yourself, Silke," he said coldly,
and walked away.
With fists thrust fiercely in his trousers pockets
Silke watched him pass round the house to the front
gate. The two deep lines in his forehead smoothed
themselves out, and he stooped to pick up the book
that had brought about the outburst.
"Damned fool, damned fool, damned fool," he
repeated to himself scornfully. "Why go and up-
set the little pill-roller like that? He's right. My
nerve's going—or gone." His lean face contorted
in a sneer and he kicked at the book at his feet.


IO
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
There was now no trace of the nerve-shattered
man whose control had broken so easily twenty
minutes before. Silke had keyed himself to a part.
He was, if not confident of himself, at least able—
for the moment—to carry the appearance of con-
fidence. His hand dropped to the butt of the auto-
matic in his jacket pocket.
"Ten or fifteen years ago, Smiler, I'd have known
how to handle a swine like you."
Smiler shrugged his shoulders.
"Suppose you'd have taken me for a ride—or
got someone else to do it. Not these days, Solly.
If there's going to be any killing other folk may take
a hand. Don't you get thinking that I'm a blasted
fool. You're a hard man, but so am I. Y' might
just as well let go that thing in your pocket because
I've taken my precautions—not knowing how far
you may be tempted."
With nonchalance, perhaps a little laboured, he
paused, took a yellow packet from his pocket and
drew out a cigarette.
"Y' might like to know that if I'm not at a certain
place by a certain time, a couple of letters will be
posted—one to Scotland Yard, the other to some old
friends of yours. They just mention that Mr.
James Silke, of Twyton, is remarkably like the
Solomon Engles whom they have been wondering
about for a long time. Remember Old Ugly, who
did seven years, and Tiny who went down for five?
They remember you—I reckon they say prayers
about you every night. If Ugly means what I've
heard him say about you . . ."
Leaving the sentence unfinished he put a match to


AN ESSAY IN BLACKMAIL
II
his cigarette. Silke released his grip of the auto-
matic.
"You seem to have got it all thought out," he
said quietly. "All but a couple of things. Neither
Old Ugly nor any of that gang can scare me, and as
for the rest, I've been to the Yard myself. It's you
who ought to be frightened, Smiler. Just one crook
of my little finger and you'd go down. You know
how they treat dirty blackmailers in this country."
Smiler gaped so that his cigarette clung ludicrously
to his lower lip. For an instant he was the picture of
a man taken utterly aback. Then his face cleared.
"You've been to Scotland Yard—yes, you have,"
he said derisively. "Naturally, that's what a
respectable, retired, middle-aged gentleman would
do when held up by a crook like me. Told 'em you
were among the suburban nobs down Twyton way,
didn't you? Big house, fine grounds "—he swept
an arm around—" golf, garden parties and all the
rest. Likely candidate for vicar's churchwarden."
He shook with silent, vicious laughter. "Shall I tell
you what you didn't say, Solly? You didn't say
you were Engles, who was back of twenty big things,
till you packed a parcel and dropped out of sight
after the Greenford jewel job. You didn't say
anything about that little biography that they
used to have in the Criminal Record Office. Pah,
you make me sick! I ought to know something
about the Yard. They'd be interested in you even
now, believe me, Solly, old dear."
Silke shifted his ground abruptly.
"Well, go and tell 'em," he said sharply. "I've
seen more dirtiness and more crookedness in my


11
THE THOUSANDTH CASK
life than most people, but you're the slimiest thing
in the shape of a man that I've ever struck. Now,
listen to me." He rammed a fist into the palm of
his other hand. "I'll call your bluff. There's
nothing that can be proved against me "—he hesi-
tated—" now. It would take a bigger man than
you, Smiler Carne, to bleed me white. I've waited
for you to-day to let you know this is the finish.
Turn loose Old Ugly and any of the gang that have
got any kick against me. I'm ready for 'em."
Thrusting a hand into his breast pocket he drew out
an envelope and threw it contemptuously to the
ground. "There's fifty—and that's the last."
The other scowled as he lifted the package and
toyed with it unopened in his hands.
"Better think it over, Solly," he menaced.
"Say what you like as long as you pay. This
chicken feed won't let you out. I asked for five
hundred and I'm the man that's going to see he
gets it. It'd save you trouble to dig it up now.
Don't forget that there's other people than the
Yard and Old Ugly who're interested in you. I've
seen that pretty little kid of yours"
"That'll do," interrupted Silke thickly. The
veins of his forehead stood out against the startling
pallor of his face, and his eyes were blazing. His
hands opened and shut spasmodically. "Get out
of here. Get away from me!"
Smiler showed his glittering teeth defiantly and
disappeared into the shrubbery.
Silke took two quick, silent steps and a pistol came
to a level on a gap in the laurels. He waited for
Smiler to pass the gap.


CHAPTER II
BILL DAWKINS GETS A JOB
In the top left-hand drawer of Chief Detective
Inspector Dawkins's desk at Scotland Yard a search
would have invariably discovered three things.
There was the official truncheon which he had not
carried on his person for twenty-five years or more;
a big envelope with a jumbled assortment of photo-
graphs, ranging from holiday snapshots of a cara-
van trip, to a batch of official portraits of men and
women who had passed through his hands; and the
latest detective novel.
This latter peculiarity had long been a standing
joke among the four colleagues with whom he shared
the room. No man of the Finger-Print Bureau ever
came among them without being exhorted to keep
a close eye on the one microscope owned by Scotland
Yard, for Old Bill would never be happy till he had
pinched it for his private use and gratification.
Seldom did Dawkins begin to pen a report without
being asked whether he was going to publish some-
thing that would have shown Edgar Wallace how
it really should have been done. Anxiety was
professed lest some day when giving evidence he
should forget himself and address the judge as " My
dear Watson."
When prodded a little more outrageously than
usual, Dawkins would deliberately remove the horn-


14 THETHOUSANDTHCASE
rimmed spectacles that he used in the office, lean
his elbows on his desk, and smile quizzically at his
tormentors.
"You may be good policemen but what you want
is a little imagination," he would say in his deep,
reverberating voice. "Where would the reputation
of the Yard be without these writer blokes? Why,
it would ruin us to be shown as we are. Take
Charlie Luxton, for instance—a bald-headed old
gentleman who tells funny stories to a crook till
he can't help giving his pals away for laughing. Or
Alf Royton there, with his spats and his pince-nez,
who just has to be his natural self when he thinks
he's kidding someone that he's a congenital ass.
Look at Jim Kilgan "—a white forefinger wagged at
the chief of the Flying Squad—" like an elderly
shop-walker, and who believes he can use wireless
and motor in place of brains. And that big Irish
tough, Flanagan, whose ugly mug would scare the
truth out of an oyster. Detectives!" He shook
his head disparagingly. "I like you. You're good
thief catchers. But none of you would be con-
vincing in a book."
Luxton slowly dropped an eyelid and jerked his
head meaningly towards the speaker. Otherwise
this slanderous perversion of some of their personal
traits passed without comment. «
Dawkins went on:
"If they put people like ourselves in books I
wouldn't want to read 'em. We're commonplace.
I read for fun and it doesn't worry me what a detec-
tive does in a book. The rules are different. He
works in a different way and in a different world.


BILL DAWKINS GETS A JOB IJ
The only person he's got to convince is the reader—
not a judge and jury. Get that angle and some of
these yarns can be stimulating. If you read more
of this stuff you call tripe it would brighten your
ideas."
"Don't tell that to the youngsters when you're
next lecturing at an instruction class," said Kilgan.
"It might get them into trouble if they used some
of those bright ideas. And, coming down to earth,
I've got work to do. Look at this and see what you
make of it. A detective out of a book would tell in
a moment."
He thrust a dirty scrap of paper that had been
crumpled and straightened out in front of Dawkins,
who, putting on his glasses, bent over it.
"This is that Cardiff job, or course. What is
it?"
"Picked up yesterday in the railway arch used
as a store room where the body was found," explained
Kilgan. "It's a receipt for a small sum of money
made out by the murdered man, and initialled in
pencil by the fellow who I believe killed him. A
rubber date stamp has been impressed either over
the initials or the initials written over the date.
If the initials were written after the date had been
impressed it will go some way to proving that the
suspect was with the other on the day that he was
killed."
The others had gathered round, and one by one
they studied the paper through a magnifying-glass
that passed from hand to hand.
"Here's a chance for you, Bill," said Royton.
"Show us some of those bright ideas."


l6 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"Not me," declared Dawkins. "I couldn't
guess which was done first."
"Tried photography ?" asked someone.
"First thing. Nothing doing," said Kilgan.
"You want an analytical chemist who specialises
on marks on paper," said Luxton. "There's a
society which ought to be able to tell you a good man
on that kind of thing. I'll look 'em up."
"British Museum may know of someone," sug-
gested Royton. "I'll ring through. Pass the
telephone book, Bill."
For ten minutes every man in the room put aside
his own affairs until a couple of experts had been
located. Kilgan swung out of the room to inter-
view these, pausing at the door to shake his head
reproachfully at Dawkins.
"I did think that a man who has read so many
books would be able to settle a little thing like that."
With the closing of the door the thing was dis-
missed automatically from the minds of those
remaining. The life or death of a man might depend
upon the result of Kilgan's mission, but to them he
had simply gone on a piece of business which they
regarded as unemotionally as a group of salesmen
might watch one of their number go to negotiate
the sale of hardware.
"Good yarn I heard yesterday," said Luxton.
"There was a girl getting into a bus . . ."
A detective sergeant of Dawkins's staff, who had
brought his chief a pile of documents to sign, grinned
appreciatively, and went out to retail the story to
some of his fellows before starting on a little trip
to arrest a petty embezzler.


BILL DAWKINS GETS A JOB 17
Flanagan looked up from a heap of official papers
that Uttered his desk.
"I brought along some of those carnation cuttings
you wanted, Alf. You'll have to get 'em in as quick
as you can. I remember old John Stone first put
me on to growing carnations years ago. Anyone
seen him lately?"
"Old chap's pretty bad," said Luxton. "I
looked in on him the other day and I'm afraid his
number's up. One of the finest policemen the Yard's
ever had."
"And he won't be the first good policeman who's
killed himself here," observed Flanagan. "For
three months he was sitting up practically all night
with his dying wife, and putting in his days here.
Of course, his health cracked, but he wouldn't give
in even then. Told the guv'nor he was quite fit to
handle that Greenford jewel business—you'll remem-
ber it. The insurance companies had to pay out
something like a hundred and fifty thousand quid,
for they never got the stuff back, although John
got a conviction against some of the boys who were
in it."
"Solly Engles engineered that," remarked Luxton.
"I was a sergeant working with old John at the time.
Never a hair of evidence could we pick up against
him, although we got a warrant and searched his
house red-hot after the robbery. He was having
dinner with two or three right 'uns and we knew
that one of 'em had passed him a diamond necklace
that was part of the job. Received us as cool as a
cucumber and told us to go ahead. We went
through that place with a toothcomb. John could


18
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
have bitten glass when we finished and Solly saw
us to the door. And, as we learned afterwards—■
too late—the necklace was there all the while.
Solly had it in his hand when we entered and just
dropped it in the soup tureen."
"Wasn't like John to let him get away with that,"
said Flanagan, shaking his head. "As I say, he
wasn't well at the time, and it was just about then
that his wife died. Sixteen hours a day, and more,
he was doing. If he'd been sensible and taken his
pension early enough he'd have been a well man
now."
"Ah, well, Tom," interposed Dawkins, "we're
all fools. I've heard you talk about retiring for
the last five years—but I'll believe you mean it when
I see it in orders." He pushed his chair back
and got to his feet. "I've got a clean sheet—
nothing to do. Think I'll have a word with the
guv'nor."
But he seemed in no hurry. Standing carelessly,
with one hand in a pocket, he made a fine figure of
a man. Only his silver hair betrayed his half-
century of years. Although tall beyond the average,
he gave no impression of height until viewed with
ordinary men. Twinkling blue eyes surveyed the
world with amused tolerance from a clean-shaven,
healthy face. Like all senior Scotland Yard men
he dressed with scrupulous neatness, and a thin gold
chain spanned his ample waist. To those who did
not know his profession he might have suggested
a well-to-do lawyer or doctor. He looked com-
fortable.
Indeed, he was at peace with all the world, and


BILL DAVKINS GETS A JOB 19
he jingled a bunch of keys as he idly scrutinised
"Lizzie," the oil painting that dominated the shabby
room. "Lizzie" might not have impressed an art
connoisseur, but she was something more than a
picture. The half-naked lady, clutching a book
and simpering vacantly at the foxed and dingy
cartoons of bygone police administrators that made
up the rest of the mural decorations of the apart-
ment, was a mascot to whom all chief detective
inspectors on appointment were introduced with
appropriate formalities. To Dawkins she had never
ceased to be a subject of speculative interest.
Tradition had it that when, many years before,
she had been recovered from a receiver's hoard, her
true owner had refused to take her back. There-
upon she had been adopted by the chief inspector
of that day, and it was claimed that she had never
let them or their successors down. But generations
of the most acute detectives in England had failed
to discover the secret of her origin.
"I'm going to have a copy of Lizzie buried with
me when I die," announced Dawkins. "She's a
sweet child."
"Take her now, Bill, and go and bury yourself,"
said Royton, looking up from a bank pass-book
which he was comparing with a number of cancelled
cheques. "I've lost trace of a hundred quid
through your chatter, and I've got to give evidence
in that forgery job of mine to-day."
"Sorry," apologised Dawkins. "I'll take myself
off."
He slipped out of the room humming a tune at
one time familiar to the army in Flanders:


so
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"And when I die,
Don't bury me at all;
Just pickle my bones
In al-co-hol."
The room of Manners, the Superintendent of the
Central Branch of the Criminal Investigation
Department—officially known as " C.i "—adjoined
that of the chief inspectors. With the last words
of the refrain still lingering on his lips Dawkins
entered.
The brisk, square-faced superintendent had his
arms sprawled about his desk and was talking
earnestly into a telephone. He paused long enough
to nod a curt greeting.
"Hello, Bill. I want to see you. Wait a minute.
... All right, my man, I'll see to it. Yes, that'll
do." Pushing the receiver back on its hook he
pressed a button and was scribbling hastily when a
messenger entered. "Tell Inspector James I want
him," he said, without looking up. "Bill, there's a
murder job for you out Twyton way. ... Ah, there
you are, James." He tore the slip of paper, on
which he had been writing, from his pad, and passed
it to the second in command of the Flying Squad.
"Smash-and-grab job at a jeweller's shop in the
Brixton Road. Here's all the details that the man
on the beat could give me. Wireless all cars that
you've got in that direction."
Leaning back in bis chair he picked up his
pipe.
"Say, Bill, this may be a funny job. Don't
suppose you recall a fellow named Richard Carne


DILL DAWEINS GETS A JOB 21
who we had in the department eight or ten years
ago? They used to call him Smiler."
Dawkins wrinkled his brows. There are a thou-
sand men in the Criminal Investigation Department,
and changes are continually taking place.
"Can't say that I do," he declared, after reflection.
"No, it wouldn't be likely," said the superin-
tendent. "He was doing plain-clothes patrol work
in K Division before he passed his exam., and
then he was in R for a while. Smart chap, but he
went off the rails. There were leakages of infor-
mation. We found he was a lot too friendly with
a bunch of crooks, and that he was spending more
than his salary. It was touch and go whether we
sent him down on the criminal charge but, although
we were morally certain, the evidence was flimsy.
A Discipline Board kicked him out of the service
for borrowing money and I believe he went thor-
oughly to the bad after that."
"I remember him now," said Dawkins. "Damned
lucky to get away with it. A dirty skunk."
"Well "—Manners blew a cloud of smoke towards
the ceiling—" he's paid his bill. He was found lying
in a ditch near the tenth tee of the ladies' course at
Twyton Golf Club at seven o'clock this morning.
Three bullets had been fired through his head at
close range."
"I'm not fond of murder jobs," said Dawkins,
doubtfully. "That will be on Rule's manor."
"Who is fond of murder jobs, these days?"
retorted his chief. "But it's no use trying to pass
the buck, Bill. Rule won't weep about you going
down. He has an idea that the murder may have


22
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
taken place elsewhere and the body carried to the
spot where it was found. He's just 'phoned through
the bare facts, and points out that there's plenty of
other work to keep him busy in his division, and
that he can't trot all over the country if it becomes
necessary. So there's got to be a chief inspector,
and you're elected. That's about all I know."
Dawkins closed one eye in an expressive wink.
"I know," he said. *' I don't blame him. I'd
side step it if I could. There'll be the usual mud-
slinging at the Yard whether I break lucky or not.
Anyway, I'll be getting down, sir. I've a bright
young nephew who's a sergeant in that division."
"Bear up, Bill," said the superintendent sym-
pathetically, and turned to the telephone which was
again ringing insistently.


CHAPTER III
THE GOLF COURSE MURDER
Without any very obvious hurry or excitement
Dawkins collected Mender, a sergeant of his staff,
to act as his aide-de-camp. Sending that alert
young officer to make sure that one of the official
photographers had been notified, and to rake out
any documents that might exist in the archives
regarding the dead man, he returned to the chief
inspectors' room, and, opening one of the deal
cupboards that formed part of the furniture of that
apartment, took out a large-sized attache-case.
Royton, now the only remaining occupant of
the room, elevated his eyebrows.
"Murder bag, Bill? What's the stunt?"
The other was raking among the contents of the
case, which always lies ready for use when a chief
inspector is sent on a murder enquiry. Fumbling
among rubber gloves, test tubes, measuring tapes,
finger-print appliances, and the mass of other
equipment that he might need in the early stages of
his enquiries, Dawkins briefly outlined his mission.
"Don't interrupt me," he said. "Last time I
took this bag out there was a pocket compass
missing. They'd have charged it up against me if
I hadn't kicked up a hell of a fuss. Disinfectant
—handcuffs—soap and towel—railway passes—
forceps—stationery case—rubber apron. Seems all


24
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
right." He slammed the lid of the case down and
locked it. "Know anything about this bird
Smiler, Alf?"
Royton scratched the back of his ear with a
pencil. "I've got something at the back of my
mind," he said. "Ah, I've got it. 'Birdie' Nokes,
when I took him for pushing the snide three or four
years ago "—thus Royton indicated the arrest of a
coiner—" told me that Smiler had been holding him
up. Seems to me that I'd heard rumours in other
directions. Blackmailing crooks would be the kind
of dirtiness he'd take to. I'd keep that in mind.
Bill."
"Thanks," said Dawkins, struggling into bis
overcoat. "I won't forget."
Mender appeared at the door, a bundle of papers
under his arm. "I've seen to everything, sir.
The car's ready."
The gambits of most murder enquiries run on
fixed lines. There are invariably certain obvious
things to be done at once, and there exists an official
formula on the matter. Thus, although half an
hour or forty minutes elapsed before Dawkins
reached the place where the body had been found,
work had already been set in hand by Rule, the
detective inspector in charge of the division.
Two or three cars were drawn up in the narrow
semi-country lane that bordered the side of the golf
course, and both in the roadway and on the course,
policemen were keeping little groups of spectators
at a distance.
Rule, a thin-faced, grey-moustached man, wearing
pince-nez, left the people with whom he was speaking


THE GOLF COURSE MURDER 25
and waved the inspsctor to a spot where a gap in the
hedge had been broken.
"Just keep along here, sir, if you don't mind.
There are footprints near the gate."
Dawkins clambered across and cast a swift,
approving glance about him. A number of men,
picking their steps gingerly, and with heads bowed
as if in deep concentration, were moving slowly over
the cleared space. A draughtsman, with a com-
panion to hold one end of a measuring tape, was
making a plan. A plump, jovial-looking man, his
jaws working steadily, was trying to wedge the
tripod of a camera across a ditch. He nodded to
Dawkins and swore with genial earnestness as he
saved his apparatus from disaster.
"Good morning, Fitz," said Dawkins. "In
front of me again. That quid will choke you one
of these days."
Detective Inspector FitzHenry, the head of the
Yard's photographic specialists, jammed a leg of the
tripod viciously into the earth.
"I've had over a hundred murder jobs, and I
couldn't have carried on some of 'em without a
chew of tobacco. Better than smoking. You
should try it."
Ignoring the other's "No thanks, not me," he
straddled the ditch and bent to his work. To him,
as to Dawkins and most of the others, the affair
was purely a matter of business and he refused to
let his mind dwell on any but that aspect. That
was not callousness. It was common sense. Not a
year before he had risked his life and been badly
burnt through dashing up and down a blazing stair-


26
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
case to save a dog trapped in the upper story of a
house.
"Nothing fresh since I left the Yard ?" Dawkins
questioned Rule.
The other scratched his chin.
"Nothing much, Mr. Dawkins. The divisional
surgeon is here and has had a look at the body, but
we waited for you and the photographers before
removing it for more detailed examination. There
is no sign of a struggle."
He turned to where FitzHenry was still wrestling
with the refractory camera, and they gazed down
upon the still form in the ditch. Extending a
finger he pointed to the disfigured face of the dead
man.
"It doesn't need an expert to see that he was shot
at very close quarters. My own view is that he
wasn't killed here at all. The body was probably
carried here and dumped in the ditch. This road
would be very lonely and deserted at night, and a
motor-car could stop within twenty yards."
"May be so," agreed Dawkins. Always ready to
listen, he had no intention of committing himself
to any fixed theories at this stage of the case.
"What's somebody been doing there ?" he asked,
jerking his head at a footmark on the bank of the
ditch.
"That was the constable who was fetched by two
caddies who found the body," explained Rule.
"He says he had to get down to make sure the man
was dead—although I should have thought there
was not much doubt about it. Oddly enough, he
knew Smiler. They joined the service at about


THE GOLF COURSE MURDER
the same time and were at the police training school
together, although they have not seen each other
since."
"I was wondering how it came that the body was
identified so quickly," said Dawkins. "Naturally
it hasn't been searched yet."
"No. Everything is just as it was found."
"And that's that," exclaimed FitzHenry, bring-
ing his ponderous body back to a more stable
equilibrium, and tucking the camera under his arm.
"You can carry on now, sir. I've finished this
part of the job."
Dawkins scribbled a few notes, and at a word
from him men raised the body from the ditch and
placed it on a stretcher. The divisional surgeon
bent to complete his preliminary scrutiny. In a
minute or two he had finished.
"I can't carry things any farther until after the
post-mortem," he declared. "Any one of those
three bullets through the head would have killed
him. Speaking very roughly, Mr. Dawkins, I
should say that the man has been dead from three
to six hours—that is to say, he was killed probably
between one and four. I don't know if you will be
calling in any of the Home Office medical experts?"
"I expect we shall ask Sir Vere Derrick," said
Dawkins, naming a pathologist who had won a great
reputation in murder matters. "Tell me one thing
before you go, doctor. Do I understand that this
man was killed by the first shot, and that the others
were fired after he was dead?"
"There can be no doubt of it. Any one of the
three would have killed him instantly."


28
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"Thanks." Dawkins dropped to the damp grass
by the side of the body and had instantly forgotten
the doctor. "Just take a note of these things,
Mender."
With adroit and practised fingers he began the
search of the body, announcing each article aloud
and laying each of them on a sheet of newspaper
spread for the purpose. There was the general
batch of things carried by most men—a pocket-
knife, a fountain-pen, a cheap watch, a few letters,
a bunch of keys and some visiting cards. In an
inside pocket of the waistcoat he found an envelope
containing ten five-pound notes of which the
numbers ran in sequence. He got to his feet and
brushed the knees of his trousers.
"Now we can make a start," he said. "I'm
much obliged to you, Mr. Rule. I think I'll be able
to carry on now. I know you've got plenty to do.
Isn't that young nephew of mine in this sub-
division? I'd like to borrow him for a while. It
may be useful to have a man who knows the district."
"Certainly," agreed Rule. Lifting his voice he
hailed a keen-faced, curly-haired young man who
was standing at a little distance with other men
who had now completed their search of the ground.
"Hey, Rance, Mr. Dawkins wants you to stand by
to help him locally. I'll send Prestwick across to
relieve you."
"Here you are, John," said Dawkins, holding out
a slip of paper. "These are the numbers of some
five-pound notes I've just found on the body. I
want you to trace through whose hands they passed
as far as possible. Mender, these letters are


THE GOLF COURSE MURDER 29
addressed to Smiler at 312, Leith Road, Battersea.
You'd better drift down there and see what you can
pick up. I'll go straight back to the Yard when
I'm through here. Where are those boys who found
the body?"
John Rance, detective sergeant of six years'
standing, did not altogether welcome the privilege
of playing a minor part in a murder investigation,
although nothing of his feeling showed in his manner.
At the local police station he was, in some degree,
his own master, for there he was the sole repre-
sentative of the Criminal Investigation Department,
and subject only to the supervision of Rule, who
controlled the division from Hammersmith, some
miles away. True, his hands were always pretty
full, usually on matters of petty larceny, but it was
possible, with a little contrivance at times, to get
an hour or two off to see Dorothy Silke. Now he
would be at the beck and call of old Uncle Bill,
who had a reputation as a driver. He would have
to hold himself available at every minute of the
twenty-four hours. It was too bad just now.
But he was a zealous young fellow with ambition,
and he pursued his enquiries none the less vigorously.
The tracing of banknotes, unless they have been
long in circulation, is not a particularly difficult thing.
The Bank of England had issued them to the
Midland Bank, and from the head office of that
institution they had gone to the Strand branch.
And there Rance was told that they were part of
one hundred pounds paid on a cheque drawn by
a certain Mr. James Silke, of Twyton.
Had he known what Dawkins knew the coincidence


30 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
might have impressed him even more than it did.
It struck him as curious, but he saw in it nothing
of vital importance. Silke might have been an
acquaintance of the dead man, or the notes might
have been paid by him to someone else and so reached
Carne. Not for one fleeting second did it cross his
mind that Silke might be concerned in the murder.
Indeed, he felt that the thing had proved a lucky
chance, for it would give him an excuse to combine
business with pleasure by calling on Silke—and
maybe Dorothy would be about.
At Scotland Yard Dawkins received him with an
affectionate pat on the shoulder.
"I knew you'd waste no time, John, my boy.
Did you work that out for me?"
"I looked in on my way back to Twyton, sir,"
explained Rance. He was always very careful,
when on duty, to treat Dawkins with official defer-
ence. "These notes were paid to a man named
Silke who lives there. I happen to know him
rather well."
"Ah! Who is he? What is he?"
"Retired business man, I believe. Quiet, culti-
vated sort of chap who lives in a big house called
Langfield."
'' Any family?"
Rance hesitated, almost imperceptibly. It was
doubtful if the chief inspector noticed.
"I—yes, I believe he has a daughter, a girl of
twenty-three or twenty-four. There's no one else
as far as I know."
"Bags of money, eh?"
"I should think so. They couldn't keep things


THE GOLF COURSE MURDER 31
going as they do without plenty. I've only known
'em since I've been in the neighbourhood this last
couple of years."
"I see. Rather taken them for granted."
Dawkins seated himself on his desk, and rubbed
the extreme top of his head abstractedly with one
finger. For a full minute he remained in deep
thought. Then he caught his nephew by the
shoulder.
"They tell me you're a smart boy, Jack. I'd
like you to get some credit out of this business—■
if there is any—and I'm going to give you a line.
You will have to ask Silke about those notes, of
course. Don't, just because you know this man,
accept anything that he says without verifying it.
How far is this house from the place where the body
was found?"
Rance laughed a little uncertainly. It seemed as
if Uncle Bill had sensed more than he had intended
to convey.
"Oh, perhaps a quarter of a mile. You surely
don't think old Silke had anything to do with the
murder? Why, it's ridiculous. I'd just as soon
suspect—er—you.''
The chief inspector eyed him keenly.
"You've been long enough in this game to know
better. Anyone may commit a murder. You can
tabulate forgers and burglars and pickpockets to
some extent, but not murderers. Now, listen to
me. The person who paid over that money to
Smiler is quite possibly the person who shot him, or
someone who may know or suspect the murderer.
Until we get very much closer up in this enquiry


THE THOUSANDTH CASE
every person who has had anything to do with Smiler
has to be regarded with suspicion. The only thing
we can bank on is that he wasn't killed by a stranger.
Our first job is to eliminate those people who knew
him who couldn't have done him in. Silke may
have had no more to do with it than I did. But
don't accept that till you know. Anyway I want to
know every bit you can dig out about Silke's past
history. There may be something in it which this
fellow Smiler was using for purposes of black-
mail"
A light broke upon Rance.
"He was that sort, was he ?" he interrupted.
"Just that sort," said Dawkins drily. "That's
the one motive for killing Smiler that's standing out
at the minute. Perhaps, as we go on, some other
reason will develop. See what you make of Silke.
'Phone me at once here, or at my house, if you
strike a line that wants looking into and I'll see that
someone is put on to it. I may have to see this man
myself, but as you know him it may be better to
see what you can do first."
Superintendent Manners, who had a habit, so
to speak, of materialising himself out of nowhere,
came into the room, his lips puckered in an inaudible
whistle. Dawkins answered an enquiring lift of
the eyebrows.
"Yes, sir. I'm coming now." He dropped from
the desk. "You'd better be on the move, John.
I've got to attend a conference. Good luck, my
boy."
A very serious and thoughtful detective sergeant
caught the bus to Waterloo Station.


34
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
an invariable habit. He had become moody, and
his usually equable poise had been broken by violent
fits of childish anger.
All this might have been merely due to an attack
of liver, or it might be of graver significance. A
man who was being blackmailed—but, pah, there
was sure to be some other explanation of those
notes. It was preposterous. Nevertheless, although
Rance told himself this, he knew that he was
adopting an attitude of mind he had often observed
in other people. It is always preposterous to sup-
pose that a friend or a relative has been guilty of
crime.
Gloomily he pushed open the big wooden gate to
Langfield, and a trim figure whirled about from
contemplation of a tank of goldfish.
"Where have you sprung from, Jack? Isn't it a
shame? Two more of 'em dead. That's five out
of eight in a week. Look."
She caught him by the arm, and with a slender
finger pressed against the glass of the tank pointed
to the dead fish.
"Do you think it's too cold for them?"
The young man studied a couple of bloated corpses.
"They look rather fat. Perhaps you've been over-
feeding them."
Her grey eyes surveyed him with contempt.
"I don't believe you know a thing about fish
except on a plate."
"I'm a pretty good judge of a fried sole," he
admitted. "I didn't expect you'd be at home,
Dolly. Thought you might be smashing a ball
over a net. How's Mr. SUke?"


SILKE MAKES AN OFFER 35
Her face clouded.
"That's the reason. I'm worried about him.
He won't see a doctor—he was most offensive to
Dr. Hickling the other day—and he just potters
around the house and grounds by himself. He
used to be the best-tempered man I know, and he
never knew the meaning of nerves. But now he
acts as if he was scared of something. To-day he
hasn't stirred out of his own room since breakfast.
I tapped at the door at lunch-time and he gave a
kind of startled groan. When I turned the handle
I found that the door was locked. I called out and
he swore at me horribly. So, you see, I didn't feel
easy about leaving the place to-day."
"I guess he's feeling a bit off colour," he said,
speaking lightly with an effort, for his imagination
could not avoid coupling the murder, not yet
twenty-four hours old, with this determined isola-
tion. "There's nothing for you to worry about.
But it's a pity he is not himself because I really
called to see him."
"You! What do you want to see him about?"
"Oh, just a trifling matter of business. A little
enquiry on which he might help me."
He chose his words deliberately and his tone was
entirely careless, nonchalant. But instinct or
intuition seemed to warn the girl.
"What business "—she stressed the word deli-
cately—" can you have with dad?"
Here was a complication that he had not antici-
pated. Bad enough to have to deal with the man.
"Well, you see, Doll—the fact is—it's really
only a petty matter."


36 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
He laughed unconvincingly. For the life of him
he could not think of a plausible lie.
She put her hands on his shoulders and her face
was very close to his.
"Tell me," she insisted.
With a sudden impulse he thrust out an arm and
pulled her closer. She did not resist, but her eyes
never left his.
"lama little fool, Jack. But tell me."
"Lord, what a flutter you're in, kid. I'll tell
you. What it amounts to is this: There were some
banknotes got into the hands of a man who—who
we want to know about. We've found that some
of those notes passed through your father's bank
account, and I've got to ask who he paid them to.
That's all. You see, it's just what we call a routine
enquiry."
Opportunity and temptation walked hand in hand.
Her warm body pressed close to him. He held her
for a moment and his mind leapt far from his errand.
When a man is in love with a pretty girl and her
lips are within an inch of his, he does not flout
Providence. She permitted his kiss and disengaged
herself with a laugh. But he thrilled to think that
the thing had been done—that they had unawares
reached an unspoken understanding.
"Don't be a sloppy ass, Jack."
The girl was frankly unembarrassed, and the little
thoughtful lines on her forehead had gone. Beyond
that mild reproof she treated the new situation as
though it had not arisen.
"Come along. I'll tell dad you want to see him."
His momentary exaltation vanished, and he


SILKE MAKES AN OFFER
37
followed her silently into the house. She tapped
lightly at a doorway, and, after a while, more
insistently.
"Dad, it's me—Dolly. Mr. Rance has called
to see you."
A querulous voice, pitched so high as to be almost
a scream, answered:
"I've told you once. Go away. Can't a man
have any peace in his own house? I'll not see
anyone to-day. I'm not fit. Tell him to go to—
to come some other time."
The girl made a hopeless little gesture as she
turned to her companion.
"You see," she said in a low voice.
"I've got to see him," he muttered. Stepping
forward he raised his voice. "Mr. Silke, my business
is very urgent. I can't wait."
There was a fierce expletive within the room and
the crash of a glass as it fell to the floor. Then a
key snapped in the lock and the door was abruptly
thrown open. Silke, unshaven, with sunken eyes,
and shrouded in a heavy blue dressing-gown stood
before them.
"All right, Rance. Come in," he said, speaking
in a carefully schooled, level tone, in striking con-
trast to the whine of a few seconds before. "You
must forgive me. I'm not very well, but if what-
ever you want to see me about can't wait"
"I may see you again." With a little nod
Dorothy disappeared leaving Silke and his visitor
alone.
The detective noticed that a small table by the
side of a lounge chair beneath the window had been


38 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
upset. By its side was a smashed glass and a
bottle of whisky. A small pool of the spirit was
soaking into the luxurious carpet. Silke replaced
the table and the bottle, kicking the broken glass
aside contemptuously, ere he sank into the chair
and waved Rance to another.
"A little accident," he remarked. "Now, what
can I do for you?"
Rance laid his hat carefully on the floor.
"Did I ever tell you I was a C.I.D. man, Mr.
Silke ?" he asked.
"That means a Scotland Yard detective, doesn't
it?" Silke nursed one leg between his hands, and
his dull eyes rested indifferently on his visitor.
"I don't know whether you mentioned it or not.
I had some idea." A thin smile broke on his face.
"I like to know a little of the friends—particularly
young men—whom Dorothy mixes with. You've
not come to arrest me for exceeding the speed limit,
or anything like that, I hope."
Had not Rance witnessed the jagged nerves give
way at a mere tap on the door he might have been
deceived by the nonchalant jocularity of the words
and manner.
"Not exactly that," he explained. "I came to
ask you if you knew a man named Carne—Smiler
Carne?"
Silke rocked himself idly to and fro, and the two
upright lines on his forehead deepened.
"Carne? Carne?" he repeated, thoughtfully.
"I seem to have heard the name. Wait a minute.
No, I can't recall him."
"Then you have never paid any money to him?"


SILKE MAKES AN OFFER
39
"I have paid money to a good many people in
my time, but I can't pretend to remember all the
names. What is he—a tradesman?"
"No, he was not a tradesman. Not to put too
fine a point on it, Mr. Silke, he was a blackmailer.
This morning he was discovered dead—murdered—
on the golf course, a little distance from here. Fifty
pounds in notes that have been traced as coming
from you were found on him."
The foot Silke had been nursing dropped limply
to the floor. His face went a shade paler, and Rance
saw that the Adam's apple in his throat was working
as though he had swallowed something. In time
past Silke had faced many crises but never anything
quite like this. His mind raced in a muddled torrent
of misgivings. To lie or to tell the truth might be
equally dangerous.
"A blackmailer—with my money—found mur-
dered." He was talking to give himself time to
think. "You haven't come here because you
believe I killed him, have you?"
"That is ridiculous, of course," said Rance.
"Naturally, having traced the notes to you I was
sent to ask what you knew about him."
The two men stared at each other, and for an
appreciable space there was blank silence. Then
Silke got unsteadily to his feet. The possibilities
appalled him. He knew enough of the resources and
tenacity of the C.I.D. to be certain that no blank
profession of ignorance would serve, save, perhaps,
for the moment. He was uncertain how much
they knew. It was sure, however, that whatever
happened now they would not stop till they had


SILKE MAKES AN OFFER 41
returned to his chair and cupped his chin in his
hands.
"I'll keep it as short as I can. Silke is not my
name, but even Dorothy does not know that. I
put her to school under that name when her mother
died. Dorothy was then six years old and up to
the time I came here she had no real home. She
spent her holidays with me at hotels and such places.
Now, in the earlier part of my life I was a jewel
broker in Hatton Garden. I saw chances outside
legitimate business and I took them. I became a
receiver, and from that I became an organiser and
financier of crooked jobs. I'm making no excuses
and I'm not going to kid you that I'm haunted by
remorse. I'm not. I made a good thing out of it,
and I had some fun. In time, of course, Scotland
Yard began to know that I was at the bottom of
certain things. They kept a file about me with
details of all the cases in which I was suspected.
But the cleverest of their men never got any legal
proof. Once only was I arrested, and then I was
acquitted at my trial.
"About ten years ago I decided to cut it all out
and retire. Every job I went into made the thing
more risky, every fresh crooked client made one more
person who might give me away either from spite
or for some reason of self-interest. I had more than
enough and there was no point in taking chances.
Then Dorothy was growing up, and I didn't care to
take the risk of her learning who I was. So I
bought this place and became a retired business man.
I thought I'd managed to put everything behind me,
when, about six months ago, I was first visited by


THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Smiler. He had been at the Yard in the old days,
and he recognised me and followed me home. Can
you guess the rest?"
"He blackmailed you?"
"Yes. He got his claws into me, and like a fool
I paid. There was Dorothy, you see, and perhaps
—perhaps I'm not the man I have been. Say,
Jack, on that table behind you there's another bottle
and some glasses. Help yourself and pour me out
a tot. Not too much soda. Thanks."
Rance passed a stiff whisky and soda, but did
not avail himself of the invitation to drink. His
mind was working already at high pressure and he
needed no stimulant. He felt that behind this
apparent candour there was something still un-
explained.
"There is nothing on record at the Yard for
which you are still wanted ?" he ventured.
The other tossed off the spirit at a gulp.
"I doubt it. They could never get the evidence.
Of course, when I dropped out it was awkward for
some people. There are, I know, some crooks who
have got a grudge against me, but if they offered
to go into the witness box they would never be
believed. That sort don't worry me. But there
are others desperate enough to stick at nothing if
they knew I was alive and could be got at."
A new light dawned on the detective.
"I see. Smiler threatened to give you away to
these birds, and you have been sticking at home lest
they should get on to you and try to do you in."
Silke nodded.
"That's it. I'm not a coward, but I didn't want


SILKE MAKES AN OFFER
43
to ask for trouble. See where the whole thing has
put me. I'm an old notorious crook. I've been
bled by Smiler and I've been carrying a gun. I gave
Smiler fifty pounds yesterday and told him it was
the last. We had a few words. To-day you tell
me his body has been found near here. Now do
you see why this affair has shaken me?"
Rance's fingers played a devil's tattoo on his
knee.
"If you didn't do this murder it's awkward for
you," he commented. "Where's your pistol?"
Silke walked to a bureau and took a small auto-
matic pistol from a drawer. As he passed it he laid
a hand on the other's sleeve.
"I want you to believe I had nothing to do with
this job," he asserted solemnly. "If you don't "—
he shrugged his shoulders—" I can't help it. They
have only to know what you know now at the Yard
and it's odds I'd swing. Men have been hanged on
less. I'm done unless you help me."
"Why should I help you ?" retorted Rance, not
raising his head from the weapon he was examining.
It was a small pistol of well-known make and a
•38 calibre. If it should be proved that Carne had
been killed by bullets that might have been fired
from that gun—and "38 is a common size—circum-
stances would be blacker still against Silke.
Although he was inclined to believe the older man's
protestations, he could not lose sight of the possi-
bility that his story might be an adroit concoction
of truth and falsehood framed for the purpose.
Silke had really told him no fact that would not have
been ultimately discovered. If he was gambling


44
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
on the chance of Rance helping him in some way,
of course he would deny all knowledge of the
murder.
"I don't know why you should help," said Silke,
despondently. "Unless—unless—I fancied you were
interested in Dorothy."
This, then, was why he had dragged his daughter's
name into his story. Rance had sensed it, but now
that it was put so bluntly a chill crept over him. He
had little doubt what Chief Inspector Dawkins
would do if he was given a report of the interview.
And he, himself, would probably have to go into
the witness box to relate what Silke had told him.
He racked his brains to think of some other way
than that hinted at by Silke by which she might be
spared.
"There's no risk for you," went on the other.
"It's all simple enough. These notes are all there
is to connect James Silke with Smiler Carne. All
you have to do is to report that I convinced you
that my pocket was picked, and that these notes were
stolen yesterday. They'll think no more of Mr.
Silke when that's explained. But if they can't be
side-tracked then most of what I've told you must
come out and they'll know me as Solomon Engles.
In a way it only means holding your tongue. . . .
I don't know if money is any consideration to
you"
"I think you've said enough," said Rance
sternly, picking up his hat, and getting to his feet.
"I can't see any way out of it. I shall report
what you have said."
Silke leapt to the door and stood before it.


CHAPTER V
THE C. I. D. CONFERS
Although Dawkins made no secret of his interest
in the ingenuity of detectives in books, he was quite
content to follow the practice of Scotland Yard,
which, while making one man responsible for the
general conduct of a case, relies on the wit and
activity of many. If forced by circumstances he
would have been prepared to carry on an investiga-
tion single-handed. But with an elaborate organisa-
tion behind him, he did not scorn its advantages.
He had called upon the full resources open to him.
"I like to read Robinson Crusoe," he once
observed. "But that is no reason why I should
wear skins when I can get a tailor to make a suit
for me."
At uncertain stages during an enquiry into any
great crime the elder brethren of the Criminal
Investigation Department meet in informal con-
ference. Any of the five superintendents—always
the "Big Five" to the newspapers—or the five
chief inspectors who happen to be available, take
council among themselves and with the chief con-
stable, who is the executive head of the department.
In this Council of Eleven there is seldom to be found
a man who has had less than thirty years' experience
in the hunting of crooks, and they discuss the affair
in hand over pipes and cigarettes with the dis-


THE C. I. D. CONFERS
47
passionate detachment of a group of departmental
heads of a business firm arranging a selling campaign.
On this afternoon there were seven or eight of
them gathered in the chief constable's room when
Dawkins strode in. The double windows had been
closed to keep out the noise of traffic from the
Embankment and a thin haze of smoke veiled the
room.
"Here he is," announced a stocky, bronzed man
who bore the appearance of a comfortable farmer,
but who, in fact, was Pallin, the senior of the Big
Five, whose acute brain and dogged resolution had
carried him through many complex problems of
crime. "Been reading up how to do it, Bill?"
"Sorry, sir," apologised Dawkins. "I had to
see one of the boys on the case."
Wentworth, the chief constable, showed a perfect
set of teeth in an engaging grin, and disengaging
his arm from the mantelpiece on which he had been
lounging, took his place at the big, flat-topped desk
in the middle of the room.
"Don't mind Pallin, Mr. Dawkins! he's one of
these bridge fiends. Doesn't believe in reading.
What do you make of this business?"
"Nothing very strong to take hold of yet," said
Dawkins, settling himself in a chair, and speaking
between puffs as he lighted a pipe. "Here are
photographs of the body and the place where it was
found. You'll see that the ditch is deep and that it
narrows towards the bottom. The position of the
body shows that it could scarcely have fallen—it
must have been placed there."
"I've seen murdered men who had tumbled into


4'
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
just that position," commented Manners, leaning
over the Chief Constable's shoulder to get a closer
view of the pictures. "He might have rolled down
the bank."
"He might have tumbled into that position on the
flat," agreed Dawkins, " but it's improbable that the
body would arrange itself so neatly in a ditch.
Besides, none of the plants on the western bank—
the other is bordered by a hedge as you see—are
broken or crushed as they would have been if a heavy
body had rolled over them. There's no indication of
a struggle anywhere about the place—although, of
course, he might have been shot unawares. Another
thing: after he was dead, and probably while he
was lying on the ground, two more shots were
fired and must have passed through his head.
We've gone carefully over the ditch and the ground
round about, without finding any trace of them.
"If you look at this plan you'll get an idea of the
lie of things." Hitching his chair nearer the desk he
spread out a small chart, and with a pencil pointed
out the places to which he referred. "Here is the
gate opening on to Wardell's Road, through which the
murderer probably passed. Thirty yards away is
the ditch where the body was dropped. The gate is
only used occasionally by carts with material for the
upkeep of the course.
"Wardell's Road is a narrow, ill-lighted lane, about
a mile long, bordered entirely on its northern side by
the golf course. On the opposite side there are a few
houses, but near the gate there are mainly nursery
grounds and fields. It's a lonely spot at night.
Almost facing the gate is a road leading from


THE C. I. D. CONFERS
J*
"Men of that sort get plenty of that kind of threat.
It will probably amount to nothing. If there's no
finger-print on it have it published in the newspapers,
and ask if anyone can identify the handwriting."
"Don't underestimate those two girls, Bill," said
Luxton. "A woman may be at the bottom of the
trouble."
"Talking of finger-prints," broke in Pallin, "was
there anything on which a mark might have been
left?"
"I've had the gate taken down and carted up here
on the off-chance. But it's rough wood and I doubt
if it would take an identifiable mark. The lads
upstairs are not hopeful. Then there's a bunch of
footprints round about the gate, some of which may
have been made by the murderer. I've had casts
and photographs taken, and I made one or two
measurements. I don't expect they will help us to
catch the murderer but they may help us to convict
him."
The conference merged into a general discussion.
They did not much resemble a pack of hounds these
genial, quick-witted men, but they were, in fact,
casting for a scent. Every aspect of the case dwelt
upon by Dawkins was twisted and turned, and its
possibilities analysed. At last Wentworth yawned
and stretched himself.
"We've thrashed it out pretty thoroughly but
we're getting no farther, boys. You'll have to carry
on with the job, Dawkins."
Luxton accompanied Dawkins back to the chief
inspectors' room at the other side of the building.
"The same old hatful of clues to be sorted out,"


5*
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
he observed. "I'm glad it's your funeral and not
mine. I hate a murder job. If you get the right
man, Bill, you'll be up against the usual howl when
he's tried. 'Did you ask any questions of anyone,
Mr. Dawkins? You did! How dare you? Don't
you know that a detective must never question
anybody? You've put over the third degree on the
poor prisoner, and you've twisted and distorted every
statement taken from every witness. You're a
contemptible scoundrel unfit to live.' That's what's
coming to you, Bill if you ever get this business as far
as the Old Bailey. Do you think you'll get any
credit. You will not. You'll probably be hooted.
Now, that never happens to the detectives in books."
Dawkins laughed.
"I'm used to it. Lunch disagreed with you,
Charlie?"
The other pushed open the door of their room.
"That's why you never see me rushing forward
when there's a murder case. You get kicked if you
do your duty and kicked if you don't. It's all the
same going of coming. Solve the case and you're a
rogue; fail and you're a fool. I wonder what some
of our critics would say if they'd been with us just
now. All the brains of the Yard unable to fix on the
dominant clue."
"People always will have false ideas about us,"
Dawkins agreed. "We're supposed to know every-
thing. The trouble is that we don't always recognise
a clue when we see it, and so we get a lot of work
laboriously sifting everything. We may eliminate,
or overlook what we believe to be non-essentials but
at that, we're never sure. A scented handkerchief,


THE C. I. D. CONFERS 53
an ordinary pocket-knife, the way a boot-lace is tied.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thou-
sand it would be fatuous to do anything but ignore
them, but the thousandth time they may have a
bearing."
"And we're paid to catch rogues as often as we
can," grunted Luxton. "When you start wasting
time on scented handkerchiefs, Bill, you may catch
the thousandth man but quite a lot of the other nine
hundred and ninety-nine will have time to get away.
Better stick to the Crime Index."
Round the corner of the screen that masked the
doorway appeared the plump, whimsical face of
Mount, the chief of the Finger-Print Bureau.
"Where's old Bill? Hey, Bill we've had a slice of
luck. Nothing doing with that blinking gate of yours
but we've developed a print on that note. Never
had to turn to the files except to check it. Jones
recognised it at a glance just as you'd remember a
face."
"Don't be so darn loquacious," exhorted Dawkins.
"Who is it?"
"I thought it pretty good for one of our chaps to
remember a single print that he hadn't seen for
years," said Mount, aggrieved. Real Sherlock stuff
which you ought to appreciate."
"Oh, cough it up."
"Aren't I trying to tell you if you wouldn't inter-
rupt. It's Old Ugly—signs his name Roderick
Hendry—and I've been thoughtful enough to bring
his docket down out of the Criminal Record Office."
He threw a batch of papers in front of Dawkins.
"Did seven years for the Greenford jewel robbery.


CHAPTER VI
OLD UGLY
Mr. Roderick Hendry, which was only one of many
names worn by the gentleman more familiarly known
to his intimates as Old Ugly, was chasing an elusive
pea round his plate with a knife when he became
aware that a shadow had fallen across the stained
marble top of the table in the cheap eating-house
where he was seated. Not until the pea, with several
of its brethren, had been harvested and transferred
to his mouth did he permit his gaze to rest on
the new-comer. The knife remained between his
jaws.
"Don't cut yourself," admonished the other.
"Why the surprise? I'm not a ghost."
Old Ugly extricated the knife and placed it slowly
on the table. His bloodshot eyes roved to the door-
way and back to his visitor ere he spoke.
"What's the game ?" he demanded suspiciously.
"What are you after?"
Detective Sergeant Johnson of the P Division
stood warily over him, for Old Ugly's temper was
notoriously uncertain.
"Been looking for you everywhere," he explained
amiably. "We've had a message through from the
Yard for you. Mr. Dawkins wants you to come
along and see him."
Old Ugly scowled, and selecting a piece of bread


56
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
ran it with meticulous care round his plate and
crammed it in his mouth.
"Want me? Whaffor ?" he growled. "There's
nothin' up agin me."
"I don't know. Perhaps he wants to talk about
the weather. All I know is that he wants to see you
and he sent me to fetch you along."
"Wants to see me, does he?" Old Ugly deliber-
ately wiped his mouth with a scarlet handkerchief
dotted with black. "Well, if he wants to see me he
can come along, can't he? I ain't stoppin' him.
But if he thinks I got time to 'umbug abaht runnin'
after any blinkin' busy, he's all wrong. You tell him
I said so, young feller."
Time was when an " invitation " to an interview
by a Scotland Yard man to an old crook would have
been obeyed as instantly and unhesitatingly as a
Royal command. That was before a Royal Commis-
sion had blazoned the good news to a delighted
underworld that detectives must be kept in their
place and that they scarcely had any powers at all.
"Better come," said the detective persuasively,
but with a hint of menace. "You don't want to ask
for trouble."
The old crook pushed his well-polished plate away,
leaned his arms on the table, and showed a set of
irregular and blackened teeth in a contemptuous
grin.
"Me! I'm not askin' for no trouble," he asserted.
"Who are you to come a-orderin' a poor harmless
bloke like me abaht? Just becos I've bin unlucky
don't give you no call to come a-badgerin' me. I
know me rights. I'm not going with you. You go


OLD UGLT
57
an' tell this ere Gawd-A'mighty Dorkins to go and
play with himself."
There is nothing to be gained by arguing with a
man who has the whip hand and knows it. Dawkins's
emissary did not know for what purpose Old Ugly
was wanted—not that it would have helped him
much if he had. In face of a definite refusal he could
do nothing but retreat with such dignity as he could
muster.
Dawkins, to whom Old Ugly's attitude was con-
veyed over the telephone, received the information
with the pardonable profanity of a busy man anxious
to economise time. In a few inspired words he
linked the old crook with the group of distinguished
men and women who had been moved to air their
views about criminal investigation and, summoning a
car, set out with the faithful Mender in attendance
for Peckham.
There he learned that Old Ugly, triumphantly
conscious that he was being " tailed," had moved on
to Walworth, where he was eventually located lean-
ing on the tall counter of a public bar. In no mood
to mince matters Dawkins and his sergeant pushed
one to each side of him, and with a hand on each
elbow he was firmly if unobtrusively edged to the
doorway.
"I want you outside," was all the explanation the
chief inspector deigned to offer.
Not until he saw the car by the kerb did Old Ugly
offer any protest. Then he planted a foot firmly on
the running board and resisted any further progress.
"What's all this abaht ?" he demanded.
"You know me," retorted Dawkins sternly.


J8
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"We are police officers. I want to ask you some
questions about your movements during the last day
or two. Just get in the car and we'll go somewhere
where we can talk. If you want to play the old soldier
any more, say so, and we'll know where we stand."
For an instant the issue was in balance. Old Ugly,
however, was in doubt what the officers had up their
sleeves. It might be unwise to provoke them too far.
He stepped into the car.
"Don't you mind my little joke, Mr. Dorkins. I
ain't afride to tell the truth. Speak the truth and
shime the devil, that's my motto. I'm a reformed
character, Mr. Dorkins, and you can't do nuthin' to
'urt me. You ain't like some of them blokes what
perjured themselves to send me down for a little lot
the last time."
At Scotland Yard the three entered the dreary
little waiting-room which serves for visitors to the
Criminal Investigation Department. Here Old
Ugly was provided with a chair near the tall black
coal-scuttle that, with a table and a second chair,
made up the furniture of the apartment. Mender
took the other chair at the table, and tested his
fountain-pen on some official foolscap. Dawkins
stood with his hands in his trousers pockets.
"Now, Hendry, this is a serious matter," he began.
"I warn you to be careful what you say. I want
you to begin with yesterday morning, say about
eleven o'clock, and tell me what you did and who
you were with until we picked you up."
Old Ugly scratched the back of his neck thought-
fully. Police methods were not strange to him, and
he was unimpressed with the formal caution.


OLD UGLY 59
"You ain't told me why you want to know yet,"
he said.
"I'll tell you that later on."
"Right-o. Let's see. I got up, I reckon, rahnd
abaht twelve. I 'ad breakfast, bit o' sausage and
some 'am, and mooches rahnd to see a pal of mine
what lives in Cott's Lane—name of Smyke. I calls
'im Monk—short for Monkey, y'see. Well, Monk
an' me 'ave a drink together, and then we gets along
to Blackfriars Road, where we meets a bloke what we
'ad to see abaht some business. I don't know 'is
right name. They call 'im Jerry Fingers and 'e
walks with a limp."
Dawkins and Mender exchanged a smile. In the
neighbourhood of Blackfriars Road there is a public-
house often used as a rendezvous by thieves. There
was no need to guess at the kind of " business "that
would be discussed there. The chief inspector
picked up a telephone.
"Index," he ordered quietly. "That the Crime
Index? See if you've got anything about a man
nicknamed Jerry Fingers, who walks with a limp.
Yes. Send it down to me."
As a concession to crooked propriety Old Ugly
entered the usual formal protest that he did not wish
to get anyone into trouble. Under a little pressure
he resumed his story. It appeared that he, with
Monk and Jerry, had run out of town to spend the
afternoon in the neighbourhood of Woking—" just to
get some fresh air and to look abaht "—an explana-
tion of a marauding reconnaissance which the detec-
tives perfectly understood. They had returned to
town between five and six and Jerry had left them.


6o
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
The two others had then betaken themselves to a
saloon in Aldgate, where they had played billiards till
about ten. Afterwards he and Monk had gone to a
small eating-house in the Whitechapel Road and
remained till nearly twelve. Old Ugly had reached
home at about one and had gone straight to bed.
It was such a story as might well be true, and
equally conceivably a concoction. Monk Smyke,
whose general reputation as a cat burglar was so well
known to Dawkins that he had not troubled to have
his record looked up, was apparently the only man
who could corroborate the alibi during the late hours
of the evening. He was a man who was not likely to
hesitate at a little perjury to oblige a friend.
A foolscap sheet sent down from the Crime Index
contained the condensed criminal record of Jerry
Fingers, whose true name, it appeared, was Smith,
and who was also, as Dawkins had suspected, a
professional burglar of some pretensions. Whether
he would be able to corroborate Old Ugly's account
of his movements up to six o'clock was of minor
importance, since the murder must have been
committed after that time. He would, however,
have to be rounded up as part of the general check.
There was no doubt in Dawkins's mind that Old
Ugly knew why he was being questioned. By this
time every evening paper was full of the discovery of
the murder. And yet the other had made not even
an indirect reference to it. Dawkins could scarcely
believe the omission accidental. He nodded his
head as the crook finished.
"Thanks, Hendry. That will do. I'll get Mr.
Mender to read over what you have said, and you


6a
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"Ah! Who?"
The crook shook his head.
"That's too raw, guv'nor. Don't try that on me.
I ain't no blighting copper's nose."
"Has he ever tried to do the dirty on you?"
Dawkins jingled some coins in his pocket and his
artless, friendly gaze dwelt on the other's face.
He knew that he was dealing with a very wary and
astute man, and he felt that the time had come to
take the buttons off the foils.
"Me! I don't think. No.heknewbetterthanthat."
"I see." The coins still jingled. "You've never
had to threaten him, by any chance?"
There was a momentary hesitation before the
reply came. Old Ugly began to see where he was
being driven.
"I can't call it to mind. Likely I've had words
with him some time or other," he admitted
cautiously.
Dawkins held a sheet of paper before the other's
face, folded back so that one corner was concealed.
"Don't touch it," he said hastily, as the other
put out a hand. "Have a good look at it and tell
me if you've seen it before?"
Old Ugly read it aloud, repeating each word
slowly and carefully:
"' Don't forget there are those what as got it
weighed up for you, you dirty bloodsucker. Look
out.' Somebody sent that to Smiler, I s'pose? No,
I ain't seen it before."
It was the first demonstrable lie of the interview,
but the detective's face did not change from its
expression of amiable interest.


OLD UGLY
63
"So," he remarked. "I fancied it was rather
like your writing. You won't have any objection to
making a copy for me, will you?"
"'Struth," exploded the crook. "That ain't a
bit like my writing. 'Sides, the bloke as did it ain't
got no idea of grammar. Here, gimme a pen."
He hitched his chair to the table and painfully
scrawled the words as Dawkins dictated them.
When he had finished Dawkins took the two scraps
of writing to the window and his forehead wrinkled
as he compared them. They bore no resemblance
to each other. Unless one piece of writing had been
cleverly disguised—and that he was inclined to
doubt, for he did not believe that Old Ugly had
enough skill with a pen to deceive him—they had
been written by different people. Yet there was
the finger-print. Whosesoever the writing, the crook
was lying when he said he had not seen it before.
"It doesn't look as if you wrote it," he admitted,
"but perhaps you know who did?"
"An' you reckon I'll tell you if so ?" sneered the
other. "All the same, I don't."
"All right, all right." The chief inspector waved
a soothing hand. "Don't get all hot and bothered.
I'm only asking. Would you like a cup of tea or
something?"
"I'd sooner somethin'," said Old Ugly, with
meaning.
So it was that "something "—in a glass with
soda water—was brought in a few minutes later.
This kind of hospitality is unusual within the walls
of Scotland Yard, but there were reasons for keeping
Old Ugly entertained for a while.


64
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Leaving Mender to keep an eye on their guest,
Dawkins slipped to the chief inspectors' room, where
he did a little telephoning. Various people who
had been lying in wait for him seized the oppor-
tunity. He waved them all impatiently aside,
shifted a bundle of reports that were beginning to
accumulate to the side of his desk, put his watch
in their place, filled a pipe, and placing his hands
behind his head, leaned lazily back in bis chair.
"Now showing," announced Kilgan. "Picture
of Sherlock Dawkins solving a case by the light of
pure reason. Why this loaf in these strenuous
times, Bill?"
Dawkins blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.
"There's a dozen people I've got to see before I
go home," he said, "but I don't want to start on
'em till I've put the little job I'm thinking about
through. Did you ever hear the old nursery
rhyme, Jim: 'Little drops of water, little grains
of sand, make a great detective, fit to beat the
band'? Only in this case it's a little drop of ink.
I've just asked P Division to send a man to Old
Ugly's house on some excuse to see if he can pinch
a bottle of ink. I'm keeping him here to allow a
little extra time for the perpetration of that petty
larceny. I'm going to send that ink and a piece
of writing to an analyst I wot of."
"Think he's the man ?" asked Kilgan.
"I don't know. He's just the sort of man who
might bump someone off. Wouldn't be surprised
if he's got a gun on him now—although I've made
no enquiries yet. He's putting up a sort of alibi
that wants looking into. All I've got up to now is


OLD UGLY
6j
a threatening letter which he says he didn't write,
and a finger-print that shows he's at any rate
handled it." He thrust his watch back into his
pocket. "Well, he'll be getting restive, and I've
got a bunch of other toughs who have been brought
in and might know something that I want to see."
On his way back to the waiting-room he paid a
call that sent certain detectives looking for Jerry
Fingers and Monk Smyke. He wanted to be sure
that they agreed with Old Ugly's account of his
movements. Also he saw that there were a couple
of men waiting in the quadrangle outside the building
to "tail" Old Ugly for a while. It was possible
that the immediate future movements of the crook
might be significant.
Old Ugly was in a bad temper, which a second glass
of whisky and Mender's urbane attempts at light
conversation had not in the least allayed. He met
the apologies of the chief inspector ungraciously.
"I ain't nobody's dog," he grumbled. "You
ain't got no right to keep a workin' man hangin'
abaht at the beck and call of a lot of busies.
Wouldn't wonder if you've bin up to some dirty
work, too," he added suspiciously.
Dawkins laughed.
"You never can tell. Be virtuous and you will
be happy, Hendry. Thanks for coming along. See
you again some day."


CHAPTER VII
A STAB IN THE FOG
There was ever a confusion in the mind of Jack
Rance as to what exactly happened in the five
minutes after the collapse of Silke. He had a
vague recollection of Dorothy's startled cry, of
helping to carry the unconscious man to a couch,
of telephoning to a doctor at a number she gave.
Then for a time—how long he could not tell—he
strode to and fro in the big dining-room, waiting.
Presently there came to him a little, red-headed
medical man. Jack ventured an enquiry.
"He's had a stroke," said Dr. Hickling, gazing a
little curiously at the other through his horn-rimmed
spectacles. "I should say he's had a severe shock.
I happen to know he's been under some great nervous
strain lately. Miss Silke is sitting with him."
"I am a friend of Miss Silke's," explained Jack.
"Is it serious? Is he likely to recover?"
"There's always a chance," said Hickling, with
professional caution. "In any case, however,
recovery is likely to take a long time. I understand
that you were with him when the seizure occurred.
Can you tell me what happened?"
The detective took a turn up and down the room
before replying. His mind was not working with
its usual quickness, and he did not want to tell the
doctor more than was necessary.


A STAB IN THE FOG
67
"I had come to see him on a matter of business,"
he explained guardedly. "He was trying to
persuade me against a course I felt bound to take,
and in the argument he became a little agitated.
In fact, he attempted to prevent me leaving and
there was a bit of a struggle at the doorway. I
pushed him away and he collapsed in this fit."
The doctor packed his spectacles in their case
and tucked them away into his waistcoat pocket.
He felt a little curious.
"My patients' private affairs are no concern of
mine, of course. But I have known Silke and his
daughter for a number of years, and if there is any-
thing I can do?"
"The point between us was extremely con-
fidential," parried Jack. "How is Miss Silke?"
"Naturally distressed, but otherwise all right,"
said the doctor. "She asked me to tell you not to
go without seeing her." He picked up his gloves.
"Good day to you, Mr. Rance."
For another twenty minutes Jack resumed a
staccato perambulation of the room. His back was
to the door when it silently opened and closed, and
he wheeled to come face to face with Dorothy, pale
and tight-lipped. She stood with her hands behind
her, leaning against the wall as he advanced.
"Don't touch me. I want to have a talk with
you," she said in a colourless voice.
"I waited to know how your father was," he
explained. "This is a rotten business for you,
Dolly." He laid a hand soothingly on her arm.
"Don't worry about it. You don't want to excite
yourself now—some other time I'll tell you."


68
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
The girl shook him off. She was not to be diverted.
"No, now," she insisted. "I want to know—
I've got a right to know—what happened between
you and dad. Don't trouble to think of a lie. He
has been talking in his delirium and I know things"
—she faltered—" that I didn't know before. So
now I want the whole truth."
Abruptly he pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Men say very foolish things in delirium. No
use taking any notice of them. Be sensible,
Dolly."
The girl took two feline steps that brought her
close to him. Her face was set in fierce deter-
mination.
"Did you come here about some murder ?" she
demanded imperatively. "Did you come here
because dad was suspected? Answer me."
Rance thrust out his hands in a deprecating
gesture.
"My dear girl, you are all to pieces," he pro-
tested. "Some time when you are more your-
self"
"Don't call me your dear girl," she flamed.
"Answer me. I won't be fenced with. Had those
notes you told me you were going to enquire about
anything to do with a murder?"
"In a way, yes," he admitted, "but your
father"
"And did he make his money as a receiver of
stolen goods?"
"I only know what he told me," he parried.
She sank mechanically into a chair near him, her
white face a frozen mask. Rance would have


A STAB IN THE FOG 69
preferred a faint, hysteria—anything rather than
this attitude of deadly calmness.
"You came here, knowing what you know—
you kissed me—and then you trapped my father, a
sick man, into admissions that you hope will hang
him. What do they pay you a week—thirty pieces
of silver?"
The taunt brought a surge oi colour under his
tan.
"Believe me or not," he said earnestly, " when I
came here I had no idea of things developing as they
have. All that I hid from you was that the notes
had been found on a murdered man. I thought
that your father would probably have some simple
explanation. I certainly never tried to trap him."
As so often happens on occasions of mental stress,
the girl's wits had been sharpened to preternatural
acuteness. For a moment or two she followed up
a line of thought that his words had suggested.
She grasped swiftly at a chance.
"Then you are the only person who knows ?" she
cried. "They do not suspect my father at Scotland
Yard?"
He read the meaning in her words and shook his
head.
"I can't do anything—that way," he said
quietly. "I only wanted you to realise that I
haven't been the swine you think. All the same,
I can't hide what I now know—even for you. It is
impossible, as I told your father. There are scores
of men on this case and one of 'em might at any
moment get a suspicion. Your father's real name
and record are on file. It would look nasty to all


70 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
of us if it were found that I had entered into a con-
spiracy to suppress this. Better face the thing
right away than make matters worse by a futile
attempt at concealment."
"Why waste so many words to say you won't
do it ?" she demanded scornfully. "Do you think
my father is a murderer?"
The question hit him like a blow in the face, for,
with all the will in the world, he could not avoid
the deadly significance of the facts. It was hard to
reply candidly.
"I don't know," he said. "All I can say is that
anything and everything I can do to help prove his
innocence I will do."
"Words," she sneered. "Fine words like a hero
in a film. And you pretend to be fond of me!"
"God knows it," he retorted earnestly. "I'd cut
off my right hand rather than be mixed up in this."
"You'd marry me still, although I'm a criminal's
daughter, and even though "—her voice dropped—
"the very worst happened?"
"If you'd have me," he replied simply.
She stood up.
"And if I tell you that I know dad is innocent—
that it was I who committed the murder? You
fool! Can't you see? He has been trying to
protect me. I knew of this blackmail and took the
only way to stop it. It was I who killed that man.
I admit it. Now arrest me. Put the handcuffs on
me." She stretched her slim wrists towards him.
For an instant he stared at her incredulously.
Then his mind adjusted itself to the situation.
Although there had never been a moment in his


A STAB IN THE FOG 71
life when he felt less like mirth, he contrived to
laugh. Her face blazed and she raised a hand as
though about to strike him with her fist. The
reaction was almost instantaneous and the arm
dropped lifelessly by her side.
"Go away," she said heavily.
Then she dropped on her knees by the table and
with her head on her arms burst into a storm of
sobbing.
A little uncertain what to do, he stood for a while,
and then quietly left the room and picked up his
hat and stick from the hall-stand near the outer
door. He listened and the sound of sobs died
away. Noiselessly he slipped the catch and let
himself out of the house.
A fog mingled with the deepening dusk and he
had to move warily along the gravel drive to the
high, wooden gates. In the darkness he fumbled
with the fastenings ere he succeeded in throwing
them open.
As he emerged into the road a tall, vague figure
loomed before him, and he became aware of an
upraised, threatening hand. With the instinct of a
boxer he ducked and side-stepped, but the left-hand
sleeve of his coat was ripped from shoulder to elbow,
and he felt the cold touch of a knife graze his skin.
His reaction to the attack was automatic. He
leapt forward, swinging a fierce blow at the uncertain
shape in front of him. Had it landed the episode
would have been brought to a close there and then.
But it did not land. His foot tripped on the edge
of the kerb, and, losing his balance, he sprawled
forward in the roadway.


7*
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
The momentary pause before he regained his feet
afforded the assailant a few yards' start in flight.
Rance flung himself through the fog in pursuit.
He could see nothing and only the sound of the
retreating footsteps guided him. For a quarter of a
mile he held on, neither perceptibly gaining nor
losing on the fugitive. Then he caught a dim view
of his quarry clambering over some obstacle and,
making a spurt, reached a barrier of fence posts and
wire as the other leapt to the farther side. Rance
followed, but in the moment or two that it took him
to climb the barrier his antagonist had again dis-
appeared. The sound of his footsteps was dulled,
for he was now running on grass.
The detective swore softly to himself. The chase
had carried him to a temporarily erected barrier on
the golf course which had replaced the gate near
which Smiler Carne's body had been found. On
the wide, open space of the course, in the fog now
denser than ever, the assailant had lost himself.
Further pursuit would be obviously a waste of time.
Using his tie-pin he made temporary repairs to
his damaged sleeve. Then he re-climbed the fence
and with a preoccupied mind made his way towards
the railway station. Someone had made a deter-
mined attempt to murder him. The encounter, he
felt sure, was no mere chance encounter with a high-
way robber. But why ?—why?
Through his mind the words of Dorothy Silke
continued to ring persistently: "You are the only
person who knows."


CHAPTER VIII
SUSPICION
With his feet encased in carpet slippers, a cup of
coffee on a small table by his side, and a novel by
Edgar Wallace on his knee, Bill Dawkins, that
redoubtable man-hunter, relaxed easily by his
fireside. Facing him at the other side of the hearth
sat Mrs. Dawkins, plump and comfortable, engaged
in a piece of intricate crochet. On the wall behind
her hung an enlarged photograph with, underneath,
a case in which there were three medals and an
official notification that Lieutenant J. Dawkins,
M.C., had been killed in action on August 19, 1918.
"You're late, dear," she observed. "I had to
put off that game of cards with the Duncans."
"That's a bright spot," he said cheerfully. "I
like the Duncans, but their idea of bridge gives me a
pain. This is better."
Mrs. Dawkins readjusted with the tongs a coal
that had fallen out of place. She had the admirable
trait of incuriosity about her husband's cases.
"Had a pretty hard day," he went on. "A
murder job. Really "—he stretched his legs luxuri-
ously—" I shouldn't be at home now. I'd advise
you not to rely on me for any domestic engagements
for a while. Expect me when you see me."
"Very well," she agreed placidly. "If you're
late I'll leave your dinner on the top shelf in the oven.


74
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
It's a shame they work you so hard." She plied
her crochet hook industriously. "I went to the
infirmary to-day. That little boy Teddy Sanders
wanted to know when you were coming round to do
some more conjuring tricks. He seems worse, poor
child."
"By gum !" Dawkins flung his book hastily aside.
"Dear, dear, dear, I nearly forgot. The poor kid."
He strode to the door, and shouted lustily to a small
maid to bring him his boots. "I brought along
some grapes and a picture book for him. I'll slip
round and leave them now."
Childless since the death of their son, both
Dawkins and his wife had a great love for children,
and had developed an interest in the children's ward
of the local infirmary. This had led to a series of
proteges, of whom the latest was a ten-year-old
scallywag who had been badly injured in a car
accident. His mother was perhaps no better than
she should have been, and his father—Dawkins
happened to know—was perforce serving His
Majesty in connection with some affair of house-
breaking. If it had been his own son Dawkins could
not have been more compunctious over his forgetful-
ness. . . .
He had returned from his errand and relapsed into
his slippers when Rance came in. Mrs. Dawkins
folded the young man to her ample bosom and kissed
him on both cheeks.
"Well, what a stranger!" she declared heartily.
"Have you had anything to eat? There's some
nice cold beef in the larder. It won't take a minute
to get you some."


76
THE THOUSANDTH CASB
have to do things we hate. Still we have to go
through with them. Let's have the strength of
it."
"The, long and the short of the thing is this," said
Rance, abruptly. "Silke admits that he gave those
notes to Smiler in payment of blackmail. He is an
old crook himself and his name is Solomon Engles."
A slipper which Dawkins was toasting before the
fire fell off and he stooped to put it right. That was
the only sign he gave of being impressed by the news.
"Really!" he remarked, as though he had just
heard some comment on the weather. "How did
you get at that?"
Once launched, Rance fell headlong into his story,
talking with a fierce steadiness, as though defying
himself to miss any essential fact. Only at long
intervals did Dawkins interpolate a question.
Rance finished at last and handed the pistol he had
taken from Silke to Dawkins, who laid it on the floor
beside him.
"That's all," said the young man. "I was late
leaving the house, and I was held up by the fog so
that I missed you at the Yard. I thought it better
to come on and see you—because if I'd left it over I
might have been tempted to say nothing."
"I shouldn't worry. Perhaps it will work out all
right," said Dawkins, nursing his knee. "Still, it
looks pretty black against Solly." He frowned at
the fire. "Did you get his docket?"
"I looked in at the Criminal Record Office," said
Rance. "There was no one about, and as I couldn't
lay my hands on it immediately, I decided not to
waste time."


suspicion 77
Dawkins tapped out his pipe at the grate and
glanced at his watch.
"It's rather late to do anything to-night," he
declared doubtfully, "although I don't altogether
like leaving it. I have never come into personal
touch with Solly, but I know he's a slippery cuss."
He crossed to the window and peered out at the
gloom. "Even if I got a Squad car it wouldn't help
much in this fog. Might just as well walk." Again
taking his chair he refilled his pipe. "With twelve
hours or so to play with there's no telling what a man
like that will be up to."
"I can't see what he could do if he wished,"
said Rance. "He's all broken up—tied to his
room."
"Maybe." Dawkins nodded curtly, and stretched
the stem of his pipe towards the other. "Maybe he
isn't knocked up as badly as you think. How came
it that someone was waiting to lay you out when you
left the house? If you want to fool yourself, don't
try to fool me, Jack. The thing happened too pat.
It would have been mighty convenient for him, since
you wouldn't fall in with his ideas, to have you
silenced. When he let himself tell you so much he
had at the back of his mind that he could control you
by means of the girl. That's my way of thinking.
He saw his mistake too late, chucked a fit to impress
you, and then got busy. A desperate man who has
committed one murder wouldn't hesitate at a second
to save himself."
Rance shrugged his shoulders gloomily. The
view came too close to his own to permit of argument.
He ventured a feeble doubt.


7«
THE THODSANDTH CASE
"If I'd been killed practically at his door it would
have been awkward for him."
"True. But not so awkward as it would be if you
got away. He would be ready to snatch at any
chance."
For a few moments Dawkins smoked in meditative
silence. His eyes wandered over the dejected figure
opposite to him.
"Pretty fond of the girl, are you ?" he asked.
The young man nodded.
"I can't get her out of my mind. She'd do any-
thing for her father—crook though she now knows
him to be. I'd sacrifice everything I hope for in the
world if I could show that that man's innocent of
murder."
"Keep cool, my boy," advised Dawkins. "We
haven't proved him guilty yet by a long chalk. I've
been too long in the detective game to take anything
for granted. Funny things happen. Remember
that round-up of crooks in the Enfield murder case?
There was a man on ticket-of-leave whose last
sentence had been for robbery with violence. He
deserted his lodgings on the very night of the murder
and left behind him some bloodstained clothes. We
circulated him in the Police Gazette, and finally
published his portrait in the newspapers. Days
afterwards he strolled into the Yard with what we
thought was a cock and bull yarn. He had run from
his room because he couldn't pay his rent. At the
hour when the murder took place he was at some
shoddy night club trying—unsuccessfully—to raise a
loan. Since then he had camped out in a park, and
had known nothing of the hue and cry till he picked


SUSPICION
79
up a scrap of newspaper that was blown his way.
The blood he explained by saying he had had an
accident to his hand. Just the kind of cooked-up
yarn one might expect—and yet it was absolutely
true. There was plenty of proof that he really was
at the club when the murder was committed miles
away. As you know, the real murderers were caught
and hanged. These things against Solly look bad—
and we're bound to probe into them—but it may
turn out that they had no connection with the
shooting."
The details of the story Dawkins had narrated
were quite familiar to Rance. Nevertheless, in some
degree they cheered him, as the other had intended.
"What are you going to do ?" he asked.
"Get an hour or two's rest. If I'd known what
you have told me earlier I'd have had observation
kept on Solly's place till I could have got down there
myself, but if there's any damage from leaving him
unwatched for an hour or two it's probably been
done. I'll go out to this place—what do you call it ?—
ah, yes, Langfield—with a bunch of the Flying Squad
as soon as it is light and have a look at the grounds.
We'll do that quietly before the household are awake,
if we can. If the murder was committed there—as
it might have been—we may find some trace. In
any event I'll afterwards have a word with Solly
myself. Now you slip off, my boy, and don't worry.
I'll expect you to be about to meet me in the morn-
tag."
When Rance had gone Dawkins returned to the
fireside, and picking up the pistol from the hearthrug,
examined it with care. A glance told him the calibre.


8o
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
and he nodded grimly. For reasons of his own he
had not thought fit to inform Rance that at the post-
mortem examination a bullet which had flattened
itself against the skull of the murdered man had
been recovered—a bullet of .38 calibre. Here was
another damning point against Silke. Just a little
more and there would be a case against him.
The trouble was to fit in that case with the other
known facts—or to discard the others. The day's
work of many men working under the direction of
Dawkins had resulted in the collection of a mass of
rough data which directed at least possible suspicion
against a number of people. All experienced
detectives are accustomed to this. The real art of
the detective is elimination. And, in the present
stage of the case, Dawkins was unable to eliminate.
Smiler, undoubtedly, had many enemies; there
were several people who, for one reason or another,
would have been glad to see him out of the way.
There was Old Ugly, for instance—a man who in
certain circumstances was not likely to hesitate at
murder. He had lied when he denied knowledge of
that threatening letter. True, he might have been
merely actuated by the caution of an old crook in
dealing with a detective—and, on the other hand,
there might be some stronger reason. Who, any-
way, was the writer of the letter?
Nor had Dawkins forgotten the old detective
axiom cherchez la femme. Indeed, Smiler had many
sweethearts, and it might be that in the past there
had been a wife. Both of the women whose letters
had been found on Smiler had been traced. One had
laughed when told that he was dead; the other had


SUSPICION
81
wept. Oddly enough, it was a girl on the fringe
of the underworld who had broken down. The
other, a dimpled little tea-room waitress, had
announced with nonchalant conviction that she
would like to kiss the murderer. Both had admitted
to frequent quarrels with the dead man on account of
his associations with other women, and both gave a
rather inconsequent account of their doings on the
night of the crime that, even if true, would be diffi-
cult of corroboration. It was not impossible that
one or the other had something to do with the killing.
Nor could other women with whom Smiler had been
on terms—still unknown to Dawkins—be left out of
the reckoning.
Five or six men known to have had no good will to
Smiler had also been interviewed. All of them were
shy birds, so far as the police were concerned, and
only one who had spent the night of the murder in a
police cell for a little matter of assault was able to
prove immediately a convincing alibi. There were
another two who had disappeared and were still being
sought for.
Thus a series of snowball enquiries had begun to
grow. No possibility could be discarded until it had
been explored to the end. It might be that not until
all were finished, not until every potential murderer
but one had been eliminated from the case, would it
be possible to point to the probable criminal. That
is, if no direct piece of evidence was picked up in
the course of the widespread investigation. These
things do happen—and the ignorant call them luck.
Dawkins rang through to Scotland Yard, gave a
few instructions, and went to bed.


CHAPTER IX
SOLLT VANISHES
Dawkins was astir before dawn, but, although he
moved as lightly as a cat, Mrs. Dawkins was instantly
awake. In spite of his remonstrance she turned out,
and had prepared breakfast for him by the time he
had bathed and shaved. As he swallowed the last
mouthful of toast and marmalade a very gentle
knock at the front door announced the arrival of one
of the fast cars of the Flying Squad.
He kissed his wife and struggled into an overcoat.
"Expect me when you see me, dear," he said.
Mender and a couple of Squad men were waiting
in the car outside—a car that looked like a cheap
saloon, and gave no hint of the powerful engine that
could carry it, if need be, at something over a
hundred miles an hour. Nor was there any outward
sign of the wireless by which it could keep constantly
in touch with Scotland Yard.
"Sorry to drag you boys out at this hour,"
remarked Dawkins amiably, as he climbed to his
seat. "Is everything all right, Mender?"
The detective sergeant jerked his head.
"As far as I know, sir. I've brought the search
warrant. A tender with half a dozen men has gone
on.
"Let her go, then," ordered Dawkins. "I want
to be there by daylight."


SOLLY VANISHES
83
The Flying Squad driver, a picked and highly-
trained man, grinned, and the car leapt smoothly
forward. It was no uncommon thing for his pas-
sengers to be in a hurry. They had gone perhaps
five miles when the man seated with Dawkins in the
back of the car spoke.
"The Yard calling, sir. Burglary job at a furrier's
store in Bond Street. Green saloon car—three
men—making south over Westminster Bridge—
Squad patrols to concentrate towards Brixton and
Clapham roads."
"Plenty of people to attend to that," commented
Dawkins. "Our job is to keep on."
They had reached the outskirts of Richmond and
it was close on dawn, when a policeman jumped
hastily into the beam of the headlights with arm
outstretched. The car drew to a standstill and the
constable came forward.
"You're in the dickens of a hurry," he said
peremptorily. "Over fifty, I should think. Where
are you off to and where have you come from?
Let's have a look at your licence."
"Fifty !" exclaimed the driver scornfully, thrust-
ing a warrant card in front of the officer's face.
"What do you know about speed? We're the
Squad and we were doing over seventy."
The constable drew back.
"Sorry," he apologised, adding with an irony that
might or might not have been induced by the
driver's observation, "I thought you might have
been a gang of crooks. I've just had word through
to my box to keep my eyes open. Carry on."
They covered the rest of the journey in a very


84
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
few minutes, and as they neared Langfield Mender
jerked his head to a tradesman's closed van halted
inconspicuously in a side turning.
"The boys are here, sir," he remarked.
"The boys " themselves appeared out of nowhere,
as it were, when Dawkins and his companions
alighted. With them was Jack Rance. The chief
inspector at once entered into consultation with him.
"You know the place, Jack. I don't want any-
one scuttling away when they know we're here.
We'll have a man or two round about in case."
It was full daylight by the time three men had
been posted in front and rear of the grounds. Then
Dawkins thrust open the outer gate and the rest of
the group entered. At a quiet word they scattered,
and a silent, systematic scrutiny of the grounds
began.
Half an hour passed. Nothing that was at all
extraordinary had been revealed by a rigid search
that missed no trifle. Dawkins glanced at his
watch and turned to Rance.
"This looks like being a wash-out, son," he
observed. "We're wasting time. Here's some-
thing you can do. Hop on to the car and tell the
driver to take you to the place where the body was
discovered. Got a good watch on you? Note the
time it takes to get there. Then you can walk back
and get the time it would take on foot. The other
people can keep looking round in case something's
been overlooked. I want you, Mender. I'm going
to see if anyone's awake."
As Jack left on his errand the chief inspector,
accompanied by Mender, made his way to the front


SOLLY VANIS HES
85
door and gave a gentle tap with the knocker and
pressed the door bell. The summons had been
repeated twice with some emphasis ere sounds of life
were heard within. A sleepy-eyed maid threw open
the door. As though unconsciously Dawkins put a
foot over the step so that the door could not be
closed.
"Hope we haven't dragged you out of bed, my
dear," he said urbanely. "I suppose Mr. Silke
isn't up yet?"
"It's not seven o'clock," she answered with a
little touch of asperity at so obviously futile a
question.
"Yes, I know it's early," agreed the chief
inspector. "But we've very urgent business with
him, you see." He had his hand in a trousers pocket
and the coins jingled as he dropped them one by one
in a sort of cascade. '' We're friends of his and we've
come a long way to see him."
"He's not well," she said doubtfully. "I'll ask
Miss Dorothy. What names shall I say?"
"Oh, don't trouble to disturb her. We'll just run
up and see Mr. Silke in his bedroom. We're old
friends of his—very old friends. Let's see—which is
his room?"
He made as if to pass her, but with her hand on the
door frame she barred his way. There was suspicion
in her face.
"I'm not going to let you in," she said decisively.
"I don't know who you are. You may be friends of
his and you may not. You can wait till I find out.
If you touch me I'll shout for the police."
Dawkins pulled out a card.


86
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"Quite right," he said amiably. "You're a
sensible girl. Now look at this and you'll see who I
am. There's nothing to be alarmed at. We just
want a quiet word with Mr. Silke."
She glanced from the card to his genial, well-shaven
face and hesitated. A chief detective inspector from
Scotland Yard was a potent personage to her.
After a moment's pause she again shook her head.
"I'm sorry, sir. You may be Mr. Dawkins, but
Mr. Silke is very strict. If you don't mind waiting
just a minute, I'll tell him."
She made as if to close the door, but the detective's
foot prevented this. It was the last thing that he
intended to allow to happen. A slight frown had
gathered on his face. It is an elementary axiom
at Scotland Yard that a person suspected of murder
should be given no warning that might lead to an
attempt at escape or even suicide. The chief
inspector still had a vivid recollection of a twenty-
year-old incident in which a man he had been sent
to arrest had taken poison in the few seconds during
which the detective had ascended a flight of stairs.
He had died in Dawkins's arms.
It was the possibility of some such contingency
as this that had been in his mind when he had taken
the precaution of obtaining a search warrant. He
had every right to force an entrance but, if the girl
carried out her threat and made an outcry, she might
precipitate the very thing that he was anxious to
avoid.
With a sudden quick movement he gripped her
wrist with one hand while his other was placed over
her mouth. She writhed impotently.


SOLLY VANISHES
87
"Listen to me, my girl," he said sternly. "If
you play the fool you'll find yourself in a very
awkward situation. There is an offence known as
obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.
Now walk upstairs with us and show us Mr. Silke's
room."
Half forcing, half following her, he ascended the
stairs, closely followed by the faithful Mender. She
halted outside a bedroom door, and releasing her,
he threw it quickly open.
"Mr. Silke," he began, "we are police officers
and"
He stopped abruptly. The room was empty.
The bed had not been slept in.
"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.
"Where's Mr. Silke?"
The girl stood open-mouthed.
"I don't know," she gasped. "He was here last
night. He must be somewhere."
"Get downstairs quick, Mender," ordered Daw-
kins. "Tell a couple of fellows to guard the front
and back. Then come here. You stay with me,
my girl."
Before he had finished speaking he was throwing
open door after door of the other rooms on the
landing. All alike were empty. Mender returned
and the two men looked at each other.
"A fair knock-out," breathed the detective
sergeant.
"He was here late last night, and if he was as sick
as he was supposed to have been he couldn't have
got away," said Dawkins grimly. "We'll see."
He turned fiercely to the shrinking servant girl.


88
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"What do you know about this? Where's
Miss Silke?"
"I don't know," she declared feebly. "They
must be somewhere. They were here last night
when I went to bed. Miss Silke told Florence—
that's the other maid—and myself not to wait
up."
"What time was that?"
"I'm not sure. I think it was about half-past
eleven."
"Was Miss Silke dressed then?"
"Yes. She had been with her father. He had
a stroke or something last night and she sat with him
after the doctor came."
"She was with him in his bedroom?"
"Yes."
"And yet the bed hasn't been slept in—or some-
one's made it since," commented Dawkins. "I'm
not satisfied that you've told us everything you
know, my girl. Think it over. I'll have another
talk with you later. And now get the other servants
up. I suppose they sleep on the top floor?"
"Yes, sir."
"No one is to leave the house on any pretext—
understand. And keep your tongue still with the
other maids. That will do for the moment. Now,
Mender, we'll go through this place with a tooth-
comb."
By the time that they had finished their first
rough survey of the house it was obvious that even
a rat could not have remained hidden. Whatever
the explanation, Silke and the girl had got away.
In the grate of Silke's study the chief inspector


SOLLY VANISHES
89
pointed to a mass of charred papers, and stooping,
closed the plate that blocked the draught up the
chimney.
"Make sure that the windows are closed," he
said. "I don't want these disturbed till I've had
a look at 'em. Lock the door and keep the key in
your pocket. And, Mender, just take a look in the
garage. I'll bet a thousand to one that the car's
gone. Find out what make, colour and number it
was and 'phone through to the Yard. Get Rance
to give descriptions of the man and his daughter,
and tell them to get in touch with the ports. I saw
some photographs of the girl knocking about the
house. Don't let me forget them. There may be
some of Solly, too, but I doubt it. He'd be careful.
And by the way, ask the Yard to send someone up to
Solly's bank and find out what money he's drawn
lately. Perhaps it would be as well to have some-
one keep observation there for a day or two. Just
a chance that Solly might go there in person, though
it's not likely. Ah, here's Jack."
"It took three and a half minutes in the car,
sir," began Rance, " and"
"Never mind all that now. That can wait.
What time did you leave this house last night?"
"I'm not sure. Probably about ten or a little
later?"
"And you're sure that Solly was bad? He wasn't
shamming?"
"He was certainly unconscious the last I saw of
him. The doctor who saw him afterwards gave me
the impression that he was a very sick man."
"Unable to move?"


$0 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"I should have thought so. What's gone wrong,
sir?"
"Everything," snapped Dawkins, who hated to
be distracted when his mind was racing. "At ten
o'clock last night—or eleven-thirty if the maid is
right—Solly was here, knocked out, unable to
move. We were here by half-past five and he's gone
—the girl with him. Now how do you account for
that? Don't stand there gaping like a stuck pig.
Send the car to get the doctor, if you know where to
find him, and ask him with my compliments to
come here for five minutes. Then give Mender a
hand on a message to the Yard. Now where are
those servants?"
Besides the girl—Maud—who had opened the
door, it appeared that there was another maid and
a cook in the house. One by one Dawkins inter-
viewed them. All professed to be bewildered by
the disappearance and to be unable to throw any
light upon it. Maud worked herself up to a state
of tearful indignation under the chief inspector's
stern cross-examination.
"It's nothing to do with me and it's no good you
hinting that I'm a liar. I know nothing except
what I've told you."
"Of course, of course," he said soothingly. "I'm
sure you'd help me if you could. It must be very
distressing to you not to know what has happened
to your master and Miss Silke. How long have you
been with them?"
"Five years."
"Ah, that's a long time. Presently I'll ask you
to let one of my men take down in writing what


SOLLY VANISHES 91
you have told me. If you throw your mind back
you may be able to tell us about some of the people
who have called on Mr. Silke. For instance, have
you ever seen that man?"
He laid a photograph of Smiler Carne before her.
She picked it up and looked at it steadily. It was
perhaps half a minute before she answered.
"I might have seen him. I can't remember."
"Well, think over it and tell me later on. Now
you're perfectly sure that you heard no sound after
you went to bed last night? Your room is directly
over that of Mr. Silke, isn't it?"
"I went straight to sleep and never awoke till just
before I let you in."
"Thank you. That will do for now."
With his chin resting on one cupped hand he
rested in deep and concentrated thought for a few
minutes. He was roused by the arrival of Dr.
Hickling.
"I can give you exactly seven minutes," said the
little red-headed man briskly. "What is the
trouble?"
"I hate to bother you, doctor, but the matter is
rather one of urgency. You know who I am?"
"Your messenger told me. I don't know why
you are here or why you want me."
Dawkins leaned his arms across the table.
"Mr. Silke was a patient of yours and you saw
him last night. Can you tell me what his condition
was then?"
"He was very seriously ill." The doctor sat a
little more upright. "Before I answer any more
questions, Mr. Dawkins, I shall want to know why


CHAPTER X
BURNT PAPER
The mere fact that Solomon Engles had absconded
—however mysterious the method might be—was
in itself an indication to Dawkins that he had hit
on a firm line of investigation. Perhaps, he reflected,
it was better that way. If Solly had stayed and
brazened it out, the thing might have become more
complicated and probably more difficult to prove.
The job of tracing a known man would be only
a question of time and the effective use of the
machinery at the disposal of Scotland Yard.
The flight, in a way, was an admission. It
showed that Solly had been badly frightened by the
interview with Jack Rance. Of course, it was just
possible that his scare had been caused not by
guilty knowledge of the murder, but because he saw
how circumstances were beginning to tell against
him. Similar cases had happened. That, however,
Dawkins told himself, was unlikely here. Looked
at in the light of common sense, the facts pointed
to Engles as the most probable murderer. They
could not be ignored.
Here was a man who on his known criminal
record was little likely to hesitate at trifles, driven
into a corner by a blackmailer. This man had been
found shot by a bullet that fitted Solly's revolver,
and still with money on him that had come from


BURNT PAPER
95
Solly, within a short distance of Solly's house.
And Solly, as soon as he realised that suspicion
would concentrate upon him, had taken to flight.
What sensible man could doubt?
The only flaw that Dawkins could perceive in
this line of reasoning was the matter of the break-
down. This was susceptible of only one explanation.
It must have been a piece of calculated and con-
summate acting to deceive both Rance and the
doctor. For if he had been too ill to walk it was
certain that Solly could not have got away unaided.
His daughter could scarcely have carried him down-
stairs. There was the chance that she had been
assisted by some or all of the women servants, but
that he dismissed as absurd. It was scarcely
probable that they would all have been taken into a
conspiracy, although he still had lingering doubts
of Maud.
Mender and Rance entered the room.
"All O.K., sir," said the man from the Yard.
"I've been talking to Mr. Manners and everything
is in shape. What's next?"
"I want you to slip out and get me a dozen sheets
of tracing paper, some drawing pins, and some good
colourless gum," said Dawkins. "Make it as quick
as you like. I've got a lot to do. You can stay
and give me a hand, Jack."
The young detective was pale and his face was
drawn. As soon as the chief inspector and he were
alone he spoke. His voice was harsh and almost
toneless.
"This looks pretty bad, sir."
"Pretty bad for Solly," agreed Dawkins. "He
.-


96 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
must have put one across on you yesterday. I'm
not blaming you. He's a slick customer, and if it's
any consolation the little red-headed doctor was
just as much deluded as you were."
"It's too damned awful to think of," burst from
Rance.
"Hey!" Dawkins shot a quick glance at his
subordinate. "I'd nearly forgotten what you were
telling me about that girl. That's what's biting
you, is it? I'm sorry."
"When you find Silke, what are you going to do?"
The chief inspector dropped a hand gently on
the other's shoulder.
"I'm going to do my duty, my boy," he said
quietly. "So are you. I shall hate it because I
know your feelings. But neither of us can run away
from it. It's too late, anyway. The net is spread
over the country and sooner or later this man and
the girl will run into it. I'm afraid we've got to
go on. There's nothing can keep you out of the
witness box to tell what Solly said to you yesterday,
if he goes into the dock—and he will."
"You think you've got the evidence?"
"I think I've got enough to justify a detention
—and even an arrest. Even if we get nothing more
I'm sure the Director will say there's a case for a
jury. I wish I could say something else."
"You won't act hastily, sir?" Rance was snatch-
ing at straws. "The only thing that you can prove
is a motive—and lots of people had a motive for
murdering Smiler. Remember what you told me
yesterday. Can't you wait a bit before pushing too
far. All your conclusions may be wrong."


BURNT PAPER 97 •
"No one knows that better than I do, Jack.
I've seen it happen. Perhaps when we lay hands on
Solly his story may put a different complexion on
the facts. But don't buoy yourself up with false
hopes. Face the situation. When all the inferences
point one way they are usually right. Not always
—perhaps in one case out of a thousand they are
wrong. I feel that there are nine hundred and
ninety-nine chances that this man is guilty. Look
at it calmly and you will see that I've got no
alternative but to see that he's under lock and key
as soon as possible. He's forced our hand by
dodging like this. I'm not a human being in this
case. I don't regard your feelings or anyone else's.
I'm a police officer. Just get that line of thought.
You're an official, too. What happens after we've
done our job as decently as we can is none of our
business."
Jack's drooping shoulders stiffened a little.
"I know the point of view, but I find it a bit
difficult. Still, things can hardly be worse for
me.
"You'll get over it," said Dawkins briskly.
"Stick it out, boy. You're at any rate on the
inside of the enquiry, and if anything turns up that
tells in Solly's favour, you will know of it. There's
always the thousandth chance."
"I've got to take it," declared Jack. "I never
ought to say this, sir, but I'm going to. I feel
you're all wrong. That sounds stupid, because I've
not a single thing to go on and you've got all the
facts there are so far. You're side-tracking your-
self."


98 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"That's all right," said the chief inspector, with
a little smile. "We'll get back to work. There's
some paper in my bag. I want you to see the ser-
vants again and take some statements from them.
And take a tip from me and be careful with that
girl Maud."
*****
While Mender busied himself in going through a
number of letters and other papers which lay in,
a disordered heap on the missing man's desk,
Dawkins began a much more difficult and delicate
operation. There was just a chance that the docu-
ments which Solly had been at such pains to destroy
might still be made to yield some information.
Drawing a small table near the fire-place, he fastened
a sheet of tracing paper to its surface with drawing
pins, and with careful, steady hand, brushed it
lightly with gum.
Then, very gingerly, he proceeded to rescue scraps
of the charred paper from the grate, holding each
piece over a bowl of hot water till it had softened
sufficiently to allow him to press it gently on to
the gummed paper.
For all his care, there were many accidents, for
the fragile and brittle stuff would frequently
dissolve into a thousand fragments at the slightest
provocation. Once or twice he swore mildly as he
saw his labour wasted. After an hour's tedious
work he had achieved a sort of black jig-saw puzzle
on a white ground, but the bulk of the paper had
been reduced to a heap of fine particles at the bottom
of the grate.
Here and there on the bits he had rescued there


BURNT PAPER 99
stood out fragments of writing—some portions in a
light grey, others in a brilliant black against the
duller black of the charred paper.
As Dawkins straightened his back, stiffened by
continual stooping, Mender left the desk and came
over to his side.
"I've found nothing of any account yet," he
observed. "Just quite ordinary letters that seem
to be of no importance, and receipts of one kind and
another."
"I scarcely expected it," said the other. "Solly
has obviously been over them and burnt or taken
away anything he thought might be dangerous.
Don't be too casual in glancing at them. He might
have overlooked something. Let's see if we can
spot anything here. It's a long chance with all
that stuff I've ruined." He nodded disgustedly
to the black heap still in the grate.
The two men scrutinised the hotchpotch of pieces
that had been preserved. Many of them were still
indecipherable.
"Here's a bit of a small diary," exclaimed
Mender, pointing to a patch in the centre of which
stood out the remains of a few printed words.
"Thursday, Ju .. ."
Above could be read in small, neat handwriting:
"... about enough . . ." and below "... again
£80. . . . Must stop . . . costs . .."
Another section, evidently from the same diary,
but with no date apparent, ran: "Golf H. 2.30.
Probably S. 7..." On a third scrap, which seemed
to have been a piece of a letter and was in a different
handwriting, was to be read:


IOO
THE THOUSANDTH CASH
"... friends will know
. . . the scandal
. . . r daughter
... at."
Still another section bore the remains of only
two words: "... Id Ugly."
Dawkins extended a finger at a large portion on
which printed characters stood out.
"See what that is, Mender? It's a little bit
of the Southern Railway's continental time-table."
He scrutinised it closely. "' Victoria—Dover—
Ostend,' " he quoted. "Wonder if that's a fluke?
Ostend is the jumping-off place to a great many
places. Why should Solly burn a continental time-
table?"
Mender made no reply. He was busy with a
sheet of official foolscap, jotting down the disjointed
fragments of words and sentences that the recon-
struction had disclosed. The chief inspector, stand-
ing at his side, occasionally pointed out something,
and when the other had finished quietly filled a
pipe.
"Tell you anything—this?" he asked, with a
wave of the hand towards the table.
"I think it shows what's been on his mind,"
said Mender.
"Sure, it shows that he's been blackmailed,"
said Dawkins. "We know that already on his
own admission. Look at these words: 'again
£80. . . . Must stop . . .' Put your imagination to
work, Mender, and carry on to the next word:
* costs.' Doesn't that convey anything to you?


BURNT PAPER
IOI
'I must stop this at all costs'" He emphasised the
words significantly. "Isn't that a fair guess?"
"I don't see how it can mean anything else,"
agreed the sergeant.
"Better have Fitz down to photograph it before
it's moved," said Dawkins. "Then it would be as
well for you to see it up to the Yard yourself in case
of accidents. Shows what fools the cleverest of
them can be. When Solly wrote that down he was
helping to put a rope round his own neck Here,
what the devil's this?"
The door had swung abruptly open without the
courtesy of a knock. Jack Rance strode into the
room, one hand firmly clutched about the wrist of
the servant girl Maud, who hung back doubtfully.
His face was transfigured with a half smile of
triumph in strong contrast to the affright and
desperation which showed on that of the girl.
"I've brought this woman here straight away,
sir. She has something to tell you that may alter
your views about this case. She can prove that
Mr. Silke had no hand in the murder of Smiler
Came."


CHAPTER XI
NEARLY AN ALIBI
"All right," said Dawkins, showing no more sur-
prise than if he had just been told it was a nice
day. "Take her into another room and I'll see
you in a minute. We're busy here." He turned to
Mender as the door closed. "Be very careful with
that little work of art. I'll need a lot of convincing
that Solly knew nothing about this bumping off.
And ask Manners to get through on the 'phone to
Ostend and Dover and tip our men there to be
specially careful, because these people may have
gone that way."
Jingling the coins in his pockets, he followed
Rance and the girl. He found them in a small
morning-room, Maud hunched up in a big arm-chair,
quietly sobbing, and Jack pacing impatiently up
and down.
"Now what's all this ?" he asked. *' What do
you know about this business, my dear?"
She looked at him with haggard face and another
fit of sobbing shook her. The glance of the chief
inspector shifted questioningly to Rance.
"She tells me she knew Smiler, sir," he explained.
"Ah!"
Dawkins's eyebrows twitched a little. The dead
man's reputation as a gallant crossed his mind.
"I might almost have expected something like


NEARLY AN ALIBI
I03
this," he muttered under his breath. "There's
nothing to worry about, my dear," he added aloud,
in that soothing manner that was natural rather
than a pose. "If you have done nothing wrong no
harm can come to you. We may be able to help
you. Why didn't you tell me of this before? I
asked you about him."
She lifted her head, and miserable, tormented eyes
met his.
"I didn't know you," she stammered. "I
couldn't tell what you came about. And I didn't
know till Mr. Rance told me that he was dead. I
thought—it never came to my mind that it was he."
"I think I understand," said Dawkins gently.
"She knew Smiler Carne under another name,"
explained Rance. "She did not associate her
friend with the murdered man."
The chief inspector dropped his voice to a low
whisper.
"You talk to her, boy. She knows you. You
may get her going better than I."
"Tell Mr. Dawkins what you told me," said Jack
quietly. "How did you come to know Smiler?"
She choked back her sobs and appeared to control
herself with an effort.
"I never knew him by that name," she declared
brokenly. "He called himself Cyril St. Clair. I
saw him one day talking to Mr. Silke in the rose
garden, so, of course, I thought they were friends.
After that I saw Cy—Mr. St. Clair once or twice in
the grounds and at last he spoke to me."
"Did Mr. Silke know you were—friends?"
asked Rance.


1o4
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"No. I don't think he even knew that Mr. St.
Clair had spoken to me. After the first time or two
I used sometimes to meet him on my evenings out.
He didn't think it wise that we should be seen
together near the house."
"How long ago did you first meet him ?" inter-
jected Dawkins.
"I suppose it was about six months."
"You were fond of him?"
She faltered.
"Yes—in a way. I liked him. Of course, there
was nothing—you know what I mean—nothing
serious, because there's another boy—well, I'm
not exactly going out with him, but he thinks—
thought "The words trailed away.
"There was some bother ?" suggested Rance.
Her eyes flashed.
"Well, you see, he didn't like me going with Mr.
St. Clair, and the other boy met us one night and
there was a bit of a row and we broke it off and now
Cyril is dead—and, oh, God, I wish I was dead too."
A choking, convulsive fit seized her, and the two
men waited silently till she had in some degree
regained her composure. Then Dawkins spoke very
softly.
"What is the name of this other fellow?"
Maud shook her head.
"I shan't tell you," she said. "Aren't I in
trouble enough? I'm not going to have him
dragged into this."
Rance, watching his superior's face, saw it for
just the fraction of a second set sternly. But
almost at once Dawkins regained his mask of genial


NEARLY AN ALIBI
serenity. He dismissed the matter as though it
was of no consequence.
"You may alter your mind when you find that
we're trying to make things easier for you," he said
casually.
The sergeant, quick to perceive that Dawkins had
some object in not pressing the point at the moment,
struck in:
"Did St. Clair ever talk about Mr. Silke with
you?"
"Oh, yes. They'd known each other for a long
time, he said—before Mr. Silke retired—but they
had lost touch for some years. Mr. St. Clair told
me they had come together again over a big business
deal."
"He didn't say what it was?"
"No. He said that it was to be kept very secret,
and that he expected to make a lot of money out of
it. Everything would be spoiled if people knew that
he and Mr. Silke were meeting."
"Perhaps," suggested Dawkins, " he wasn't quite
sure of Silke—wasn't dead certain that he was
playing the game, eh?"
The girl's eyes widened.
"Why, how did you know that? He used almost
those very words to me once."
Dawkins toyed with an empty pipe.
"Wanted you to keep an eye on Silke, did he?
Find out where he went, who his visitors were,
and perhaps have a look at some of his letters?"
"I never opened his letters," she declared, with a
flash of spirit. "I'm not that sort. I wouldn't
do a thing like that. I told him"


1o6
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"You told him you wouldn't." The chief
inspector finished the sentence. "Just what I'd
have thought of you. Of course, no decent girl
would open other people's letters. But you were
to keep your eyes open if you saw anything—when
you were dusting a room, for instance. Did you—
by accident—at any time read any of Mr. Silke's
correspondence?"
A thin tinge of red crept into her face.
"I might have," she admitted.
"And you told Smiler what was in them?"
"No. Not always," she denied. "Only when
he arranged to meet people, and who he wrote to
and got letters from."
"Any of these stick in your mind—I mean any
that specially interested Smiler?"
"I can't—can't remember."
Long years of experience had given Dawkins
patience. In her present state of nervous tension
it was likely to be of little use pressing the reluctant
girl on points in regard to which she was unwilling
to speak. To attempt to force her might result in
shutting her up entirely. There was plenty of
time for that. There might be ways and means
later. Meanwhile he was anxious to learn what
information she might be able to afford in other
directions. He accepted her answer with a little nod.
"Was St. Clair always alone when you met him?
Did you ever see him with anyone but Mr. Silke?"
She frowned thoughtfully.
"Only once, I think. I met him in Wardell's Road
and he was with a shabby-looking man with funny
eyes. He looked horrible." A shudder shook her


NEARLY AN ALIBI I07
thin form. "I couldn't describe him. They separ-
ated when I came up. Cy—Mr. St. Clair said he.
was a man who used to work for him and they had
met by accident."
The chief inspector felt in his breast pocket and
brought out a wallet, in which he fumbled.
"You'd know him again?"
"I think I would."
He placed half a dozen small photographs in her
hand.
"Take a look at those and tell me if you recog-
nise anyone."
She shuffled them irresolutely and at last picked
on one.
"I think—I'm nearly sure—that is the man."
She had selected a portrait of Old Ugly—Roderick
Hendry. A crease on Dawkins's forehead deepened
as he returned the photographs to his wallet. What
was Old Ugly doing with Smiler on the verge of the
golf course where the murder had happened? Why
had he been so far from his usual haunts? Why
had he so carefully refrained from mentioning this
meeting when he had been questioned at Scotland
Yard? If the possibilities reawakened in Dawkins's
mind were correct, then there was more than a
chance that his conclusions about Solly were all
wrong. Yet how could they be wrong?
"Did these two seem friendly when you saw
them ?" he asked.
"They weren't exactly quarrelling," she replied
slowly, "and I only heard a few words as they
parted. The other man seemed excited about
something."


108 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"What did he say?"
"Something about' it's outing dues if you don't.'"
"You can't guess what he meant?"
She made a gesture of dissent. But Dawkins
had only asked the question automatically. He
knew well enough what the old-fashioned slang
term conveyed. "Outing dues " in plain English
was murder. He turned to another point.
"You told us before that you didn't know any-
thing about the disappearance of Mr. and Miss
Silke. Yet, if I understand what you've been saying
now, Smiler—the man you knew as St. Clair—had
asked you to watch. Now you've had time to think
it over, can't you remember anything about last
night? Did anyone call after Mr. Rance had gone?"
"No. There wasn't anything," she asserted
earnestly. "I wasn't expecting anything to happen.
At least "—she paused as if struck by a sudden
recollection—" I've got a vague idea that some time
after I'd gone to bed I heard someone speaking on
the telephone. I'm not sure. I might have been
dreaming. I couldn't hear what was said."
"A man's voice or a woman's?" interjected
Dawkins.
"I couldn't tell. It was all so indistinct."
Dawkins turned to Rance. "Is there anything
else?"
"Yes. Just a moment, sir."
The detective sergeant referred to a little book in
which he had jotted down certain notes in short-
hand.
"When I brought this girl up to you she had been
telling me of some trouble that had disturbed the


no
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
alibi—this part of the girl's story could be easily
tested—for all but forty minutes of that period.
Quite likely several minutes would have elapsed
before the household had settled down for the night,
and that would reduce it still further. Now,
although half an hour was ample time in which to
kill a man, the margin was extraordinarily small in
the circumstances. Solly could scarcely have gone
out at that hour and met Smiler by chance. Some
sort of prearrangement had to be supposed. All
this passed through his mind while he beamed
benevolently on Maud. He put a few more
questions and finished.
"Thank you, my dear. That will do for now. I
don't think that we shall need you any more for a
little. You've helped us quite a lot. Things will
come all right. Don't you worry. Would you like
to wait downstairs?"
She rose heavily to go. Before she was fairly
on her feet he shot another question at her as though
it was an afterthought.
"Oh, I've forgotten. What was the name of the
other young fellow you spoke of?"
"It was "Realisation of the trap came to
her and she stopped. "I didn't tell you, and I'm
not going to tell you."
Dawkins accepted the rebuff with equanimity; he
shook his head and smiled faintly as the door closed
behind her.
"She's given us a new slant on the picture,
Jack," he commented. "What do you think of
it?"
"Pretty plain now that Silke could have had no


NEARLY AN ALIBI
III
connection with the murder, sir," replied Rance,
with some satisfaction. "Why, it's a stone-wall
alibi."
"I wouldn't go so far as that, son. Don't under-
estimate Solly! If we accept her story there's still
more than half an hour unaccounted for. I've
known a murder just as complicated as this put
through in ten minutes. I won't deny her story's
strong, but it's not an absolute get-out for him.
If you ask me, that girl's a bit of a liar and she's far
from being a fool. Suppose, though, that she's
mistaken—that this happened the night before the
murder and not on the night that Smiler was
killed? Suppose that the doctor's wrong about
the time? Medical experts are not infallible. He
was going purely on the time from which he assumed
that rigor mortis would set in. Now, that stiffening
after death varies immensely with different people.
I'll give you this. The pathologist at the post-
mortem confirmed the time. I've only got a rough
working knowledge of these things, but I know that
there's no scientist in the world can be certain.
Quite likely this pathologist assumed that Smiler had
taken his last meal at a certain time and based his
conclusions on the fact that digestion had gone so
far. It's all assumption, you see. His inferences
may be all wrong. Why, I have known a specialist
declare that a death had taken place within twenty-
four hours when in fact it had happened at least
three weeks before. Of course, juries believe these
gentlemen. Very often they're right. They may
be right in this case. But I'm not a juryman.
I'm not compelled as a police officer to believe that


112
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Silke is innocent on what I've learned. Apart from
the question of times, everything is against him.
Why, how do I know that he didn't get someone else
to do Smiler in? It would be just like Solly to have
this alibi at hand all ready in case of accidents."
To Rance, who had felt confident that Maud's
story would convince the chief inspector that Silke
could not have been implicated in the crime, this
reasoning came as a blow. He was surprised and
disappointed and his face showed it.
"You still believe that Silke is the murderer?"
he said.
"You're getting me all wrong. I never said that.
I still believe that Solly may be the murderer,
though perhaps there are more chances that he
isn't now. There are other people who may be—
this young fellow whose name Maud is so anxious
to hide from us; Old Ugly; or it might even be "—
his voice dropped—" Maud herself."


CHAPTER XII
THE MISSING DOCKET
There is a hostelry a few doors from the back gate
of Scotland Yard much resorted to by the Big Five
and the chief inspectors of the Criminal Investigation
Department for lunch and, on occasion, for other
refreshment. It has the advantage of proximity
and there is a tacit sort of understanding that only
the heads of the department should use it. Thus, at
least, it affords one of the privileges of a club, for the
senior Yard men know who they are not likely to
meet there.
This was the first place of call for Dawkins on his
return from Twyton. He knew well enough that
there would probably be things awaiting him at the
office that would keep him occupied for some hours,
and Dawkins, although he was no shirker, was old
enough not to take chances. As he once remarked
to a colleague, what he didn't know couldn't worry
him, and a modest meal and an equally modest
stimulant were sure things.
So it was in the underground bar of the aforesaid
hostelry that he found Charlie Luxton lugubriously
sipping at a pink-coloured liquid in a small glass.
He smote him heartily on the back and the other
choked.
"Behavin' like a great big overgrown baby," he
complained querulously, as he sponged delicately at a


n6
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"Dozens of 'em. That's the trouble—too many.
Remember us talking about Solly Engles the other
day? I suppose you've heard that he's cropped up
again."
"You don't say! Although I'm your kind of
adopted godfather at the Yard, Bill, I don't keep
track of all your concerns. I confess I hadn't heard
of it," said Luxton. "I have been too much
preoccupied with other matters of—er—more per-
sonal concern."
With an economy of words that he had learned to
exercise through many conferences with lawyers who
wanted the heart of the facts without trimmings,
Dawkins gave a sketchy outline of the manner in
which Solomon Engles had been linked with the
crime. He left out much, for he was anxious to get
the other's reaction to the direct story as it affected
Solly.
"So Solly and the girl have hopped it,"
commented Luxton. "What's the difficulty, Bill?
The answer—of course, I haven't studied Conan
Doyle—seems fairly simple to me."
"It did to me for a little," said Dawkins, ignoring
the gibe. "In fact the lines are out for Solly now.
If there was nothing else but what I've told you it
would be an open and shut case against him. But
don't forget that he's got nine-tenths of an alibi.
And I'm up against the old problem of elimination,
Charlie. Here's the other part of the story."
Luxton whistled a soft jingle as the other told of
his interview with Maud.
"Well, well, well," he observed. "You surprise
me. Looks as if Old Ugly's been leading you up


THE MISSING DOCKET 117
the garden. Thought that hook wouldn't have
dared to trifle with the great Bill Dawkins. And
then this girl's sweetheart who'd had trouble with
Smiler. Couldn't jolt his name out of her nohow.
Well, well, well. Here's the bright particular
genius of the C.I.D. with three possible murderers.
I suppose we all come to it sooner or later."
"Come to what ?" demanded Dawkins unwarily.
Luxton touched his forehead.
"Senile decay, Bill. That's what's the matter
with you. Too old for the game. Get one of your
bright young sergeants to see what he can do."
"Oh, chuck the kidding," said the other impa-
tiently. "If I had pressed that girl strongly about
her fellow the less likely she was to tell me any-
thing. I'll know who he is within twenty-four hours.
I don't believe in using the bludgeon. She's being
tailed until she meets him—which won't be long.
There's the other servants—the tradesmen—whom
I've set some of the lads to talk to—some of them
will know who is her best boy, you can bet. As for
Old Ugly, I'm going to have him fetched in again—
when I'm ready."
"That's what you call finesse, I reckon," said
Luxton. "O.K. with me. I'm a simple, feeble-
minded man and I believe in going straight to the
main point."
"Well, I'm asking you: What would you do?"
"Me? I'd get Solly first and put him right up
against it."
Dawkins drummed his fingers on his desk.
"I'm with you so far, Charlie. But suppose he's
innocent?"


n8
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"All right. That's his business. Let him prove
it."
Dawkins started in affected horror and looked
around with affected anxiety as though for possible
eavesdroppers.
"How would you like to broadcast those senti-
ments, Charlie? I wonder how often you have
lectured to the detective classes that it is a cardinal
principle of British law that an accused man is not
bound to prove his innocence—that it is for the
prosecution to prove him guilty?"
"All bunk, Bill," retorted the other, unmoved.
"We're a smug lot of hypocrites. You know it and
we all know it. Flash stuff for a jury. I don't have
to tell you. As for preaching that gospel to the
youngsters, I always quote Lord Chancellor
Birkenhead: 'Wheie circumstantial evidence, how-
ever strong, is adduced, the prisoner, to escape
conviction, is, in effect, called upon to prove himself
innocent.'" He smashed a fist into the palm of
his other hand. "Talk about elimination. When
you've eliminated Solly Engles you can worry about
the rest. It pays to do first things first in our game,
Bill."
Dawkins settled himself at his desk and pulled the
telephone nearer.
"I'm not going to ar&ue the point," he declared.
"If it will make you any happier to know, I'm going
to concentrate on Solly for a while. . . . Hello. I
want C.R.O. . . . Chief Inspector Dawkins speak-
ing. Send me down the docket of a man called
Solomon Engles."
He replaced the receiver, pressed a bell, and gave


THE MISSING DOCKET 119
a few directions to the junior officer who answered.
Then, with the air of a man who was determined to
let no outside influence distract him further, he put
on his spectacles, squared his shoulders, and started
on the mass of papers on his desk. He had ap-
parently forgotten Luxton's existence. The other,
with a shrug of the shoulders, opened a drawer, took
out a copy of " Supplement A" of the Police Gazette
and became immersed in the little pen pictures of
expert and travelling criminals which are a feature of
that official publication.
A quarter of an hour passed. Dawkins looked up
at a touch on his shoulder to find Kensit, the chief
inspector in charge of the Criminal Record Office, at
his elbow. Kensit, usually as precise and serene as
a bank manager, was obviously a little perturbed.
"Say, Bill," he asked, "it was you who sent up
just now for the docket of Solomon Engles, wasn't it?"
"That's right." Dawkins had reverted to his work
and patted a corner of his desk with his left hand.
"Put it there like a good chap, Andy. I'm busy."
"You'll have to wait," said the other. "The
damn' thing's missing."
Dawkins sat bolt upright, switched his chair round,
and removed his glasses, all, so to speak, in one
movement.
"What ?" he exploded.
Kensit spread his arms in a deprecating gesture.
He was an enthusiastic believer in his department
and he hated to confess that its well-oiled machinery
could possibly go wrong on any essential matter.
"Can't help it," he declared. "It's gone—or
rather both of them have gone—the summary and


120
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
the docket itself. The only thing we've got left is
the finger-print record—but then in that branch
they're always able to keep their fingers on their own
stuff, and don't have all kinds of people dodging in
and out to help themselves. But both of them to go!
I can't understand it, Bill. First time such a thing
has happened since I took over the C.R.O."
The records of criminals kept at Scotland Yard are,
generally speaking, in three sections. The Criminal
Record Office has two sets of records for each person.
One contains a full complement of documents in
detail—reports, statements, letters—giving every
known fact about his life ; the other is a condensed
precis of his criminal career. These two records are
always filed separately. Entirely apart are the
finger-print records, which merely contain a reference
to the Record Office number.
"I can't understand it," repeated the C.R.O. chief.
"One or the other might go astray through some
bungle in the department. But not both. Some-
body's had them out—that's certain. Are you sure
that some of your people haven't dropped in and
helped themselves?"
A swift doubting thought crossed Dawkins's mind.
He remembered that Jack Rance had been instructed
to find these very records and had failed to do so.
Had he really failed? Had he, in some wild and
distracted instant, destroyed it with the idea that its
suppression would help the father of the girl of whom
he was so fond? The idea was fantastic, almost
incredible, and yet he could not dismiss it. The
double loss, as Kensit said, could scarcely have been
accidental. Who else had a reason, as well as an


THE MISSING DOCKET
121
opportunity, for getting rid of the record? It was a
stupid action, of course, but Dawkins's experience had
taught him that intelligent men did sometimes do
stupid things under stress of emotion. Anyway,
there was no point in concealing the fact that Jack
had been sent for the docket.
"I did tell young Rance to look in last night and
try and get hold of it," he said casually. "He
couldn't find it then. I'll come up with you."
"Well, tell the young devil not to go rummaging
round on his own another time," grumbled Kensit,
as they mounted to the next floor. "He could have
asked someone to find what he wanted. That's how
things get lost."
"Huh. I know what your place is like late at
night, Andy," grunted Dawkins drily. "If all your
fellows aren't comfortably tucked up in bed, there's
just one or two looking up urgent stuff for the
provinces or some of the divisions. Young sergeant
comes in. 'What do you want? Bill Smith's docket?
It's number so-and-so. For the love of Mike go and
find it yourself.' That's what happens."
"Then that's another argument for giving me half
a dozen more men," grumbled Kensit, switching on
to the perennial grievance of all department chiefs at
Scotland Yard. "We're supposed to be at the beck
and cry of every blinking police force in the country
as well as the C.I.D. Expected to tackle everything
at any time—that's the poor old C.R.O. Never any
credit when we point out the bloke for you fellows to
knock off. Always blamed if anything goes wrong.
More men—that's what I want, Bill, if things are to
run as smooth as they want them to."


122
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Dawkins gave a non-committal ejaculation that
might have been taken either for sympathy or denial.
Kensit went on:
"Wonder is that things don't go more wrong than
they do. I've had the old man "—thus he referred
to the chief constable—" sending up for fifty or a
hundred dockets to look through. What chance had
we got of entering them up when he wanted them
within five minutes? How'd we know that they all
came back? He isn't the only one, either. Then
you fellows come and blame us if once in a million
times we don't lay our hands on exactly what you
want in half a jiffy. It makes me sick."
The other man smiled.
"Trying to put an alibi across me beforehand,
Andy? I'm not kicking up any fuss, though I'm
worried about this business. After all, the C.R.O. is
the best thing of its kind in the world."
A little placated, the C.R.O. man led the way to a
room where a few men were quietly at work. Tier
on tier of shelving—containing the dossiers of every
man and woman in the country, and many out of
it, who had been convicted of serious crime—
stretched from floor to ceiling. It was a matter-of-
fact sight to the two officers. And yet on those
shelves there was material for thousands of stories
such as would have left the most fertile dramatist
gasping—stories flaming with tragedy and drama,
and maybe an occasional touch of farce. The
secrets of many lives were hidden there. Misdeeds,
unknown or long forgotten by the world at large,
might here be revealed by a bored, unemotional
clerk reaching down a bundle of papers from the


THE MISSING DOCKET
123
shelves.... Only death itself could blot out the
tale.
There were, too, the unvarnished stories of men who
are sometimes described as masters of crime—shown,
however, for the most part as sordid rascals rather
than figures of romance. But the majority of these
records were prosaic enough—a tale of mean crimes
and recurring punishments. Broad bands of striped
tape encircled each batch of fifty or a hunded papers,
and index numbers were stencilled on each bundle.
At a flat-topped desk a worried-looking man was
checking through a series of these bundles. To
Kensit's interrogative lift of the eyebrows he
responded with a shake of the head.
"No luck at all, sir."
"Got any idea of the last time they were called
for ?" asked Dawkins.
"They're all supposed to be signed for when
they're taken out," answered Kensit. "But you
know how it is sometimes when there's a rush. I've
put a couple of men to look through the register.
Have you heard anything from them, Coll?" He
addressed the searcher.
"We've nothing to show that they've been taken
out for the last five years at least."
Kensit drew Dawkins aside.
"You see," he said. "I don't claim that we're
infallible, but this doesn't look to me like an office
mix-up. If you want to know what I think, Bill,
those papers must have been taken deliberately."
"Stolen ?" asked Dawkins.
"Well, they forgot to remember to return them,
anyway," returned Kensit.


RANCE FALLS INTO A TRAP I2J
it should be made clear, was only to apply to Dawkins
himself. He was not in the least anxious that the
story of what he regarded as his nephew's infatuation
for the daughter of a crook like Solly Engles should
be put on official record. Indeed, he advised that
Jack's official report should confine itself strictly to
what he did when he visited the Yard in search of the
records. In doing so he made it perfectly clear that
although he accepted Jack's denial, suspicion would
undoubtedly be directed to him if the facts were
known.
So Rance had a new trouble on his mind while he
was engaged with Maud. He realised that, although
nothing could be proved against him, the higher
authorities would put two and two together if ever
they knew as much as Uncle Bill, and he would
receive a hint to resign so strong as to be irresistible.
He had plenty of time to brood over this during
many hours' waiting in inconspicuous spots for
Maud's rare excursions. There was little else for
him to do. As to what progress the main inves-
tigation was making, he knew little or nothing.
Rumours reached him that Dawkins was uncom-
monly busy. Some hint of the disappearance of
Silke and his possible association with the murder
had crept into the papers, and it could only be a
question of time before his name was published. He
would inevitably be found. Rance ground his teeth
with a sense of impotence. The machine was at
work. Nothing in the world could stop it, and his
only hope—for the sake of Dorothy Silke—was that
its direction might be diverted.
On a drizzly, misty evening Maud had left Lang-


126
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
field and with her unseen retinue in attendance had
made her way to the High Street. There she had
flitted from place to place, apparently upon a number
of shopping errands, and had finally entered a
grocer's shop which also served as a sub-post office.
The detective acting with Rance at the moment had
followed the girl into this place, and Rance himself,
from the opposite side of the road, was awaiting their
reappearance.
A uniformed policeman, off duty, for he was not
wearing his armlet, passed him, and he recognised
the officer who had been first called on the discovery
of the body. Utterly against the regulations, for
uniformed men are not supposed to give any sign of
recognition to detectives unless first approached, the
man gave an almost imperceptible nod. At that
instant the girl came from the post office and crossed
the road towards them.
Rance moved on and was apparently engrossed in
a shop window—which boasted a large mirror—as
she brushed by the policeman and hurried on. The
other detective was a few yards behind her. As he
came near to Rance he paused to light a pipe.
"Wrote a telegram and sent it," he muttered.
"Right-oh. Carry on. I'll see to it," replied
Rance, still apparently occupied with the shop
window.
He waited till the girl had turned a corner and was
out of sight. Then he crossed to the post office.
The grocer, who acted as postmaster, was amiable
but firm. He waved aside the sergeant's warrant
card.
"Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Rance, but it can't


RANCE FALLS INTO A TRAP llf
be done. Police or no police, we have to follow the
regulations. I can't show you that wire without an
order from the Postmaster-General."
"Oh, damn your red tape," smiled Rance. "By
the time I'm through all that rigmarole it may be
too late if the wire contains anything of interest
to me."
"Sorry," declared the other.
"Can I use the 'phone?"
"In a few minutes," said the postmaster, and his
right eyelid dropped. "We don't actually telegraph
from here, but all wires are 'phoned through to the
head office. If you like to wait. . ."
"I'll wait," said Rance.
Inadvertences will happen in the best regulated
sub-post offices. The postmaster left the door of
the telephone cabinet open and Rance, leaning on
the counter, drew a telegraph form nearer and wrote
as the other slowly dictated:
"Smith, 42 Oxford Road, Twyton. Everything
all right. Nine o'clock. M."
The postmaster, his eyes twinkling, came out of
the cabinet.
"All clear now, Mr. Rance. Did you want to
use the telephone?"
Jack grinned.
"Thanks. I'll say—if ever I'm asked—that you
stick to regulations to the letter."
Inside the telephone box—he had carefully closed
the door—he paused for a moment in thought. Why
had Maud gone to the trouble of telegraphing to a


RANCE FALLS INTO A TRAP 129
detached from its neighbours by an acre or two
of grounds which had remained uncultivated for
many months. A house agent's board dominating
the front fence announced that it was for sale.
No glimmer of light came from the unwashed win-
dows and Rance wondered whether, after all, some
mistake had been made in the address.
He found a retired gateway overhung with shrubs,
and here, he decided, was a suitable point for his
vigil. The time passed slowly. A policeman moved
by on the opposite side of the road, but did not
notice him. Once he feared that his retreat would
be betrayed by an inquisitive dog, but its owner
whistled it back just in time. He guessed that nine
o'clock had gone, but in the darkness it was impos-
sible for him to see the hands of his watch. There
came not the faintest sign of any life from the house
he was watching. He resolved that failing any
development within the next ten minutes he would
take the risk of a closer scrutiny.
The ten minutes went. There was, so far as he
could see, not a soul on either side in the length of
the road. He disengaged himself from his hiding-
place and strolled with apparent aimlessness towards
the iron gates of the drive of Number 42. They
were unlocked and creaked rustily as he pushed them
sufficiently open to make his entrance.
Treading lightly, but with all his senses alert, he
made a circuit of the house. It loomed silent, dark
and commonplace as ever. A closer inspection
showed that the windows were guarded by shutters
from within, and though he bent his ears to some of
them no sound or hint of life came to him. He


130 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
pushed gingerly at the front door. As he expected,
it was locked and bolted.
Once more he made the round of the house, this
time trying all the ground floor windows. All were
securely fastened. So he came to a back door.
Almost automatically his hand sought the handle
and he pushed. He paused in some slight surprise
as it gave to his touch, for by now he had almost made
up his mind that the house was as deserted as it
appeared to be. Pulling an electric torch from his
pocket, he switched the beam into a narrow passage
that seemed to lead to the kitchen.
Then, having got his bearings, he put out the light
and stepped softly into the house. Listening in-
tently, he moved forward with slow and methodical
steps. A sharp thud startled him and he wheeled
quickly, throwing a ray of light on the door that had
now closed.
"Nothing but the wind," he said to himself with
a short laugh, and at that moment his arms were
expertly pinioned behind his back and the cold
touch of steel was on his temple.
"Don't ask for trouble," said a sharp voice, " or
you'll very likely get it."
Rance was a young man who usually kept himself
in reasonable physical condition. But quite apart
from the pistol at his head he had been so seized that
any attempt at a struggle would have been hopeless.
They were two to one and at least one was armed.
He accepted the situation for the moment.
"What's the game ?" he demanded. "Take it
easy. You don't want to break my arms."
"You'll know in a minute," said a voice, but the


RANCE FALLS INTO A TRAP 13I
grip did not relax. "There's someone waiting to
see you. Here, show a light."
There was the snick of a switch and a light blazed
at the end of the passage. Rance snatched a glimpse
of one of his captors—the other was still behind him,
holding his arms—and he saw eyes gleaming at him
through a dark mask roughly made of some black
material which was hanging over the face. No time
was allowed him for prolonged scrutiny. He was
hustled along the bare corridor into a big and well-
furnished room. A man was lying on a couch, white
and thin of face, and with stern, implacable
eyes.
"Well, here you are, Rance," said a voice.
"We've been expecting you."
Jack schooled his voice to a level nonchalance.
There was, he told himself, no use in becoming
flustered.
"Good evening, Mr. Silke," he said quietly. "I
rather thought I might find you here. So it was you
who fixed up this little reception. And Maud is in
the game? Tell me, was that wire meant for me
to see?"
"Never mind about that. I'm the man who's
going to ask questions for once," retorted Solly
Engles icily. "We're going to have a word or two,
you and I, alone."
"Better talk fast," advised Jack, with an assump-
tion of ease that he was far from feeling. "We're
liable to have company at any minute. I left word
for a few of my friends to follow me up. You don't
think I'd be such a fool as to come here alone?"
It might have been fancy, but he thought that he


132 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
saw the other start. If so, the momentary discom-
posure was covered by a short laugh.
"Think up another funny story. I'm too old a
bird for that," said Engles. "I know exactly what
you've done and where you've been since you left
the post office. No, we're not likely to be inter-
rupted. If anything so unlikely should happen I've
taken precautions. We're going to have a quiet
chat, you and I."
"All right. Don't say I didn't tell you," said
Jack, with apparent indifference. "Call off your
jackals. I'm here."
Solly lit a cigar, and Rance noted that his hand
trembled as he held the match.
"You take it easily," he said, "but we'll see.
Tie him up, boys—just his wrists will do. Never
trust a busy. I know this lad. He'd sell his mother
for a commendation by some jack at the Yard.
Then you can wait outside."
With his hands lashed behind his back Jack stood
waiting while the other smoked quietly for a few
minutes, the pale green eyes fixed on him.
"You can sit down," said Engles at last, and Jack
took a chair. "That's probably more comfortable.
I suppose you're wondering why I've gone to this
trouble with you?"
"I could make a guess," said the detective
casually. "But suit yourself."
This was a different Silke to the man he had
known. Still to all appearances a sick man, he had
got himself under some control. There was a hint
of cruelty in the green eyes, and the face, pale and
thin though it was, was that of one resolute and


RANCE FALLS INTO A TRAP
133
determined in a purpose. There flashed through
Rance's mind some of the stories he had heard of the
determination and resource that had marked Solly
in his active days.
"I'm going to suit myself," agreed Engles.
"Don't you believe anything else. In the first place
I want to know if you have put in any written report
of our little conversation the other day?"
"Naturally," said Rance.
"You're not a good liar," sneered Solly. "With
your training you should do better."
Jack did some quick thinking.
"Have it your own way," he yawned. "I'm not
concerned to make you believe me. If you've lured
me here under any impression that you can suppress
what I know, you may get a shock later. It's all
down in black and white. You should have put a
more reliable man on the job when you wanted me
croaked outside your house."
Solly raised himself on one elbow and shook his
head.
"For what it's worth, I knew nothing about that,
then. I'm no murderer—unless I'm driven to it."
The last words came in a low hiss.
"Did Smiler drive you to it ?" asked the detective.
A flash of fury distorted Engles's face. He tried to
raise himself still further, and the effort caused him
to drop back, panting, to the couch.
"If I were able to get at you I'd smash your face
in for that," he gasped. "I had nothing to do with
the killing of Smiler." He paused, and then regain-
ing control of himself, went on: "You're one of
those who think you're going to pin it on me. I


134
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
know you kind of swine. Where you've made a
mistake is in thinking that I'm the kind of man who
will sit down and let you railroad me to the gallows.
If I swing, I swing for something."
"Meaning perhaps me?" asked Rance, and he
smiled, although his heart was pounding.
"Meaning very likely you," said Solly grimly.
/


CHAPTER XIV
ORDEAL BY WATER
There was no doubting that Solomon Engles meant
what he said. Whether he was mad or sane, his was
the attitude of a determined and cunning man driven
into a corner, and Jack felt that he would stop at
nothing, however desperate, in the attempt to
extricate himself.
The detective now realised the folly of the
impetuous rashness that had brought him single-
handed to the house. There was, in spite of the
brave face he had put upon the matter to Engles,
not a soul who knew where he had gone. He had
been in tight places before this—once he had fought
alone against a gang of race toughs armed with
razors and knuckle-dusters, using only his bare fists;
once he had, again unarmed, knocked out a burglar
who had held him at a pistol point. But this was
different. That had been in hot blood, with some
prospect of help before the worst happened. Now
there was no hope of help. Had he followed the
principle that is customary in the C.I.D., by which
every man is certain of some support save in sudden
and singular emergencies, he would not have been
caught in this trap. He might even have given a
hint to the policeman on the beat who had passed
him during his vigil. Well, it was too late now.
He would have to rely on his wits and his nerve.


136 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
He realised that his quiet efforts to loosen the line
with which his hands had been lashed had merely
resulted in chafing his wrists to an almost intolerable
soreness. Anyway, he asked himself, what could he
do even if his hands were free? On a sudden he
became icily cool and his heart stopped thumping.
"Don't you think all this is very silly, Mr. Silke?"
he said, using the name by which he had known the
other. "You're a common-sense man. It would
only make matters worse for you if any harm came
to me."
"You think matters could be worse for me, do
you?" retorted Solly. "I'm being chased like a
dog—and I'll have to meet a dog's death if I'm
caught. You talk like a child."
"All right. But I'm not acting like a child. You
say you didn't murder Smiler. If I've heard right
you've got the reputation of being a man. Why not
face it out, then? You'd get a fair trial—if it comes
to that. That's your only chance. You know well
enough that whatever happens to me they'll get you
in the end."
The burning eyes seemed to dilate in the pale
face.
"I know that kind of talk. You don't believe it
yourself," sneered Solly. "You think I did this
murder"
"I'm not sure you did," interrupted Rance.
"So you say. But Dawkins does, and all this
poppycock doesn't alter the fact that he'd put me
in the dock with the dice loaded against me. It's
me for the high jump if they get me. I'm taking
no chances about a fair trial. Pah!" He spat


ORDEAL BT WATER
137
disgustedly. "Listen. You say you don't believe
I did it. Would you go into the box and testify
against me?"
"I'd hate to do it," said the detective slowly.
"Don't worry to be polite. You'd do it. You'd
give away what I admitted to you that night when
I thought you were a friend of mine. You'd tell 'em
that you'd traced payments from me to Smiler.
You'd tell 'em that I'd admitted being an old crook
and making blackmailing payments to him—one a
few hours before the murder. You'd tell 'em that
I had a gun which I gave to you. You'd say that
an attempt on your life was made as you left the
house. I don't know what has been raked up
against me since, but with my bare word—the word
of an old crook—against that, where would I be? I
was a fool to trust you that night."
"You've forgotten one thing," said Rance. "The
jury would be told, by me or someone else, that the
time limit in which you could have done the murder
was so narrow that it is highly unlikely you could
have carried it out."
Solly became thoughtful as though a fresh angle
of reflection had presented itself. Slowly he shook
his head.
"No, Rance, that's no good. I'm going my own
way on this. In the first place I'm not going to be
arrested if there is anything I can do to help it.
In the second I'm going to shut your mouth one way
or another."
"More threats?"
"Take it which way you like. I made you an offer
once and you turned it down. I'm going to give you


ORDEAL BY WATER 139
blaze of anger that he did his best to conceal. The
other resumed:
"I can't trust you, Rance. Even if you gave me
your word I wouldn't trust you. You're a detective
and I'm a crook, and like all your kind you think
that everything is fair against me. Believe me, I
know your type. I've thought this over a lot, and
if I could see any way out short of tying Dorothy
to you, I'd take it. I've got to force your hand and
make sure that you play straight. The girl's fond
of you. You're fond of her. There you are. You
can marry her by special licence—and when she's
your wife you'll fall in with my views. Don't you
think I'm doing this to save myself. I'm doing it to
save her. Think it over, boy."
Rance heard a voice speaking as from afar and
was surprised to recognise it as his own.
"What does Dorothy think about this?"
"Don't worry about her. She'll agree," returned
Solly shortly.
"And all I've got to do," said Rance, whose
clearness of mind was returning to him, " to get a
rich wife and have the felicity of a man like you as a
father-in-law is to perjure myself. I'll tell you this,
Silke, or Solomon Engles, or whatever you like to
call yourself, I don't believe she knows a thing
about this proposition, but if she did, and if she
agreed, I'd see you burn in hell first."
"Ah well, you may alter your mind," said Solly
wearily, and leaned back. Rance heard the whirr
of an electric bell. The door opened and the masked
men who had played so prominent a part in his
capture entered.


THE THOUSANDTH CASB
"Take him downstairs," ordered Engles. "Then
one of you come and give me a hand."
The detective offered no resistance as they led
him away. They passed down a flight of stone steps
to the basement and into a small, box-like room.
A single unshaded electric bulb near the ceiling
showed a bare, concreted chamber some eight feet
high. Within a few inches of the ceiling an aperture
about the size of a brick had been made to take a
tiny iron ventilator. This was the only thing in
the nature of a window. Save that and the heavy
steel door, there was no other opening. Rance felt
the concrete floor wet and slimy beneath his feet, as
with a slight push from behind he was ushered into
this place.
One of his guardians disappeared and in a few
minutes he heard shambling, uncertain steps de-
scending the stairs. Solly, leaning on the shoulder
of one of his assistants, stumbled into the doorway.
"I thought you might like to see this place," he
said. "Comfortable spot for a little reflection—
what? Does it give you any change of heart?"
"Your own private dungeon," sneered Rance.
"You don't scare me, Solly. It will suit me if I
stay here till doomsday."
"No. You're a hell of a hero," retorted the other.
"I don't think you've appreciated the full beauty of
the place yet. Let me explain it to you. You'll
have noticed this door. Pretty solid for a wine
cellar, eh? Why, when it's closed, you might
almost say the place is hermetically sealed. That
bit of a ventilator that you see up there looks out
towards the Cardinal's River, which runs less than


ORDEAL BY WATER
141
a dozen yards away. Perhaps you know that the
river—it isn't really a river—was made by Cardinal
Wolsey to supply Hampton Court with water.
You're getting pretty close to history here, Rance.
Sometimes, when we have a lot of rain, the base-
ment here is flooded."
"Are you delivering a lecture?" asked Rance
scornfully.
"Now you're trying to make me lose my temper.
There are one or two things that may be of vital
personal concern to you in which I thought you
might possibly be interested. For, you see, there is
a simple little contrivance I've thought out. Just
a few pipes and a length of rubber hose led to the
ventilator will turn this into a little private swim-
ming bath—that is, of course, if one's able to swim.
I wonder what kind of a sensation a man would get
if he were here alone with his hands tied—mark
that, with his hands tied—watching the water
tumbling in, feeling it rise ever so slowly, until
at last"
He stopped. The surroundings, the cold, level
tone, the grim, unrelenting green eyes that had
never wavered in their keen scrutiny, combined to
create the first surge of something like panic that
Jack had felt since he entered the house. He told
himself that he was the victim of a sinister stage
effect deliberately created, but which there could be
no intention of carrying through. And yet there
was that in Engles's voice which made him uncertain.
The crook was a desperate man driven into a corner,
and was perhaps insane enough really to mean what
he said. Nevertheless, however far Engles might


142
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
be prepared to go, there were the other two men.
Whoever and whatever they might be, it was almost
impossible to think that they would jeopardise their
necks by aiding in a cold-blooded murder. Somehow
he managed to laugh.
"All very pretty," he declared incredulously.
"Carry on."
"You think I'm bluffing," said Solly. "I'll
show you."
He whispered something to one of his subordinates,
who, nodding his head, disappeared. In a little
there was a rustling at the outside of the ventilator.
A thin brass nozzle was thrust through its inter-
stices.
"See," said Solly quietly. "It would take a long
time to fill this place. A man could see death
coming for hours, slowly, ever so slowly. He
might shout until he was exhausted and no one
would hear."
Rance made a final throw.
"You fellows "—he appealed to the men who
stood by Solly—" know I'm a police officer. You
know if you let this madman go through with this
that it will be murder and you will swing for it.
It will be better for you to help me to get him now,
and I promise I'll do what I can to see that you get
let down lightly."
"Shut up. Shall I fetch him one across the jaw?"
asked one of the men.
"No. Let him alone," said Solly. "You can
save your voice, Rance. You'll want it presently,
when you're shouting for help. They know all
about me—and I know something about them.


ORDEAL BY WATER
They'll stand by me—for reasons. Turn that off
for a while," he ordered one of his assistants, and
in a few minutes the splashing ceased.
"Now, Rance," he went on sharply. "We're not
going to waste time with you all night. Make up
your mind. It will be too late the next time the
water comes. If it comes to that point we shall be
far away from here while you're watching it rise.
You'll drown like they drown rats in a trap."
Temptation laid hold of the detective's soul as it
had never done before. The prospect of an appalling
and slow death really frightened him. His lips were
dry. Wildly he tried to think out some method of
temporising. And yet, while he struggled in the
grip of an almost unendurable mental panic, some-
thing held him from surrender.
"Go ahead," he said, though the words nearly
choked him. "I've given you warning. Now
murder me."
"I'll give you ten minutes to think about it,"
said Solly. "Ten minutes. You're a young man
with a long while to live in the ordinary way. Ten
minutes. We have our arrangements to make for a
getaway if you're determined to commit suicide.
Ten minutes. Don't forget."
The interminable horror of that space of time was
a thing that Jack Rance never forgot. He tried
to reason it all out calmly. If it was all a gigantic
bluff Engles had manufactured the situation well.
That last ten minutes had probably been given to
let the imagination that had been kindled do its
work. Would he really dare when it came to the
point? There was, Jack reflected, a fifty-fifty


144
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
chance that on his final refusal the thing would be
carried no farther. It was on this line of reasoning,
but, nevertheless, with a suffocating doubt at his
heart, that he stiffened his resolve.
"I'll call the bluff," he muttered, and the door
opened. Solly, a lean, gaunt figure in his dressing-
gown, with the shadow of one of his satellites in
the background, had come for his answer.


146
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
of the pocket. Cautiously, gently, he manoeuvred
the lining, pulling it out little by little. Once he
thought that he had the knife, but the whole pocket
slipped back and he had to re-start the process.
The second time the whole contents of the pocket—
a bunch of keys, a few coins, and the knife—fell to
the ground, and he was forced to sit in the icy water
and scrabble for the knife. That, however, was
a matter of a few seconds and he paid no attention
to the physical discomfort. With the knife between
his fingers he struggled clumsily but triumphantly
to his feet. There was no difficulty in opening it.
There was more trouble, however, than he had
expected in severing the cord. His fingers were
cramped, and he had given himself a nasty gash in
the wrist before he was finally free. He stretched
his arms above his head with a sigh of relief.
Meanwhile the water had risen above his ankles,
but that no longer troubled him. The ventilator
was easily within his reach, and, careless of the order
that police note-books must always be preserved
inviolate, he tore out half a dozen pages and, with
the aid of a pencil, stuffed them in the nozzle of the
hose. That immediate peril was past, at any rate.
In a revulsion of spirits he felt almost impelled to
burst into song.
Yet, when he came to make a close inspection of
the cellar, he realised that he had little enough
occasion for cheerfulness. The heavy iron door
was fitted with a self-locking device and there was
no means of opening it from within. Although
he knew that the effort would be fruitless, he tried
his weight against it, with no result. The ventilator,


DOROTHY INTERVENES 147
although he had been able to reach it with his
hands, was well above his angle of vision. Once or
twice he jumped, trying to catch some glimpse of
the outside, but the attempt proved worse than
useless, for losing his footing on the slimy floor he
fell headlong. Luckily he had fallen on his side
and the pocket that contained his cigarettes and
matches remained dry. He lit a cigarette and felt
inclined to risk a shout for help, on the remote
chance that it might be heard through the ventilator,
although he fancied that Solly Engles had probably
been right when he had dwelt on.the improbability
of anyone being within hearing distance. It was
not that thought, however, which stopped him,
The odds were that, even if they really intended to.
Engles and his associates had not yet left the house.
The last thing he wanted was a visit from one of
them.
At the best, he had in front of him the prospect of
a cheerless night. Even the relative comfort of
lying down on the hard floor was denied to him
because of the water which covered it. Such rest
as could be got he obtained by huddling in a corner.
How long it would be before he was released he did
not know, but with an indomitable optimism he
determined that he was certain ultimately to be
found. He had a great belief in Dawkins. Reckon-
ing up, he decided that it would be nine o'clock in
the morning before he was missed. Several hours
would then elapse before any real alarm was felt.
Then they would go to the colleague who had last
seen him—the man with whom he had shadowed
Maud to the post office. Obviously the next move


150
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
opened the door and could hear no sound I was
afraid something had happened to you and I waited
—I had intended just to open it and slip away. I
can't tell you any more. Oh, please let me go."
She beat at his breast with her two hands and he
released his hold. Silently as a wraith she passed
swiftly out and up the stairs. Jack stood still.
His common sense told him not to follow her and he
had gone through enough that night not to minimise
her warning. At last, satisfied that she must be
clear away, he crept to the top of the stairs and
strained his ears, listening intently. He fancied he
heard a car start. The house itself was wrapped
in a ghostly silence.
Moving with perfect caution—he did not intend
to be caught napping again—he groped his way to
the back door and let himself out. He remembered
that there was a police telephone box some quarter
of a mile away, and partly to warm himself—he now
realised that he was chilled to the bone—partly
for the relief of swift action, he made for it at a
jog-trot.
There is always an inspector and a skeleton night
staff on duty at C.I.D. headquarters—though,
truth to tell, this is something in the nature of a
gesture by the authorities, for their duties are
invariably very light. Only on very exceptional
occasions are they aroused from their slumbers,
and then rather for the purpose of raising a hue and
cry than for matters of investigation. The real
detective work is done at night by men who are
sent out for some special purpose.
To the inspector in charge—rather querulous and


DOROTHY INTERVENES
snappy at being disturbed—Jack told some part of
his story.
"This is Rance speaking—detective sergeant T
Division—on that Carne murder job with Chief
Inspector Dawkins. Silke—you know, Solomon
Engles, the suspect—tried to murder me to-night.
Yes, I located him at 42 Oxford Road, Twyton.
No, he's not there now. He got away—that's why
I'm 'phoning you. I believe he's in a car with two
or three other people. He made his getaway about
a quarter of an hour ago, I should say. No, I
can't tell you what the car was like. I didn't see it.
His description has gone out, but you had better
add this to it. He's pretty sick and has to be
helped even when he walks. Got that ? . . . Yes,
there were two toughs with him who seem pretty
bad men. They're probably armed. The party
will be Silke, these two men, and "He came
to an abrupt stop. Why say anything about
Dorothy, at any rate now? He could consider
that when he came to make his report.
"And who else?" asked a peremptory voice at
the other end of the line. "Speak up. Oh,
damn this 'phone."
"Just two men, sir," answered Rance, burning
his boats. "They were masked and I couldn't see
their faces. One smallish, perhaps five feet six or
seven, dressed in blue serge; the other above average
height, maybe six feet, wearing a dark grey suit.. . .
No, I didn't see their hats. I had other troubles to
think about. Can you get that message round?
They won't expect to be specially looked for yet—
they think I'm under lock and key."


DOROTHY INTERVENES
As Rance turned into Oxford Road he saw a
constable and pulled him up.
"I'm Rance of the C.I. When were you last
along this road?"
"Half an hour ago. Anything wrong?"
"Yes. I ran into a spot of bother. Nothing to do
with you. When did you come round before that?"
"Hour and a quarter, I should think. It's a
long beat."
There is, for obvious reasons, a studied irregularity
in many police patrols.
"You noticed nothing special anywhere, I sup-
pose? Look here." He seized the policeman by
the arm and pointed to Number 42. "You've not
seen anyone going into or leaving that house?"
"Funny thing you should say that. It's been
empty some months, but I did put a private mark
on the outer gate last time I was along. It has been
opened since. I was thinking of having a walk
round."
Practically all night duty men affix inconspicuous
marks to gates and doorways of certain places—
a feather, a length of cotton, a piece of whalebone—
so that they may tell if anyone has passed in or
out during their absence. Jack, however, was not
interested in that matter. The mark would have
been disturbed by himself in any event.
"I've been in there," he said shortly. "That's
where I met trouble. I'm going through there
again and I want you to come with me. There
may be someone hanging about still, so be careful.
They caught me napping."
Thus reinforced against contingencies, he once


154
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
more made his way into the house through the back
door. Switching on the lights he turned first into
the kitchen. A few used plates and dishes were on
the table, and the general condition of the place
told that the cooking and housekeeping had been
done in rough, amateurish fashion.
"By gum! Somebody has been living here,"
exclaimed the constable.
"I'll say they have," agreed Rance, scrutinising
the muddle. "Don't touch anything. If they
haven't left finger-prints here, I'm a Dutchman."
"I know enough for that," said the policeman, a
little aggrievedly. "Funny thing," he added,
"that I've not seen or heard anything. I'll swear
my marks haven't been disturbed till to-night."
"Perhaps they've only been going in or out in
daytime," said Rance, but he registered the point
in his mind as a peculiar one.
An inspection of the house showed that only two
or three rooms had been furnished. There was the
apartment where Solly had interviewed Rance; a
smaller room adjoining, which Jack judged had been
used by his associates ; and a chamber on the upper
floor which he guessed had been Dorothy's. All
were shuttered and heavily curtained, as, indeed,
were several apartments, neglected and cobwebbed,
which had obviously been unoccupied. Nothing
of importance was at a first glance discovered in any
of them. Coming downstairs, Rance walked for a
second time through Solly's room and that adjoining.
In the latter he stooped and picked up a couple of
threads of material that clung to a rug on one of
the beds.


DOROTHY INTERVENES
15 5
"Found something, Mr. Rance?" asked the
constable.
"You never know," said Rance casually. "Might
work out, but I don't think it's anything of impor-
tance."
A trip to the cellar revealed nothing about that
man-trap that he did not already know, but with
some curiosity he inspected the outside arrangements.
They were more or less as Solly had described them.
The Cardinal's River, a small, placid stream, flowed a
few yards away, and he was able to find where pipes
had been laid to within a little distance of the cellar.
The nozzle of the hose was still fixed into the venti-
lator and he left it as it was. No doubt photographs
would be taken when day came.
"This is a funny job," said the constable, who
was frankly puzzled. "What's been happening to
you to-night, Mr. Rance?"
The other was not talkative.
"You'll know all about it some time," he said
curtly. "What I want you to do now is to stay here
till you're relieved. If anyone sets foot in the place,
he—or she—is to be detained until you can let me
know. I'll send someone along from the station.
Good night. I want a sleep."


CHAPTER XVI
MAUD REFUSES TO TALK
It was one of those irritating wild-goose chases that
occur so often in murder investigations that had
taken Dawkins out of town at ten minutes' notice.
There had come news from a South Coast resort
that a man and a girl resembling Solly Engles and
Dorothy, but, of course, giving other names, had
engaged rooms at a private hotel on the morning
that their disappearance had been discovered. The
local police were confident that they were the right
people, and after a hurried conference with Went-
worth, the chief constable, it had been decided that
Dawkins should set off. With some of the eager
local officers, who had met Mender and himself at
the station, he had got to the hotel at eleven at
night and walked into the bedroom of a very angry
naval captain who was taking a short seaside trip
with his daughter. Neither bore anything but the
most superficial resemblance to the fugitives, and
Dawkins had received the apologies of the local
force with a serene affability outwardly, but inwardly
seething. He had, he later confessed, learned several
new words from the captain which he would have
liked to use.
"Just like those yobs," he complained to Mender,
when they had caught the early morning train


MAUD REFUSES TO TALK
back after a short night's rest. "Couldn't stop to
make sure. Too blinking anxious to steal a bit of
limelight."
His irritability had vanished, however, with a
short extra nap in the train, and he felt capable of
coping with a full day's work when he set foot in
Scotland Yard.
"Had a nice trip, Bill ?" asked Jim Kilgan, as he
opened his locker to dispose of his hat and coat.
"How's the sea air? I shouldn't put those away,
if I were you. The old man's waiting to see you.
Been running in and out here for the last hour like a
hen that's lost a pet chicken. Things are alight in
your direction, I promise you."
"Hell's bells. No peace for the wicked," groaned
Dawkins. "What's the agony now?"
Before Kilgan could reply the heavy, grim visage
of Wentworth, the chief constable, peered round the
door.
"Has—well, you're here at last, Dawkins. Come
along. My car's waiting."
For all his sixty years he hustled the chief inspector
like an eager boy, and they were seated in the car
before he revealed anything of the purport of their
journey.
"That young nephew of yours seems to have
tumbled across Solly at a hide-out at Twyton last
night. Bad luck that you weren't about, or if
he'd thought to get in touch with me things might
have been different. The boy had a pretty rough
passage, I gather. Lucky to be alive." He roughly
outlined the report that Jack had made over the
telephone that morning. "I've been waiting for


158
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
you," he added, "though I was tempted to throw
someone else on the job provisionally."
"Now isn't that like Solly ?" exclaimed Dawkins.
"While we're raking the country inside out for him,
there he lies all snug within a stone's throw of the
place he started from. I might have thought of it."
He shook his head ruefully.
Wentwqrth chuckled.
"I never had much to do with him in the old days.
He wasn't on my manor. If what I've heard's true,
it takes a smart man to out-think him. I've always
had an idea that he was the brains of that big robbery
of gold antiques down at Brighton a good many
years ago. Solly was keeping doggo. The couple
who were doing the inside job were just due to come
out of the house with the lumber when a policeman
comes round the corner. There was no time to
give them the office, so Solly kids he's half drunk.
Tells the officer he's been home with a woman and
she's slipped it across him—taken his wallet and
his watch and got her bully to hoof him out of the
house. Thinks he can show the officer the house.
So he leads him away and after walking round for a
bit says he's sorry, he's likely got a bit confused.
So he leaves a false name and address and hops the
wag. Meanwhile the inside men had a clear field
for their getaway. Of course," he added reflectively,
"that was in his young days, and it was a hell of
a big job. When he got older and wiser he wouldn't
have been found within miles of any robbery that
he was running."
"Well, he'll have to be clever to get out of this
mess," asserted Dawkins. "For some reason I've


THE THOUSANDTH CASE
nothing of the attempt to coerce him into marriage.
He let it be inferred that he had simply been urged
by Solly to pledge himself to suppress evidence. Of
his escape he told how he had been awakened by
some sound at the door of the underground cellar,
and had stealthily approached to find it open, while
the intruder, whoever it was, had vanished.
"Queer thing, that," commented Wentworth.
"Why should they go to all this trouble and then let
you out in that way, knowing you were certain to
talk?"
Dawkins made no remark. His eyes were fixed
on Rance's face thoughtfully.
"I can't make any guess, sir," said the detective
sergeant blandly.
"Damned queer," repeated Wentworth. "Looks
to me as if someone had weakened at the last
moment." He rose. "Well, let's have a look round
the show."
Escorted by Rance they wandered over the house.
The cellar seemed to intrigue the chief constable.
"I'll say you had your nerve with you, young
feller," he said in an unwonted compliment. "I
guess I'd have thought twice if they'd offered to
drown me in this hole. Why, you young fool, why
didn't you promise to do anything they said?
There would have been no moral or legal obligation
to keep your word. Nobody would have blamed
you."
"The fact is, sir," said Rance diffidently, " that I
was a little off my balance. They got my goat and I
wasn't going to be bullyragged into anything. I'm
told that you've taken chances in your time."


MAUD REFUSES TO TALK
Wentworth laughed as though tickled by some
recollection.
"When you get as old as I am, my boy, you'll not
step into trouble that you can avoid. The worst
I've had of this kind was when I lay in a cellar wait-
ing for some hooks, with rats running all over me.
You were lucky there were no rats here."
"I've heard about that, sir," ventured Rance
meekly. "You laid one man out with your fists, and
the other shot at you and got away. After being
told off for being fool enough to try to nab them
without assistance, you went and ran the other to
earth in some Whitechapel common lodging-house."
The chief constable shook his head reprovingly.
"Don't you try to butter me, son. Things were
different then. I ought to kick you hard, and an-
other time Don't forget that when I grew up
I took five men with me to arrest one murderer
who we thought might shoot. Here, I can't stand
chattering all day. Let's get on."
Up in the kitchen Mount, his plump face wreathed
in smiles, was supervising the packing of unwashed
crockery-ware.
"We're in luck. Bill," he hailed Dawkins, and
catching sight of Wentworth became suddenly more
formal. "Good morning, sir. I didn't know you
were here."
"Things promising, eh?" grunted the chief
constable.
"Surely," agreed the finger-print chief. "There's
dozens of marks on these plates and dishes. When
we've developed 'em we ought to be on something
strong. Look here."


l6z THE THOUSANDTH CASE
With practised hands he gingerly scattered powder
from a bottle on to a plate standing on the table.
Then carefully blowing at the powder, he left revealed,
standing out in startling black against the white
surface, a series of imprints.
"Mostly thumbs," he commented. "Anyone
would naturally hold a plate with the thumb on top."
Deftly reversing the plate he repeated the process, and
again a number of marks sprang into being. "Some
of them are a bit smudged," he said, adjusting his
spectacles and peering at the plate, " but there are
plenty clear enough."
"Seems to me," observed Dawkins, "as if these
people had overlooked a bet. Solly would be
awfully careful about finger-prints in the ordinary
way."
"Just one of those things," said Wentworth.
Rance was struck by a thought that caused a
disturbing shiver to run through him. If Dorothy
had been living in this place it was long odds that
her prints would be among those revealed. It was
on the tip of his tongue to ask whether any prints
resembling those of a woman had been noticed, but
he refrained. That bridge could be crossed if' and
when the time came. Instead he found himself
asking quite another thing.
"I wonder if I might have a complete set of these
when you've had them photographed? If they're
not on record they might be those of some of the
people Solly has associated with about here, and I
might get a chance to check up on them."
"That's a good idea. Send him a bunch along
during the day, will you, Mr. Mount? And talking


MAUD REFUSES TO TALK 163
about other people, what about this girl Maud? I'd
like to see her before I get back."
"She'll probably be at Langfield," said Rance.
"Greet, who was tailing her, told me this morning
that she went straight back there from the post
office."
"Here, wait a minute," said Wentworth.
"Hasn't she been under constant observation? I
want to know something. How did she communi-
cate with Solly, as she must have done if he expected
you here, without us knowing something about
it?"
Rance shook his head.
"Greet says he saw her home and handed over to
his relief about ten o'clock outside Langfield. She
might have 'phoned."
"There's no phone in this house," retorted
Wentworth. "Unless some outside messenger
Come on, Dawkins. We'll trot along and see the
lady. You had better come too, Rance."
They found the staff at Langfield in the throes
of packing their personal effects. Maud herself
received them with no appearance of surprise.
Dawkins greeted her with geniality.
"Good morning, my dear. What's the idea?
You all clearing off?"
She continued folding some clothes and placed
them carefully in the fibre trunk against which she
was kneeling before answering.
"Yes, we're going. We're entitled to leave if we
want to. Who's to pay us for stopping, with the
master and Miss Dorothy away?"
"So you think that they're gone for good, do


164
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
you ?" said the chief inspector gently. "How came
you to make up your mind about that so soon?"
"We're not fools," she snapped. "What with
the queer things that have been happening here, and
the police coming round every five minutes, we've
talked it over and we've determined to go. Nobody
can stop us."
She got aggressively to her feet and faced them.
"Oh, yes. You have a clear right to go if you
wish. Are you going home? Where do you
live?"
In fact, he had known for more than twenty-four
hours that the girl had no settled home of her own.
She had gone straight from an orphanage into
domestic service and her nearest relatives lived
in a small provincial town where he had had some
enquiries made about her without much result.
"It's none of your business," she retorted. "I've
been worried enough. I'm going where I can be
quiet."
"It's tough luck on you, of course," he said
sympathetically. "We hate to have to bother you,
but we've got our duty to do. This gentleman is
Mr. Wentworth, the chief constable. He thought
he'd like to meet you. We want you to help us all
you can. Perhaps you've thought of something
since I last saw you. Perhaps something has
happened since?"
"I've said everything I'm going to," she asserted
sullenly. "You've got no right to keep on at me. If
you do, I shall see my lawyer."
"Oh, that's it? Who told you to do that?"
interposed Wentworth sharply. "Why should you


MAUD REFUSES TO TALK 165
talk about lawyers? Have you done anything
wrong?"
She laughed shrilly.
"I've heard about you gentlemen," she retorted,
and stood with one hand on her hip, completely
defiant.
To each of the three detectives it was plain that
she had been drilled to meet their inquisition. She
had obviously been told that she could refuse to
answer questions with impunity. The senior men
had a full appreciation of the delicate and exaspera-
ting dilemma in which they were placed. One false
step in the attempt to extract the truth and they
might place their personal careers in jeopardy—the
more especially if a lawyer were called in to make
play with charges of " the third degree."
Whatever was passing in their minds their faces
betrayed nothing. Indeed, Dawkins smiled as
though he were enjoying some private joke.
Weaker or less experienced men might have taken
the simple way out and let things slide. But neither
he nor Wentworth were men who were easily balked.
The quick brain of the latter saw another possible
way of breaking the girl's silence and immediately
took it. He spoke sternly, using official phrases that
might be quoted in court if necessary.
"Look here, my girl. You know we are police
officers. We are here on a very serious matter and I
warn you to be extremely careful what you say. We
have reason to believe that you have been helping
and associating with a man who is wanted for
murder. If you have deliberately helped him it may
place you in a very serious position."


166
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Wentworth could be impressive when he liked and
his words lost nothing by the ponderous sternness of
his manner, which was not without effect on Maud.
She whitened visibly and her hands opened and shut
in nervous reaction. Still, she faced the situation.
"You can't prove anything against me."
"Can't we? We know you went to a post office
last night and sent a wire to Silke, who was hiding at
a house in Oxford Road."
"You can't prove anything," she repeated, but
her self-confidence was shattered and there was a
touch of hysteria in her voice.
Wentworth continued grimly:
"Listen to me. That's not all. We believe that
that wire was sent as part of a plot to murder Mr.
Rance here. Now I warn you again. Would you
like to make a statement?"
She was in tears by this time. "I don't know
anything about it. All I know is that I was asked
to send a telegram. I didn't know it was to Mr.
Silke."
Wentworth's manner changed to a paternal note.
"Don't worry, my dear. Tell us what you like.
Who asked you to send that wire?"
She swayed as she stared at him blankly.
"I won't—I won't tell you," she shrieked and fell
in a faint across the bed.
The chief constable stooped and gently lifted her
to a more comfortable position. His face was
inscrutable as he studied her for a second.
"Fetch a glass of water, will you ?" he asked and
as Rance left to obey he turned to the chief inspector.
"Looks as if she's going to be a tough nut, Dawkins.


MAUD REFUSES TO TALK 167
There's nothing for it now. I'll leave her to
you."
Dawkins thought for a minute before replying.
"This will throw out my ideas a little," he said.
"I guess I'll have to detain her on suspicion of being
concerned in an attempt to murder. If she was
running around loose she might have brought us in
touch with someone who mattered."
"Can't be helped," returned Wentworth.
"She'll have to take her chance. Let her see a
lawyer if she likes—in fact, ask her if she wants one.
If he's any sense, when he knows the facts he may
persuade her to loosen up to save her own skin. I'll
see you later."
He left as Rance returned with the water. In a
few minutes Maud had come to her senses and was
driven off to the local police station in a car.
Dawkins and Rance left her sobbing in the care of
the matron.
As they drove back again to Oxford Road the
chief inspector laid a hand on the arm of his nephew.
"We're running into deep water in this job," he
said. "I don't want any complications that are
likely to land us in trouble. You haven't told the
full story of this attempt on you. What have you
left out?"
"Left out?" Rance had little need to affect
surprise, although he hid something of the consterna-
tion that he felt at the unexpected question. "I
don't know what you mean. Why should I leave
out anything?"
"I'm pretty old and pretty tough," returned
Dawkins composedly, " and you don't have to teach


i68
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
your grandmother how to suck eggs. The old man
swallowed your story because he doesn't know you
as well as I do. The only reason I can think why
you should leave out anything is because you're in
love with Dorothy Silke."


CHAPTER XVII
WHO OPENED THE DOOR?
Dawkins signalled to the driver and the car drew to
a halt.
"We'll walk back," he announced. "When you
want a quiet talk, Jack, take my tip and always do it
in the open. Nobody can then listen at keyholes or
fit up microphones. If I were a blackmailer I'd
always take my victims to the middle of a common."
He broke off and whistled a bar or two of a popular
song. "Well, what about it?"
Rance, his hands thrust deep in his trousers
pockets, walked moodily along without replying for a
while. What, he wondered, was at the back of the
other's mind? What did he suspect?
The next remark of the chief inspector left him in
no doubt.
"Don't forget that I'm in charge of this case
and that I don't propose to have anyone holding
anything out on me. Nephew or no nephew, you'll
be for it if you start throwing things into the
machinery of a murder investigation. Is that plain
enough?"
"I think so, sir," said Jack. "In other words
I'm mucking up the show. What do you want me
to do—resign from the service?"
"I want to stop you behaving like a blasted fool.
I want a dead straight deal—first as your superior


170
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
officer, next as your uncle and your friend. If
you've any thoughts of standing pat, just remember
that I've no relatives and no friends when it's a
question of doing my duty. I'll have no shenanikin.
Do you know what you're running yourself into?
That matter of the missing docket from the Criminal
Record Office isn't cleared up yet. If you'd hold
something back to protect someone, isn't it possible
that you might have gone a step farther and des-
troyed something? You've had the opportunity."
Rance stood stock-still, his blazing eyes and
clenched fists reflecting an impulse of fury.
"That's a lie and you know it's a lie," he declared.
"I'm glad to see you lose your temper." Dawkins
spoke in a suave, level tone. "Maybe it is a lie. I
don't believe you'd go as far as that. But I've
known youngsters—decent youngsters, too—ruin
themselves in the service for the sake of a woman.
Use your common sense. If you're known to have
suppressed other facts, who will believe you when
you deny all knowledge of the docket? Don't
you think you'd better trust me before you get
yourself into a real bad tangle?"
The momentary flash of passion had faded. Jack
recognised that his uncle was speaking the language
of cold sanity. What good could silence do Dorothy
now? She was known to have taken flight with her
father, and probably when he was traced she would
be found with him. It could scarcely be held to her
discredit that she had released him or that she had
stuck to Silke. The impulse that had caused him to
conceal her name now appeared to him merely silly.
Yet he found it hard to confess that she had been


WHO OPENED THE DOOR?
used as a pawn in the game—that she was to have
been the price of his silence. That issue he evaded
for a while.
"It's not quite as bad as you think, sir," he said.
"All that it amounts to is that she was the person
who unfastened the door and let me out. Don't
forget that but for her I'd have been a dead man now.
I didn't want to bring her into it too publicly. You
see, if I'd mentioned her, her description would have
been broadcast. I somehow didn't think it was
necessary."
"Necessary! Why, it might have been vital! If
a woman had been known to be in the party they
might have been picked up by now. Suppose they
have split. No one will be looking for a sick man
with a woman. However, we'll leave that. Did she
have anything to do with the rest of the scheme?
Was that the only time you saw her during the
night?"
"I never saw her before then during the whole
time. She opened the door and I sprang out on her.
She told me that if she didn't get back to the rest of
the ga—the people she was with—they might come
to look for her. So I let her go."
"H'm." Dawkins took a few paces in meditative
silence. "Will you give me your word that, so far
as you know, she had nothing more to do with last
night's business either directly or indirectly? Did
Solly mention her? I tell you frankly, Jack, there's
still something I don't understand. Was your
pledge to Solly to have been in any way concerned
with her?"
It was out at last. There was no possibility now


WHO OPENED THE DOOR? I73
be. You'll have the rough side of his tongue, and
I'll say you've asked for it. And when we get Solly
you'll have to go into the witness box and tell the
whole truth, whoever it affects and whatever your
feelings may be. Make up your mind to that, and
don't try to be clever with me again. That's all."
Rance made no reply and they walked on silently
for a few yards, both apparently immersed in deep
thought. Dawkins it was who spoke first.
"I'm not very fond of guns myself, but if I were
you, Jack, I'd slip one in my pocket the first chance
you get. All the signs show that Solly will show
fight if he gets a chance when he's cornered. For,
of course, whatever develops now about the murder
of Smiler, we've got to take him for this attempt
on you."
It was the latter part of the remark rather than
the advice that focused Rance's attention.
"That looks as if you are still doubtful about
Solly, sir. Has anything fresh cropped up?"
A half-smile at the other's eagerness lurked about
the corners of Dawkins's mouth.
"What do you think yourself ?" he parried.
Rance considered. He had not consciously
analysed the situation, and, although he had come
to a conclusion, he felt some difficulty in putting his
thoughts into words.
"I'm just as firmly convinced as ever that he may
be innocent," he said. "I know that this shot to
put me out of the way might be looked on in one
light as a tacit confession. I look at it from a
different angle which might just as well tell in his
favour. The man's got a black record, and he knows


CHAPTER XVIII
DAWKINS RECEIVES A VISITOR
Old Ugly had been uncomfortably aware ever since
his interview with Dawkins that he had seldom, if
ever, been out of sight of the chief inspector's
minions. Not that they were obtrusive. Indeed,
there was a great deal of art in the proceeding. A
plan as complete as a tactical scheme in a campaign
had been worked out. Although Old Ugly did not
know it himself he had habits which became apparent
after a very little study. There were saloons in
which he was sure to be seen at some time of the
day or night. The places where he had his meals,
although by no means always the same, were
reasonably fixed. When he left his garret in Lemon
Street, Peckham, the points at which he crossed the
road in whatever direction he was proceeding, the
places at which he boarded an omnibus or a tram,
were almost automatic. All these things enabled his
shadowers to diagnose and anticipate his movements
to some extent and avoided the necessity of con-
stantly following him. From a crook of his calibre
and experience, however, the knowledge that he was
under surveillance could not be kept. He would
have sensed that he was being watched in any
event, and he was kept uneasily on the alert even
when, as often happened, he was not sure who it was
that was keeping an eye on him. It cramped him


DAWKINS RECEIVES A VISITOR 177
badly. A man must live, and it was disconcerting
not to know whether the labourer in cap and
corduroys drinking next to him at the four-ale bar,
or the clerk-like young man who might be a rent
collector on the opposite side of the road, were
exactly what they appeared to be. It was unfair,
he felt, that they did not always stick to the same
people so that he might sometimes recognise them.
Thus it was that he determined at last to take the
bull by the horns and go and see Dawkins. The
journey, in any case, might not be wasted, for there
was always the chance of squeezing a few shillings
from the chief inspector if he played his cards right.
And Old Ugly had reached a point at which a few
shillings were of importance.
It is always a bold thing for a man of Old Ugly's
type to go voluntarily and openly to Scotland Yard,
since if he were seen by his friends his motives might
be misunderstood. So he very carefully reconnoitred
the position when he descended from a tramcar on
the Embankment, and instead of crossing direct to
the big iron entrance gates, made his way deviously
round to the back and entered through a retired
street into the Yard, and so to an out-of-the-way
door, originally placed in its inconspicuous position
out of consideration for the shyness of ticket-of-leave
men when they were compelled to report. Thence
his name was taken to Dawkins and he was presently
ushered into the presence of the chief inspector
himself.
Dawkins gripped his hand as though it were that
of a long-lost friend.
"It's fine to see you, Hendry. I was only thinking


I78 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
of you a few minutes ago. How's things? What
can I do for you?"
The other twisted his greasy cap in his hands a
little uncertainly.
"Fought as I'd like a word or two with you,
guv'nor," he said. "You're a bloke as always plays
the gime strite."
"Sit down," urged Dawkins. "No need to be
nervous with me. Spit it out."
"Arter our little talk the other day," went on Old
Ugly, "I fought everything was all hunky-dory
between me and you. 'Course, I was a bit upset like
an' not as perlite as I might 'a' been, but I did what
I could fer you—didn't I? I proved I didn't 'ave
nuthin' to do with croakin' Smiler Carne—didn't I?
I ain't the sort of man that'd do a feller in—am I?"
"I hope not," returned Dawkins, with a non-
committal smile. "We've all got our little failings.
Lord ! here I am talking as if we'd got all day to
spare! What was it you said you wanted to see
me about?"
"I was just a-comin' to that, guv'nor. What I
was a-goin' to say I ain't had no rest nor peace
since I come along to see you. Those fellers of yours
they've been sittin' on my tail ever since. I'm a
reformed character, Mr. Dorkins. Ain't it 'ard
enough for a man like me to try an' make a honest
livin'? It's takin' away a man's character to
always 'ave a busy almost sleepin' with him. I
want you to call 'em off."
"Well, well, well!" Dawkins's eyebrows went
up in pained surprise. "You don't tell me those
fools- are still bothering you! That's too bad.


i8o
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
the grim face of the old crook. He knew just
how much that attitude of familiar friendship was
worth, and steeled himself for what might be
coming.
"Strike me lucky, guv'nor, you don't think I'm
'oldin' nuthin' back?" he declared. "I've told
you everything I know."
"I wonder if you've forgotten something," said
Dawkins mildly. "It's for your sake I'm asking.
You've convinced me that you weren't at Twyton
when the murder happened, so there's no need to
worry about that. What I'm thinking is that you
don't want to find yourself in a mess because you've
overlooked or forgotten something—perhaps about
a pal of yours."
The eyes of the two men met. It is a common
fallacy that a man with something to hide cannot
look another in the face. Old Ugly was too experi-
enced for that. His eyes never even nickered. For
a little his forehead wrinkled as though he were
trying to recollect something. Finally he shook
his head.
"Come clean, Mr. Dorkins. I don't know what
you're driving at."
"You knew that Solly Engles—an old friend of
yours—was living at Twyton under another name?"
said Dawkins carelessly.
Old Ugly slapped his thigh.
"Was he, though? I wondered what 'ad
'appened to that bird. 'E was a tough nut, was
Solly. I see what you're after. Solly an' I were
pullin' together onst. I'll admit that. I ain't seen
'im for years."


182
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
written by anyone I know. You're tryin' to frame
me.
"Don't move," ordered Dawkins sternly. "Stop
there and think it out. I am not accusing you of
anything. I am only asking for explanations."
"How d'you know that was written in my room?"
demanded the crook sullenly.
"No reason why I shouldn't tell you," answered
Dawkins. "First, there's your finger-print on it.
Next, I've had a bottle of ink taken from your
lodgings and analysed. It corresponds with the ink
in which the message was written."
"Blimey! I wondered where that ink had gone."
The man had turned pale, for he was quick enough
to see where his denials on this point had led him.
"Why didn't you tell me abaht this before?"
"Never mind why. Think it over."
As if something of greater importance had
suddenly occurred to him the chief inspector fiddled
with the papers on his desk and began to write. He
appeared to have completely forgotten the other.
Given time and a little uncertainty Old Ugly might
begin to feel alarm for his personal security. Honour
among thieves—always a very thin thread—is apt to
snap under such a strain. The impression that men
who have suffered penal servitude become indifferent
to it is a false one. No one dreads the prospect of
fresh imprisonment more than the man who has
been to prison.
Dawkins had failed to press Old Ugly to the full
extent at their first interview because he had no wish
to put the other too closely on his guard. More, he
thought, was likely to be learned by putting a close


DAWKINS RECEIVES A VISITOR 183
watch on the crook and finding with whom he got
into communication than by showing him he was a
detected liar. Even when Maud had told of that
encounter with the old man and Smiler at Twyton he
had refrained, for the time being, from sending for
and questioning the veteran crook. Now circum-
stances had changed. Either because he was too
astute to betray himself, or because he was not really
still in touch with anyone connected with the murder,
nothing had come of the observation. The chief
inspector had a complete list of every person to
whom Old Ugly had spoken since that day, and even
knew to whom he had posted a couple of letters. No
one of these, although plenty of them had " records,"
were, so far as could be shown, in any way connected
with events or people at Twyton. If Old Ugly had
not come to Scotland Yard the surveillance might
have continued for some little time longer. Clearly,
however, it could no longer be hoped to serve any
purpose. Other means had to be adopted.
Ten minutes or so elapsed. Old Ugly licked dry
lips and regarded the apparently engrossed inspector
furtively. Twice he opened his mouth as if to speak,
but each time altered his mind. Finally he managed
to find his voice with unusual diffidence.
"Mr. Dorkins."
"Well?" Dawkins spoke sharply, as though
annoyed at the interruption, and with his head still
bent to the paper looked over his glasses at the other.
"I fink I can guess 'ow this was done."
The chief inspector laid down his pen, deliberately
removed his glasses and placed them on the desk,
and sat back.


THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"What was done? The murder?"
"No, guv'nor. Lumme, I keep a-tellin' you I
know nuthin' about that. I mean this yer note. I
been a-thinkin' of it out."
"I don't want any more lies."
"S'elp me, guv'nor, I wouldn't tell you anythin'
but God's truth. It's like this 'ere. I knew Smiler
well—no good tellin' you that—and a nasty piece of
work 'e was. 'E used to come along to my place
sometimes to talk over things, y'see, and sometimes
'e'd bring a pal along, or maybe a pal might come
by 'imself."
"I get you. Smiler and you and some other hooks
were cooking up something together. Had it, by
any chance, something to do with Solly Engles?"
"Well "—this a little reluctantly—" in a way it
'ad—in fact, I won't deceive you, Mr. Dorkins, it 'ad
a lot to do with Solly. Y'see, ever since I come out
of stir I 'ad lost track of Solly. I didn't forget, you
bet, but 'e some'ow dropped out of sight. A while
back somebody told me that they'd seen 'im out
Twyton way, and ..."
"Who was that?"
"I can't remember. Honest I can't. Just some
yob who 'ad nuthin' to do with things, an' 'e only
mentioned it to me casual like, knowin' I'd be in-
terested. O' course, I wanted to make certain. I
owed Solly somethin'. That's 'ow I come to go out
to Twyton and find out for myself. Solly never
guessed I was on to 'im, livin' there like some lord of
the manor, while I, who had paid 'is bill, didn't know
where my next 'a'penny was comin' from. I'd pretty
well made up my mind to get some boys I could


DAWKINS RECEIVES A VISITOR 185
trust an' do a bust at 'is place, an' p'raps beat Solly
up a bit. I'd 'a' got a bit of my own back both ways
—see? 'Owever, I run acrost Smiler while I was
pretty 'ot under the collar, and maybe 'ad 'ad one
over the eight. I talked to 'im an' 'e said 'e knew
of a better way of making Solly sweat that'd be worth
my while too if I left it to 'im. I won't pertend I
didn't know what 'e meant, but that sort of stuff
ain't never been my graft. I'm a crook, but I ain't
done that. All the same, I wasn't goin' to cry what-
ever came to Solly, an' if I could get a rake-off, so
much the better. Y'see what I mean?"
"Quite." Dawkins did not add that he
appreciated that Old Ugly's delicacy in not taking
a direct part in the blackmail himself was probably
dictated less by any scruples than by the knowledge
that he would probably have got at least a ten years'
sentence if anything had gone wrong with the scheme
and he was found to have been implicated. "How
much did you get out of it?"
Old Ugly shrugged his shoulders.
"Smiler dropped me a few quids now and agen.
Knowin' 'im, I guessed what 'e was doing—the big
bit for 'im, the little bit for me."
"He was double-crossing you?"
"Of course he was. I expected it. 'E'd 'ave
double-crossed his grandmother. I only objected
when 'e was a-comin' it too strong."
"Yes. That's clear. Now what was it you
wanted to tell me about this bit of paper?"
"I was a-comin' to that. Y'see, there was people
comin' to see me. Maybe some of 'em didn't like
Smiler. So it kind of come into my mind that some-


i86
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
body might 'ave used a bit of my paper to write
to 'im. Y'see, I might have handled that paper
before anythin' was written on it. An' if it was
written at my place it would account for bein' my
ink. See?" With the triumphant air of one who
has successfully cleared up a series of points he
waited expectantly.
Dawkins did not reply immediately. He was
engaged in filling his pipe—an operation which
he performed with care and deliberation. Placing
it absently in his mouth without lighting it, he
considered.
Certainly Old Ugly's explanation of the scrap of
paper was a very possible one with a large element of
plausibility. Indeed, he was inclined to accept the
whole story as far as it went. The alibi that Old
Ugly had presented on the last occasion had been
rigorously investigated and had been unexpectedly
corroborated outside the word of Monk Smyke.
For the two crooks were remembered to have
remained at the eating-house in Whitechapel Road
till close on midnight on the night of the murder by
both the proprietor and one of his assistants. This
alone might not have been entirely convincing, but it
had been confirmed by a local detective who had
happened to see Old Ugly at Peckham at nearly one
o'clock on his return home.
That would still have allowed Old Ugly ample time
to get to the scene of the murder by car—if such a
thing had been available. To that extent his alibi
was incomplete, but he had certainly gone home,
and a car in the network of mean streets where he
lived would, at that hour, have inevitably attracted


DAWKINS RECEIVES A VISITOR 187
attention. Any direct concern with the murder
on his part was therefore improbable.
Nevertheless, the chief inspector was not yet
inclined to rule out the possibility of some indirect
concern. Whether Old Ugly was still keeping
something back was a thing to be decided. In his
most artless manner he shot a series of questions at
the other, designed to find any weak point or con-
tradiction. Old Ugly answered willingly enough,
and the way in which he sometimes stumbled in
itself partly persuaded Dawkins that he was trying
to tell the truth. Such a man, if he had been lying,
would have been very much more glib or much more
aggressive. With some effort at recollection he
provided a number of names of those people who had
called on him during the preceding month. There
were half a dozen in the list and a later reference to
the Crime Index showed that five of them were
known criminals. The chief inspector mentally
resolved to put one of his best men to look them up
and obtain specimens of their handwriting. For
although circumstances pointed so apparently
plainly to Solly Engles as the murderer, he was not
the man to overlook or neglect any point, even if it
complicated the case.
"I'm going to ask you a favour, Hendry," he said
finally. "Would you mind staying on a bit in case
anything arises that I might want to ask you about?
We'll put you up at Cannon Row over the way and
make you nice and comfortable. You'll get all you
want to eat and drink, and we'll find something for
you to read."
The suave invitation had an astonishing effect on


DAWK1NS RECEIVES A VISITOR 189
"Take him across to Cannon Row," he ordered,
naming the police station which stands opposite
Scotland Yard, " and say he's to be detained pend-
ing further instructions from me."
And he began picking up his desk and restoring it
to its usual orderly appearance.


POISON 191
with auxiliary reserves of active help and advice.
If he should take, or fail to take, some step without
direct instructions, he knew very well who would be
blamed.
Luxton and Kilgan, who came into the chief
inspectors' room together, found him with his feet on
his desk, reading a volume which he dropped as they
entered. Luxton picked it up and glanced at the
title with a snigger.
"By all that's holy! He's reading Sherlock
Holmes again !" he exclaimed.
"Aw—let him alone. He's learning something,"
declared Kilgan !" Look out! He's going to say
something about bull-headed, flat-footed but honest
official detectives."
The subject of their rallying remained unmoved.
"No need to say it," Dawkins retorted. "Here
you are in person. Bull-headed, flat-footed—maybe
honest."
"The only thing I remember about Sherlock
Holmes," observed Kilgan, " is that he once deduced
the habits of the owner of an old-fashioned watch
from the scratches that had been made in winding it
up with a key. Now, Sherlock would have been up a
tree if that watch had been bought second-hand."
"Which remark shows that you are an ignorant.
illiterate, unimaginative man," declared Dawkins.
"You don't see farther than your nose. For instance,
you think I've been loafing. On the contrary I was
just pulling my mind together after a painful scene
with a crook named Old Ugly, followed by an inter-
view with the Director, a full-dress powwow with
the old man, and a talk with an analyst and a cloth


192 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
manufacturer, to say nothing of looking over some
reports."
"I heard you'd knocked off Old Ugly," said
Luxton. "Have you got something on him?"
"I've put him across the way to cool down. He
practically admitted to being mixed up with Smiler
in the blackmail of Solly, though I don't think we
should ever be able to bring that home to him."
Briefly he related what had taken place. "I don't
want him running round till I've got in touch with
all the people he mentioned."
"Anything fresh about Solly?" questioned
Luxton. "That girl coughed up anything?"
"I don't know. I'm going to see her later on, or
in the morning. As for Solly, he's clean disappeared
again. I've seen the finger-prints. Some of 'em
are pretty good, but we've got none of those birds on
file." He paused. "I'm not much worried about
Solly. He can't lie low for ever. Unless he commits
suicide—which to my mind isn't unlikely—we ought
to get him pretty soon. Be a funny thing if after
all he had nothing to do with the murder, wouldn't
it?"
"Damned funny," agreed Kilgan emphatically.
He touched Dawkins gently on the shoulder. "You
haven't been overdoing it on this job, have you?
Take it easy, Bill."
Dawkins shook the hand away with a laugh.
"I'm as fit as ever I was in my life."
"Then there is something new?" interpolated
Luxton. "Let's have it, Bill. Cut out the mysteri-
ous stuff. Don't pose like some blinking detective
out of a book."


POISON 193
Dawkins walked to his locker and began to put on
his overcoat.
"I just mentioned it would be funny if Solly was
innocent," he said irritably. "Can't a man make a
casual remark without being jumped at? The case
is just as thick against him as ever it was."
"Well, don't you go running off with any fool
ideas," warned Kilgan solemnly. "You just con-
centrate on Solly. Have you seen the papers to-
night? They're after you." He tossed over a copy
of an evening journal folded to show the headlines.
SCOTLAND YARD STILL BAFFLED BY
GOLF COURSE MURDER.
Failure of Long Search for Missing Man.
Detained Woman Said to Know Nothing
of Crime.
Little progress, writes a special correspondent, has
been made in the investigation into the murder of
the man Carne, whose dead body was found on the
Twyton Golf Course some few days ago. Those
engaged on the matter are far from confident of
reaching any solution, although search is still
being made for a resident of Twyton who has
disappeared and whom the police are anxious to
question. Whether, indeed, he can shed any
light on the crime is more than doubtful, and it is
probable that his absence from home at this time
is nothing more than a coincidence. A young
woman who was detained has been proved to have
no connection with the crime. It is to be feared


194
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
that the murder of Carne will be relegated to
that ever-growing list of unsolved mysteries. . . .
Dawkins threw the paper to the ground.
"Some reporter's got the needle because we
haven't talked. Well, there can't be any complaint
about leakage to the Press on this job. I'll say that
people have kept their mouths shut. 'Relegated to
the ever-growing list of unsolved mysteries.' Pah!''
He flung out of the room. Kilgan raised his
eyebrows.
"Old Bill's all keyed up," he said. "I don't like
it. I'd hate to see him come a crash."
Luxton shook his head.
"Nothing the matter with that man," he declared.
"I've seen him like this before. There's something
at the back of his mind and he's trying to shake it
clear—that's all. As soon as he gets it out of his
system something will happen."
Meanwhile Dawkins was on his way homewards.
As soon as he had set foot inside his own door he had
rid himself of all professional problems.
"Just looked in for a cup of tea and an hour or
two's easy, my dear," he announced to his wife,
carefully placing a brown paper parcel on the side- .
board, while she busied herself with the kettle.
"How's young Teddy? I've been so tied up that
there hasn't been a ghost of a chance of looking
round at him this last day or two. I've brought
along a box of conjuring tricks I promised him.
You might let him have them some time. I've got
to go out again."
She fussed efficiently with eggs and toast, for


POISON
195
Dawkins was none of your believers in light teas
when he was at home, full, meantime, of domestic
gossip in which he took an earnest interest. There
was some trouble between two neighbours over the
question of a new fence; the wedding of Elsie Browne
had been fixed for the fourteenth—they must decide
on a wedding present; her brother and his wife were
coming to lunch on Sunday; old Mr. Palmerston
was worse—she was afraid that his time was very
near, poor man; her charwoman's husband was
down with influenza—she didn't know how they'd
manage with those three or four young children.
She'd given the woman a parcel of food to take home,
but that wouldn't go far.
"Give her ten shillings for me," said Dawkins.
"That'll help her through for a little. I'll see if I
can do any more next week. I feel a little guilty
about not calling on old Palmerston. He's a lonely
old chap. But I've got to look after my business and
it leaves little time just now."
The inevitable crochet-work was produced and
Mrs. Dawkins sat on a low chair by the fire, her fingers
flying while her husband proceeded luxuriously with
his meal.
"Jack's all right, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, he's full of beans." No good in worry-
ing her with the story of the adventure in the cellar
till the case was over. She might become con-
cerned—although, of course, she would not show it—
about his own safety.
"Do you expect to be late to-night?"
The question was the nearest that she ever got
to a direct enquiry about his professional concerns.


196 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Dawkins swallowed a mouthful of toast and con-
sidered.
"I don't know. Lots of things to be done, but I
might let some of them slide. I'm a bit worried.
Came home for a bit to let my mind run fallow."
She accepted the hint and the silence for a while
was only broken by the steady flick of her needle.
Dawkins contentedly sipped his tea. The ring of
the telephone came as a strident interruption to then-
peace. Mrs. Dawkins gave a sigh as her husband
answered. The wife of a Scotland Yard man be-
comes used to the breaking up of ordered hours.
She guessed that there was some urgent call for him.
It was Rance at the other end of the wire.
"That Mr. Dawkins? Jack Rance here. Can
you come over at once? That girl Maud is in a
pretty bad way. She's poisoned herself. . .poisoned,
I said . . . and they've had to rush her to the cottage
hospital."
The first reaction of the chief inspector to the news
was rather one of cold anger than of any feeling of
sympathy. Maud might be an important piece in
his plans. To him it was less a question of a life than
one of the loss of something which might have turned
out to advantage. If she, as a stranger, had been in
danger of drowning, no one would have been readier
to risk his life to save her, or felt more genuine
sympathy in the presence of potential tragedy. As
it was, the thing only hit him in relation to its effect
on his work.
"How did she get poison?" he stormed.
'' Didn't the matron search her? There'll be trouble
over this."


POISON 197
"She was searched," returned Rance. "I
suppose—I don't know—the matron may have been
careless. A scrap of poison could be easily hidden
and overlooked."
"We'll go into that later. How bad is she?
What I want to know is whether she's likely to die
before I get over? If she is, you had better try to see
her if she's conscious. Tell the doctors we must
have a statement from her if it's humanly possible.
But don't do anything if it can wait till I get there."
"Very good, sir. I don't know the details
except that she was alive when they took her away,
so there may be a chance. I've not seen her myself
and I rang up directly I got the news. Is there any
special point you want?"
"Yes. First get from her where Solly is now.
She knows. She must know. Then ask her if he
committed the murder and if not who did? Be
clear about this, Jack. That girl would not have
tried to kill herself unless she was something like an
accomplice in the murder. She may even have done
it herself. Handle her on those lines, and I don't
need to tell you to use tact. I'll be right along."
In an unwonted fever of haste he kissed his wife
and tore out of the house to find a taxi to take him to
Scotland Yard, where there was sure to be a fast
car. The more he reflected on the episode the more
he felt certain that his first impression was correct.
Maud was not of that hysterical type likely to
commit suicide without some strong reason, and he
did not believe that her detention, or even the
thought of possible imprisonment for the part she
had played, wittingly or unwittingly, in luring Rance


I98 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
to Oxford Road, would be a sufficient motive. The
mere fact that she carried poison showed that she
had contemplated an occasion when she might be
forced to use it rather than . . . Rather than
what? An elusive idea with which he had already
been grappling flitted across his mind. But there
was no substance to it—nothing to tie to. He could
not formulate it. If the girl lived only long enough
to answer half a dozen questions she might provide
something tangible—something that he could build
upon.
Seldom had a journey seemed so long to him, but it
came to an end at last. In the hall of the cottage
hospital he found the divisional surgeon, Rance and
some other police officers, and a white-faced police
matron.
"Well ?" he demanded curtly.
"She's all right. A close thing, but she'll live,"
answered Rance.
Not often did he show his feelings, but for once
there was relief on Dawkins's face. The urgency of
the occasion had vanished. He could afford to wait
a little.
"That's something good, at any rate." he com-
mented. "Tell me what happened." He
addressed the matron sternly. "You couldn't have
searched her properly. If she had died you would
have been responsible."
The woman was on the verge of tears.
"How could I guess, sir? I only searched her for
letters and the ordinary things that are not allowed
to persons in custody. She had a tiny packet sewn
in the edge of her skirt. I never dreamed of any-


POISON 199
thing like this. I'd been with her for most of the
day, because she seemed so distracted, and I hadn't
left her for five minutes when it happened."
"Did she talk with you at all? What did she
say?"
"She scarcely said anything of importance.
Once or twice she complained that her head ached.
She kept repeating that she wouldn't tell—nothing
would make her tell—that she couldn't bear it and
wished she was dead. I didn't question her, of
course, and tried to keep her mind on other sub-
jects—the pictures, a dress I was making, and things
like that."
"I was called at once," interposed the divisional
surgeon, "and I ought to tell you it was the prompt
measures taken by the matron that probably saved
the girl's life. Even then it was touch and go.
Luckily the girl has a strong constitution and the
poison had little time to take effect. I ordered her
to be brought along here. She's pretty exhausted
now, but out of danger."
"Conscious ?" asked Dawkins.
"Oh, yes. I suppose you want to see her. Don't
forget, Mr. Dawkins, that she can't stand too much.
I had better come up with you if you don't mind."
"Certainly." Dawkins stripped off his overcoat
and made certain that his note-book and a pencil
were in his pocket. "Shall we go up?"
Maud, pale and listless, with eyes closed, was lying
in bed, and a nurse who was sitting by her side
disappeared at a nod from the doctor. Dawkins
quietly took her place.
"This was a silly thing for you to do, my dear."


200
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
He spoke in a gentle, level voice. "What on earth
were you afraid of? No great harm was likely to
happen to you."
She opened her eyes and regarded him with
apparent calm, and then turned her face away
wearily.
"Please don't talk to me now. I'm ever so tired."
"Of course. I understand. I only want to ask
you a couple of questions and then you can rest.
We must let Miss Silke know that you're ill. Where
can we find her?"
"She's gone away, I think," murmured the girl
sleepily.
"I know, but where?"
"I can't remember. Ask Arthur. He knows."
Here was something. Who Arthur might be, he
had no conception, and he dared not ask her the
direct question. Obviously he was in some close
association with the mystery. Taking the hand that
lay outside the coverlet, he stroked it soothingly.
"Don't distress yourself. I'll speak to Arthur
about it. There, I've forgotten his address. How
silly of me. Tell me and I'll send along for him
now. I'm sure he'd like to see you."
Slowly she turned to face him, and her eyes were
wide with sudden distress and fear as she appeared
for the first time to realise who was her interlocutor.
"You!" she gasped, and feebly flung his hand
away. "I'm ill. I haven't said anything, have
I?" The appeal was directed to the doctor, but
without waiting for a reply she addressed Dawkins
again. "You can't take any notice of what I've
said."


POISON
20I
The divisional surgeon adjusted her pillow, and
taking his cue from Dawkins, laughed lightly.
"Of course you haven't, you silly child. Now
don't upset yourself. You'll find Mr. Dawkins a
very nice man."
The very nice man framed his next question
carefully.
"You're very fond of Arthur, aren't you? I
don't wonder. He's a fine fellow." She made no
answer, but there was the glint of tears in her eyes
as he went on. "I haven't seen anything of him
lately. He ought to come along and see you now
that you're so ill. When did you see him last?"
"He telephoned "She broke off abruptly.
"I don't want to talk with you. Please go away.
I won't tell you anything. Tell him to go away,
doctor. I want to rest."
"You shall rest very soon. I am thinking of
your own interests, my dear. You don't want us to
imagine you've anything to hide, do you?" There
was a soft, gentle inflection in his voice, as though
he were pleading with an obstinate child. "I hate
this as much as you do. We shall find out if you're
hiding anything and then it would look rather funny,
wouldn't it?"
She turned away again and he waited patiently.
The minutes went by and she gave no sign. Dawkins
was resolved not to hurry matters. Time and again
he had been obliged to question people suspected of
serious crime, and he had frequently found that
when they were under mental stress long intervals
had intervened in their replies. He was prepared
to spend all night by her bedside if necessary.


202
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
By and by her regular breathing told that the girl
was asleep. Dawkins whispered a question to the
doctor.
"If she were awakened suddenly and asked some-
thing, would it have any serious result?"
"It would depend," said the other doubtfully.
"Would there be any risk to her life?"
"I don't think it would be so bad as that, but
there would certainly be a risk. It might retard
her recovery."
The chief inspector's jaw set as he took a resolve.
"I'm going to chance it," he said.
Walking lightly round to the other side of the
bed so that she would face him when roused, he
shook her roughly. She awoke with a smothered
cry. Dawkins's stern eyes were close to hers.
"Who killed Cyril St. Clair?" he demanded
harshly.
The girl shrank back among her pillows.
"It was ... I did."
She sank back choking. The doctor pushed
Dawkins away and made a gesture to the door.
"Leave her," he ordered. "Send the nurse to


CHAPTER XX
THE FINDING OF THE CAR
Hardened to surprises by a lifetime in which the
unexpected was often to be expected, Maud's con-
fession had yet taken Bill Dawkins totally aback.
When he had told Rance that she might be the
murderess herself, he was talking rather to emphasise
the need for care in an interrogation than because
he had any notion it might be so.
Curiously enough, by some tangent of thought
he realised that he had placed himself in a false
position. The circumstances under which the con-
fession had been made might well be misconstrued
when they came to be reported. He had indicated
a direct suspicion of her to Rance ; he had surprised
her without warning into an admission of guilt.
In all probability there would be a row about it,
and the incident might have awkward personal
consequences, for he might be held to have deliber-
ately entrapped her. He brushed the thought aside.
That point he would meet when the occasion came.
More important was it, at the moment, to consider
how far her confession could be substantiated.
Downstairs in the hall he drew Rance aside.
"She says she did the murder," he said in a low
voice. "I can't believe it—I can't believe it."
Rance pursed his lips in a little whistle. To him


THE THOUSANDTH CASE
also the fact came so unexpectedly that he was
bereft for an instant of the faculty of reasoned
thought. At the back of his mind he was conscious
that he had been relieved of a burden. If this was
true, Dorothy's father was cleared.
"She has confessed ?" he murmured.
"Yes," agreed Dawkins. "But that is all.
There are no details yet. You get away and 'phone
to the Yard to get hold of Miss Bown and send her
down here. I shall want her all night."
Miss Bown was one of the two women police
officers who are detached from the uniformed force
to assist the C.I.D. when necessary, and Dawkins
had decided that a woman of tact and detective
training should be put in charge of the girl till she
was able to leave the hospital.
The divisional surgeon came down a little after
Rance had sped on his mission. He shook his head
gravely.
"If I had known what you intended to ask her, I
think I should have forbidden it," he said. "She's
pretty bad, and I've had to inject morphia. You
mustn't go near her again for at least twenty-four
hours and then only with my permission. I'm
surprised at you, Mr. Dawkins."
"I take full responsibility, doctor," retorted
Dawkins, a touch of iciness in his tone, for he
resented the reproof. "I suppose she was fully
capable of realising what she was saying?"
"I think so."
"Then I shall justify myself if I have to in the
proper quarter. I suppose there's no objection to
my putting a woman police officer to stay with her.


THE FINDING OF THE CAR
20J
In view of the fact that she's confessed to murder
there must be someone here."
"If you do, the girl must not be questioned or
spoken to. On that understanding I think it could
be arranged."
"That will suit me. One other thing. If there
are any enquiries or messages over the telephone I
want Miss Bown—that's the lady I shall leave here—
to answer them. Can you arrange that?"
The doctor agreed to see the hospital authorities,
and as he took his leave the chief inspector beckoned
to Rance, who had returned from his errand.
"The doctor says there is no hope of carrying
things any farther with Maud till to-morrow," he
said. "By that time we might clear up some of
this muddle and get at some of the real truth.
What's your view of this confession, Jack? You
know more of the girl than I do."
"I don't know why she should accuse herself if
she didn't do it," said Jack, speaking slowly and
thoughtfully. "She might well have had a motive.
We know that this man had been making love to
her, and we know the kind he was with women.
Suppose he had turned her down, or that she had
become jealous? I can't see why she shouldn't
have shot him. Why should she have been carrying
poison, and why should she use it when she found
herself at the police station?"
"Those are conundrums I have been asking
myself. Why, if you want another one, should she
have helped in the plot to get you out of the way?
I think I've got the glimmering of an answer, but
only a gUmmering. Tell me this. You heard her


206
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
story about the other girl's toothache on the night
the murder took place. She accounted for every
second of her time even more closely than that of
Solly. She was not out of the presence of one
person or another the whole night through. When
could she have committed the murder?"
It was true. Rance remembered her statement
well enough and had indeed spent some time in
confirming it. Throwing his mind back on the
details, he could not but agree with Dawkins. His
memory leapt to another scene—that moment when
Dorothy Silke, in an obvious attempt to shield her
father, had also confessed to the crime and he had
laughed at her. The comparison was provocative
of a new theory. Before he could put it into words,
however, the chief inspector had anticipated him.
"The girl's either mad or she knows the true
culprit—or perhaps someone she thinks is the true
culprit, for it's by no means certain. My opinion
is that she would scarcely have gone as far as this
for the sake of saving Solly. She is afraid for some-
one she is very fond of—a very dear relative or a
lover. Remember that we have not yet found out
who her sweetheart is, although it seemed at first
as if it was going to be fairly simple. She's been on
her guard and they've kept away from each other.
That in itself is significant. Any communication
between them has been by telephone. Here's a
job you can spread yourself on, though I don't
propose to leave it to you entirely. I've arranged
that Miss Bown shall take any telephone messages
that may come through here for Maud. I shall put
a trustworthy man to stay at Langfield for the


THE FINDING OF THE CAR
207
same purpose. And now I'll give you a hint for
what it is worth. The first name of the fellow you're
looking for is Arthur."
• • • • •
Dawkins remained at the hospital till the arrival
of Miss Bown, to whom he wished to give certain
instructions. It was well after eleven o'clock when
he found himself back at Scotland Yard, where he
hoped that there might be fresh news from the
other avenues of enquiry that were being pushed.
A memorandum slip was on the top of a pile of
papers on his desk.
"Surrey Constabulary have found red saloon car
abandoned in ditch in lane at Denholme five miles
from Haslemere. Answers description of Solomon
Engles's car, but bears a different number—probably
false. Tried to get you at Twyton Hospital, but
you had left. Have sent Mender down to look it
over." The signature was that of the inspector on
night duty.
With the message in his hand Dawkins dashed
into his colleague's room.
"When did this come ?" he demanded.
"Less than half an hour ago," said the other.
"They put a 'phone message through. The lane is
a cul-de-sac leading to a farm-house on the Haslemere-
Midhurst road. A farm-hand noticed the car there
this morning early, but supposed it had been left
by someone who had missed the way in the dark
and didn't like to risk trying to extricate the car
then. When he saw that it was still there this
evening he mentioned it to the village constable.
Want a map? I've been looking it up."


208
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"I know the district fairly well," said Dawkins,
who nevertheless bent over the map as the other
spread it out. "I wonder whether there's anything
in it. If it's Solly's car I can't make out why they
went in that direction, though there's an obvious
reason why they should wish to get rid of it. It's
off the direct road to anywhere. There's no railway
station within miles. Look here." He traced a
rough triangle with his thumb. "Here's Haslemere,
Liphook, Midhurst. Any one of 'em would be an
hour's good walk. So if the idea was to lose the
car and make a bolt, why should they have given
themselves that added trouble? It's just possible
that Solly might have been making for some hide-out
in that country—the place is a wide stretch of rolling
woods, and there are lots of semi-isolated farmhouses
and cottages. I say, be a good chap, Emblem, and
ask the local police to make enquiries at those three
stations and find out what passengers, if any,
boarded late trains last night or early this morning."
"Right you are," agreed the night man. "Are
you going down?"
"No. Mender can see to everything to-night.
I'll stay in London unless things develop. It may
even turn out that this is the wrong car."
But as he went back to his own room Dawkins
could not avoid feeling that the chance of a mistake
in the car was very remote. Even so, that did not
help very much. There was every possibility that
Solly himself had not been in the car.
Sitting down he tried to put himself in the
fugitive's place and adopt his probable processes of
thought.


THE FINDING OF THE CAR 211
your coming to see me, or, perhaps, me going to see
you. Fact is, you're just the fellow I want. You
can help me a lot—and this way they won't suspect
you're helping."
"'Ere. 'Old 'ard." The other man scratched
the side of his nose and the corners of his eyes
wrinkled. "I ain't agreein' to be any copper's
nose—and 'sides that I know nuthin' but what I
already told you. Anyway, what do I get aht of it
besides bein' tied up 'ere—nc* beer, no smoke, no
nuthin'!"
"Well, we may be able to put some of those things
right," said Dawkins cheerfully. "All I looked in
for now was to put things straight between us so
that there wouldn't be any ill-feeling."
Old Ugly was not such a fool as to swallow these
protestations of friendship at their face value, but
now that he was in a cooler frame of mind he
deemed it wise to find out what Dawkins wanted.
He was quite willing to grasp at the semblance of
an olive branch till he found out whether by doing
so he could gain any advantage.
"No need to tell me that, guv'nor," he grunted.
"There ain't no ill-feeling on my side. I just lost
my temper. Only if you're puttin' it to me to be
a nose, it can't be done. If there's any other way
I can 'elp you—an' you can make it worth my while
—say so. I ain't 'ad enough money for a decent
meal for days."
"Oh, I'll do the right thing," declared Dawkins.
"You can trust me to look after you. Now let's
get together. You don't like Solly Engles. We've
got a kind of idea that he's mixed up in some way


212
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
with this crime. What do you think—as man to
man?"
The crook pulled his rugs closer round him and
his head swayed meditatively from side to side.
"No, I ain't got any reason to love Solly," he
said. "If there was anything I could do to put
him at the end of a rope I'd do it like a shot." He
spoke with cold malevolence. "O' course, I know
that you've been after 'im, guv'nor, an' I won't
deny that Solly 'ad good reason to wish to see the
end of Smiler. You ask me as man to man an' I'll
tell you strite. I don't believe that Solly did that
murder."
"Why?" interjected Dawkins, with a little
surprise at so positive an assertion.
"Why? 'Cause I know Solly, that's why. 'E
might 'ave wanted Smiler aht of the way, but 'e
wouldn't 'ave gone abaht it like that. Almost
right on his doorstep, so to speak. Say, Mr. Dorkins,
did yer ever know Solly pull a job that way? If
'e'd meant to do Smiler in 'e'd 'ave framed it different.
That body, the papers say, was dumped on the golf
course. D'you think a man like Solly—with 'is
brains and experience—would do a thing like that?"
He spat disgustedly to the side of his couch. "'E'd
'ave seen that there corpse was taken miles away so
that it couldn't be linked up with 'im. 'E'd 'ave
'ad an alibi all cooked up and 'ave laughed in your
face if you'd mentioned the word murder to 'im.
No, the job doesn't bear none of the marks of Solly."
"Yes. We've been into all that," observed
Dawkins, who, though he showed no surprise, had
scarcely expected Old Ugly to act as an advocate for


THE FINDING OF THE CAR
215
Solomon Engles. "Everyone makes mistakes—
particularly when it's a matter of blackmail and
murder. Isn't there something else that makes
you so sure he hadn't a hand in it."
The question was asked suavely and conver-
sationally, as though it came as an afterthought.
Old Ugly was for a moment taken off his guard.
"Because I know," he asserted with emphasis.
"There was a bloke as I know what was keeping
an eye on Solly—leastways on Solly's"
A peremptory knock at the door interrupted him.
The intruder, without waiting for permission to
enter, flung the door wide open.
"Can I speak with you a moment, sir? It's
very urgent."
Dawkins, startled from his usual serenity, glared
at the detective sergeant who had dared to break
in at so critical an instant.
"What the devil do you mean by it? I'm busy.
Go away."
"It's very urgent," reiterated the other. "If
you can spare a second."
"I'll come right back," said Dawkins to Old
Ugly, and stepped outside the room. The officer
who had interrupted him led him under a light in
the charge-room and pushed a letter into his hand.
"That's by the man who wrote the anonymous
note to Smiler," he declared.
The chief inspector glanced at the ill-spelt,
illiterate handwriting, and then compared it with
a photographic copy of the note which he carried
in his pocket-book. One glance was enough to show
the similarity.


A SIDELINE IN DETECTION llf
Old Ugly's lips set in a firm line and he shook his
head.
"Don't come that, Mr. Dorkins. I been all above
board with you—you can't say I ain't. Don't come
that."
"I'm not asking you to give away something I
don't know," said Dawkins carelessly. "Of course,
it was Tiny Virgil."
The crook's jaw dropped and his unconcealed
attitude of surprise might have been ludicrous in
other circumstances.
"I believe you're the devil," he ejaculated.
"'Ow d'you know that?"
Dawkins might have said that ten minutes before
he would have been unable to hazard such a guess,
but he did not. The advantage of apparent omni-
science was too great to be foregone. Indeed, he
rubbed it in.
"I know a lot of things. Why didn't you mention
Tiny before?"
For an hour more he remained closeted with Old
Ugly and bit by bit extracted from him the remaining
few details of the episode. The chief reason, it
seemed, why the other had suppressed Tiny's name
had been that the latter had been known to nourish
a grievance against Smiler, and that if he had been
known to be in the neighbourhood at the very time
the murder happened, suspicion might have fallen
on him. Indeed, this was a point that Dawkins was
anxious to clear up. He went so far as to break the
news of Tiny's death—which Old Ugly received
without any outward sign of feeling—and to hint
that if he had been concerned in the murder he was


218
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
now beyond the reach of the C.I.D. The crook,
however, asserted positively that his friend had had
no hand in the crime. "Yer could 'a' knocked 'im
down with a feather when 'e 'eard of it." He was
there purely and simply for the purposes of burglary.
All this was based on what Old Ugly had been told,
for by his own account he was nowhere near the place
himself. If Tiny had anything to do with the
murder he was unlikely to have admitted it even to
Old Ugly. For the time Dawkins had to accept
what he was told, and although for himself he
believed that the other was right, he realised that
the investigation would have to branch into this
issue before it could be certain. He slipped at last
to another point.
"In fixing up this bust you got to know something
about the servants at Langfield? You'd naturally
want to know who they were and something about
their habits."
"Sure," agreed Old Ugly. "There was only a
pack of women there—none of 'em any good to us.
That was a bit of our trouble—we couldn't get
anyone to act with us inside, and Solly 'ad all
kinds of wires and alarms at the windows an' all
over the, place. Trust 'im for knowin' all the
tricks."
"None of 'em were right 'uns, eh ?" commented
Dawkins. "Did you ever run across one of the
girls called Maud?"
"Ah! She was a kid Smiler was a bit struck on.
You know what a one 'e was for skirts. That was
one reason why we steered a bit clear of 'er. Y'see,
Smiler wasn't in on the bust an' we didn't want 'im


A SIDELINE IN DETECTION 219
gettin' any line an' tryin' to horn in. That was a
little privit speculation of ours."
"Yes, but you watched her in and out. Did you
ever see any men hanging on to her except Smiler?"
Old Ugly furrowed his brow.
"Come to think of it she was with a bloke once or
twice. I didn't pay any particular attention to 'im,
though. I don't think I ever saw 'im rahnd the
'ouse, and those were the people we were worryin'
abaht. Used to meet 'im rahnd the corner, she did."
"Ah! What was he like?"
Old Ugly became reflective. The art of conveying
a description is not given to many people.
"Just an ordinary sort of feller. Nuthin' special
abaht 'im that I can call to mind."
It was obviously hopeless to attempt to extract
anything very useful on this point and Dawkins
snapped another question.
"Would you know him again?"
*' I reckon I would," said Old Ugly.
"Very well, then. I'll tell you what I'm going to
do," said the chief inspector. "You'll stay here and
have your breakfast in the morning. After that
I'm going to cast you loose. You'll go down to
Twyton and see if you can run into this fellow. I'll
have one of my young men at hand—don't worry,
he won't hurt your reputation by being seen with
you, but he'll be within reach—and if you spot
Maud's young man you will give the officer the tip.
I'm going to pay you well for this, but if you can
find the man there will be something extra—under-
stand? Here's something on account for expenses."
Old Ugly accepted the note that the other


zzo
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
proffered and was duly enrolled as an unofficial ally
of Scotland Yard—not, however, as Dawkins men-
tally resolved, to be trusted out of sight.
The arrival of the chief inspector broke up a quiet
little game of nap in one of the back rooms of
Scotland Yard into which a few high-spirited
members of the Flying Squad, who were waiting the
word to start on one of those nocturnal excursions
which are frequent in their lives, had lured the man
who had solved the handwriting question. Dawkins
took this gentleman back with him into the chief
inspectors' room.
"Good piece of work, Green," he observed.
"How did you get on to it?"
"Well, in a way, it was an accident, sir," explained
the other. "I'd heard that a fellow named Gull—
one of the birds on your list as having been in touch
with Old Ugly—had been seen at a dirty little
drinking club in one of those streets off the back of
Tottenham Court Road. So I strolled round during
the evening to have a look-see. No trouble about
getting in—I've tipped off the divisional people and
they're going to have the joint raided. However,
that was really nothing to do with me. After I got
in I kind of gave the impression while I was drinking
that I was on the wizz, but had struck a bad patch.
Luckily no one came in who knew me, so I got away
with it.
"Time went along, and no Mr. Gull turned up. I
began to get a bit scared of myself, for though I don't
mind a glass of beer, I can't stand a lot. I had
started playing darts with a lot of the lads, and it
looked like being a rough night. However, there


A SIDELINE IN DETECTION 221
was a big aspidistra in a pot in a corner. I don't
know if beer is good for aspidistras, but it got its
share on the quiet.
"By and by up rolls Mr. Gull, swigs a double
whisky, and sits down watching us. I contrived to
knock over the remains "of his drink and naturally
enough I couldn't do less than buy him another.
That broke the ice. Presently I dropped out of
the game, and sitting down by him fell into con-
versation. I pitched a tale of bad luck and being
pretty nearly on my uppers. Running a wizz mob
wasn't all it used to be, I explained, and hinted that
I was ripe for anything from a smash and grab raid
to flat burglary. I mentioned several crooks as
fellows I knew and finally I came to Old Ugly.
Gull volunteered that he knew him. 'If I knew
where he was,' I said, ' I might put him on to a job
that's dead easy and worth a fortune—old woman
with heaps of jewels living in a flat alone with one
maid.' Gull fastened on to this, hook, line and
sinker. He was ready, he said, to pull it off himself.
Why drag in Old Ugly? I acted coy. That wasn't
good enough for me, I said. I didn't know him,
and though he seemed a fine fellow and all the rest
of it, I did know Old Ugly, and he was just the man
for a job of this kind. All I wanted him to do was
to just write down Old Ugly's address for me.
However, I added, as I liked Gull, I would see he
came in on the game. At last he did it. As soon
as I saw his writing I knew I was on another dead
end, but I didn't break away too abruptly.
"I bought another drink and he tried to pump
me some more as to where the joint that I had


CHAPTER XXII
WHICH OF EIGHT?
Spite of his late hours, Dawkins was at Scotland
Yard the next day long before any of his colleagues
had arrived. Paper work is not to be avoided •
under the system which the C.I.D. pursues in the
investigation of crime, for, theoretically, each step
has to be recorded, although, in fact, much is done
that is never put into writing. Up to now the chief
inspector had contented himself with reading and
annotating other people's reports and the state-
ments of persons who had been interviewed—already
running into hundreds. The materials for his own
report, which he intended to compile at some
future date, were in the form of succinct shorthand
notes in a little note-book which he always carried
with him. This he laid open on his desk, and on to
a sheet of foolscap jotted down a number of names
with short comments against each one. There was
to be a full dress conference that day and he was
anxious to be prepared.
Shortly after nine o'clock the other chief inspectors
began to arrive, for in the ordinary routine of their
work they kept business hours—nine till six—just
like other business men.
Kilgan and Flanagan came in together and a few
minutes later the strength of the room was completed


224
THE THOUSANDTH CASH
with the advent of Luxton and Presswell, the latter
recently promoted to fill Royton's place.
"Slogging into it, I see, Bill," remarked Luxton.
What reply Dawkins might have made was
drowned in a sudden outburst of wrath from
Flanagan.
"I'm just about fed up with this. Who's been
playing about with my desk. I put a case on here
last night with a couple of the finest Corona-Coronas
that I've ever had given me. Some dirty, thieving
hound has pinched 'em." He displayed an empty
case. "Damned if I'll stand it. I was called
away on that bigamy case in a hurry and forgot
em.
"They've left you the case," remarked Presswell
consolingly.
"Wonderful how clever some of these hooks
are becoming nowadays," commented Luxton.
"Fancy doing it on Tom. Didn't you have Old
Ugly in here last night, Bill?"
"I could put my finger on a petty hook much
closer to me than Old Ugly," observed Flanagan
darkly. He pointed accusingly at an ash-tray on
Luxton's desk. "Who had the other one?"
"I took it in to the old man," admitted Luxton
unblushingly. "Bribery and corruption. I wanted
to arrange about a week-end off."
Swearing vengeance, Flanagan relapsed to his
work, and Luxton exchanged a wink with Kilgan.
Five minutes later they were summoned to the
library, where the superintendents and the chief
constable were awaiting them.
"Well, what's moving, Mr. Dawkins?" asked


WHICH OF EIGHT?
225
Wentworth briskly, and the other plunged at once
into a recital of the progress of the investigation.
Mender, it appeared, had reported that the car
found at Denholme was undoubtedly Solly's. Apart
from that he had made no progress. Nothing was
known of any strangers in the district, and the very
few passengers by late trains from the local stations
were practically all known by the railway staffs.
"He's not had much time yet," said Manners.
"If Solly and his party are down there he's bound
to get some hint to-day."
"Two more men have gone down this morning
to help him cover the district," explained Dawkins.
"Personally I don't think that they will find
anything."
"Solly would know we would rake the place with
a tooth-comb after finding the car," said Royton.
"I agree with Bill. That's the last place to look
for him."
"All very well," observed Flanagan. "If you
ask me, I wouldn't make up my mind too quick
about it. Bill's not dealing with the old Solly—
he's after a sick and worried man who by all accounts
is pretty desperate. No one's raised the question
of suicide. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you found
his dead body somewhere in those woods. Things
have happened like that."
The talk ranged to other aspects of the case, to
the elucidation of the writing puzzle, the death of
Tiny Virgil, the admissions of Old Ugly, and the
episode of Maud's confession. Quiet-voiced sug-
gestion and comment ran round the room. Finally,
Wentworth rapped on the table with his knuckles.


WHICH OF EIGHT? 229
"She was fond of her father," said Dawkins.
"If she had learned in some way that he was being
made the victim of blackmail, she might have
taken the law into her own hands. Remember,
she didn't go out to the dentist with the others
that night. I think it unlikely, but we can't wash
her out of any reckoning. Certainly, if Solly is
guilty, it will have to be considered whether she
shouldn't be put in the dock as an accessory after
the fact.
"Beyond her there is Maud. She has confessed
to the murder, but I no more believe that she did
it than anyone here. She has pretty well the
same alibi as Solly, and no motive unless you put
it down to jealousy. But her behaviour shows she
knows something—or thinks she knows something.
What strikes me most about her is that we have so
far run up against a blank wall in trying to trace
her sweetheart. Why hasn't he been to see her
since the murder? Why, as she admitted, has their
recent communication been by 'phone? Let's call
him Arthur. Arthur is distinctly a possibility.
He may be one of Solly's confederates, or he may
lay outside that murder gang and have carried the
murder through on his own.
"That leaves us with a few unknowns. There is
the fellow who made the first attack on Rance,
and there are the two men who acted under Solly's
instructions in the second attack, and whose finger-
prints we have got."
"That's possibly four unknown people," com-
mented Royton, " and at least two. I am assuming
that Maud's lover and Rance's first assailant might


CHAPTER XXIII
RANCE GETS A SURPRISE
Maud, lying quietly in bed at the cottage hospital,
might have been even more hopeless and despondent
than she was had she known the full extent of the
network of enquiry and espionage that Dawkins
had created round her. There was the woman from
the Criminal Investigation Department at her
bedside, quiet, sympathetic, yet alert to every word
her charge might drop. In the highways and byways
of Twyton, Old Ugly, accompanied by an unos-
tentatious shadow, was strolling, looking for her
sweetheart. A detective sent down from the Yard
was making systematic but discreet enquiries from
all tradesmen and assistants who were known to
have had dealings at Langfield, on the same quest.
Jack Rance was doing some of this work, too, but
he had chiefly concentrated on questioning the
other servants who had been at the house, and he
had also searched her box for letters. Any tele-
phone messages and callers, any mail for her, either
at the house or at the hospital, must have been
intercepted by the detectives.
All this had so far led to nothing. If she had
received letters she had destroyed them. The
other girls knew that she had a young man, but he
had never come to the house and she had been


232
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
singularly uncommunicative about him. True,
there had been occasions when she had been seen
walking with a man, but the descriptions of this
individual varied so much that no value could be
attached to them. Even those which had some
pretence to precision might quite conceivably have
applied to Smiler Carne.
Rance had spent some hours in this fruitless
work. Like most detective sergeants in out-
lying districts, he relied much on his bicycle in
getting from place to place. After leaving Langfield
he was riding along the road that bordered the golf
course, when he became aware that the rear tyre
of his machine needed first aid. Dismounting, he
found those words he deemed suitable to the occasion
and tinkered with a repair outfit. As he finished
getting the machine to rights a car passed him. The
driver he recognised at once as the little red-headed
medical man who had attended on Solly, but that in
itself would not have held his interest for more than
a second.
As the car flashed past he caught a glimpse of a
figure huddled in a back seat that caused him
instantly to fling himself on his machine and pedal
furiously in pursuit. He had acted almost instinct-
ively and it was only after he had covered a couple
of hundred yards and the car had rounded a bend
that he realised the futility of trying to overtake it.
Slackening his pace, he headed for the doctor's
house.
There, a trim maid informed him that Dr. Hickling
was out. She could not say where he was or when
he would return. That would depend on how many


RANCE GETS A SURPRISE
233
patients he had to visit. He might come back
there or he might go to his surgery first.
"I'll wait here," said Rance, in a tone that
admitted of no denial.
In a gloomy little waiting-room, surrounded by
out-of-date illustrated periodicals, he paced uneasily
to and fro for half an hour. Then he was ushered
in to the little doctor, who shook hands with him
genially.
"Let me see, it's Mr. Rance, isn't it? They told
me someone was waiting, but I didn't know it was
you, Mr. Rance. Can't say you look very ill.
What's the matter?"
"No, I'm not ill, doctor. I came to you about
something else." He walked to the door, placed a
hand upon it to make sure it was closed, and came
bluntly to the point. "You passed me in Warden's
Road less than an hour ago. You had someone
in your car."
The Other gave a slight start, but instantly regained
possession of himself.
"I passed you in Warden's Road ?" he repeated,
as one puzzled. "I havea't been ia Warden's
Road this morning."
The lie, blandly though it was uttered, hit Rance
like a blow. Until then he had partly feared, partly
hoped, that there might have been a mistake—not
about the car, but about the passenger. Now he
was sure that his eyesight had not deceived him.
Why otherwise should Hickling take this attitude?
His fists clenched.
"I am prepared to swear you were there," he
declared.


234
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
"My dear man "—the doctor was a little patron-
ising—" why so portentous? You're a plain-
clothes policeman, aren't you? Do you suspect me
of some crime?"
Rance shook his head impatiently.
"Don't play with me, doctor, please. I saw you,
I say. And I also saw in your car a person I'm very
interested in for several reasons."
"And who might that be, pray?" The doctor
spoke as he might have spoken to a perverse child.
"You were with Dorothy Silke," returned the
detective.
"Dorothy Silke? And she was in my car with
me in War dell's Road less than an hour ago? My
dear Mr. Rance, you don't look as if you had been
drinking."
The gibe was so gratuitous that Rance could not
resist an inference. "This man is trying to make
me lose my temper," he told himself. Aloud he
spoke coldly.
"Please don't be offensive. I want to know
where Miss Silke is and where she was being taken
by you?"
The doctor had strolled to a corner of the room,
and picking up a golf club which was standing there,
was playing imaginary chip shots on the carpet as
though the conversation bored him.
"I'm sorry if you think me offensive—but,
really, you come to me in my own house with some
imaginary notion, and when I tell you that you've
made some extraordinary mistake you call me a
liar." He lapsed into slang. "Pretty thick, don't
you think?"


RANCE GETS A SURPRISE 235
"What's the number of your car?" demanded
Rance, on whose memory it was firmly fixed.
"Don't be absurd, man," said the other testily.
"This is too ridiculous. Now, I'm not going to
waste my time. There's the door—you know the
way out."
Rance's answer was to reach forward a chair and
to sit down resolutely with his legs crossed.
"I don't propose to leave this house till I know
what is at the bottom of this," he announced.
"You may treat this as a farce, Dr. Hickling, but
it's a pretty deadly serious matter to me."
The doctor's face clouded. His red hair some-
times got the better of his judgment and his first
impulse was to try to throw the detective out.
The fact that Rance could have broken him in two
across his knee would scarcely have deterred him
from the attempt, but he regained his balance in
time.
"I shall take good care that your superiors know
of this impertinence," he said loftily.
"As you like," agreed Jack, with an air of
imperturbability. "I only want to make the
position plain. You're lying, and you know that I
know you're lying. Don't interrupt, please," as
he noted an angry blaze leap to the other's eyes.
"I'm not just in the position of a detective officer
coming to you. I'm as anxious as you can be to
see Dorothy Silke free of this mess. I want to help
her. I want to know, because she is something more
than a friend to me."
"H'm—ah." The doctor took another chip shot.
"That's a clever line—if I was lying. Do you


THE THOUSANDTH CASE
suggest that the girl had thoughts of marrying a
policeman?"
Rance ignored the sneer.
"I don't know that," he replied, "but I have
thoughts of marrying her. I'm not trying to trick
you into any confidence, doctor. That's just the
simple truth."
Hickling placed the golf club back in its corner
and took a seat thoughtfully opposite Rance.
"It's all pure hallucination, this idea of yours
that you saw her with me," he said, " but suppose
there was anything in it, what then? I believe
there's some fantastic suspicion in the minds of
Scotland Yard that her father had something to do
with the murder. What would you do, supposing
I took you to Miss Silke—which, of course, I can't,
as I don't know where she is? Would you, in your
position, be willing to take a risk to spare her and
to save an innocent man?" Tucking his thumbs
into the armholes of his waistcoat, he gazed at the
ceiling, as though absorbedly interested in something
he saw there.
Rance saw the object of the question and, hypo-
thetically though it was framed, knew it to be an
almost complete admission. The doctor obviously
knew a great deal. He deliberated for a long while
and drew a deep breath before he replied.
"My views on the way to help her might not be
yours. If there was anything I could do—decently
—to straighten things out, I'd jump at the
chance."
The doctor regarded him appraisingly through
half-closed eyes.


RANCE GETS A SURPRISE 237
"You tell me you're in love with her. Is she in
love with you?"
"I believe she was—I think she is." Rance stood
up. "If it wasn't for this damned business . . ."
"Wait a minute. I'm coming to believe that
you're honest about this—that, as you say, you're
not trying to trick me—but I want to get your
attitude to Silke. What would you do if—this is
only supposing—I told you where he was? Think
a bit what it might mean to this girl."
Rance took two or three nervous strides.
"I won't attempt to mislead you, doctor. I've
already had to make up my mind on this and it's
been damned hard. I should report to my chief
and I have no doubt that steps would be at once
taken to detain Silke on suspicion of murder."
Dr. Hickling came to his feet with a contemptuous
snort.
"And yet you love this girl? I'd never have
thought a detective would have been infected with
this old Herrick sentimentality—' I could not love
thee, dear, so much,' and all that sort of stuff.
You're a damned selfish man. Rance. If I have been
willing to take a risk out of friendship"
The detective held up a protesting hand.
"I told you our views would probably differ," he
said quietly. "You look at it from another angle,
and you can't know what I do. Innocent or guilty,
there isn't a corner of this earth that can shelter
Silke now. He's bound to be caught and the longer
it is delayed the worse it will look against him.
My advice to you—to Dorothy, if she were here—is
to persuade him to face the situation."


24°
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
became aware that for all its dilapidated appearance,
it was holding the same speed as the bigger car, if,
indeed, it was not gaining upon it. He stared aiter
it with surprise.
"If that's not a Flying Squad car, I'll eat it,"
he declared, half aloud, and turned to see a spruce
figure advancing to meet him.
"Hello, Jack. What are you doing here?"
asked Dawkins.


242
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
I was to have received a signal and to have followed
any such person and learnt where he went. Well,
it seems"
"The circumstances are totally different," inter-
posed the bank manager. "Instead of an open
cheque being presented over the counter, a cheque
signed by Mr. Silke reached us from the clearing
house this morning. It had been made payable to
another person and was put through his account at
another bank. Now, although we had strained a
point in agreeing to let you know when a cheque
was cashed over the counter so that you might
employ your own methods after that, it was quite
another thing to let you know the intimate details of
a transaction that you could only discover through
us. However, as I have said, I consulted the head
office, and they say that so long as I retain the cheque
in my possession they have no objection to your
knowing the facts."
It seemed to Dawkins that this was something
like straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel, but
he knew that banks, no less than Government
offices, have their own little red-tape methods.
"I understand," he said. "May I see the
cheque?" He examined it carefully, turning it
over to see the endorsement on the back, and then
handed it back to the manager. "I see it is made
out to Dr. Hickling for two hundred pounds, and
dated three days ago. Has it only just come to
you?"
"Only this morning. It would naturally take a
day or two to reach us."
With a formal word of thanks he dismissed the


244
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
the cheque. If it had been that of some stranger to
him he might have followed the obvious course—that
is to have sought out the man and questioned him.
The impression he had formed of Hickling, however,
had caused him to fix upon another plan. The
doctor, he felt sure, would disclose nothing wittingly.
But he would be entirely unaware that knowledge of
the transaction with Solly had come to the knowledge
of the police. Therefore it would probably pay
better to watch him than to go to him openly and
put him on his guard. That, if carefully done, might
bring them to the hiding-place of the man they
sought. Here it was that the car would be neces-
sary, for in visiting his patients Hickling would be
moving about much by motor. That, no doubt, he
would to some extent rely upon if he were really
keeping in touch with Solly, for a doctor's visits
anywhere would not attract undue attention.
A second string was the money. If any of that
had been paid in notes of fairly big denomination
the numbers could be obtained, and they might be
traced back as they were paid away by Solly, or, in
any event, afford some general clue as to his where-
abouts. This would, however, fail if care had been
taken—and it was unlikely that Solly had over-
looked the point—to get only such notes as were in
common use.
"Car's ready, sir." A voice broke in upon
Dawkins. "There's only room for two. You'll be
needing a second one for yourself, of course?"
"Yes," agreed the chief inspector. "This is
what I want you to do." He reached for a telephone
directory and, hastily seeking out Dr. Hickling's


A STEP FORWARD 249
and give it into Mr. Wentworth's own hands. Ask
him to 'phone me just one word—' Yes' or ' No.'
And then come back here."
Dawkins returned to the C.I.D. room, and from
the murder bag which still accompanied him took a
small packet of sandwiches, which he proceeded
methodically to devour while his eyes were fixed on
the latest novel by Edgar Wallace which he propped
on the table in front of him. Finishing the sand-
wiches and the book almost simultaneously, he lit a
pipe and stretched himself in luxurious relaxation.
The pipe drooped lower and lower and presently fell
unheeded to the floor. He was awakened by a
deferential cough. The officer who had been trailing
Dr. Hickling stood before him.
"Beg pardon, sir. We've tailed this man all
round the district and seen him safely home. I
kept a list of all the places he visited and we ran
round them afterwards. As far as we could find out
they're all genuine patients."
There was a frown on Dawkins's face which was
not altogether caused by the interruption to his
siesta.
"Did you get tired? Did you want to knock off
for lunch that you've come back to tell me this and
left him to his own devices ?" he demanded with a
biting irony that lost nothing of its venom because
he did not raise his voice. "The only reason I
brought you down was because I wanted a constant
watch on Hickling."
"Excuse me, sir," broke in the other, somewhat
aggrievedly. "We came back at the suggestion of
Detective Sergeant Rance. He wanted you to


250
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
know at once that he had seen a face at one of the
windows of the doctor's house which he believes was
that of Miss Silke."
"All the more reason why someone should have
remained there with the car," declared Dawkins, as
coldly as though the news had made small impression
on him. "Couldn't you have walked and let the
driver stay? If Solly is there and leaves the house
by car, what can Rance do alone? We may lose
track of him again. Back you go, and for the love
of Mike keep that bus of yours out of sight unless
you have to use it."


252
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Yard, and it would not have been easy to handle
them in broad daylight without attracting an atten-
tion and a publicity that was the last thing Dawkins
wanted to cause. And, of course, if it came to
breaking into the doctor's house there would have
to be a warrant.
All these things were in Dawkins's mind when he
was called to the telephone.
"Wentworth speaking," said a voice at the other
end. "The answer is 'Yes.'"
"Will you be in your room in ten minutes' time?"
asked the chief inspector. "I might have something
to say to you then."
Practically every word that was said on the tele-
phone could be heard throughout the little station,
and for this reason Dawkins had no wish to become
involved in a confidential conversation with the
chief constable that might betray some hint of his
intentions. So he went out to a street telephone
kiosk, whose glass sides warranted that no eaves-
droppers could be within earshot without his knowl-
edge, and again rang up Wentworth, to whom he
explained the reason for the interval.
"Didn't want the whole neighbourhood to know,
but I've got our gentleman located. I haven't
enough men down here to make sure of every bolt-
hole and I'd be obliged if you'd send down a couple
of Squad tenders with eight or ten good men. They
ought to be armed, and if it's possible to borrow a
pair of binoculars, I'd like 'em. I'll meet the men
at "He named a retired street where he felt
that their rendezvous would not be particularly
noticeable.


THE TRAP
"You remember at the siege of Sidney Street—I
was there"
"So was every other shirker in the service,"
declared Luxton. "I had to take on an enquiry in
Tottenham that should have gone to you while you
were seeing the show under the pretence of helping.
And, anyway, we've heard about the gun that was
shot out of your hand scores of times. If I remember
right you were running away"
"You're a slanderous old man," retorted
Flanagan. "And it wasn't a gun, it was a stick.
Now you listen to me, Bill, and make sure that Solly
and his pals haven't tumbled to you when you get
moving. Don't stand in the open."
"You've got the King's Medal already, Bill,
haven't you ?" asked Luxton. "Maybe you'll get
a bar to it if you're careful to-night. Just listen to
what Tom says and don't take any risks. But don't
be scared of Solly. If I had your job I'd be more
frightened of our fellows' guns than of any these
crooks might have. Anyway, you take a stick and
get it shot out of your hand "—he edged with mock
apprehension farther from Flanagan—" and you'll
have something to talk about all the rest of your life."
The raillery passed over Dawkins's head. There
was going to be no shooting if any foresight could
prevent it, and they knew it as well as he did. One
of the principal objects of his elaborate precautions
and the use of so many men was to avoid it. The
C.I.D. and those who control it rather deprecate
drama which involves either the death of a police
officer or a criminal. They hold that the police
are clumsy and have failed in their duty if they


t6l THE THOUSANDTH CASE
being kept together as a sort of reserve by Dawkins.
Their business, he explained, was to keep an area
around the house clear of traffic and of curious
wayfarers should trouble start, leaving the detectives
a free hand for their part of the work.
"I want one man to stick close to me as a
messenger in case I should need one," said Dawkins,
his eye ranging over the group of men who formed
the reserve. "Ah, you'll do, Laloff. Just hang
around."
A kind of temporary headquarters had been
established in one of the Flying Squad tenders and
here Rance by virtue of his local knowledge was
called into consultation. An ordnance map had
been spread out on the floor of the van and they were
examining it by the light of an electric torch.
"The first thing we have to do," explained
Dawkins, "is to get hold of Hickling. Your job is
to get him out of the house. Find a telephone and
ring him up as from some local address, asking him to
come at once on a matter of life and death. Invent
what story you like, but make it so that he has to
come this way." With a pencil he traced a route
from the house that involved two turnings, and at
the second he put a pencil mark. "That's where we
are now, and where we're going to catch him—out of
sight and hearing of his house."
"I see," said Rance. "Am I to do this now?"
"Give us five minutes," said Wentworth. "Here—
set your watch by mine."
In less than five minutes all preparations were
complete. One of the tenders was placed broadside
on across the road so that any car coming from the


THE RAID
direction of the doctor's house would be confronted
by it immediately after it had taken the second
turning. The other van was taken fifty yards back
and stood with the engine running by the kerbside.
In each van were a number of men with instructions
not to show themselves unless they were wanted.
Wentworth and Dawkins stood in the shadow of a
big tree, two other officers near them. They had
waited in silence for some minutes when they heard
a hooter as a car rounded the first bend.
"Here he comes," muttered Wentworth.
The car drew nearer, slowed to take the other
corner, and as the driver saw the obstruction came
to a halt. The waiting men stepped forward and
Dawkins flung open the door.
"We want a word with you, Dr. Hickling," he
said.
"Who the devil are you ?" demanded the doctor,
who, in the gloom, could distinguish no more than a
number of blurred figures. "What does this mean?
I'm a doctor and I'm wanted urgently."
"We've met before, doctor," said Dawkins
quietly. "You'll remember me. I'm Chief Inspector
Dawkins of the Criminal Investigation Department.
I want to ask you a few questions. Will you get out
and come somewhere where we can talk quietly?"
The doctor hesitated as if he was about to refuse.
If that was his intention he altered his mind. He
very deliberately adjusted the hand brake and
switched off the engine.
"I gather you will take no denial," he smiled as he
descended. "I suppose that was a bogus call to get
me out? If it wasn't, somebody is likely to die."


264 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Dawkins thrust an arm through his and ushered
him into the tender, Wentworth following close on
their heels. Hickling sat himself nonchalantly on
one of the seats that ran the length of the car, and
Dawkins sat opposite to him. Wentworth preferred
to stand.
"You'll probably guess what we waat to see you
about," said the chief constable.
"I've some kind of a notion," returned the doctor
lightly. "There was one of your fellows—a man
named Rance—who called on me with some silly
idea that he had seen me gallivanting round with a
Miss Silke. Preposterous, of course, but he seems to
have brought down some very distinguished orna-
ments of Scotland Yard—horse, foot and artillery."
His voice changed. "I shall naturally make a
protest. I am a professional man of standing. If
you wanted to see me you had only to call without
all this melodramatic humbug."
"We haven't a deal of time to waste," said
Dawkins sternly. "Who is in your house now?
I'd advise you to be frank."
Hickling bristled.
"Don't use that peremptory tone to me, sir. I
don't propose to be bullied. What right have you
to ask me questions in this fashion?"
"I have no intention of bullying," returned the
chief inspector. "You know that I am engaged on
an enquiry into a case of murder. I have reason to
believe that a man who may have had some concern
in that crime is concealed in your house. Is that
enough?"
The doctor, who seemed to have recovered from


THE RAID 265
his little outbreak of petulance, burst into
laughter.
"Forgive me," he exclaimed. "This is funny. I
suppose the reason is the word of a highly imag-
inative and, if I may say so, somewhat hysterical
detective. As far as I know, the only people in the
house are my servants—unless they have followers.
Haven't we had enough of this? I'm going. You
will stop me at your peril."
A strong hand on his shoulder prevented him from
rising.
"Stop one moment, doctor," interposed Went-
worth. "We have a warrant to search your house.
Don't forget that if there should be anyone there,
and should there be any resistance and somebody
hurt as a result, you've had a chance to explain."
"All right. I guess I'm entitled to see that
warrant."
With the help of a torch Dawkins displayed the
document, which Hickling read carefully from end to
end.
"I don't know what all this rigmarole means.
Have I got to put up with this indignity merely
because of something Rance fancies?"
"Not altogether because of that," said Dawkins.
"We know that quite recently you changed a cheque
of Silke's for two hundred pounds. Consider your
position a little. Do you know the law about anyone
who comforts, aids, or abets a felon in eluding
justice?"
"Now you're trying to frighten me," said
Hickling. "In the first place I don't know that it is
a criminal offence to take a cheque for money owing


270
THE THOUSANDTH CASE
his arm round her waist supported her down the
stairs. His face was white and strained.
"Come with me, Dolly. Everything will be all
right—I tell you it will be all right," he asserted in a
fierce whisper.
Meanwhile the other detectives were swarming
over the house. Dawkins himself superintended the
search of the upper rooms, where a pair of bewildered
and half-hysterical women servants were discovered
and led outside. In less than ten minutes every
nook and cranny of the place in which a human being
might be concealed had been explored by a horde
of detectives, some of whom had even clambered
through a skylight on to the roof.
Wentworth appeared as Dawkins was mopping his
brow after a hasty rush from room to room. He
had a paper in his hand.
"Solly's not here," said the chief inspector.
"I know he's not," returned the other. "A
wireless from the Yard has just been picked up by the
tenders. Mender reports that the dead body of Solly
has been found in a wood at Denholme. He had
shot himself."
Dawkins stood, his handkerchief in his hand, with-
out replying for a moment.
"So he went down there, after all," he said at last.
"I always thought suicide likely. Perhaps it will
simplify matters, because I think that we have now
got the real murderer."


THE MURDERER 273
division you have been engaged to this girl Maud who
is now in hospital—you know in what circumstances.
That engagement has been kept secret. I suppose
there was another girl in it somewhere."
"I'll admit that," interrupted Laloff. "There is
another girl who thinks she has a claim on me,
although it was nothing more than a bit of a flirta-
tion. I don't see that"
"Wait a minute." Dawkins held up a hand. "In
one way or another—it doesn't matter how—you got
to know that this man—St. Clair, as he called him-
self—was philandering with Maud. When you
managed to see him you immediately recognised
him as Smiler Carne. Probably there were rows
between you and the girl, and no doubt you tried to
warn him off. These are surmises, you see, Laloff.
Anyway, we'll carry the story a bit further. On the
night that the murder took place you were on duty
on a beat in the actual neighbourhood. You had
armed yourself, either because you thought you
might meet Smiler by chance or with the deliberate
intention of seeking him out. You met him some-
where in Wardell's Road—somewhere so near to the
spot where the body was found that it would not
have been difficult for a strong man like yourself to
have carried it there."
He paused. Laloff, who had listened apparently
unmoved, gave a sigh that might have been of relief,
and there was a faint smile on his face.
"Is that all ?" he said. "I can't see that I am
called upon to give any explanations. It's true that
I am in love with Maud and that I was on duty that
night. All the rest is nothing—surmise, as you said


THE MURDERER 275
like to tell us why you did all this—why you really
fired that pistol just now?"
The policeman squared his shoulders and his eyes
wandered from one to the other of the detectives as
though he hoped that their faces would betray their
thoughts.
"Is this a bluff, sir ? *' he asked. "I'm not a child.
What kind of proof have you got against me?"
Dawkins opened an envelope and displayed two
strands of cloth.
"Curious thing, this," he remarked. "I suppose
these caught in something. Do you know what they
are? They are two strands from a constable's
armlet—white and blue—and they were found on
the bed of one of the rooms in Oxford Road. These
are what first turned my thoughts to the possibility
of a policeman being concerned—these and the fact
that the private marks at the entrance gate had been
undisturbed. They explained several little difficul-
ties about the case, for, of course, a police officer would
guess at some of the steps we were taking. I should
tell you, too, that the eating utensils at the house
have been examined and finger-prints developed.
Some of them correspond with yours. I am sur-
prised that you shouldn't have taken precautions
against that—though it's true you left in a hurry."
"That's a lie," flashed Laloff. "How can you
say that they're mine? No one has ever taken my
prints."
"Do you recall my asking you to check a plan?"
said Dawkins. "In doing so you placed your hands
on several papers on my desk. They were sent up to
Scotland Yard and developed, and Mr. Wentworth


THE MURDERER 277
there was a break between us. I determined to stop
the mischief, and if I found that he persisted in
hanging about her, to kill him. I got in the habit of
looking for him when I was on that beat, and I raked
out an old revolver of mine and carried it with me.
He kept out of my way until. . . until that night. I
met him in WardeU's Road and walking up to him
asked him what he was doing there. 'If you must
know, I'm going to keep a date with a young lady
who has left her door open for me,' he said. Then I
shot him.
"I fired two or three times to make sure. There
was not a soul about and I didn't see how I could
possibly be suspected if I played my cards well—
except perhaps by Maud. I lifted the body and
carried it to the ditch where it was found—it wasn't
more than fifty yards."
"How did you avoid bloodstains ?" interrupted
Dawkins.
"I was wearing a thick woolly cardigan under my
tunic," explained Laloff. "I took this off and
wrapped it round his wounds. After I had placed
the body in the ditch I put it on again. In the
morning, after I went off duty, I tried to burn it in a
grate at my rooms, but I found it too difficult, and
rather than arouse remark I hid it in a cupboard.
That's one of the reasons I'm talking now. It's odds
that the people you've sent to search my place will
find that and the pistol, which I hid in a cistern."
"Go on," said Went worth.
"Well, all went as I planned. When the C.I.D.
turned out on the job you never gave a thought to
me. The next evening I was on night duty again.


278 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
As I passed Langfield I met Maud, who was waiting
for me. She had, I think, only a little before learned
that the murdered man was Smiler. Mr. Rance was
in the house at the time and she had heard something
of a conversation between him and Mr. Silke that
took place in the study—enough to make her realise
that Silke was under suspicion and in danger of
arrest. She was half distracted, for she guessed at
the truth, and at last I admitted that she was right.
She kept on repeating that Silke would be arrested
for the murder, that Rance had some kind of deadly
evidence—she wasn't sure what it was—and that I
must do something, although she wouldn't hear of
my giving myself up.
"I was in a muddy state of mind myself. If I had
been able to think clearly I shouldn't have done what
I did. I formed a vague notion of stopping Rance and
so affording more time for a plan. It was a foggy
night. I sent the girl for one of her master's over-
coats, which I slipped on, hiding my helmet in a bush.
"I think I must have been mad. Certainly I had
no conscious intention of hurting Rance, although I
did mean to intimidate him. I had opened my
pocket-knife. If I had had time to consider I might
have come to my senses, but I had scarcely been
waiting a minute when he came out. What
happened I am not quite sure—it was all so quick.
I think I had raised the knife as a threat and when
he jumped at me I automatically struck. A panic
came over me and I ran. I gave him the slip on the
golf course."
"Rance says that you deliberately tried to kill
him," said Dawkins.


THE MURDERER
28l
hoped that a few hours in that cellar would bring him
to reason. Meanwhile we left the house. We could
always have returned there, you see, if he ultimately
agreed, and if he didn't it was no longer any use as a
hiding-place, for we would have been bound to let
him go.
"We drove away in the doctor's car. Silke's car
had been left in his garage, because we knew that it
would be dangerous to use it after the description
had been issued. It was fairly safe there, as only the
doctor had a key. We arranged that Miss Silke
should stay in the doctor's house, and that Silke
himself should come to my lodgings—my landlady
being away for a day or two. I left Silke there and
went back to see about Rance—to get his final word.
As I neared the house I saw him walking up the road
with another constable. What had happened—
how he got out—is a puzzle to me even now, but I
saw that part of our game was up and dodged away
as quietly as I could.
"Of course, we realised that I couldn't keep Silke
hid for ever. The night before my landlady came
back the doctor called and took him away. That's
the last I've seen of him. To tell you the truth I
thought you'd find him here to-night."
He stopped. Dawkins, whose pencil had been
racing over his notes, raised his head.
"Nothing else you want to say?"
"Nothing except that I'm glad it's over."
The chief inspector flung open the door and
summoned Green and Golightly.
"Take this man to the station," he ordered. "He
will be charged with murder as soon as I arrive."


A TEA-PARTY 285
was and what was found on him. The thing was
wide open. All kinds of people might have had
reason to kill him or know something about the
crime. Each of these had to be seen as quickly as
possible. Fancy me single-handed trying to trace
banknotes, find Old Ugly, discover who had written
the anonymous letter, interviewing the women he
was mixed up with, checking up statements and
following all the possible lines. Why, I could have
spent a year on the job. How could I know which
avenue of enquiry was the most important?
"Well, I did what you or any other experienced
officer would have done. I used all our resources to
cover every bit of ground, not knowing in which
direction I might have to jump off. That was true
all through the case, and we were bound to hit on
something one way if not another.
"I'll admit that I felt it a thousand to one on
Solly after the first twenty-four hours. The first
thing that began to shake me was that partial alibi
of his. Some of his actions were understandable
enough if you allow for his state of mind. You
remember that letter he wrote to Hickling? I have
kept a copy of it."
He rose, and fumbling in the drawer of a bureau,
extracted a folder full of documents, one of which he
read:
"My Dear Hickling,
Things can't go on like this. For everyone's sake
it is better that I should put an end to them. The
friendship that has made you stand by me and
take such risks to help me merits at least some


A TEA-PARTY
287
"First time I've heard that," commented Luxton.
"I found it unopened in the doctor's pocket on
the night of the raid," said Dawkins, " but I didn't
look at it till the show was over. There had been
some delay in the post, for Solly had pushed it into
a box on his way down to Denholme, and we called
the doctor away just after it was delivered. It was
never made public. For one thing we didn't want
people to know that there had been a theft from the
C.R.O. Smiler must have got hold of these records
while he was still in the service, and as they hadn't
been called for for years they were never missed.
Possibly he thought that they would come in useful
some day. Then again, as Solly wasn't the murderer
there was no need to rake up all that we knew.
Knowing Jack's feelings for the girl, I'd have fixed
that in any case without any request from Solly.
Nothing came out about his past."
Luxton leaned back and undid the bottom button
of his waistcoat.
"I believe I've had too much tea," he observed.
"There are crooks—and other people—who belie
that a police officer can't play fair. Still, Solly was
right so far. He stood a good chance of being
hanged."
"Personally," said Dawkins, "I'm inclined to
believe that in the last extremity Laloff would have
come forward. He showed that he was prepared to
go a long way to save Solly in what he did. As for
the little doctor man, I had a long talk with hi m. He
had just made up his mind that his friend was
innocent. There was only that instinct—he had no
real reason for his belief—but he decided to stick by


288 THE THOUSANDTH CASE
Solly. A fool if you like, but a fine fool. Carried it
off well, too. He lied to me like a trojan about Solly
being unfit to move. The guv'nor and I talked it
over, and we decided to bring no charge against him.
If Solly had been the real murderer he might have
been amenable for assisting him. But there's no
law about helping an innocent man—even if the
C.I.D. are looking for him. What we could have
had him for was that cellar business with Rance. I
had some trouble with the Director about that, but
I convinced him that the thing was a bluff and that
it was wiser to drop it. Then there was Maud.
Strictly she was an accessory after the fact, but to
have charged her would have been rubbing it in.
Laloff's confession cleared up everything. He was
sentenced to death, but reprieved, and I believe is
still in prison."
He tapped out his pipe and reloaded it.
"No, there was no fluke about it. Put it this
way. Either Maud told us about Laloff or not.
Her reluctance to tell us who he was made it essential
that we should clear the point up. On the other
hand, if she had told us that a policeman was her
lover, we should have connected her up with Smiler,
diagnosed jealousy, and Laloff would have had some
awkward questions to answer. I think it was bound
to work out. . . . Ah, well. Wonder if there's any
news to-night?"
He switched on the wireless.
THE END /






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