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V








THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY





The
WESTMINSTER
MYSTERY
by
ELAINE HAMILTON

• THE CENTURY CO.
New York
London


COPYRIGHT, I93I, BY THE CENTURY CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE
RIGHT TO REPRODUCE THIS BOOK, OR
PORTIONS THEREOF, IN ANY FORM
First printing
PRINTED IN U. S. A.


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
200
·
·
.
215
225
·
·
.
·
·
.
238
·
·
252
. . .
280
XVII EVASION . . . . . . . . . .
XVIII THE KNIFE . . . . . . . . .
XIX FINGERPRINTS . . . . . . .
XX The THIRD KEY . . . . .
XXI REVELATIONS . . . . . . . .
XXII TIGHTENING THE NET . . . . .
XXIII BEHIND THE STAGE . . . . . .
XXIV The Face at the WINDOW . .
XXV PIERCING THE VEIL . . . .
XXVI VALERIE . . . . . . .
XXVII LADY Avice EXPLAINSi . . . .
XXVIII The LINGERING SHADOW . . . . .
XXIX A CONFESSION . . . . . . . .
XXX A SHOT IN THE THEATER . . . .
296
308
318
327
352


THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY


I


THE DRAMA OPENS
PENTLEY, P. C., caught a flash of pink and
D silver, of golden hair above a girl's laughing
face as the taxi came round the corner and drew
up at the block of flats fifty yards away.
Maybe there were a thousand pink cloaks, but
there was only one golden head like that and
Bentley felt sure he knew to whom it belonged.
Perhaps his luck would be in again tonight.
Last week she had given him a smile as he picked
up the key she had dropped. It wasn't every one
who had that favor from Laureen, the revue artist
London was raving about.
Police Constable Bentley was very young. He
jerked his belt down a shade and, measuring his
stride nicely, arrived in time to hear her invitation
to her companion—a distinguished-looking man in
the forties.
“Come up for ten minutes and share my choco-
late. My maid always waits up for me with that
stodgy beverage."
The constable heard the man's courteous accept-


THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
ance, and then what he had greatly hoped for hap-
pened.
Laureen glanced over her shoulder and smiled.
"Good night, officer."
The policeman saluted, conscious of a blush that
he prayed was invisible.
"Good night, miss," he replied and strolled on.
"You are nothing if not a coquette," said the
girl's escort.
"Not at all," she retorted. "You never know
when you may be glad of his services in these cat-
burglar times."
There was no night porter and the hall was
empty at that hour, the tenants operating the lift
for themselves.
"Which floor?" Laureen's friend asked, his finger
on the switch.
"Second," Laureen, her gray eyes speculative, re-
plied mechanically. Her mind was concentrated on
the fact that Ivan Lansberg, the mysterious finan-
cial power behind so many theatrical productions
was actually beside her, going to share her choco-
late. She chuckled at the thought. The man of re-
puted millions, whose nationality every one guessed
at and nobody knew; the friend of every well-known
celebrity in Europe—and hot chocolate.
Several times they had met at suppers or night
clubs. To-night—Sunday, June 30th—at a gay stu-
dio party. And for the first time Lansberg seemed
to have recognized that she had an existence apart
from the stage. Sallow, strong-featured to the point


THE DRAMA OPENS
5
of ugliness, she decided him to be, but a man who
could not be overlooked or forgotten in a crowd.
Laureen led the way to her apartment at right
angles to the lift, and pressed the bell.
"My maid always waits up for me. Isn't it re-
spectable! But actresses are the only women careful
of their reputations nowadays."
"Well, for once yours would seem to be at stake,"
he answered as the door remained closed. "Have
you a key?"
The girl produced it from her handbag and
started to fit it in the lock; but before she could
turn the key, at the slight pressure of her hand
the door yielded—it opened on to a hall dark but
for the light in the corridor.
She drew back with a startled exclamation.
"The latch must have been fastened up! How
extraordinary! And where on earth is Bertha?"
"Even the most perfect of maids will run out
to post a letter at times," Lansberg suggested
lightly.
Laureen's expression relaxed at his casual tone.
"Perhaps that's it, but it would have been awk-
ward if I'd forgotten my key. I so rarely carry it.
Shall we chance our reputations and go in?"
Lansberg nodded. "Mine went long ago, my
child; there's only yours to consider. But remem-
ber I was promised some nourishment."
Laureen switched on the light in the little square
hall. The man followed her in, released the catch
of the lock and closed the door behind him.


6 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
She paused with her hand on the knob of the
door facing her and sniffed.
"Oof! What a queer smell. Disinfectant or some-
thing. I'm a nervous idiot! Bertha has probably
been cleaning my gloves with benzine, so that's
that."
The man noticed that her lips trembled slightly.
He tucked his arm into hers and led her into the
drawing-room, switching on the lights as he passed.
She dropped on to the couch with a sigh of relief,
glancing about uneasily.
"Look here, my girl, what you need is a stiff
drink. Have you any whisky?"
"In the dining-room," she pointed to a half-open
door opposite. "Hello, that benzine smell is stronger
here," she whispered.
He pulled back the curtains and opened the win-
dow.
"Yes, Bertha seems to have been pretty active,"
he agreed drily. "I'll get you a toddy. Don't move."
As he was crossing the room Laureen called him
back.
"No, I hate spirit; it's a last resource. I'm all
right now. By the way, perhaps my maid went off
her dot. To-night in Dick Spencer's studio I was
handed a parcel. Somebody said it had been left for
me by my maid! I thought it was a joke and that
I'd spoil their trick by not opening it. Well, they
crowded round and insisted, so I pulled off the paper
and found a pair of black satin shoes! They were
mine, too; I recognized the maker's name and the


THE DRAMA OPENS
Lansbehoughtfully.. mine the girl fancient
buckles. I left them in the studio-forgot to bring
them back with me. Did you ever hear of anything
so idiotic as bringing me a pair of slippers I'd never
asked for?"
Lansberg drew out his cigarette-case, his eyes
narrowed thoughtfully.
“Have a cigarette ? Perhaps the girl fancied you
might, like Cinderella, drop a slipper at midnight.
Where's that promised chocolate ? Let's have it
while we're waiting for her and her explanation."
He shot a quick glance at Laureen. “Or would you
like me to look round the flat?"
“We'll do that if Bertha isn't here in a minute."
Rising, she fetched a covered tray with a thermos
bottle on it from a table in the corner.
"Now this is becoming really interesting, Mr.
Lansberg. This thermos is only used if Bertha has
gone to bed—a blue moon occurrence! When she is
here naturally she heats the stuff in the kitchen. I'm
going to see if she's in her room.”
Lansberg put out his hand to check her. “Let
me—" he began and broke off at her breathed
“Hush! Listen!"
In the tense silence they heard something rustle
on the carpet, and then the door into the dining-
room slammed suddenly.
Laureen gave a nervous jump.
"A piece of paper blown by a sudden gust of
wind which also caused the door to slam.". Lansberg
spoke in slow, reassuring tones to calm the girl.
But her previous nervousness had gone. She


8 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
picked up the paper fluttering near the window
and held it with steady fingers.
She scanned it through quickly in silence, and
then turned to the man with a puzzled air.
"Listen! This is a copy made by Bertha of a tele-
phone call she received at eight thirty this evening.
Long ago I insisted that she must write down every
call that came through, giving the time, in case she
forgot a message."
Over her shoulder Lansberg saw that the paper
was evidently a sheet torn from a pad intended for
recording telephone messages.
Laureen read it aloud slowly:
Miss Laureen wishes you to take her black
satin shoes with paste buckles to Mr. Spencer's
studio, 4 Clarence Road, Chelsea, at ten o'clock
to-night certain. Don't ask for her but leave
parcel with the servant. Also Miss Laureen
says she may not return to-night and that you
are to sleep out as usual and return to flat at
noon to-morrow.
Below this was written a note, which Laureen
also read:
Miss Gilbert telephoned this message at 8:15.
BERTHA
"The instructions seem clear and definite," Lans-
berg remarked.
Laureen folded the paper carefully but absent-
mindedly and laid it on the tray.


THE DRAMA OPENS
9
"Exactly, but who sent them?" she said sharply.
"I didn't. I don't know any 'Miss Gilbert.'"
The man regarded her in surprise. This was not
the gay laughing girl he had met in the studio, nor
the overstrung individual of five minutes ago. Alert
and wide-eyed she faced him now with no trace of
fear.
"Would you mind going through the flat, Mr.
Lansberg?" she asked. "This door," indicating the
one behind her, "leads to my bedroom. Beyond it
is the bathroom with another door into the hall.
You'll find on the left a tiny corridor with two
rooms—kitchen and my maid's bedroom. Coming
back from her room you'll find the dining-room door
in front of you and that will lead you through to
this room. A kind of circular tour," she added with
a short laugh.
Lansberg bowed, responding immediately to her
changed decisive attitude.
"You'll stay here or come with me?" he inquired.
She seated herself on the couch again and poured
out the steaming chocolate.
"I'll wait here," she decided. "You'll find switches
inside each door. Bring an extra cup and saucer from
the kitchen. Please close the doors as you go or they
may bang and—and startle me again."
The man saw her composedly add sugar to the
chocolate in her cup and stir it. With a shrug as if
he cast aside all hope of comprehending a woman's
moods, he stepped into the bedroom.
The girl turned as the door closed, listened for


10
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
his footsteps, then rose and went swiftly to the door
that led into the dining-room—the room Lansberg
would visit last-opened it noiselessly and slipped
inside.
A minute or two later a scream rang through the
flat-a scream high-pitched and filled with terror.
Lansberg rushed from the hall into the drawing-
room and saw Laureen standing there, holding on
to the handle of the closed dining-room door as if
that support alone kept her from falling.
He caught her by the shoulders.
“What is it?"
Her breath came in shuddering gasps as she clung
to his arm.
"I-don't-know exactly. A man asleep-drunk
—dead perhaps. I only looked in from the door-
way.”
“Dead !” he repeated blankly as he drew her back
to the couch. “Why did you go in there?” he de-
manded. “You sent me to search the place.”
"It seemed ages waiting. I felt I had to go. What
are we to do?” She was fighting for self-control
now.
Lansberg's face was like a mask as he answered
quietly.
"Sit still, Laureen. You'll need all your strength
later. First I'm going into that room and then I
shall ring up the police station—if necessary.”
The girl shivered as he opened the dining-room
door and clicked on the light.
He reappeared in a few seconds.


THE DRAMA OPENS
11
"Dead!" he snapped out. "Chloroform, I fancy.
That accounts for the smell. Where's the tele-
phone?"
She indicated a pink crinolined doll on the bureau,
heard the man's crisp tones demanding Scotland
Yard.
"What is the exact address of this place, Lau-
reen?" he asked while waiting for the number.
"Flat ten, forty-nine Beresford Street, Westmin-
ster," she informed him.
"An inspector and police surgeon will come round
at once," he told her a moment later, hanging up
the receiver.
"And then?" Laureen's voice was calm again.
Lansberg smiled ruefully.
"Well, then I'm afraid the trouble begins—for
somebody. A certain amount for you, possibly, as
the scene of action is in your flat. The inspector will
ask questions, take possession of the place and
search it."
"Search it?" she questioned with a frown. "How
—how queer."
Lansberg drummed his fingers on the table a
moment. Then: "Did you know this man, Laureen?"
he asked sharply.
The girl's eyes wavered.
"Of course not," she replied at once. Then, seeing
her mistake, hesitatingly added, "I mean—"
The man laid his hand on hers gently.
"Better make up your mind what you mean before
the police arrive," he suggested.


II
SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK
LAUREEN stared at the closed dining-room
door. Mechanically she took a fresh cigarette
from a box on the table. Lansberg lighted it, lighted
one for himself. For a second his fingers—the
fingers that had lain on hers—were held near his
face as the match flickered.
"Go and wash your hands quickly, Laureen, and
spray some perfume on your dress." Fear flashed
across her face as he added, "I smell chloroform
there and so may the inspector."
She obeyed, still with that withdrawn air of men-
tal indecision.
He heard her moving about the bedroom for sev-
eral minutes, opening drawers, splashing water.
"Laureen," he called. And again . . . after a
few moments, "Laureen."
Something in the steady sound of the water made
him walk into the hall. The bathroom door was
open, the light burning, taps turned full on. He
turned them off automatically, stood there frown-
ing. Three shrill blasts on a police whistle came
12


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK 13
suddenly from outside, then soft light steps on the
stairs.
Lansberg's hand was on the hall door when it
opened against him and Laureen slipped in, her
frock gleaming, gray eyes ablaze, triumphant. She
held out a police whistle.
"I ran down to see if that nice policeman would
come," she explained breathlessly. "Quick, let's go
to the drawing-room window and call him up if he
comes along the street."
The man followed her to the open window.
"Equally I might have whistled from here and
saved you a journey," he remarked, "if you particu-
larly wanted him."
She leaned her bare arms on the window ledge
and thrust back her hair with a tired gesture. "He
seemed friendly and," she laughed mirthlessly, "I
look like needing a friend."
"How far is the pillar-box from here?" he asked
irrelevantly.
"At the end of the street," was her instant reply,
"quite a hundred yards away. Look, there he is."
She pointed to a helmeted figure hurrying along,
scanning every house. "Call him."
Lansberg leaned out. "Here, officer," he shouted.
"Second floor, right."
"Please," her voice trembled, "I want to speak
to you alone before the others arrive."
She heard Lansberg open the outer door, heard
the policeman's "Anything wrong, sir? I hope the
lady is all right?"


14 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Something is very wrong. We have found a man
dead in there. I've telephoned Scotland Yard and
the inspector will be here any minute. The lady is
naturally somewhat distressed. After you've had a
look around you might wait in the hall until they
come."
"Certainly, sir." Bentley, P. C, removed his
helmet with alacrity, as Laureen appeared in the
doorway, a less radiant, paler Laureen than had
wished him "good night," but no less beautiful.
"Thank you for coming," she said in her soft,
clear voice.
In the drawing-room Lansberg took her hands in
his.
"Regard me as your friend, my child, not your
enemy," he urged.
Her gray eyes were misty, her lips curved in a
tremulous smile.
"There may be limits even to what one can im-
pose on friends," she whispered.
"It's you who make those boundaries; not I."
She glanced round the room wearily.
"Well, you've had a messy half-hour, Mr. Lans-
berg. It might have strained an older friendship
than ours." She bit her lip.
He tightened his grasp on her hands, as if he
would steady her, give her courage.
"Did you know that man, Laureen?"
"Will they ask me that?"
"Of course. Why should a stranger be found dead
in your flat? But if you know him—well, you are a


16 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
the inspector and the doctor, I expect. Do you know
who could have sent that extraordinary telephone
message?"
"I do not." Her reply was quick and definite.
She was evidently concealing nothing there, he felt.
"That phrase about your possibly not returning
and the maid to sleep out—what did it mean?"
"That's the curious part," was her answer. "The
woman who sent that message knew my arrange-
ments with Bertha intimately. You see, my maid is
terrified to sleep here alone, and we have an under-
standing that any night I may be away I always
telephone or send a telegram warning her I shall
not come back. On those occasions she goes to some
friends."
They heard the bell ring, and a murmur of voices
in the hall.
Lansberg bent swiftly to her.
"Leave as much of the talking to me as you can,"
he warned. "Tell them you once acted in a film with
this man and can only suppose—if you're asked—
that he might have come here to ask help to get a
job. Of the rest, you know nothing. I hope it will be
unnecessary to mention your other relationship to
the dead man."
The drawing-room door was opened by the po-
liceman and two men entered. They gave a casual
glance round the room and the older man of the
two spoke to Lansberg.
"You telephoned the Yard, sir, I believe, saying
you had found a dead man here just over half an


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK
hour ago. I'm Detective Inspector Reynolds. This is
Dr. Tempest," he indicated his companion.
Lansberg bowed gravely.
"That is quite correct, Inspector. First of all
you'll both want to see the body, I expect."
"Yes, please. Nothing has been touched, of
course?"
"Nothing."
Lansberg opened the door into the dining-room
and switched on the light, standing aside to allow
the inspector and doctor to pass in.
"Miss Laureen is distressed by the tragedy,
Inspector," he said in a low voice. "This is her flat.
Unless you wish me to remain here while you make
your examination I will stay in the next room with
her, and tell you all I know when you have finished."
"Certainly," the C. I. D. man agreed. "She will,
of course, be able to identify the deceased?"
Lansberg made a dubious gesture.
"That ordeal awaits her, I'm afraid," he said. "I
went in alone, and immediately telephoned to Scot-
land Yard."
He went toward Laureen, leaving the door be-
tween the two rooms open and holding up a warn-
ing finger to her to be silent.
Presently both men returned.
"And now, sir," said the inspector, "I shall be
glad to hear all you can tell me. First, did you know
this man?"
"No," replied Lansberg definitely. "My name is
Lansberg," he went on; drawing out a thin case, he


18 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
laid a card on the table. "That is my address. I
escorted this lady back from a studio party we had
both attended to-night at—" He turned to the girl:
"Have you the slightest idea what time we arrived
here?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid not."
Bentley from the background spoke promptly.
"It was exactly one twelve A. M., sir, as you paid
off the taxi."
Laureen's mouth twitched faintly at the consta-
ble's answer.
"Miss Laureen asked me if I would come up
and share her chocolate," Lansberg explained. He
glanced at the policeman. "Possibly you heard the
lady's remark, officer?"
"I did, sir. She also said her maid always waited
up for her," he replied sturdily.
Inspector Reynolds wrote something in his note-
book. Then he looked up. "You both walked upstairs
to the flat, Mr. Lansberg?"
"No," corrected the latter. "We came up by lift.
At the door we rang the bell and as there was no
answer Miss Laureen was going to put her key in
the lock when the hall door opened at the touch of
her fingers. The hall was in darkness. The latch was
fastened back."
For the first time Inspector Reynolds looked
steadily at Laureen—a seemingly vacant gaze as if
his thoughts were elsewhere.
"The lady was alarmed?" he questioned.
"Not exactly alarmed. Puzzled and uneasy, per-


20 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"No," replied the girl. "I forgot them. They are
at Mr. Spencer's studio."
Inspector Reynolds took up his pencil again.
"What is his address, please?"
"Mr. Richard Spencer, four Clarence Road,
Chelsea," Lansberg interposed. He waited for the
address to be written and then handed Bertha's copy
of the telephone message to the inspector, who read
it frowningly.
Lansberg turned to the doctor.
"May I ask if you know the cause of death yet,
Dr. Tempest?"
"Probably chloroform," the medical man replied
guardedly. "One cannot be sure until after the
autopsy. He has been dead two or three hours—
maybe a little longer."
Lansberg nodded his thanks.
"Who is this Miss Gilbert who telephoned?"
asked the detective.
The girl shook her head. Her face was set in a
stillness foreign to her usual animation, Lansberg
noticed, noticed too that the doctor was studying
her.
"I have no idea. I know no one of that name.
But, as I told Mr. Lansberg, it must have been sent
by some one who knows my arrangements very
well," she continued evenly. "Bertha will not sleep
here alone at night, so, if unexpectedly I decide not
to return, I always send her a message and she goes
to friends of hers for the night."
"Where do these friends live?" Reynolds asked.


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK
21
"At Clapham, I think. I have never needed the
address as she has a key and always returns next
morning."
The inspector tapped his pencil on the book.
"Ural In that case, madam, she may be there
to-night and will return here," he referred to the
written message, "at noon, following out your pre-
sumed instructions."
Laureen raised her hands in a helpless gesture.
"I suppose so, since she has faithfully followed out
the first part of them."
The inspector stroked his chin pensively a mo-
ment. "When you read this message," he said, "you
had no idea there had been a tragedy?"
Lansberg caught Laureen's eyes in one steadying
glance and then his calm voice answered for her:
"I think we were both certain by that time that
something was wrong and she asked me to search
the flat. I began here," Lansberg pointed to the
bedroom door, "and went through to the bathroom
which led from it."
"The lady accompanied you," suggested the in-
spector idly.
"No, she remained here."
The C. I. D. man turned swiftly to the girl,
pointing an accusing finger.
"And while Mr. Lansberg was out of hearing,
you went in and looked at the dead man, madam."


THE TINSELED TRAIL
23
ing has been touched since. I had just reached the
hall and was about to visit the maid's room and
kitchen when I heard a scream. I hurried into this
room and found Miss Laureen standing over there,"
he pointed to the dining-room door. "She looked so
ill that I feared she was going to faint."
He paused and glanced from Inspector Reynolds
to the doctor, who had been a silent listener to the
cross-examination. Something curiously sympathetic
in Dr. Tempest's expression induced Lansberg to
address him directly.
"I suppose a sudden shock like that, following a
series of unusual happenings at one o'clock in the
morning, would unnerve any woman, Doctor?"
"I can assure you, Mr. Lansberg," Dr. Tempest
replied, "that most women would have been in hys-
terics for less. Miss Laureen has shown remarkable
composure."
Reynolds detected a note of admiration in the
doctor's voice and interrupted with a touch of asper-
ity. This was no time for compliments.
"No need to waste any more of your time, Doc-
tor," he said bluntly. "You've seen all vou want to
in there, I suppose?"
"Quite!"
Dr. Tempest rose, and bade good night to Lans-
berg and Laureen. At the door he stopped, and,
calling the inspector outside, said something to him
in an undertone.
"She looks all right," grumbled the inspector.
"Very well, do as you please, but don't blame me


24 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
afterwards," Dr. Tempest warned him. "That girl
has had a bad shock and is fighting pluckily—too
pluckily—to prevent herself from breaking down.
She needs rest. Where is she going to sleep to-
night?"
Reynolds looked aggrieved. "That's not my
funeral. A hotel, I suppose. Wherever she goes I
shall have an eye kept on her, of course."
The doctor's lips tightened. "She'd be better with
friends or relatives than alone in a hotel in her over-
strung condition," he retorted curtly. "Better defer
your third degree methods on her or she'll be ill.
Good night."
He glanced round once more at the girl whose
eyes rested on his face wistfully as though she would
have wished him to stay. "Good night, Miss Lau-
reen," he said again. "Take a couple of aspirin
before you go to bed."
"Thank you, Doctor, I will," she answered grate-
fully.
Dr. Tempest walked to his home with cold rage
in his heart. He and the inspector were on excellent
terms, but it was not the first time they had crossed
swords over Reynolds's ruthless methods.
As the door closed behind the doctor the inspector
spoke almost genially.
"I'm going to look through the flat now. You'd
better come too, Mr. Lansberg. The constable can
stay in this room in case the lady feels nervous."
The two men went into the bedroom and began
their search. In the bathroom the C. I. D. man


THE TINSELED TRAIL
25
paused and glanced at the window which was open
at the top.
"Did you open that, sir?" he asked.
Lansberg shook his head.
"No. I noticed the bedroom window was open
too when I came through earlier."
Reynolds peered through a pane of glass, shad-
ing his eyes.
"Umph! Fire-escape staircase just outside, too.
All nice and handy!" His eyes wandered vaguely
round the tiled walls, came back to the wash-basin
with its shining taps. He bent down.
"Some one has just used this," he announced.
"The soap is wet."
Lansberg felt a grudging admiration for the
man's deductive powers. Evidently he knew his job.
"Yes. Miss Laureen washed her hands here
recently, I believe."
Inspector Reynolds seemed to be on the point
of asking a question. Then changed his mind and
stalked out.
Laureen could hear their footsteps but no sound
of conversation reached her ears. Apparently the
inspector was saving himself up for her cross-exami-
nation, she decided.
She leaned her throbbing head back on the cush-
ions of the chesterfield and closed her eyes. Oh, if
only she dare relax! But she knew quite well that
any such weakness would mean a flood of tears.
Some people could weep with their eyes easily. With
Laureen, who cried rarely, it was a crashing down


26 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
of all control and she knew she would need every
ounce of intelligence she possessed presently, when
that stony-eyed inspector began his process of dis-
section.
Police Constable Bentley from his seat just in-
side the room regarded the lady's white face with
consternation. He ventured on a slight cough and,
as she looked across at him, he spoke in a voice
husky but sympathetic.
"I'm afraid this unpleasant business has upset
you, miss. Can I get you anything?"
She regarded his kindly, honest face, reddened
slightly now by confusion at the smile she turned
on him.
"Thank you, officer, no. One doesn't find a dead
man in one's flat every night, you know, or prob-
ably one would get used to it and take the matter
lightly."
Reynolds at the door, saw the smile and over-
heard her remark as he was about to enter. He
attributed it to flippancy, and registered a decision
to ignore Dr. Tempest's advice to go gently with
her.
"Tempest's a nervous old maid," he decided.
"This girl's as hard as nails; brazenly making eyes
at the constable directly my back's turned. I'll put
her through it before she has time to make up her
story. She knows a deal more than she'll admit."
Aloud he said:
"And now, madam, I'd like you to follow me,
please."


THE TINSELED TRAIL
27
He strode firmly across the room and turned on
the lights inside the dining-room door.
Lansberg slipped his arm through that of the
girl as she rose a little unsteadily. He could feel her
body trembling and the fingers that touched his
hand were cold as ice. With instinctive kindliness
he laid his other hand on hers and gripped it hard
just as the inspector swung round with one of his
quick gestures.
Reynolds abruptly turned his back again but he
had seen the clasped hands, and interpreted it in
his own way. His was not a profession that called
for sentiment, and personal ambition played a far
larger part in his life than devotion to the gentle
woman he had married and to whom he had been
doggedly faithful ever since.
His voice cut in coldly as Lansberg led the girl
toward a big chair which was beside the fireplace,
its back toward them.
"Please stand here, madam, where you stood be-
fore." There was an ominous note in his voice. "Do
you recognize the deceased?"
Laureen moistened her dry lips, gazed fearfully
at the sagging figure almost hidden in the depths of
the big chair. The head was flung back, the face—
that of a dark, clean-shaven man about thirty—
turned upward. She shuddered and Lansberg felt
her lean heavily against him.
"Yes," she said with difficulty. "Yes, I knew him
years ago." She swallowed and went on like a child
repeating a lesson. "He was a cinema actor, his


28 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
name was Leslie Delmond. We acted in a film to-
gether four years ago. I haven't seen him since and
don't know why he came here. We were not on
friendly terms. Can I go in the other room now and
answer the rest of your questions there?" she fin-
ished tremulously.
The inspector turned, bent over the dead man
slightly and indicated something on the dark waist-
coat, something that glistened.
"Half an hour ago," he said sternly, "you were
not afraid to come in here alone and bend over this
man, maybe to look more closely at him." He
paused for deliberate effect before driving home his
thrust. "Even to search his pockets for letters that
might be incriminating. This," his finger pointed
accusingly at the shining speck on the dead man's
waistcoat, "this dropped from the dress you are now
wearing. There are other traces of them right across
this room. Also—" He checked himself as Laureen
covered her face with her hands and gave a choking
cry.
Lansberg felt a queer emotion surge in his heart
at that cry of pain, an overwhelming pity for the
girl who had been broken by the skilled questions
of this official. He curbed his anger, realizing the
futility of it, indeed the danger of losing any meas-
ure of control.
He drew the girl's arm more firmly into his and
addressed the inspector with dignity.
"This interview must be continued in the next
room, Inspector, otherwise I shall telephone for the


THE TINSELED TRAIL
29
lady's doctor to come immediately.” There was
authority in his voice.
Reynolds was a cautious man. Dr. Tempest's
words of warning came back to him. He glanced at
the girl anxiously as she stood pale and rigid.
“Certainly, Mr. Lansberg,” he agreed hastily. "I
can defer questioning the lady further until to-
morrow."
Laureen lifted her head proudly.
"No," she said coldly. “I prefer no delay." She
spoke to Lansberg, who still held her arm, as they
went back to the drawing-room. "It was stupid of
me to break down like that. One would think I was
already convicted of the crime! I'll have some of
that chocolate now; I can drink it cold. Ah, and a
cigarette, please."
She extended the box toward Inspector Reynolds
as he stood biting his lip, thrown a little out of his
stride by this volte-face. “Will you have one,
Inspector ?"
There was something of challenge in her casual
tone, almost a gamin smile on her face as if she
tempted him to do his worst with her now.
Reynolds interpreted that glance as one of daring
impudence. "Pretending to be hysterical to get my
sympathy,” he decided, “and when that failed, now
thinks she'll try her wiles instead.”
Abruptly he declined to smoke.
"I must ring up the Yard at once. Where is your
telephone, please ?” he demanded.
Laureen pointed.


30 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Under that frivolous pink thing. I'm sure you
disapprove of it, Inspector, nearly as much as you
do of me."
She crinkled her nose and made a moue at his
stiff back as he issued curt orders through the
instrument.
Then he strode into the hall and instructed Bent-
ley to stay there until the men with the ambulance
arrived. He returned presently, and choosing the
hardest chair he could find, took out his note-book.
Laureen was curled up on the couch, one white
arm above her head, blowing smoke rings noncha-
lantly. From an easy chair opposite Lansberg
watched her with anxious eyes. Her present mood
was a dangerous one, he realized, for she was keyed
up to heights of bravado that might have serious
consequences.
"And now, Inspector, I am at your service," she
observed sweetly.
"Have you any idea where the deceased lived, or
if he has any relatives?" Reynolds began.
"I have no knowledge whatever," she replied,
"either of his movements, his relatives or his ad-
dress."
"Your name, age and occupation, please."
She flashed an impish glance at Lansberg. "Mar-
jorie Laureen; age—well, shall we say twenty-five?
Occupation, when lucky, actress."
"Better say revue artist," supplemented Lans-
berg. "Miss Laureen is very well known, Inspector.
In fact one might say she is famous."


THE TINSELED TRAIL
31
Inspector Reynolds licked his pencil and applied
himself to his note-book. Spelling had never been
one of his strong points and he was by no means
sure how to spell the girl's name or exactly what
was the technical difference between an actress and
a revue artist.
Just then the bell echoed and in a moment Bent-
ley announced that the police photographer and a
sergeant had arrived.'
"Show them into the dining-room," snapped
Reynolds. "I want photographs of all the finger-
prints they can find." He turned to the girl again.
"So this is your flat?"
"Yes, I took over the rest of the lease from the
last tenant and bought some of his furniture ten
months ago. And after this episode he can buy it
back from me at his own price as soon as he likes."
She flicked the ash from her cigarette and faced
the inspector brightly, waiting for his next question
with a look of pleased interest.
Reynolds gnawed his lip but refused to be drawn.
"Please confine yourself to the facts we are now
concerned with, madam," he said in his earlier dull
tone. "You live here alone?"
"With my maid."
"Her name, please."
"Bertha Mackie." She pronounced it in the Scot-
tish way, accenting the last syllable, and lowered one
eyelid in Lansberg's direction as she watched the
inspector struggle three times to write the name.
"How do you spell it?" he rapped at last.


32 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Laureen spelled it, waiting patiently for him to
write each letter.
"Thank you. At what time did you leave the flat
this evening, madam?"
She reflected for a moment. "I think it was ten or
twelve minutes past seven."
"Wearing that dress?" He waved his hand at her
shining frock.
"Yes—with a cloak over it, naturally."
"You walked downstairs?" he asked.
"No, I pressed the automatic 'ascent' button for
the lift to come up, and went down in it."
"You did not return to the flat again until you
came here with Mr. Lansberg at one twelve A.M.?"
"I did not," Laureen answered, still with that
encouraging look on her face.
Inspector Reynolds lifted his eyes and stared at
her.
"Then, Miss Laureen," he said with careful em-
phasis, "if you went down in the lift at seven twelve
p. M., did not return to the flat in the interval, and
came up in the lift with Mr. Lansberg at one ten
A. M., how is it that I saw tiny glass crystals, like
those on your frock, on several stairs when I walked
up to-night?"
Laureen's lips parted and terror crept into her
eyes as instinctively her mind darted back to the
thing she wished to conceal.
"Oh, yes, of course," she added breathlessly, "I—
I ran down to whistle for the policeman."


IV
SHADOWED
AGAIN the bell echoed through the flat, and low
voices sounded in the hall.
Bentley appeared and whispered something to the
inspector.
"All right, I'll come," he said irritably, fully con-
scious that this interruption gained time for Lau-
reen, whereas experience had proved to him that an
examination taken at top speed reduced the victim
to the desired pulp. "The ambulance men, Mr.
Lansberg," he explained.
Lansberg leaned toward the girl as the detective
went out.
"Listen, my child, I don't want to pry into your
secrets, but you're involving yourself in a bad tangle.
Won't you trust me ? Why did you really run down-
stairs?"
Her gray eyes had the tragic look, her lips the
forlorn droop of a lost child.
"I'll explain that—later," she whispered. "Thank
you for wanting to help me. What had I better do?"
"Well, although I detest the idea, you'll be safer
33


34 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
if you tell the inspector how much"—he hesitated—
"I mean about you and Delmond."
She seemed curiously relieved.
"Oh, about him. Very well, I will. What's that?"
She twisted round toward the closed bedroom and
listened to stealthy sounds. "Some one is opening my
wardrobe," she breathed. "I know the squeak of the
hinge."
Lansberg's lips set in a grim line.
"They're having a preliminary canter through
your things, probably," he said with disgust. "Of
course one might protest, but, as you've managed to
get yourself in rather a corner, I think it's wiser to
ignore it. Unless—Laureen," he asked anxiously,
"there's something in there you don't want them
to find."
She smiled faintly. "Nothing, you kind man."
"No recent letters from Delmond?"
"Not a line," she assured him.
His tense expression relaxed.
"Thank Heaven for that. Where will you sleep
to-night? Of course you can't stay here. Have you
any relatives or friends near? I don't like your
being in a hotel alone."
She puckered her brows whimsically.
"My dear man, I look like spending a large part
of my life alone if this mess doesn't get cleared up
satisfactorily." She made a grimace as another creak
came from the room behind. "They're at my little
desk where I've piles of love letters: most of them
from men I've never seen! What a fool I was to


SHADOWED
keep them. Indeed, the righteous Reynolds will think
I'm an abandoned woman now.”.
Lansberg clenched his fist, and drew in his breath.
“If it would not make things worse for you I'd go
in and stop him,” he declared. “As it is, I'm help-
less. Think where you can sleep to-night.”
She was silent for a moment.
“I know," she said with decision. “Top floor in
this building. A nice girl and her mother live there:
the girl's in the box-office at our theater. The moth-
er's away on a holiday so I know Betty Marden will
let me have her room.”
The surreptitious creakings in the bedroom
ceased, and from the dining-room opposite heavy
shuffling sounds came as the ambulance men per-
formed their task.
“Remember, you'll probably be shadowed from
this moment onward until the mystery is cleared up,
Laureen," Lansberg warned her. “So be careful;
to-morrow particularly. And don't antagonize that
detective any more to-night."
Suddenly she snatched up her handbag with an
exclamation and from it drew out a sheet of thin
paper covered with handwriting. She read its con-
tents as if memorizing it, then swiftly struck a match
and held it in the flame until the last corner was
destroyed, mixing the ashes with the cigarette ends
in the ash-tray.
"Light a cigarette," whispered Lansberg, “or he
may smell paper has been burnt.”
He was holding the match for her as Reynolds


36
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
entered with his stolid, noiseless tread. The detec-
tive's glance traveled round with its usual vague
stare, but this time both Lansberg and the girl knew
he was missing no detail.
"You left the flat at seven ten P.M. to-night.” The
C. I. D. man glanced at his watch as he addressed
the girl. “Where did you dine ?”
"The Regina Grill Room."
"With whom?"
"Two women I knew years ago." She pulled a
card out of her bag and tossed it across the table.
"You can verify the statement. That is their ad-
dress. They have only just gone there to live, hence
the card to remind me."
The C. I. D. man took the card and carefully
slipped it into his note-book.
"You left the Grill Room at what time?"
Laureen frowned.
"Possibly the waiter may know. About eight
forty-five."
"Ind when did you leave those friends?” asked
Reynolds as if the matter had lost interest for him.
"They remained in the restaurant when I came
away.”
"Where did you go then?"
The girl flushed, hesitated and finally spoke in
a quick furry of words.
"I went for a little walk round that neighborhood.
It was a lorely night and the restaurant was air-
less, so I wandered about a bit as it was too early
to go to the party. After"—she gare a nervous


SHADOWED
37
laugh—"oh yes, after that I took a taxi to Mr.
Spencer's studio."
The detective walked across, picked up the pink
brocaded wrap on the couch beside her, and scruti-
nized it minutely. Even its black satin lining did not
escape his attention and the pocket cleverly and
almost invisibly made. He patted it lightly and laid
it down with approval.
"You were wearing this when you were walking?"
"Yes."
"Quite practical, too, in a way, with that black
lining," he observed conversationally.
"Yes," amiably agreed Laureen. "It is made to
be reversible," and paled instantly at the change in
his face.
"Which side were you wearing outward when you
wandered about from eight forty-five until you took
the taxi to Mr. Spencer's studio?" the C. I. D. man
demanded harshly.
Laureen pressed her hand to her cheek.
"I—I forget. Oh, the pink side."
"I see." He resumed his seat and pulled at his
chin. "So you wish me to believe that you strolled
about the West End streets alone to-night from
eight forty-five for an hour; hatless, attired in eve-
ning dress, covered by a pink evening cloak and
wearing thin black slippers."
"Yes," she murmured. Then with a flush of spirit
she looked into his face that was expressionless but
for the steely eyes. "At least I don't expect you to
believe it. I have merely told you what happened."


38 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"I suggest you called somewhere in the interval—
at your flat for instance, madam?"
She flung her bag on the table and stood up, erect,
proud.
"And may I suggest, Inspector, that three a.m.
is the time limit for this interview? I have my work
at the theater to-morrow, and Mr. Lansberg can
tell you I don't merely show my teeth and smile at
the audience. You doubtless will take the precaution
of seeing I don't bolt before morning. What time
and just where do you wish to renew my acquaint-
ance?"
A vein stood out like a cord on the detective's
forehead but he reined in his anger. Overstrung to
the breaking-point, was she? Well, later on, he'd
see whether Dr. Tempest was right.
"In this room at eleven to-morrow morning,
please," he answered. "I want you to be here before
your maid returns—if she does."
Laureen bowed coldly. "I shall be here punctu-
ally. Do you wish me to appear in this dress, or am
I allowed to go to my room now for some more suit-
able garments?"
Inspector Reynolds swallowed.
"You may, of course, get what you need for the
night and during the day. Where do you propose
to sleep?" His eyes scanned the fragile frock she
wore, making sure its slim outlines left no room
for the concealment of important documents.
"Mr. Lansberg can tell you that while I am put-
ting my things together. Is there anything else?"


SHADOWED
39
"Yes," he snapped. "Give me your key to this
flat, please."
She pointed to her handbag.
"You may take it for yourself," she remarked
contemptuously, and turned her back on him.
Alone with the C. I. D. man Lansberg ventured
to placate him.
"Miss Laureen has had a terrific shock and or-
deal, Inspector. You must make allowances for her
nervous condition and irritation. She feels you are
accusing her in some way of concealing something
of grave importance. Any girl with her tempera-
ment might react in the same way."
The inspector was a little mollified by Lansberg's
quiet voice.
"Her answers lack straightforwardness. She runs
on smoothly for a while, gets confused suddenly and
becomes either frightened or—" he bit back the
word "insolent" and substituted "pert." "Where is
she going to sleep?"
Lansberg explained what Laureen had thought
of doing.
"Very well, sir," Reynolds assented. "She'll be
handy if I want her. Tell her to say as little as possi-
ble about this affair." He drummed his fingers on
his note-book. "I'd like to get at the truth of when
she saw Delmond last."
"Ask her," urged Lansberg quickly, remembering
his advice to her.
"You know this lady well?" questioned the
C. I. D. man.


40 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Lansberg stiffened noticeably, but his reply was
courteous.
"Up to this evening she was an acquaintance, a
beautiful and witty girl I had admired on the stage.
I had met her casually at various parties, but I had
never been alone with her until she allowed me to
escort her here to-night. After this, however, I hope
she will permit me to call her my friend," he said
stanchly.
The detective's back was toward the bedroom
door and as Lansberg spoke, he looked up and saw
her framed in the doorway, gray eyes blurred, her
fingers blowing him a mute kiss. And Lansberg was
too wise a man to misinterpret that action for other
than gratitude.
In a few moments she returned in a black walk-
ing-dress and hat. Lansberg took her dressing-case
from her hand.
"Tell Inspector Reynolds about Delmond, will
you?"
Her eyes flickered, evading the detective's gaze,
but she replied in an even voice.
"Leslie Delmond was my lover—while we were
at Nice. We quarreled, finally and definitely, and
parted there. Do you want to know any more?" she
asked wearily.
The inspector metaphorically rubbed his hands.
At last he was getting some sense out of her. He
could see a speck of daylight. She and Delmond had
disagreed, she had become famous and he had
wanted to make it up.


V
THE MAID'S SECRET
INSPECTOR REYNOLDS was telephoning when
Lansberg arrived at the flat two or three min-
utes before eleven next morning.
The detective nodded in response to Lansberg's
greeting and continued to rap sharp orders through
the instrument.
"You understand: I want the telephone clerk
found who was on duty at eight fifteen last night
and any information he or she can give on the sub-
ject. If he is off duty, get his address and hunt him
up. Send round those prints the minute they're
ready."
There was suppressed irritation in the inspec-
tor's manner. Usually he could sleep solidly no mat-
ter what had happened. But in the few hours at his
disposal last night he had tossed restlessly, his mind
turning over and over the points of the case.
An hour ago he had arrived and searched mi-
nutely through Laureen's rooms for any fresh clue.
Beyond the silver specks from the girl's frock, and
fingerprints which the photographs would presently
43


THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
show, there was nothing. Temporarily baffled, he felt
annoyed, disturbed.
The door-bell rang and Laureen walked into the
room as the clock struck eleven. Reynolds felt sure
she had deliberately waited for the first stroke of
the hour.
She gave him a formal bow and extended her
hand to Lansberg. He held it a moment while he
studied her face, framed in a small black hat with
a smooth wave of her golden hair showing at one
side.
"Did you sleep?" he asked her.
"Excellently," adding under her breath, "thanks
to the aspirin."
Pale and composed, clad in a soft black-silk suit,
she appeared totally different from the tempera-
mental creature of the night before. It was as though
she had put on a new personality with her change
of dress.
"Splendid," said the man, and thought to him-
self it would take a wider vision than that of Reyn-
olds to see more than Laureen intended he should
see that morning. In other circumstances Lansberg
might even have enjoyed the rapier thrusts of her
wit against the detective's trained deductions, of in-
stinct against reasoning.
Outside the newsboys were shouting the first edi-
tions of the Evening News.
"Mysterious death in Westminster, in famous
revue artist's flat."
"Do you hear that?" she asked. "Well, they've


THE MAID'S SECRET
got a nice day for it !” She shrugged her shoulders
and settled herself comfortably on the couch, push-
ing aside the tray of chocolate and the overflowing
ash-tray with disgust.
Reynolds was still talking on the telephone, his
voice more controlled now.
“Dr. Tempest asked me to say that he hopes you
have had some sleep, madam," he announced stiffly
as he hung up the receiver.
"Thank you," she replied with equal coldness. “Is
there any chance of seeing a newspaper, Mr. Lans-
berg?"
Lansberg passed her a copy of one just issued.
“I bought it coming along here. Not much more
than the bare statement, of course, but I'm afraid
they've 'starred' your name pretty prominently."
The inspector interrupted.
“One minute, please, Miss Laureen. Are you mar-
ried ?"
"No," she answered demurely.
"Is Marjorie Laureen your real or stage name?"
the detective questioned.
"On the stage and in private life I am known
solely as 'Laureen.' I never use the name of Mar-
jorie, which was inflicted upon me when I was too
young to protest.”
“One name only—I never heard of such a thing,"
snapped Reynolds.
The girl raised her eyebrows. “Well, you mustn't
blame me for that,” she flashed back.
“Do you consider the one name legal ?”


46 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Laureen's lips twitched. "It seems to have an-
swered that purpose fairly well up to now, con-
sidering that I sign all my checks and contracts that
way. Shall I consult my lawyer?" she asked with a
gentle anxiety that made the tell-tale vein on Reyn-
olds' forehead—sure sign in him of repressed tem-
per—again show clearly.
"Why," he asked, "did you run downstairs to
whistle for the policeman? You could have done
that from the window."
She smiled sweetly.
"Of course. But in case he was in sight I thought
I could have told him what was wrong more
quickly."
Her answer had reason but it failed somehow to
convince Reynolds entirely.
"And how long did this journey up and down
stairs take?" he questioned.
"Not more than three or four minutes. I ran
both ways."
"What time did you arrive at Mr. Spencer's stu-
dio last night? I want the exact time, please," he
rasped, changing the theme.
"One doesn't 'clock in' at a party," she explained
patiently. "I can't tell you to half an hour. About
ten fifteen, perhaps. Although it might have been
later."
"Mr. Spencer will know, of course," he com-
mented, "as you must have spoken to him on ar-
rival."
"You can ask him," she remarked indifferently.


THE MAID'S SECRET
47
"There were crowds of people there. It's a largish
flat and every room was packed."
"Had you been there long when the parcel con-
taining your slippers was given you?"
She glanced at Lansberg. "I believe you were
there then. Do you remember the time?"
Lansberg reflected.
"About eleven o'clock, I should think, but it's a
rough guess."
Inspector Reynolds tapped his pencil on the table
impatiently.
Fencing with these "abouts" annoyed him. Of
course the girl knew when she arrived there and
at what time the parcel was given to her. He could
not possibly visualize that Laureen had been sur-
rounded by a delighted circle of friends the moment
she came. A gay laughing crowd with no thought
of time, whose one idea was to squeeze the last drop
of pleasure from any diversion.
"Where did you pick up the taxi in which you
went to the studio?"
Laureen hesitated an instant.
"Regent Street—near Oxford Circus," she re-
plied slowly.
The detective made a note reminding him to trace
that vehicle.
She watched his face, knowing he was mentally
measuring the distance between that spot and the
restaurant at which she had dined.
The telephone bell jarred. Before the girl could
move to answer it Reynolds was at the instrument.


48 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
They heard his curt monosyllables. Presently he
banged down the receiver and walked back to the
table. But he did not sit down.
Laureen looked up at him and was startled to
see the stern expression on his face.
"I have just ascertained, madam, that you left
the restaurant at eight twenty-five p.m. Two waiters
agreed as to that point, which has also been con-
firmed by the ladies with whom you dined."
"How nice for you," Laureen remarked flip-
pantly. "You have quite enough trouble with me
without my friends adding to it. I really must try to
start a time chart of all I do. So much simpler—"
"Miss Laureen," the inspector checked her, "do
you realize that a man was murdered in this flat
last night and that you are hampering the course
of justice by these"—he choked back the word he
longed to use—"idle jests?" he substituted.
And even he was surprised at the result of his
rebuke.
"I don't think I had fully realized that, Inspec-
tor," she said at once, gently. "I'm sorry."
It was a difficult remark for the C. I. D. man to
grapple. Her swift apology disarmed him.
"Damned clever little actress," he told himself.
But Laureen had meant exactly what she had said.
With the warm, impulsive generosity that charac-
terized her, she was honest enough to see the jus-
tice of his words, reasonable enough to express im-
mediate regret. She saw now, however, that he


THE MAID'S SECRET
49
doubted her sincerity, and in her pride almost wished
she could recall that apology.
Following a ring of the door a sergeant brought
in a parcel and left it at the inspector's elbow.
Reynolds sat down heavily, opened the package
and engrossed himself in the contents.
"Will you play to-night, Laureen?" asked Lans-
berg.
"Why not?" she demanded.
"An Irishman's answer!" he smiled. "I only won-
dered if you would feel fit."
"It's my job," she said casually. "What right
have I to let down my manager and fellow artists?"
"To say nothing of the audience. The theater
won't have standing room to-night after that pub-
licity." He pointed to the newspaper on the table.
"Notoriety, you mean," she retorted with that
delicious little crinkling up of her nose and mouth
that expressed so much. A critic had once said of
her that she had reduced restraint in gesture to the
last point of economy, which was doubtless why
every movement of her hands, every change of ex-
pression indicated so much.
"I've reserved a box for to-night. Will you have
supper with me afterward?" Lansberg asked her.
She nodded.
"Yes, I'd like to. Anybody else coming?"
"I thought of asking Spencer and that Dr. Tem-
pest who was here last night. I'd met Tempest be-
fore but we discreetly ignored that fact. Will they


50 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
please you and would you like any one else? Any
women friends?"
She flicked the newspaper with her fingers.
"After those head-lines I'm not likely to have
women coveting my society."
"Nonsense," said Lansberg. "We'll arrange that
later."
With a mischievous glance toward the detective's
bent head she raised her hand to her mouth and
whispered:
"Couldn't ask my nice policeman, I suppose?"
"You could not," asserted Lansberg with twitch-
ing lips.
"Ah me," she sighed. "Well, I'll console myself
with a cigarette. May I smoke, Inspector?" she
asked as Lansberg held the match for her to light
it.
The C. I. D. man nodded permission and drew a
piece of brown paper thoughtfully over what he
had been scrutinizing so closely. Then he looked at
Lansberg.
Last night the detective had not had much time
to study this man. Briefly he had noted that he was
well-dressed, had a cultured voice and manner as
of one used to command and be obeyed; forty-ish, a
fraction over the medium height and firmly built
though slim.
Now he noticed the strength of the jaw, the firm
mouth and alert eyes with tired lines round them,
the thick smoothly brushed black hair parted in the
middle, graying at the temples.


THE MAID'S SECRET
But the C. I. D. man studied more particularly
Lansberg's hands. Strong, thin, beautifully shaped
hands with fine sunburnt skin.
Hands were the detective's fetish. He often de-
clared there was far more to be learnt from a hand
than a face, and he never forgot a man's hands, as
many a criminal behind bars knew to his sorrow.
As far as movement went, there was little to be
learnt from Lansberg's hands. He had more than
the usual English lack of gesture. When he did make
a rare movement, however, it had decision and de-
termination in it.
There were a lot of things Inspector Reynolds
wanted to know about Lansberg, but that would
have to wait until later. He glanced at his watch and
set the door leading into the hall ajar.
"Twenty to twelve," he said aloud. "If your maid
comes, where is she likely to go first when she ar-
rives, madam?"
"Probably to her bedroom to take off her hat,
providing your sergeant in the hall doesn't scare
her to flight."
"I've already seen to that. He is in the dining-
room and that door into the hall is locked. I'm
anxious to know if she has a key or will have to ring.
Mr. Lansberg, I should like to have a talk with you
alone this afternoon," he added.
"Choose your time and place, Inspector," Lans-
berg replied calmly.
"Two thirty," the detective paused deliberately
for the fraction of a second, "at your apartment."


THE MAID S SECRET
53
The detective let his glance slide over the woman
as he told her to sit down.
"I want to ask you a few questions," he began in
a soothing way. He was anxious not to frighten this
woman too soon.
"My name is Reynolds, Inspector Reynolds. That
gentleman you already know, I expect," he waved
his hand toward Lansberg.
The maid looked as directed.
"No," she said definitely. "I don't know him."
"You mean you don't know him personally, or
that you've never seen him in this flat before?"
"Both," came the brief retort. Bertha had lived
long enough with Laureen to admire and imitate her
mistress's crisp style of repartee, and was rather
pleased at the chance of showing off her powers now.
All this back-chat with an inspector, indeed! What
did he want with her? Had there been a burglary?
"You swear you never saw this gentleman be-
fore?" the inspector asked.
"I didn't say so," replied the maid unexpectedly.
Reynolds sat back and stared at her, then glanced
swiftly at Lansberg, whose countenance showed faint
surprise.
"Didn't you tell me you'd never seen this gentle-
man before?" he questioned in astonishment.
Bertha folded her hands calmly.
"Certainly not. I told you I didn't know him
personally, and had never seen him in this flat.
That's all you asked and that's all I answered." She
turned to her mistress. "Excuse me, miss, but have I


54 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
got to reply to all these questions? I've my work, to
do."
"The work can wait, Bertha," Laureen told her.
"You must answer anything Inspector Reynolds
wishes to ask you."
"Very well, miss, but please tell me what has hap-
pened." She peered round nervously. "Have there
been burglars here?"
Laureen gave a tired sigh. "I'm afraid you'll
know soon enough, Bertha."
The C. I. D. man had an opportunity to observe
and sum up the maid while she was speaking to her
mistress. Scottish accent, not bad-looking, he de-
cided; neat, probably honest, loyal, reserved with
that extraordinary faculty for surrender that only
the reserved possess; obstinate, proud of her mis-
tress—his sharp ear had already detected the uncon-
scious imitation in her crisp replies. Altogether a
harder nut to crack than he had imagined. However,
he had resources with which to break down most
defenses. Servants usually had a healthy fear of the
law. He would try a little more force.
"Your full name, please, and correct age," he
demanded bruskly.
The maid barely suppressed a snort. "Bertha
Ellen Mackie, age thirty-five," flushing a little as
she caught her mistress's amused eyes. Well, she
didn't look more than twenty-eight, so what did it
matter if she had given that as her age when she
had been engaged.
"You are English?" went on the detective.


THE MAID'S SECRET
55
"Born in Aberdeen, as my father was."
"When did you become Miss Laureen's maid?"
"Ten months ago when she took this flat."
"You sleep here?"
"I do, unless my mistress is going to be away and
then she lets me know and I sleep out." She turned
suddenly to Laureen. "You got your slippers in time,
miss?"
Laureen repressed a smile.
"Yes, thank you, Bertha."
"I left the telephone message from a Miss Gil-
bert written down, miss."
"Yes, I saw it, thank you."
"Didn't you think it strange that your mistress
should send orders for a pair of slippers when you
knew she had gone out wearing a pair?" Reynolds
asked in his mildest tones.
"It's not my business to think about my mistress's
affairs. She pays me to do the work and carry out her
instructions. She pays me well, too," the maid added
loyally.
"Pays you well, eh," the inspector ruminated.
Then, pointing his finger at the woman suddenly,
he rasped, 'Why?"
"Got her," he exulted to himself as he saw her
jump.
"As I said, to do the work and obey orders," she
replied in a dogged voice.
"And keep your mouth shut?"
"Nothing of the sort," she retorted indignantly.
"Miss Laureen is as open as the day. And I don't


56 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
believe you've any right to insult me, inspector or
no inspector."
Bertha was angry now, which was all to the good
for Reynolds. People were off their guard then.
"How many keys are there to this flat?" he asked.
The maid hesitated for the first time.
"There were three. The one my mistress has, one
I have and a third that was kept in a drawer in the
hall table." She looked a little shamefacedly at her
mistress. "I'm sorry I never told you, miss, but I
must have dropped mine from my bag a week ago.
You let me in when I came back next morning and
I just took the other key from the drawer and said
nothing about it."
"It doesn't matter, Bertha," Laureen assured her
gently.
"No idea where you lost it?" pursued the inspec-
tor.
"No," she replied promptly. "I probably pulled
it out in the street with my handkerchief." She faced
her mistress. "I left the chocolate ready, miss, in
case you returned after all. I'm glad you had it."
The chocolate! Laureen's eyes met those of Lans-
berg ruefully for a second. If it had not been for
that invitation she might have come up alone last
night. She shivered at the thought.
"Yes," she replied. "It was a good thing you
made it, Bertha."
"Where and when did you see this gentleman and
by what name do you know him?" the inspector
demanded of the maid.


THE MAID'S SECRET
57
"I don't know him by any name," she answered.
"I saw him last night half an hour after I'd left
Mr. Spencer's studio."
"Where?"
"Getting on a bus near Victoria."
"And what made you notice him—a stranger—
particularly?" asked Reynolds blandly.
"I'd seen him twice before in Miss Laureen's
theater in a box: she often gives me a pass. Last
night I remembered his face and thought in his eve-
ning dress he looked more suited to a Rolls-Royce
than an omnibus."
Lansberg's eyes twinkled.
"It's quite correct that I took a bus to the studio,
Inspector. I couldn't find a taxi. I wasn't aware I
had made myself so conspicuous."
The inspector paused to make a note.
"And after you saw this gentleman get on a bus,
what did you do?"
Bertha gave the nearest thing to tossing her head
that her standard of manners permitted.
"Then I took a walk before going to my friends
at Clapham."
"It seems to have been a night for taking exer-
cise," observed the inspector. "Made you a bit late
in getting to Clapham, didn't it?"
"My friends never go to bed until midnight. I
got there before that."
"What is their name, address and business?"
"Mrs. and Miss Dean, fifteen Garfield Road,
Clapham. They own the house and let apartments.


58
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
She's an Aberdeen woman. I pay for my room,”
Bertha added shortly.
“Any particular reason why you took a walk ?
Any friend you wanted to see?” questioned Reyn-
olds casually.
"I thought I might meet a friend, but they didn't
turn up.”
“H'm. 'They' being a young man, I suppose ?”
The maid reddened, showed signs of losing her
temper.
"That's no affair of anybody's but my own," she
retorted with heat.
The inspector slipped his hand under the brown
paper and drew out a photograph. Sometimes a
chance shot brought unexpected results.
"Ever seen that man before?” he asked, swiftly
putting the print before her.
The maid stared speechlessly, her hands clutch-
ing the sides of the chair.
“That man was found dead in the dining-room
here last night," the inspector said slowly and ruth-
lessly.
But even he was startled at the result of his
words, for the color drained from the maid's face
and with a gasp she slipped fainting to the floor.


VI
THE LETTER
THE inspector's face showed neither elation at
I the success of his maneuver nor regret at the
collapse of the girl.
"Sergeant,” he called, “help me to carry this
woman to her room. Don't worry, madam,” he said
to Laureen, who was bending over Bertha in con-
sternation. “The sergeant's a 'first aid' man. She'll
come round presently."
As they conveyed the woman out there came from
the street below a piercing cry, followed by a crash.
Lansberg darted to the open window and leaned
out.
“Oh, what is it now?” Laureen asked anxiously,
pressing her hands to her head.
“A girl has been knocked down by a motor-car,"
he answered.
"Is she hurt?”
"I don't know. The men have lifted her into the
car and driven off."
Lansberg spoke casually; Laureen had had enough
shocks in the last twelve hours. “Is the maid recoy-


6o THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
ering, Inspector?" he added as the detective reen-
tered the room.
"Yes, she'll be all right soon, sir. My man's look-
ing after her." "In more senses of the word than
one," he supplemented inwardly. There was a great
deal more he wanted to know about Bertha's ac-
quaintance with the dead man.
"What were her duties here, Miss Laureen?" the
inspector went on. "Please tell me her daily rou-
tine."
The girl reflected.
"When I wake she brings me my tea, prepares
my bath, gets out any clothes I require, tidies my
room and makes the bed. Then Mrs. Carter—"
"Mrs. Carter," interjected the C. I. D. man.
"Whois she?"
"The wife of the caretaker. They live in the base-
ment and Mrs. Carter works in the different flats,
by the hour, as she is required."
Reynolds wrote something hurriedly in his note-
book.
"Go on, please," he urged.
"Mrs. Carter comes in and cleans my bedroom
and bathroom and I suppose these sitting-rooms and
the hall. Bertha dusts them, arranges the flowers
and so on, does light washing and mends and looks
after my clothes. She was a dressmaker once."
"That occupies all her time?" Reynolds ques-
tioned. "What about meals?"
"Bertha does the shopping in the afternoons usu-
ally and she and Mrs. Carter prepare the few meals


THE LETTER
6l
I have here. During the evenings she is always free
to go out, but I don't think she avails herself of her
freedom very often."
"How do you know?" he demanded.
"When I've telephoned her from the theater I
don't think I've ever failed to get an answer. Except
perhaps within the last week or two."
"Oh, been going out more in the evenings lately,
has she?"
Laureen raised her eyebrows. "I've already told
you she was at liberty to do so, Inspector. It is no
business of mine what the maid does on her own
time," she said distantly.
Reynolds thumped the table in exasperation. "I
daresay, madam, but it happens to be very much my
business what she did, where and when she went
and with whom. That woman knows a great deal
about Delmond."
"Impossible." The word shot from the girl force-
fully, inadvertently, and the color rose to her pale
face as she realized her slip.
The detective's eyes narrowed a little, though his
voice was silky and persuasive.
"And what makes you think your maid—after
recognizing the dead man's photograph and faint-
ing at the news of his death—could know nothing
about him?"
But Laureen had herself in hand this time.
"I was thinking of my own—episode, of course.
How could Bertha have known of it?" she fenced
coolly.


62 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"I see," the detective replied. "How about this
Mrs. Carter? If she works here daily how is it she
hasn't turned up this morning?"
"Whenever I'm sleeping out—as Bertha pre-
sumed I was last night—my maid calls down the
speaking-tube and informs her, and Mrs. Carter
doesn't come up next day until Bertha tells her. I
believe that is their arrangement."
"Speaking-tube?" Reynolds looked blankly round
the room. "I didn't know you had one. Where is
it?"
"In the hall, just outside the dining-room door.
It's in a dark corner, rather hidden by some coats
that hang there. It was installed by the previous
tenant, I believe."
The inspector stamped out, annoyed at having
overlooked anything.
"Yes, it's there," he announced glumly. "If I blow
down the thing, will Mrs. Carter answer?"
"Probably, unless she's working in one of the
other flats. In which case her husband will possibly
reply and fetch her if you wish."
"I certainly do wish," he said with finality, and
again went into the hall.
"What a morning!" sighed Laureen, raising her
hands wearily.
"After such a night, too, you poor child," Lans-
berg softly replied. "And now we're to have more
witnesses and more questions."
Panic came to the girl's heart as she remembered
a visitor who might call. There indeed would be a


THE LETTER
63
witness in whom the inspector would revel. Lau-
reen prayed fervently that no one would come.
They listened to Reynolds shouting urgent in-
structions for Mrs. Carter to be fetched at once.
"You come up too," he demanded through the
tube.
In a few moments a thin, anxious woman ap-
peared, wiping her hands nervously on her apron.
"Are you Mrs. Carter?" Reynolds began.
"Yes, sir. My husband will be here in a minute,"
she said in a frightened voice. "He's just dressing."
"Dressing!" ejaculated the detective. "Isn't the
man up yet?"
"He's only been in bed an hour or two, sir. He's
a night-watchman."
The C. I. D. man smiled.
"Oh, I see. Sorry to have to disturb him. I'm In-
spector Reynolds from Scotland Yard. By the way,
have you seen any newspapers at all this morning,
Mrs. Carter?"
The woman looked surprised at his question.
"Me, sir? I've no time to read newspapers week-
days. Why, has anything happened?"
"Yes," Reynolds told her briefly. "A man was
found dead in here last night." He pointed to the
dining-room.
The woman glanced with an awed expression at
the door he indicated.
"Well, I don't know anything about it, sir," she
assured him.
Reynolds looked at her kindly.


64 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"There's nothing for you to be alarmed about. 1
only want you to answer my questions truthfully and
clearly."
"I'll try, sir," she murmured.
"Very good. Now tell me why you didn't come
up here as usual this morning?"
"Miss Laureen's maid called down to me last
night that she and her mistress would be away for
the night and that she'd let me know when she
wanted me this morning." She turned her tired face
to Laureen. "I'm sorry if you wanted me earlier,
miss, but I've been working in the flats above and
when Joe's asleep—my husband, that is—he don't
always hear the speaking-tube."
"You've done exactly as my maid told you, Mrs.
Carter. She didn't want you sooner," Laureen re-
plied.
"Have you ever seen this gentleman before?" the
detective by a gesture drew the woman's attention
to Lansberg.
"No, sir. The maid always opens the door to
visitors."
Lansberg turned towards Reynolds with amused
eyes.
"You'll soon have evidence enough to force you
to believe my statement that I was never in this flat
until last night, Inspector," he remarked.
The detective looked uneasy.
"We are obliged to verify everything, sir," he said
in conciliating tones, and bent over his note-book.
"Rather an endless chain, but of course you have


THE LETTER
65
your own methods," Lansberg returned indifferently
as he offered his cigarette case to Laureen.
She took a cigarette, bent forward to light it
from the match he held and pointed to the ash-tray,
unemptied of last night's stubs and ashes.
"Might we have that unpleasantness removed,
Inspector?" she asked, "or are you preserving it as
an important exhibit?"
Reynolds raised his torpid eyes to the tray Lans-
berg was just about to tip into the coal-scuttle.
He rose suddenly.
"Allow me," he said with heavy politeness, and
taking it from Lansberg's hand he walked into the
hall.
Laureen's brows went up in comical surprise.
"Well, well," she murmured. "Quite the little gen-
tleman, isn't he?"
But Lansberg's eyes were serious. Burnt paper,
even crushed, never achieves the fine powder of cig-
arette ash, and he was pretty sure Reynolds's action
had been neither accidental nor merely courteous.
They heard a knock on the hall door and a mo-
ment later the detective returned, followed by a
sleepy-eyed man with tumbled sandy hair, and coat
collar turned up to hide the fact that he had had no
time to put on a collar.
Carter glared around irritably and centered his
indignation on his wife as being the only person on
whom he dared vent his anger.
"You'd better get along with your work up-
stairs," he jerked his head sideways toward the


66 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
door. "Disturbing a respectable man just as he's got
to sleep," he grumbled generally, sending a hostile
look in Laureen's direction. He didn't hold with
play actresses and wasn't at all surprised there was
something wrong in her flat. "Wot's all this about?"
he demanded of Reynolds aggressively.
The inspector signed to Mrs. Carter, who was
obediently making for the door, to sit down.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, my man," he
said peremptorily, "or you may be sorry for it. I'm
from Scotland Yard. There was a mysterious death
in this flat last night. Answer my questions care-
fully. What's your name?"
The bluster died out of the man's tone.
"Death?" he repeated with awe. And then seeing
the detective's stern face, swallowed and automati-
cally replied, "Albert Joseph Carter."
"How long have you and your wife acted as care-
takers of this house?"
"Five years come Michaelmas, sir." He cast an-
other infuriated glance at Laureen. "And never had
anything go wrong until now. First time we've ever
had an actress for a 'let.' Very genteel people live
here who go to work and come back at reasonable
hours."
The girl smiled demurely. "I'm sorry my work
brings me back at unreasonable hours, Inspector."
"Work!" interposed Carter with a snort.
"Silence!" The detective thundered. "Answer my
questions without insults or comment, Carter. You're
a night-watchman, I believe. Where?"


THE LETTER
67
"Garland's garage, Oxford Street," came the sul-
len reply.
"What are your hours there?"
"Nine at night to six in the morning. Sundays in-
cluded, more's the shame," he added bitterly.
"Joe's 'chapel,' sir, and feels he ought to have his
Sundays free," Mrs. Carter interpreted.
"Ah, I understand. Just what duties have you
here?"
"A jolly lot of work and five shillings a week rent
to pay besides," muttered the man.
Inspector Reynolds fixed him with a steely eye.
"Don't beat about the bush. What do you do each
morning when you return? This morning, for in-
stance?"
"Same as every other morning. Opened the front
door—"
"Stop a minute." The inspector held up his hand.
"Is that door locked at night?"
Carter shook his head.
"Never is now. Tenants were always forgetting
their hall door key and ringing me up."
"Ringing me up, Joe," put in his wife. "You're
not there at night."
"Well, same thing," Joe continued. "So the land-
lord said the door need only be shut. Often it stays
wide open all night."
The C. I. D. man drummed his fingers on the
table.
"Right. Continue your list of duties. You open the
front door," he prompted.


68 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Beat the mats, sweep down five blessed flights
of stairs—"
"Oh, I always help you with the stairs, Joe," re-
proached his wife. "We wash them down once a
week, sir."
"Go on," encouraged the inspector. "What next
after the stairs, Carter?"
"After I've done the stairs," the man went on
doggedly, ignoring his wife's interruption, "I sweep
and wash the hall and steps, take the milk bottles
and newspapers up outside the different flats, and
go down to my breakfast and then to bed."
"Nothing more?" queried the detective.
"The post-box, Joe," prompted Mrs. Carter in
an awed whisper behind her hand.
"Post-box?" Inspector Reynolds sat up abruptly.
"A new-fangled box for the tenants to put their
letters in," Carter replied. "The pillar-box is a good
way from here, so the landlord had this box screwed
up in the hall and I've got orders to clear it night
and morning. One more job for me just because
folks are too lazy to post their own letters."
"Where's the box fixed?"
"In a recess, round by the lift and stairs, sir."
The detective stroked his chin, visualizing the
staircase and hall, remembering the track of those
glittering beads.
"Now think very carefully, Carter. If any one
entered by the hall door and came up here by lift
or stairs, need they pass near the post-box?"
The man answered promptly.


THE LETTER
69
"Certainly not, sir. The box is behind the stairs.
They'd be going out of their way up or down to go
near it."
The C. I. D. man looked speculatively at Lau-
reen. If she had been near that box when she rushed
downstairs to whistle for a policeman it was obvi-
ously to post something.
"It's very handy if it's wet weather, sir," Mrs.
Carter put in. "Very few people use it if it's fine."
"As if that mattered," growled her husband.
"Full or empty I got to clear it all the same."
"Who keeps the key?" questioned the C. I. D.
man.
"I do, sir," Carter answered.
"Many letters there this morning?" Reynolds
asked in his dullest tone, sharpening his pencil as
though nothing else interested him.
"Four or five."
"None you noticed a bit different in any way?"
Carter aired his grievance again. "I got too much
to do when I've been up all night to bother about
other people's letters, sir."
"Quite so," agreed Reynolds, regarding his beau-
tifully pointed pencil with pride. "But you're a
smart-brained man and it occurred to me you might
have seen something unusual this morning that might
have helped me. Caught sight of an address for in-
stance."
Carter preened at the compliment.
"I remember one was a bit heavy, sir, and I sort
of weighed it in my hand going up the street to the


70 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
pillar-box thinking somebody might have to pay
extra on it."
Inspector Reynolds turned a fond eye on him.
"Now didn't I say you had a smart brain, Carter?
I suppose it's too much to hope for that you noticed
any part of the address?"
Carter began to enjoy himself. He screwed him-
self up to violent mental effort. This inspector evi-
dently recognized intelligence when he saw it.
"I remember looking to see whether it had more
than a three ha'penny stamp on it."
"Now that was really bright," appreciated the in-
spector. "Was the handwriting large or small?"
"Very large. Looked as if a child had scribbled it
in a hurry. It was addressed to 'Miss Valerie Some-
body,' but I can't remember the surname or the ad-
dress."
Reynolds handed the man an envelop and flashed
a casual glance at Laureen's long lashes as she sat
absorbed in the newspaper.
"Just scribble down roughly what it looked like
for length of the name, how many lines of address,
etc. Do you think it was for London?"
"Yes, sir," said the man promptly. "I remember
the W.i. The surname was shortish."
"Like Smith?"
The man nodded.
"Well," said Reynolds pleasantly, handing Carter
his pencil, "it's wonderful you should have recalled
all that. Half the people in this world go along
with their eyes shut. Whereas you—" Eloquence


THE LETTER
71
seemed to fail him when he dealt with Carter's gift
of observation. "Make that envelop look as much
like the other as possible. Fill in crosses to get the
length of the words approximately."
The man worked laboriously for a while, con-
scious of the Inspector's admiring regard.
"That's as near as I can get it, sir," he said at
last, pushing the envelop across the table. It was
inscribed as follows:
Miss Valerie XXXXX,
XXXX XXXXX xxxxxxx
London, W. 1.
The inspector regarded it slowly. "Splendid!" he
said. "You've done exactly what I wanted." He
pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket
and smoothed it out. It bore the address of the flat
in one corner and was evidently a letter for some
reason unfinished. Reynolds loved a wastepaper bas-
ket as a cat loves canaries.
"Was the writing anything like this, Carter?" he
asked, indicating the crumpled paper.
"Yes, it was, rather, sir, only written larger."
Reynolds put the papers carefully into his pocket.
"Excellent," he said with a pleased air, and found
Laureen's eyes peering at him curiously.
"Is it necessary to waste Mr. Lansberg's morning
listening to these trivial questions? He is a busy man
with many engagements. To say nothing of mine,"
she interposed.


THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"It's not only necessary but imperative, madam,"
the inspector assured her. "At any moment I may
need your or Mr. Lansberg's help, and for your
sakes it's wiser for you both to be present to hear
the evidence."
"That's all right, Inspector," assented Lansberg.
"Of course we must remain. My appointments are
unimportant compared with this. Have you as yet
learned of the precise cause of death?" he asked in
a low voice.
The detective shook his head.
"Can't know that until latish this afternoon, sir."
He turned to Carter. "Well, I think you can go back
to bed, Carter, and your wife to her work. You've
both given very honest and helpful replies. I'll call
either of you again if necessary."
"Thank you, sir." Carter touched his forehead
and rose to go. "Come on," he said roughly to his
wife.
But a change had come over Mrs. Carter.
Maybe she resented Laureen's slighting remark
about "trivial questions," maybe she was envious of
the limelight thrown on her husband's performance
compared to her own colorless statements.
Suddenly she stood up in front of the inspector.
"Perhaps I ought to mention that I heard men's
voices talking loudly here in this flat soon after the
maid went last night, sir," she said and folded her
hands, placidly waiting for the effect of her words.


VII
THE SPEAKING TUBE
M RS. CARTER created all the interest she ex-
11 pected. Each member of her audience reacted
differently.
Laureen leaned forward amusedly, chin cupped
in her hand.
Lansberg's face set into graver lines, while Carter
glared stonily at his wife for stealing his thunder.
Into the detective's eyes crept the hazy look that
drew his victims on to a sense of false security.
"What business had you got listening at the doors
of flats at night?” demanded Carter.
His wife gave him a withering look. "I wasn't
listening at any doors," she retorted. "If Bertha
leaves the stopper out of the speaking-tube is that
my fault? She often does, and then if I pass close
to the tube in my kitchen I can hear if people are
talking near it up here."
"What time was this, Mrs. Carter?" asked the
detective gently. "About ten to half past ?"
"That's right, sir. I didn't look at the clock but
it was about half an hour after the maid went out,


74 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
and I went to bed at quarter to eleven, so it must
have been as you said."
Reynolds made a hurried note.
"Hear anything? Just tell me what happened."
Mrs. Carter put her head on one side medita-
tively.
"Well, sir, Joe had gone to work and I was hav-
ing a quiet read of the Sunday papers when I heard
men's voices. Two or three men, I should think."
She paused a minute, then continued. "Yes, I'm
sure I heard three different voices altogether. For
a minute I was startled. Then I remembered the
tube was right beside me and I'd left my stopper out
when the maid called me."
"This is all highly important, Mrs. Carter," the
detective said. "I only hope you listened," he added,
urgently, in case ill-judged reticence might keep her
from admitting that fact and all she had heard.
She twisted her apron and colored. "Yes, sir, I
did, because after the maid said she and Miss Lau-
reen would be out for the night it seemed queer
that men should be up there talking."
"Very queer," agreed Reynolds. "Could you hear
what was said?"
Mrs. Carter shook her head. "Not clearly. But
I'm sure they were quarreling. They must have been
in the hall. First I heard men's voices. Then they
faded away, probably the men went into another
room."
"And you couldn't distinguish a word they said?"
asked Reynolds eagerly.


THE SPEAKING TUBE
75
"No, sir. I only wish I had."
"You didn't think of coming up to see who those
men were in Miss Laureen's flat when you knew she
and her maid were out? They might have been
burglars." The C.I.D. man's tone was curt.
The woman bristled. After all her help, for this
detective to turn round on her like that!
"Burglars, indeed!" she said scornfully. "They
wouldn't make a row, would they? They'd be as
quiet as they could. Actresses do queer things. It was
no business of mine if Miss Laureen pretended she'd
be away for the night and sent her maid off, and
then brought back some men to gamble. That's my
belief if you ask me."
Nobody did, and Mrs. Carter added viciously:
"She's got a roulette wheel. I asked the maid what
it was once and she said it was a Monte Carlo gam-
bling machine."
Laureen bit her lip to hide her amusement. "It's
over there, Inspector," she pointed to a low table,
"under a pile of magazines. Somebody gave it me
ages ago, but it has a bias, so has not been used."
The inspector lifted the books off and scanned the
"gambling machine" carefully.
"It's covered with dust and has evidently not
been used for months," he observed. "Sergeant,"
he called to his man in the hall, "go downstairs with
Mrs. Carter and sit where she was last night. Blow
up the tube when you're ready. I want to test this
speaking-tube."
Presently they heard a whistle and the detective


76 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
spoke in a loud voice some feet away from the pipe.
"You, too, Mr. Lansberg," the detective re-
quested. "Will you please come here and talk to me
in an angry manner?"
Lansberg's eyes twinkled as he caught Laureen's
muttered "I wish he'd ask me to talk to him in an
angry manner. It would come so naturally!"
"Hear anything, Sergeant?" Reynolds asked a
few moments later when his man returned from the
basement.
"Yes, sir," came the reply. "Just as Mrs. Carter
said. I could hear a voice, yours, I think, sir, but
couldn't hear a word distinctly."
The inspector heaved a sigh of relief.
"That's one point proved, anyhow, in this case.
Most unusual one I've had for a long time. Any-
body could have walked in and killed that man.
Every door open, no hall porter, nobody about,
windows open, fire-escape outside. Everything handy
for the murderer to escape."
"Now who were those people who were here
talking?" he meditated. Then with one of his swift
moves he turned to the girl.
"Have you any idea who the men were, Miss Lau-
reen?" he rasped.
"Presumably Delmond was one. Other than that,
I certainly do not know. Neither do I know how,
why or when they entered my flat," she replied
firmly.
"Sergeant, if that maid has recovered from her


THE SPEAKING TUBE
77
fainting fit, fetch her in. I want to ask her a question
or two."
Declining the help of the sergeant who offered
her his arm, Bertha came in a little unsteadily and
took the chair indicated by the inspector.
She looked pale, but obstinate and a little defiant
as she sat waiting for Reynolds to open fire.
"Going to try and brazen it out," he decided to
himself.
The detective began gently, willing to give her a
chance.
"About these black satin shoes, Bertha. How
could the sender of that telephone message know
your mistress had such a pair?"
The maid drew a breath of relief. This was go-
ing to be easier than she thought. As long as he
only wanted to talk about shoes, she didn't mind.
"I couldn't tell, sir, unless she had been seen in
them?"
"May I interrupt, Inspector?" ventured Laureen.
She was anxious to help the maid all she could. "It
has just occurred to me that may have been a chance
shot, because, you see, practically every woman pos-
sesses a pair of black satin slippers with paste buck-
les. Why, I'm sure I have two, maybe three pairs."
She looked inquiringly at Bertha.
"You have three pairs, miss," confirmed the maid.
"Thank you," Reynolds responded. "You may be
right on that point." He stared vaguely across the
room.


78 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Have you been wearing any of those black satin
shoes lately, madam?"
Laureen reflected and shook her head helplessly.
"I'm afraid I really can't remember, Inspector."
She smiled at the maid. "Can you, Bertha? You've
a wonderful memory for what I wear. I used a black
brocaded pair last night, I'm sure."
The compliment produced a flow of eloquence
from the maid. She started off volubly.
"It comes easy to me, miss, and I've got to remind
you or you'd be wearing the same clothes over and
over again. You've not used any of those black satin
slippers since you wore your black lace dress at Lady
Wentworth's dance the end of April."
"Indeed, an excellent memory," murmured Reyn-
olds with a satisfied smile which made Laureen
frown.
Bertha ran on unsuspectingly, pleased at the in-
spector's tribute.
"Then you said one black pair were a little
shabby, another pair hurt you a bit," she ticked them
off on her fingers, "and the third pair had the lining
torn inside."
"Your maid must be a treasure," Reynolds re-
marked to Laureen, whose face expressed cold dis-
dain as she met his glance. "Did you notice which
pair you took to the studio?" he asked the maid in
smooth tones. "I'll guess it was the shabby pair,
because the one pair hurt and the other pair had a
broken lining."
"Of course I noticed which pair, sir. I take great


THE SPEAKING TUBE
8l
seemed like love at first sight for both of us. We
used to go for walks or to the cinema and once we
went to Miss Laureen's theater when she gave me
tickets."
The detective drew little patterns on a piece of
paper.
"Must have been during one of those walks that
you lost your key, I suppose," he hinted.
"It was the night we went to a cinema, sir. My
bag fell down. It must have opened and the key
dropped out."
"Mr. Jackson was concerned probably to know
you'd lost it," stated the inspector.
"I never told him, sir. I didn't miss it until next
morning when I got up to the flat, and then
as my mistress was there she let me in. I took the
other key and said nothing about it until this
morning."
"Did Jackson often come to this flat to see you?"
the inspector asked.
The maid flushed indignantly.
"Never," she exclaimed emphatically. "That is,
until last Saturday night. I was to meet him outside,
but he said as he was a bit early he thought he'd call
for me. I asked him inside the hall while I put on my
hat, and was annoyed to find him in here when I
came back ready to go out."
"As any honorable maid would in her mistress's
absence," agreed Reynolds. "Is that what began the
quarrel?"
Bertha's face had a tortured expression as she re-


82 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
sponded: "Yes, sir. I found him in this room at that
bureau opening the drawers and turning over some
letters;"
Laureen made an involuntary sound. Reynolds
glanced at her speculatively before he again ad-
dressed the maid.
"You were angry?"
"I was; very angry. More than I ought to have
been perhaps, for Mr. Jackson explained that he
often did a bit of society reporting and as Miss
Laureen was a very famous revue artist all the world
was interested in her."
"This is very interesting, Bertha," commented
Reynolds. "What was your answer to that?"
"Well, sir, I understood a bit better, though I
was still annoyed. Then he said he'd heard rumors
that my mistress was giving a special surprise party
here on Sunday night, June 30th, and probably a
member of some royal family was coming."
"And you replied?" the detective questioned
eagerly.
"That he'd heard entirely wrong as I happened
to know my mistress was going to a studio party at
Mr. Spencer's and would be there from ten o'clock
that night."
"I see." Reynolds tapped his pencil on the table
aimlessly. "Did he ask what time she would re-
turn?"
"Yes, sir, he did. That made me angry again. I
said, 'Some time after midnight, but I always wait
up for her, so it's no use your trying to crawl in here


THE SPEAKING TUBE
83
and interview her when she's tired.' Then he fired up
and said some horrible things about Miss Laureen.
We quarreled dreadfully and at last he went away
alone and I had a good cry."
“And you never saw him again, Bertha ?”
“No, sir. I walked along to Victoria last night
and back hoping to meet him as usual and make it
up. But he didn't come and now it's too late.” Again
her self-control gave way and the inspector signaled
to Laureen to take the maid to her room.
Lansberg looked at his watch and rose as he saw
Reynolds putting his papers together.
"I'll go and get some luncheon, Inspector, and be
at my rooms ready for you at two thirty. Wonder-
ful how the pieces are fitting into the puzzle, isn't
it?"
"It will be," corrected Reynolds grimly, “when I
can force open the fingers that hold on to some of
those pieces."
"Inspector," asked Laureen from the doorway,
"can my maid pack up some of our clothes and re-
move them to St. Andrew's Hotel near by? With
your permission I propose to take rooms there for
Bertha and myself.”
"Certainly. Your maid can stay for an hour or
so. The sergeant will be here on guard. And you,
madam?"
"I must get some luncheon. Then I'll go to the
theater and lie down in my dressing-room for an
hour or so," she said quickly. She turned to Lans-
berg. “It will be quieter than the hotel and after


84 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
last night I need rest or what will my work be like
to-night?"
The inspector nodded and led them to the hall
door.
"For God's sake be careful, Laureen," warned
Lansberg in a swift undertone as they walked down-
stairs together. "Reynolds will have a man watching
every step you take to-day."
She screwed up her face impishly.
"What's the betting that I elude the creature?"
she whispered.
But Lansberg's face was serious, his mind on the
ordeal before him that afternoon.


VIII
BUTTERFLIES
DOWNSTAIRS the front door was closed.
"Press photographers and reporters outside,
sir," explained the officer in plain clothes, who was
on guard. "I'll take you and the lady out the back
way if you like."
"Thank you," Lansberg replied.
The man unlocked a door behind the staircase
that led through a walled-in yard, opened another
door and conducted them through a narrow alley
into the street behind.
Lansberg put Laureen into a passing taxi, raised
his hat and strolled away in the opposite direction.
Upstairs in the flat Reynolds turned back for a
last word with Bertha, who was on her knees pack-
ing a trunk.
"Do you know any one of the name of Valerie?"
he asked. )
The maid bent over the garments she was deftly
folding. "No, sir," she responded firmly.
"Any of your mistress's friends called by that
name?"
85


86 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Not that I'm aware of."
Some latent obstinacy in her tone made Reynolds
tap her on the shoulder.
"Don't conceal anything," he warned. "You've
heard that name recently. Who mentioned it?"
The woman hesitated; then said reluctantly:
"My friend, Mr. Jackson, asked me once if any
lady of that name had ever been to the flat. I said
'no.'"
"Did 'Jackson' give his reason for asking?"
Bertha thought a minute. "I'm not quite sure, sir,
but I believe he said this Valerie—he didn't give
her other name—had once known Miss Laureen,
acted with her or something, he'd been told. And I
said maybe that was before my time as I'd only
worked for my mistress for ten months."
"He never mentioned the subject again?"
"Oh, no, sir. It was only asked casually, I think."
"About this Miss Gilbert who rang you up last
night with the message. Have you ever heard her
voice before or seen her?"
"No, sir. And I'm sure no one of that name has
been here. I never admit any one who won't give her
name because my mistress is always being bothered
by all kinds of people."
"H'm. Anything peculiar about this woman's
voice over the telephone? Could you recognize
it?"
Bertha tried conscientiously to describe it.
"I think I'd know it again, sir, as it was a very
clear, rather high voice."


BUTTERFLIES
87
"Thank you," said the inspector. "That's all I
need bother you with now. Good morning."
He was walking away when the maid timidly
called him back.
"Please, sir," she clasped her hands nervously,
her eyes swimming with tears, "do you think I might
have a photo of my friend? One like you showed
me this morning. I should be so grateful."
"Yes, you shall," he said with rough kindliness,
foreign to a man alleged to be without a heart.
With a word to the sergeant on duty, he strode
heavily downstairs and thrust aside impatiently the
eager newspaper men awaiting him.
By the pillar-box at the corner of the street the
inspector stopped and glanced at the tablet indicat-
ing the hours of clearance. Afterward he walked the
short distance to Scotland Yard, revolving in his
mind the facts he had elucidated and the huge gaps
remaining to be bridged in this problem.
One or two things had gone very smoothly. The
photograph of Leslie Delmond, for instance. Early
that morning he'd sent a man out to try all the film
agencies for pictures of the dead man, and within
an hour one had been obtained. An excellent por-
trait, too, judging by Bertha Mackie's instant recog-
nition of it.
In his office he ordered coffee and sandwiches and
began sifting out reports that had come in on in-
vestigations for which he had previously given in-
structions.
A thin, scholarly-looking man came in. Reynolds


88 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
gave him a rapid summary of the facts up to date
and then asked:
"Found that telephone clerk yet, Jenkins?"
"Not yet. But I'll have news presently."
"That film agency where you picked up the photo
of Delmond. Did they know his address?"
"No. Hadn't seen or heard of him for ages. That
photo is two or three years old."
The inspector ticked off those items on his list.
"You saw the women Miss Laureen dined with
last night. Did they observe anything unusual in her
manner?"
Jenkins shook his head.
"Nothing noticeable, they said. But, after a bit of
trouble, I got them to admit she'd seemed in a hurry
to get away. Kept looking at her watch, they said."
The inspector's mouth tightened.
"She did, eh! Funny she couldn't remember what
time she left there when I asked her last night, or
rather early this morning. What about the waiters
in the restaurant? Nothing fresh there?"
"Only what I told you on the telephone, sir. Two
waiters were positive Miss Laureen left at eight
twenty-five, and the porter outside said the lady
wore a pink cloak and wouldn't have a taxi."
Reynolds stroked his chin.
"That bit agrees with what she said. But, Jenkins,
that cloak is lined with black and is reversible. She
let that out. And in the pocket was a black scarf or
maybe a little black cap. Doesn't take much to cover
a woman's head in these days."


BUTTERFLIES
89
Jenkins pondered. "Reversible, eh!"
"Nothing remarkable in a black cloak and hat,"
went on Reynolds, "whereas in a pink cloak, bare-
headed, and with her golden hair, she'd have been
marked wandering about before going to Spencer's
studio."
"I called at Spencer's address," Jenkins added,
"and got hold of the caretaker. Richard Spencer is
a bachelor and a bit sweet on Laureen, the woman
who cleans his flat told me. She says he's got sketches
of her all over the place."
The inspector whistled softly.
"So Spencer's keen on this girl, is he?"
Jenkins laughed.
"Dozens like him from all I can hear, sir. I don't
wonder. She's as clever as she's good-looking. I went
to see her show last week. Lansberg's got money in
it, they say."
The detective made a sudden decision.
"Ring up and book me a seat in her theater for to-
night. I'll go and see her myself and find out why
people rave about her."
"You'll know all right once you've seen her," pre-
dicted Jenkins. "Back of the stalls, side seat will be
best, I expect. Not too conspicuous. You needn't
dress up, you know, sir," he added.
But the inspector had finished with that theme.
"Get copies of this photograph of the dead man
sent to all the newspapers and tell them we want
information about him," he ordered. "And while
you're about it, get an extra copy for me."


go THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"I'll see to that at once," promised Jenkins.
"Also," went on Reynolds, "I must have news
about this girl or woman called Valerie."
He briefly outlined all he knew and showed Jen-
kins the envelop Carter had worked on with the
address. "Get them to reproduce that and ask any
one who saw or received that letter to call here
immediately."
"Pillar-box cleared at seven fifteen A. M.," mused
Jenkins. "Letter for W.i. district. H'm. It would
get delivered any time after two p.m., I suppose."
"About that," agreed the inspector, looking at
his watch. "I must be off to my appointment. I shall
be at Lansberg's flat if you want me. It's somewhere
near the Adelphi. Look up his number and ring me
if the report of the post-mortem comes in."
"Curious that no key of the flat was found on
the dead man," observed Jenkins. "No letters either,
or papers. The other oddments we found in his
pockets are in this box."
"All right. Within twenty-four hours we may get
some light on this Leslie Delmond from his land-
lady or wherever he lived."
"Do you want me to comb through all the flats
in forty-nine Beresford Street and ask the tenants if
they posted a letter addressed to some one called
Valerie?" asked Jenkins.
The inspector considered the question.
"No," he said at last. "That maid, Bertha
Mackie, says the dead man asked her if a girl called
Valerie ever came to see her mistress. So it's long


BUTTERFLIES
9»
odds the letter came from somebody in that flat,
and I'd give something to know what was in it."
"You're having Laureen watched?" questioned
Jenkins.
"You bet I am," Reynolds assured him emphati-
cally as he jammed on his hat. "Get on with that
newspaper business at once."
Inside the spacious hall of Lansberg's apartment
the inspector, against his will, felt impressed. His
duties often carried him into palatial mansions, but
in the silence and dignity of this place there was
something quite apart from anything he had seen
before.
It occupied the whole of the first floor and the
interior had evidently been reconstructed to suit its
owner's taste. Doorways had been widened and hung
with rich draperies. Thick carpets deadened all
sound. Even Reynolds's untrained eye could realize
beauty in the two or three exquisite pieces of statu-
ary that gleamed with color filtering through a large
stained-glass window.
He tried to shake off the feeling of awed respect
that was creeping over him. Firmly he told himself
that this type of furnishing wasn't English, and that
the olive-hued, sloe-eyed man-servant who had taken
in his card, was a dago.
Almost he started as he found the man at his
elbow announcing with a strong foreign accent:
"Mr. Lansberg will see you, sir."
"See me, indeed !" murmured the detective to him-
self. "He certainly will."


92 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Hat in hand, the inspector followed the man
through the portiere, across a lofty room decorated
in a style neither ornate nor austere, into a library.
From a huge writing table at an angle to the win-
dow, Lansberg rose, dismissed the man-servant with
a few words in a language unknown to the detective,
and bowed with grave courtesy.
"Where would you like to sit, Inspector? With
your permission I will stay where I am." His eyes
twinkled. "As you see, I face the light nicely here."
And again Reynolds had that uneasy sense of
being out of his depths. Was this the man he had
badgered and kept at heel with his commands and
questions last night and this morning? Also Reyn-
olds felt he would give quite a lot to know what
his superior officers in conference that morning had
in mind when they urged he must not annoy Mr.
Lansberg unduly.
Lansberg opened a carved ebony box and twisted
it toward the detective, who had chosen a hard chair
with its back to the window.
"Will you smoke?" Lansberg asked. It was al-
most as if he were trying to put an awkward guest at
his ease.
The inspector selected a cigarette with an effort
at being casual, striving for equally composed man-
ners.
"Thank you," he said, repressing the "sir" which
rose to his lips almost mechanically, and bending
forward for the lighted match Lansberg offered.
Leaning back calmly, Lansberg awaited the de-


THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"It is clearly stated there, Inspector. I have many
interests that cannot possibly affect this affair; in-
terests," he added icily, "that I am not at liberty to
reveal. It will be sufficient for your purposes if I
tell you—what you probably already know—that I
have considerable money invested in the theatrical
world, including the theater in which Miss Laureen
acts."
"That I suppose is your hobby," said the detec-
tive with a heavy attempt at sarcasm.
"It's quite a good name. Call it that by all means,
if you like," Lansberg agreed genially.
"What is your staff here?" the inspector asked.
"This is a service flat. I rarely take any meals
here. The only resident servant of my own is the
man you saw, who acts as butler and valet."
"Does he speak English?"
Lansberg shook his head.
"About a dozen words. I have a secretary, an
English ex-officer, who comes daily," he added, al-
most as though he wished to change the subject.
"Knowing you were coming, I sent him off for the
afternoon."
"Why?" asked the C. I. D. man bluntly.
"Only so that we should be undisturbed," was
the quiet answer. He wrote something rapidly on a
card and passed it to Reynolds.
"There is his name and private address if you
care to call on him."
The inspector tucked the address into his pocket-
book.


BUTTERFLIES
95
"We'll now deal with your movements last night,
Mr. Lansberg. Where did you dine and with
whom?"
"At my club and alone. That address too you
will find both on my visiting card and the supple-
mentary card I gave you just now," he added.
Reynolds verified the remark, slightly irritated to
realize Lansberg was getting the better of him in
some vague way.
"I suppose the hall porter or waiters at your club
can confirm that statement?"
Lansberg raised his hand indifferently in one of
his rare gestures.
"Possibly. That is your affair, Inspector."
Something in that gesture prompted Reynolds to
ask another question.
"Are you English?"
"By birth, no. My origin is rather cosmopolitan
since my mother was English and my father was
from one of the Balkan States. I was born in Paris,
and am a nationalized Englishman."
"And subject to English law," commented the
inspector inwardly with a grim satisfaction.
"Please outline what you did, Mr. Lansberg," he
added aloud, "from the time you left here and
went to your club until you reached Mr. Spencer's
studio."
Lansberg reflected.
"I left here about seven thirty last night, strolled
along to my club, found one or two letters and read
them while dinner was being served."


96 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Many people dining there?" interpolated the de-
tective.
"Very few. On Sunday nights there rarely are
many. That is one reason why I like to dine at my
club then."
"Do you remember conversing with any particu-
lar member?"
"No, or I should remember it. I dined alone,
nodded to one or two men, smoked a cigar and
looked at the papers for a while, and then about
half past nine I set out for the studio."
"By taxi, or your own car?"
"Neither. It was a fine evening, I had plenty of
time, and I walked as far as Victoria, where you
have proof from Miss Laureen's maid that I took a
bus to Chelsea."
For one wild second the detective felt almost
hysterical. Yet another of them who took a walk
after dinner! There seemed to have been a passion-
ate wave of pedestrian exercise last night.
But was it all as straightforward as it appeared
to be? Mentally he measured the distance between
Lansberg's club and Victoria.
A glint came to his dull eyes as he worked out
that Laureen's flat was midway and could easily
have been visited in the time.
"You had no reason to pass through Beresford
Street and call at Miss Laureen's flat during that
walk?"
"No," he said, "I had no reason for doing so, and
it would have been out of my way."


BUTTERFLIES
97
Lansberg's reply was unhesitating, his face com-
posed. But Reynolds's eyes were not on Lansberg's
face. Once before he had seen the man's hands
tighten as they tightened now on that paper-knife,
which he still fingered unconsciously.
The detective had at last got a lead. Those sensi-
tive fingers made him positive Lansberg knew more
than he meant to tell. Reynolds's mind plowed
through the events of last night as he endeavored to
reconstruct the situation if Lansberg had called at
that flat before going to the studio.
On the supposition that there might have been
a struggle he swiftly tried his old means of light-
ning attack.
"I should like to see the garments you wore last
night, please. Including the shirt," he added.
Lansberg's face expressed nothing more than the
ordinary surprise, tinged with good-natured amuse-
ment, that any man might exhibit if called upon to
produce his wardrobe.
He pressed a bell. "Certainly, if you wish, Inspec-
tor."
The man-servant appeared, but before Lansberg
could give him any orders Reynolds addressed him.
"Est-ce-que vous parlez franqais?" he demanded
rapidly.
"Out, monsieur'' the man replied.
Continuing to speak French fluently but with a
harsh accent, Reynolds asked the man:
"You have been many years with your master?"
The man darted a glance at Lansberg before


98
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
replying, as if asking permission. Lansberg nodded
assentingly and the servant answered:
"I and my people we have served for many years
with-monsieur”-Reynolds noted he hesitated be-
fore the name—“and his family before him," the
servant said proudly.
The inspector turned to Lansberg.
"Please tell your man to answer any questions I
ask him.”
Lansberg did so, speaking in French-a degree
of tact and courtesy which the detective appreciated.
"What time did your master leave here last night
to go out to dinner?” Reynolds went on.
“At seven thirty or not more than seven thirty-
five."
Although the replies were coldly polite, Reynolds
felt the servant's disdain of him as a being of com-
mon clay who dared to intrude into his master's
life.
“At what hour did he return here last night?"
questioned the inspector inexorably.
This time the servant's gaze flickered in quick
supplication to Lansberg, who calmly interposed:
“My servant-his name is Neron-does not wait
up for me with chocolate, Inspector. He was in
bed when I returned about three fifteen A.M. after
our late interview last night.”
But he had spoken in French! Was that to give
the man his cuë, Reynolds wondered.
"Bring me the evening suit and shirt your master
wore last night,” he commanded.


BUTTERFLIES
99
The man turned instantly and went out of the
room.
“Did you return here before going to Mr. Spen-
cer's party, Mr. Lansberg ?”
Before he could reply, the telephone on the desk
rang and Lansberg lifted off the receiver.
"Mr. Lansberg speaking." He passed over the
instrument. “It's for you, Inspector.”
Reynolds took the receiver, and after a curt mono-
syllable listened attentively for a few minutes.
"All right, I shall be back very shortly," he said,
and ended the conversation.
He looked at Lansberg meditatively.
“The result of the post-mortem on Leslie Del-
mond has just come in. He died from the effects of
-in fact was undoubtedly murdered with—chloro-
form."
"Chloroform!” There was amazement in Lans-
berg's face. “Is that certain ?"
"Our pathologists are fairly reliable," commented
the inspector drily. He paused, his eyes narrowed.
"Have you any reason to think there should be an-
other cause for this man's death ?” he demanded
harshly.
"No," Lansberg replied calmly, "none whatever.
Only it seemed an unusual weapon. Surely it takes a
large-an awkwardly large quantity of chloro-
form to murder a man?”
"Somewhere about half a pint, probably,” Reyn-
olds impatiently glanced round the room, again
baffled by Lansberg's explanation of his surprise. A


ioo THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
natural surprise, he agreed. Chloroform was an un-
usual weapon and a bulky one.
What was that servant doing? Probably examin-
ing his master's suit carefully.
The inspector scrutinized the book-lined walls,
noticed a huge safe skilfully built into one corner, a
case of vividly colored butterflies above it.
Reynolds longed to get a peep into that safe;
maybe it could tell him more than its owner would.
Just then the servant entered silently and deposited
a pile of clothes on a table.
Reynolds rose, looked the garments over me-
chanically and without interest; picked up the shirt,
stared at it abstractedly and laid it down again.
He took his hat from the chair beside him.
"Thank you, Mr. Lansberg. Good day."
But as he walked back to Scotland Yard his mind
was not on the shirt he had just seen—in one second
he knew it was not the same one as that worn last
night, although the cuffs had obviously had studs in
them. The one Lansberg had worn last night, the
detective remembered, had a smear of cigarette ash
on it, and a bulge at one side of the front incom-
patible with Lansberg's immaculate attire.
Reynolds decided to solve that problem later. For
the moment his thoughts curiously turned on butter-
flies.


IX
A HIDING PLACE
LAUREEN had luncheon in a little tea-shop that
was nearly empty. From her seat in the win-
dow she could catch glimpses of a man who alter-
nately was absorbed in a newspaper or thoughtfully
propping up the wall.
She slid back the curtain considerately so that he
could more easily see she was there. Her brain was
busy on a plan in which she hoped the faithful hound,
as she mentally dubbed him, would play no part.
Presently her eyes twinkled. She hurriedly wrote
something on a card, folded it over and called the
waitress.
"Take this note across to that poor man standing
over there," she indicated him to the girl. "He
looks as if he's out of work and needs a meal. Give
me his bill if he comes in and orders something."
From the window she watched the shadow unfold
the visiting card and read the message:
Why not come in and have luncheon? You can
see better and will find it less tiring. I shall be here
some time yet.
IOI


102 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
For a second the man hesitated, then he swung
round and entered the tea-room. Raising his hat
without looking in Laureen's direction, he chose a
table as far from hers as possible, but one that gave
him an excellent view of the door.
She heard him give his order.
"Anything you have ready and coffee, please."
When the waitress came to her table again Lau-
reen said in an undertone:
"Ask the gentleman if he will kindly lend me his
newspaper for a few minutes, as I'm interested in
sport." She slid a shilling into the girl's hand.
"Don't forget the last sentence."
Scenting romance, the waitress obediently gave
the message and returned with the newspaper, but
not before Laureen had seen the man quickly bend
his head to hide a smile.
"Really, I'm getting quite fond of that nice little
fellow," she told herself as she handed the girl a
pound note.
"Take the money for both bills from that without
mentioning it to him, or his pride may be hurt,"
she warned the waitress.
Laureen knew that only a sense of humor would
keep her from screaming to-day.
After her ordeal of last night followed by the in-
spector's examination, her nerves were screwed up
almost to snapping point. And there were things
she had to do with a cold brain, as well as get
through her work in the theater to-night.
The newspaper she had borrowed from the faith-


A HIDING PLACE
103
ful hound was the mid-day sporting edition. Its
front page was emblazoned with huge headlines:
WESTMINSTER
MYSTERY
Film Actor Found Dead
In Famous Revue
Artist's Flat
So far, apparently, Inspector Reynolds had spared
her reputation, she noticed, inasmuch as no refer-
ence was made to her statement that the dead man
had been her lover. But she had a growing convic-
tion that that was about all Reynolds would spare
her before he had finished.
She shrugged her shoulders as she gathered up
her change. Well, she could look after herself. She
was used to publicity, and what did a little more
or less matter to one who had fought and kicked
her way by sheer hard work up to the position she
now held? Reached there unaided too, disdaining
the easier and speedier methods.
From the other end of the tea-shop came sounds
of distress from an embarrassed man struggling to
get his bill from a loyal and sentimental waitress.
Laureen smothered a giggle, laid the newspaper
on her table and walked slowly to her theater.


THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
The stage-door entrance was in an alley at the
side of the theater. There, in the doorway, Laureen
paused and in clear tones asked Minnis, the door
porter, how he was, how his wife was and his gar-
den; this to give the hound time to get within ear-
shot.
Taking her letters, she yawned audibly and re-
marked, "Well, Minnis, after last night's ghastly
affair in my flat I'm going up to my dressing-room
to get some sleep and write a few letters. Don't let
any reporters get by you, I don't want to be dis-
turbed." She lowered her voice. "The man now in
the alley outside is a detective. If he likes to come
in and sit in your office where he can watch this
door, let him."
Minnis stared. He admired Laureen very much.
"A detective, miss!" he gasped. "But they can't
suspect—?"
She shook her finger to and fro.
"Suspect me? Of course not. He's only taking a
kindly interest in me to see I come to no harm. If
he speaks to you say I hope he enjoyed his lunch.
He'll understand."
She pushed open the swing door and walked up
the stone staircase leading to the dressing-rooms.
Half-way up she paused to look closely at a small
iron door fastened by two heavy bolts. It was the
door that led to the theater. Gently she wriggled
the bolts and found they slid easily in their sockets.
Then contentedly she went on to her dressing-room.
Except when there was a matinee, at this hour


A HIDING PLACE
105
of the day—it was twenty past two—she knew the
place would be deserted, save for stage-hands.
About an hour later, a neat old lady, with gray
hair and bent shoulders, called at a house in Blooms-
bury and asked to see one of the lodgers.
The slovenly maid servant stared at the patient
figure clad in an old-fashioned brown coat, and then
called over her shoulder:
"Missus. Somebody wants Miss Baird."
"If you'll please tell me where her room is, I will
go up," interrupted the old lady. "There is no need
to disturb your mistress."
But before the maid could reply heavy steps along
the passage heralded the landlady.
"I want to see Miss Baird," repeated the caller.
"So do I," sniffed the owner of the house indig-
nantly. "She went out at six o'clock last night. Said
she was going to church, and I haven't seen her
since. Church, indeed! This is a respectable house
for respectable people," the woman added fiercely.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure it is," murmured the old lady.
She seemed taken aback by the landlady's words.
"Probably Miss Baird stayed the night with friends
and will be back soon," she ventured hopefully.
The landlady, looking at the pathetic, stooping
figure, withheld what she longed to say and substi-
tuted:
"Will you call again or leave a message?"
"Thank you, thank you," the caller said nervously,
"I'm only in town for the day. Tell Miss Baird her
old governess left her love."


io6 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
The landlady watched the shabbily dressed old
lady go down the steps, and called out warningly
as she passed the railings:
"Mind, that paint's wet. I'll give your message
when she comes back."
Once again in Oxford Street the old lady climbed
nimbly on a bus, her face, shaded by its out-of-date
mushroom hat, worried and abstracted.
"Not been back since six o'clock last night!" she
repeated over and over again to herself.
At Piccadilly Circus she got out and threaded her
way to a large imposing hotel. Inside the entrance
hall she passed through the crowds to the letter
bureau. A man was already there asking for his mail
and she overheard the conversation.
"Have you a room, sir?" asked the clerk.
"Not yet," was the man's reply.
"Please register for your room first, sir. That
is our rule."
The old lady faded away from that department,
and going across to the reception clerk asked for
a single room.
"Number 420. Ten and sixpence. Sign your name
here, please. Luggage?" The clerk ripped off the
formula automatically.
The elderly client signed in a thin cramped hand-
writing without removing her glove.
"My luggage is at the station. Shall I pay in ad-
vance?" she offered timidly.
The clerk cast a practised eye down the old fig-
ure, saw faded gentility written all over it, said it


A HIDING PLACE
107
didn't matter and handed over the ticket giving the
number of the room.
Back at the letter bureau again, the old lady pro-
duced the ticket and asked if there were any letters.
The clerk glanced through the file.
“Nothing, madam.”
The old lady looked so disappointed that he
added, “Wait a minute. I've not had time to sort
through this last lot yet." His fingers rapidly dealt
with a large stack of letters beside him. “What
name did you say?"
The old lady repeated it, watching anxiously as
the pile grew less.
"Ah, here you are!" He handed her a thickish
envelop, glanced at her casually, and went on with
his task.
Twenty minutes later an old lady went unobtru-
sively in at the front entrance of a theater, slid past
the big crowd near the box office and pushing open
the door leading into the back of the stalls, found
herself once more in the dark, empty auditorium.
Silently she made her way to the corridor behind
the stage box, opened a small iron door in the wall
and vanished.
"Joe,” called Miss Laureen presently to one of
the carpenters, "you might slip out and get me
some cigarettes."
Joe looked approvingly at the dainty negligée
the lady was wearing. He liked women to wear
pretty feminine things.
“Certainly, miss," he said eagerly. All the staff


io8 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
liked doing jobs for Miss Laureen, and not only
because she rewarded them liberally. "I'm doing a
bit of papering in number four," he added. "The
guv'nor thinks he'll turn it into an extra office as
it's not wanted as a dressing-room. What'll you
have, miss? Turkish or Egyptian?"
"Virginian, and get some for yourself at the same
time, Joe."
The cigarette shop was some distance from the
theater. Laureen thought she could reckon on eight
minutes before Joe returned.
Silently she went along the passage from her room
to number four where Joe had been working. Her
breath came quickly as her eyes searched the bare
room for some hiding place. It had the usual paper-
hanger's table, steps and bucket of paste.
Joe had evidently been hanging a strip of wall-
paper when she called him. With a gleam of hope
she noticed the baseboard had warped out slightly
from the wall and that he had stuck the paper over
it to hide the opening.
Bending down she gently raised the bottom edge
of the paper. The paste was still wet and the paper
lifted easily. Yes, there was ample space behind the
board.
In a moment she had slipped a thin white packet
between the baseboard and the plaster, thrust it
down and delicately pressed the edges of the wall-
paper over it again, adding a little more paste to
make it firm. Even if Joe lifted the paper he could
not possibly see the packet behind the woodwork.


A HIDING PLACE
109
She was in her dressing-room lying on her couch,
white arms curved above her head, when the man
returned.
"Thank you, Joe," she said, holding out her hand
for the cigarettes and yawning.
"It's a wonder you're not ill, miss, after all you
went through last night," he remarked sympatheti-
cally. "'Orrible affair. Shall I tell Minnis to order
tea for you?"
She glanced at her watch.
"Quarter past four. Yes, I'd like some."
Minnis appeared with a tray in a few minutes,
obtained from a cafe near the stage-door. He set
it down on a table beside her and said in a low
voice:
"That fellow down in the passage has been ask-
ing me questions." He grinned. "He didn't get
much change out of me though, miss."
Laureen poured out a cup of tea and dropped in
some sugar.
"I'm sure he didn't, Minnis. But he's a nice little
fellow and very attached to me, so I hope you treated
him kindly and asked him into your office."
Minnis looked up under his shaggy eyebrows, not
quite sure if Miss Laureen was serious.
"No, miss, not exactly, but he's been leaning
against my door ever since you came, trying to pump
me as to everybody's movements here. I'm getting
sick of the sight of him."
"So he's been leaning against your door all the
time, has he?" The lady smiled to herself. "Well,


no THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
well, that's something. Did you say I hoped he'd
enjoyed his lunch, Minnis?"
"I did, miss. He got red."
Laureen put down her cup and chuckled.
"He'll be purple before I've finished with him,"
she predicted. "Wait a minute while I write a let-
ter."
She scribbled a note rapidly, addressed the en-
velop, fastened it insecurely, and handed it to the
porter with fun dancing in her eyes.
"Like to help me in a joke, Minnis?" she ques-
tioned.
Minnis nodded, with a grin.
"Rather, miss."
"Good. You can go down and casually mention
I'm going to my hotel to get some dinner before
the show to-night. Say I told you to post this letter
as I've no stamps. You can grumble and say 'She
thinks I can run out at all hours and leave this office,
to do her fool errands.' Something like that. Being
kind-hearted, he'll offer to post it for you—which is
just what I want. D'you understand?"
"Exactly, miss," beamed the man.
"I shall just give you time to get that off your
chest," Laureen added with a smile, "and then I'll
come down."
The man retired with the letter and within three
minutes Laureen had hurriedly dressed and strolled
downstairs singing.
Minnis was in his office alone. As she was pass-
ing out he whispered and pointed with his thumb.


A HIDING PLACE
ill
"All gone nicely. He's outside waiting for you,
and he's got your letter."
Laureen went up the alley slowly, beckoned a
taxi and told the man to drive to her hotel, with-
out troubling to see whether the hound was trailing
her. She had had a most successful afternoon from
her point of view, with only one anxiety.
In the hotel where she had reserved rooms, she
found Bertha had unpacked and was sewing placidly.
The maid was paler than usual, but did not allude to
the morning's proceedings.
"I've ordered the porter to send up the evening
newspapers as soon as they arrive," she informed
her mistress, who had gone at once to the telephone.
"Is Mr. Spencer there?" Laureen asked when her
call was answered. And seemed staggered by the
reply.
"You think he's gone to Paris!" she repeated.
Swiftly she demanded particulars of the care-
taker at the other end of the wire, and learned that
Mr. Spencer had gone out about eleven thirty that
morning with a suitcase, saying he didn't know when
he'd be back, and that she—'the caretaker—was to
clean up the studio, which was "in a nice mess after
the party," lock it up and keep the keys. No, he had
left no address but she had heard him ring up Croy-
don and ask about aeroplanes to Paris when she was
doing the bedroom. There had been two men there
since asking about him, and one of them—a detec-
tive—had taken away a pair of black satin slippers.
"Belonging to you, miss. Was that all right?"


112 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Yes," assented Laureen. It was all right. But
about the only thing that was right, she felt at the
moment.
Dick Spencer dashing off to Paris like that? What
did it mean? Was it accidental? Had he read the
news of the murder in the papers before he left?
If so, surely he would have telephoned to her. Or
had he not needed the newspapers to tell him that
news?
Laureen's head whirled as she lay back and tried
to face this new difficulty. She might have been
cheered could she have heard a little conversation
at Scotland Yard.
Her sleuth—Bradley by name—had reported
there after he had seen her deposited at her hotel
door.
"I want to see Inspector Reynolds," he told Jen-
kins importantly. "I've got hold of a letter Miss
Laureen wanted to have posted."
It was addressed to one of the women Laureen
had dined with last night, the inspector noticed as
he delicately raised the flap of the envelop.
He read the note and looked at Bradley.
"You may like to read it," he remarked. "That
young woman seems to have a sense of humor."
Bradley's face indeed grew purple as he read:
Dearest Eileen,
So sorry you're being drawn into this mess of
mine. I'd come round and see you, only I'm no
longer alone and fear you don't like dogs. He's a


A HIDING PLACE
113
very faithful hound, extremely attached to me,
though rather an ugly brute and not over-bright.
One of these days when he's had a bath I must
bring him along to see you. We lunched together
to-day and I found his table manners are not all one
would like; I must really teach him not to put his
feet in the plate.
Still, one can't have everything in this life, and
as I say he comes to heel most obediently.
Yours,
LAUREEN
"I suppose it must be posted, sir," said Bradley
disgustedly as he handed it back to his chief with
a brief explanation of this luncheon.
“It certainly must,” the inspector replied firmly
as he re-sealed the envelop and put it with other
letters for the post.
“I hoped I'd get something out of her by going
into that tea-shop,” Bradley explained.
"It will take a brighter lad than you to get that
young woman to tell you what she doesn't wish you
to know. I'll have to put somebody else on to her.
If she's fooled you in this she'll fool you in some-
thing else. If she has not already done so," he
added with tightened lips.
"She was in her dressing-room resting all the
afternoon,” apologized Bradley meekly. “I never
left the stage-door."
"Humph!" grunted the inspector. “Well, cut
along back to her hotel now and to-morrow I'll
make fresh plans."


114 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
As the man went out crestfallen Reynolds re-
membered his arrangement to go to the theater that
night, and rang for Jenkins.
"Fixed up that seat?" he demanded.
Jenkins nodded.
"Bit of luck to get one, sir. Just what you want,
too. Wall end of stalls, eighth row. No need for
you to doll up."
"You said that before," said Reynolds tersely.
"I shall know what to do." Already he was begin-
ning to look forward to a thoroughly enjoyable eve-
ning of business combined with pleasure.
"Maybe I'll get a little light there on this mur-
der," he told himself hopefully.
Motive in this affair seemed to pivot round Lau-
reen, and he had an urgent desire to see more of
this girl on her native heath, as it were; find out
why men circled round, apparently willing to risk
their necks for her.


THE MISSING LODGER
THE last editions of the evening papers had done
1 full justice to the information meted out to
them by Scotland Yard.
Huge head-lines screamed of the Westminster flat
mystery. Photographs of the murdered man, Leslie
Delmond, appeared with a brief account of his ca-
reer. Photographs of Laureen with a lengthy and,
mostly, inaccurate description of her career fol-
lowed. There was a reproduction of the address
drawn by Carter, “Miss Valerie XXXXX, etc.," to-
gether with a request for information concerning
that letter. News was also demanded about Valerie
and Leslie Delmond.
The Star had featured the letter episode and its
chief head-line read:
WHO IS VALERIE?
The earlier editions of the evening papers had
caused every reserved seat to be booked in the thea-
115


THE MISSING LODGER
117
seat at the front. Presently he yielded with that
aloof, calm way the inspector was beginning to know,
and as the other man came into view Reynolds rec-
ognized him.
It was Dr. Tempest, the pathologist, and Reyn-
olds's keen eyes noticed that Lansberg paid almost
more attention to the doctor than to the ladies in
his party.
The curtain rose on the opening numbers which
were received with keen enthusiasm.
About a quarter of an hour later there was a
strange keyed-up lull in the audience, the chorus
divided to form an opening in the middle of the
stage, limelights centered, and Laureen darted
straight down, a radiant being so full of vitality
that the chorus seemed as wax dummies.
Instantly there was a wild crash of applause,
drowning the orchestra and preventing all stage
action for some time. People stood, waved their
programs and shouted, "Laureen, Laureen," disre-
garding cries of "Sit down."
Without hesitation Laureen raised one hand im-
periously for silence, then, both arms akimbo, she
leaned across the footlights.
"'Ush!" she said sternly.
There was a roar of laughter and then the house
settled down.
Reynolds was amazed at the versatility of the
girl. She could sing and dance, but his interest was
not in those more ordinary talents. It was her char-
acter sketches and quick humor that fascinated him.


n8 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Her extraordinary changes of voice, age, national-
ity, language, as in turn she was a Cockney flower-
girl, an American tourist, a French tragedienne, an
elderly English spinster alcoholically lively at a
birthday party, an Italian street singer stabbed by
her lover.
No wonder she could deceive him in her flat last
night, past mistress as she was of every art of mim-
icry.
Inspector Reynolds's seat was at the end of the
row, an aisle only between him and an exit door,
over which the attendant had jerked a heavy velvet
curtain when the performance began.
Suddenly, just before the interval, his eye caught
a tremor of movement behind that curtain, which
was almost facing the stage box on the opposite
side of the theater. Presently the tips of a man's
fingers stealthily drew aside the folds of the velvet,
though the man's face was out of sight.
There was nothing abnormal in any one peeping
through to get a glimpse of the stage. It might have
been the attendant anxious to see how near the in-
terval was, or some one searching for friends in
the stalls.
But in a moment the curtain swayed back a little
and he caught sight of a man's hand—a hand that
lacked a thumb!
An unusual mutilation which sent Reynolds to his
feet. For among the fingerprints that had been pho-
tographed in Laureen's dining room was the clear
impress of a man's hand showing a stump where


THE MISSING LODGER 119
the thumb should have been. The photograph had
been taken from the dining-room table beside the
dead man.
The C. I. D. man made a swift dive across the
passageway, but tripped over a cloak that was trail-
ing from the seat in front of him.
That slight delay lost him his chance. When he
snatched back the curtain there was nobody there.
Pushing open the exit door he found himself in
the corridor, equally empty. On the left it ran
down behind two boxes and ended in a cul-de-sac;
the right side, up which Reynolds hurried, led round
to the back of the auditorium.
Two attendants were there and the detective
spoke to them.
"Seen a man just go out?"
"No, sir," both replied.
Reynolds's worried expression made one of them
add: "Perhaps you'll find him in the bar, sir. Down
there to the left."
The detective searched as directed with no result.
There were four youngish men in the bar, laughing
together, and not one had a mutilated hand.
He retraced his steps to the corridor and found
himself behind the stage box which Lansberg occu-
pied with his party. A roar of applause indicated
that the first part of the revue was over and the in-
termission had begun.
For a moment the detective hesitated whether to
knock and ask to speak to Lansberg when his atten-
tion was caught by a small iron door in the wall at


120 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
the end of the corridor. He pulled, found it unfas-
tened and opened it far enough to see that it gave
on to a stone staircase.
"Come away from that door, sir, please," said
an attendant from behind him.
Reynolds closed it carefully and turned round.
"I wanted a little air," he observed in conciliating
tones. "Isn't it an exit door?"
"No, sir, the exit door is farther back. That's a
private door leading to the dressing-rooms and
greenroom."
"I see," the detective said thoughtfully. A door
that led from the dressing-rooms to the front of
the theater, while the stage-door was in a side
alley!
Suddenly the door of the stage box opened and
Lansberg and Dr. Tempest came out.
The two men showed amiable surprise at seeing
the detective.
"Hello, Inspector," Lansberg greeted, "are you
here to see the show or do you want me for any-
thing?"
Reynolds smiled pleasantly.
"Both, sir, if you can spare me a moment."
Dr. Tempest broke in.
"I'll leave you to talk. Come along to the bar
when you've finished, Inspector, and have a drink.
Good show, isn't it?"
"Excellent, Doctor. Thank you, I'll join you in
two minutes if I can."
The detective twisted round swiftly to Lansberg.


THE MISSING LODGER
121
"Do you know a man with a missing thumb, Mr.
Lansberg?" he asked.
Even in the half light of the corridor he could see
Lansberg recoil and his mask-like face stiffen to
severe lines.
"A missing thumb!" he repeated aghast.
"Yes, the right hand. It's a noticeable mutila-
tion."
"Where have you seen this man?" Lansberg de-
manded agitatedly. "Not here?"
Reynolds nodded, perplexed. There was no mis-
take about Lansberg's grave concern.
"Hiding behind the curtain over the exit door
opposite your box ten minutes ago," he explainer1
definitely. "Who is he?"
"That I cannot tell you, Inspector. But if he's
lucky he probably will be my executioner," Lans-
berg observed grimly. "He made two excellent ef-
forts a year or so ago in Paris. This time he may
succeed."
The inspector's eyes were watchful as he put his
next questions.
"What has this man against you, sir? And what
makes you think he'll make a third attempt on your
life? Please answer me clearly. I can't afford to
waste a second longer."
"I can only imagine he wishes to steal certain
valuable—" He paused and Reynolds fancied
changed his word. "—articles that are in my posses-
sion. I can think of no other reason. I do not know
his name, his business or his nationality. And I


122
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
think he may again attempt my life because he has
so far not succeeded in obtaining what he desired.”
“You've not seen him lately?".
“Not for about a year.”
Reynolds turned on his heel. “Thank you sir. I
must be off at once."
A hurried search of the corridors and foyer prov-
ing hopeless, he telephoned for men to be sent to
watch all exits and went back to the Yard, bewil-
dered and annoyed at the new tangle.
That Lansberg was concealing much, he was sure.
But he was equally sure that Lansberg was acting
within his rights and knew the limits of the detec-
tive's power to question him. :
Well, Reynolds decided, Lansberg must be forced
to open his hand. Some damaging clue might yet
come to light.
"Jenkins," he called, when he arrived at his office,
"I want another look at the photographs of the
impression of a man's thumbless right hand.”
A moment later he was staring at them—two ex-
cellent prints, each showing clearly four fingers, the
palm and the stump of the thumb.
"Humph," grunted Reynolds. “Got any news ?"
“Yes. Spencer—that Chelsea artist—has gone to
Paris. Left no address, his caretaker says."
"I'll start on him to-morrow. Had no time
to-day," grunted the inspector. “Anything else?"
“Yes. There's a hotel clerk waiting to see you.
He thinks he handed over that Valerie letter this
afternoon."


THE MISSING LODGER
123
"What!" the detective roared. "Show him in at
once."
Reynolds could scarcely wait for the man whom
Jenkins ushered in.
"Tell me your story as precisely as you can," he
urged.
"Right, sir. I'm one of the clerks in the mail de-
partment at the Hotel Imperial," the man began.
"I read in the Evening News at seven to-night that
you wished immediate information concerning a let-
ter, so directly I was off duty I came along here."
"I've already taken his name and address, sir, to
save time," Jenkins interposed.
"This afternoon at three twenty-five or three
thirty," the clerk continued, "an elderly lady asked
if I had any letters for Miss Valerie Baird."
"Baird!" exclaimed Reynolds with triumph. "Yes,
go on."
"She showed me her room ticket, number four
twenty, otherwise I should have asked her for it or
for her key."
"What's the reason?"
"Hundreds of people began using our letter bu-
reau as a poste restante, so the only way we could
reserve it for hotel residents was by making that
rule."
Reynolds nodded.
"Well," the man continued, "I looked through
the file and there was nothing for her. She seemed
anxious and disappointed so I told her to wait while
I looked through the mail that had just come in.


124
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
That's how I fixed the time as three twenty-five or
three thirty: the mail arrives at three fifteen."
The inspector rubbed his hands contentedly. This
was the type of statement he reveled in, clear, mat-
ter-of-fact, concise.
"Excellent,” he commented. “Take your time,
and don't forget any trilling detail.”
"I'll do my best, sir," promised the clerk. “The
old lady thanked me. She seemed a patient soul of
about seventy though I couldn't see much of her
face because she had a drooping brim to her hat and
a veil."
"How did you guess her age then ?" asked the
C. I. D. man.
"She had white hair at the sides and some show-
ing at the back of her hat. Also she stooped like an
elderly woman and had a thin quavering voice."
"Well, you sorted the letters ?” prompted the in-
spector.
“Yes, sir, and I found one for the name she had
given. A thickish white envelop addressed in big
writing to Miss Valerie Baird, care of Hotel Im-
perial, London, W.1. I handed it to her and she
thanked me again and went away.”
Inspector Reynolds turned over his papers and
found the envelop which the caretaker at Laureen's
flat had drafted. He wrote out the address he now
knew, compared it with the one Carter had repro-
duced from memory and showed it to Jenkins.
“Carter wasn't far out, you see,” he commented.
Then turning to the clerk:


THE MISSING LODGER
125
"Can you possibly recall what this woman wore?"
"I thought it was a long dark coat, but was not
quite sure. So I went at once to the reception clerk
and he was positive the woman wore a dark brown
coat, rather old-fashioned, a black hat and veil. Also
he was sure she was round-shouldered or bent with
age.
"Why didn't you bring him along?" asked Rey-
nolds.
"He's on duty until midnight, sir, but you can
verify this on the telephone. His name is Foster."
"Did you or Foster notice this woman's hands?"
Reynolds questioned eagerly.
"I didn't, sir, but Foster is certain she signed the
register with her gloves on. I couldn't bring the
hotel register away—besides you can always see it
there if you wish—but," he produced an envelop
from his pocket and laid it on the table, "Foster
and I made a tracing of her signature."
Reynolds scrutinized the slip of paper carefully.
"You and Foster are too intelligent for your
jobs," he stated with an approving smile. "You
ought to be in this line."
"Thank you, sir. But we've got to use our eyes
where we are, too. This isn't so wonderful."
"Isn't it?" The detective cast a look at Jenkins.
"We should be glad to have all our witnesses as in-
telligent, eh?"
"We should," Jenkins agreed with emphasis.
"Anything else you can remember?" Reynolds
asked the clerk.


THE MISSING LODGER
127
sir," she said in a puzzled voice, "considering I've
not set eyes on her since she went out at six o'clock
last night. Told me she was going to church!" she
added indignantly.
The inspector raised his eyebrows and gave a
humorous glance at the hotel clerk and began again
patiently. He knew this rambling type only too well.
"How came Miss Baird to be in your house, Mrs.
Hornett?"
"Same way as all my other lodgers. I keep an
apartment house and she took a room, fourth floor
front, twelve days ago. Very little luggage she had,
and a week's rent owing come Wednesday. I might
have guessed!" She sighed heavily.
"Guessed what?" Reynolds demanded.
"I suppose she had no money and just walked out
leaving her few things. And they're not worth
much," Mrs. Hornett added with disgust.
"So as the old lady didn't return last night you
looked through her luggage to-day," Reynolds re-
marked blandly.
"Well and what if I did, sir. I've been cheated
that way before." Then, remembering his sentence,
she added sharply, "But what do you mean about
an old lady? I'm talking about Miss Baird."
The detective shot a warning glance at the hotel
clerk, who had started at the woman's last remark.
"Ah," he said, "that was just a slip of mine.
About how old should you say this Miss Baird was,
Mrs. Hornett?"
She looked at him a little suspiciously. She hadn't


128 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
come here at ten o'clock of the night for this detec-
tive to make fun of her, she decided.
"I don't know what age your Miss Baird was,"
she said heavily, "but Miss Valerie Baird who took
my room and walked out last night to go to church,
so she said, was not a day more than twenty-four.
If that!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Hornett. That's a great help
to me," commended Reynolds graciously. "Please
describe her."
"Thin, pale, fair, blue eyes, medium height or a
bit shorter, dressed nearly always in navy blue or
black and hadn't got much else so far as I could
^ j»
see.
"What did she do for a living?"
"Well, sir, she was very reserved and stand-
offish if I ever asked her a few questions," Mrs.
Hornett bridled at the memory of being rebuffed
by her lodger, "but I saw a lot of drawings of
dresses done in ink in her suit—I mean, in her
room."
"Did she receive any correspondence?"
"Never saw a letter and I see all that come to the
house."
"I'll bet you do," said Reynolds to himself.
"Any visitors?" he asked aloud.
"None till Saturday night—day before yester-
day," she added importantly. "Some girl called to
see her but Miss Baird was out."
"Did you answer the bell?"
"Certainly not," Mrs. Hornett replied. "I've a


THE MISSING LODGER
129
servant to do that, but I heard voices and went up
immediately."
"What did this girl wear? I'm sure you've a good
memory for a lady's clothes, Mrs. Hornett," said
Reynolds, hoping flattery would help a little.
"There wasn't much to remember, sir. A small
black hat and a black cape. It was about half past
nine and nearly dark. I couldn't see her face. She'd
had her answer from my servant and was turning to
go down the steps as I came."
"Did you notice her hands or feet?" the inspector
asked.
"No, I didn't. Well, as I was saying when you
interrupted me, there was that girl came Saturday
night, and this afternoon some old lady called to
see her."
Reynolds's eyes glinted with excitement, but he
asked casually:
"Did she give her name?"
Mrs. Hornett shook her head.
"She said she was only in town for the day and I
was to give Miss Baird her love and say it was her
old governess who had called."
"Did you happen to mention Miss Baird's sur-
prising absence since the night before?"
"Yes, I mentioned it," she replied, "and the old
soul seemed quite upset at first. Then she said prob-
ably Miss Baird had unexpectedly stayed the night
with friends. Do you know where she is, sir?"
"Not at the moment," the inspector admitted.
"Can you describe this old lady's appearance?"


130 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Black hat, mushroom brim, and veil, dark brown
coat, out of date. White hair, very stooping shoul-
ders, shaky old person."
A long brown coat! Reynolds reflected to him-
self.
"Sounds like the same woman, eh?" he said in an
undertone to the hotel clerk, who had listened to the
conversation with the deepest interest.
"It certainly does, sir," he replied emphatically.
"Well, I think that's all for to-night, Mrs. Hor-
nett, thank you. Directly I have news of Miss Baird
I'll let you know. Meanwhile, lock her room up. I
shall come along to-morrow and examine it, so don't
touch or remove anything," he warned her. "Good
night."
She rose, offended at his warning, and smoothed
the folds out of her coat.
"Drat that paint," she said softly, rubbing a piece
of the cloth.
Reynolds's head shot up, alertly.
"Paintf" he demanded. "Where?"
The woman pointed to her coat where a red mark
showed.
"Off my railings. They were only painted this
morning, and I came out in such a hurry—"
The inspector signaled to Jenkins to get her away,
his mind intent on linking up details rapidly.
"And Foster saw red paint on the coat of the old
lady who called for that letter to-day?" he de-
manded of the hotel clerk.
"Yes, sir."


THE MISSING LODGER
131
"Thank you. Good night,” said Reynolds ab-
sently.
For suddenly he remembered where he had seen
a brown coat on an old lady, a coat that had had a
red mark on the shoulder.
Laureen had worn it in her impersonation of the
inebriated elderly spinster on the stage that night!


XI
THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE
THE next morning, Tuesday, found Inspector
Reynolds in his office at nine as usual. Nearly
an hour before that, however, he had paid an early
call in Bloomsbury, to the surprise of an indignant
Mrs. Hornett.
A thorough inspection of her lodger's modest be-
longings had revealed little except that Valerie
Baird had left no clue to her identity there. Not one
of her simple garments bore any initial, not even a
laundry mark with the inevitable red cotton. There
were no letters, no papers. Only a few half-finished
pen and ink sketches of frocks, executed with the
fineness of an engraving.
These Reynolds took away with him, after again
locking the door and instructing Mrs. Hornett to
open it for no one but himself or its owner.
"Telephone me at once," he ordered, "if Miss
Baird returns, and say nothing to her of my visit."
"What's she been up to?" questioned the landlady
curiously after giving the required promise.
"We have no reason to think she has been 'up to'
132


THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE 133
anything, madam,” Reynolds replied as he left the
house.
At the Yard he learned that Bertha's statements
had been verified as to the time of her arrival at
Clapham on the Sunday night; that the porters and
waiters at Lansberg's club agreed he had arrived,
dined and left there at the hours he had said.
“What about those ashes from Miss Laureen's
flat? Had them examined ?” he asked Jenkins.
“Yes. Paper undoubtedly had been burnt, but
there wasn't a vestige of it left. The cigarette stubs
corresponded to the kind Lansberg used, and others
that were found in her cigarette-box."
Reynolds frowned. Another dead end, he grunted
to himself.
"Show me the contents of Delmond's pockets
again, Jenkins."
A little despondently the C. I. D. man turned over
the articles which Jenkins spread before him. An
ordinary penknife, two stubs of pencils, three Treas-
ury notes and some odd silver, four small keys on a
ring, a cheap wrist-watch and a colored silk hand-
kerchief.
There was no pocket-book or letters of any kind;
only a plain crumpled half sheet of note-paper such
as might have been torn from a letter. Thick pale
blue paper of an expensive make.
Reynolds smoothed it and held it up to the light.
“Hand-made,” he mused. “Might be possible to
trace it."
Jenkins preened himself.


THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"I've already done so, sir," he remarked non-
chalantly.
"Ehl" Reynolds sat forward abruptly. "Where?"
"In Miss Laureen's flat. I found three notes in her
bureau, asking her to dinner or luncheon, all writ-
ten on this paper. Also I found out she often stays
the night with this girl—they're great friends.
Laureen even leaves some of her clothes there so
that she need not bother with a dressing-case each
time."
"What's the girl's name and address?" demanded
Reynolds.
"Lady Avice Garth, Warnham House, Curzon
Street," the man replied, handing the chief the writ-
ten address, together with the notes he had found
in Laureen's bureau.
Reynolds drummed his fingers on the desk a mo-
ment, thinking hard. Then he reached for the tele-
phone book.
"Mayfair five eight X two," Jenkins said quietly.
The inspector smiled.
"Bright lad," he said, as he picked up the instru-
ment and repeated the number.
"Is that Warnham House? Good. I want to speak
to Lady Avice Garth, please. I'm Inspector Reyn-
olds of Scotland Yard," he said over the wire. He
listened to the reply with a grim expression.
"Did she give any address or reason for this
sudden journey?" he asked.
Presently he hung up the receiver and stared
blankly at Jenkins.


THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE 135
"Lady Avice has just left for Paris, the butler
says. He doesn't know the reason but says her lady-
ship usually stays at the Continental and only took
a dressing-bag, so evidently doesn't mean to stay
long."
"That makes two of them who have had a sudden
desire for gay Paree," announced Jenkins. "Spencer
went yesterday morning, you remember, sir."
The inspector's lips tightened.
"Ring up Croydon and book me a seat by aero-
plane as soon as you can. I've a fancy to make a
third who'll pay a visit to Paris. With luck I can
get there in time to meet her train."
"Do you know her by sight?" Jenkins asked in
surprise.
Reynolds nodded.
"She and her aunt were in Lansberg's box at the
theater last night. I'll know her again easily."
"Yes, she lives with her aunt, the Countess of
Warnham, and how they keep that establishment
going is a mystery. I learned they're in very low
water financially."
"Well, among other things, I hope to find out
how they manage it," announced the detective
firmly. "Get through to Croydon as quick as you
can. Come in," he called, hearing a knock on the
door.
Dr. Tempest put his head inside.
"Good morning, Inspector. Am I disturbing
you?"
Reynolds beamed amiably.


136 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Not a bit, Doctor. Come in. I'm off to Paris in
an hour or two."
The doctor sat down and filled his pipe.
"Indeed," he remarked. "A flying visit?"
"In every sense of the word," the detective re-
sponded with a touch of pride in what was to him
an adventure.
Dr. Tempest glanced through the window at the
cloudless sky.
"You'll have a good trip. I almost envy you. The
inquest on Delmond is at ten thirty this morning, I
hear. Will you be there?"
The inspector nodded.
"Only formal evidence will be given, and there
will be an adjournment, of course. I shan't be needed
more than ten minutes. It won't delay you long
either."
"Good. By the way, Inspector, you didn't join me
for that drink in the theater bar last night."
Reynolds blew out a cloud of smoke and leaned
back in his chair with a tired sigh.
"No, I had to rush off directly I'd seen Lansberg.
I say, Doctor, what do you know about that man?"
"Lansberg? Much less than you, I'm afraid, In-
spector. I've met him twice casually before seeing
him in Miss Laureen's flat the night before last."
"I didn't know that. You met there, I thought, as
strangers."
Dr. Tempest smiled quizzically. He had a charm-
ing easy manner and cultured voice that Reynolds at
times tried to imitate.


THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE
137
"It seemed scarcely the moment to remind Mr.
Lansberg that he and I had twice been fellow guests
at dinner parties and had exchanged a few common-
places. I was in an official capacity at the flat as a
doctor investigating the cause of death.”
"You were quite right, Doctor, of course," agreed
the detective hastily. Nobody loved the delicacy of
etiquette more than he.
"I was even surprised when Lansberg rang me up
yesterday," the doctor went on, "inviting me to join
his party in the stage box last night and afterward
have supper with them. Laureen was there after the
show. By gad, that girl's clever!"
“She is,” Reynolds avowed with bitter emphasis.
“Do you mind telling me if you knew her before or
anything about her.”
The doctor laughed.
"My dear chap, ask me anything you like. I met
her for the first time on Sunday night, June thirtieth,
or rather one thirty A.M. Monday, July first, to be
precise, in her flat. You were badgering her like the
brute you are."
The detective grinned.
“And,” continued the doctor, "seeing her over-
strung condition, I warned you. As it happens, all is
well. She was in marvelous spirits after the theater
last night.”
“I can believe that,” Reynolds thought.
“Oh, I say, Doctor," he asked, “what sort of a
girl is Lady Avice Garth ? I hear she's a friend of
Laureen's."


138 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"They're great friends, I believe," supplemented
the doctor. "I was introduced to her and her aunt
last night and found them both intelligent and amus-
ing. Lady Avice has a fearless personality, chooses
her friends as she pleases and sticks to them."
"I've just heard she's gone abroad this morn-
ing," remarked Reynolds. "Did she happen to men-
tion it last night?"
"Gone abroad?" Tempest raised his eyebrows.
"Far from saying so last night I overheard her tell-
ing Laureen to be sure to come to tea with her this
afternoon."
"Is that so?" the inspector observed indifferently,
tapping out his pipe. "No fresh details about the
post-mortem on Leslie Delmond, I suppose, Doc-
tor?"
The pathologist shook his head, his expression at
once grave.
"Nothing since my report, signed by my colleague
and myself. Death by chloroform which could not
have been self-administered. Delmond's heart was
pretty groggy, so it probably took less than half a
pint to kill him. An extraordinary murder," he
mused. "What do you make of it, Inspector?"
"Rather early yet to answer that," said Reynolds.
"It was good of you to come along with me on Sun-
day night, Doctor. One doesn't often get the services
of a distinguished pathologist on such a case," he
added pompously.
Dr. Tempest's thin, serious face lighted with
amusement at the inspector's deferential remark.


THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE 139
"It's not often we poor post-mortem individuals
get the chance of seeing the mise en scene. I'm glad
I called in here on Sunday night. Good luck to your
trip. You're really very likeable when you're not
cross-examining, you know," he bantered.
Dr. Tempest's post of assistant pathologist to
Scotland Yard often drew him there on business.
Frequently he had been present at Inspector Reyn-
olds's examinations of witnesses and nearly always
objected to what he considered a lack of humane
treatment. But he was not a detective.
Jenkins entered as the doctor went out.
"I've fixed you up, sir. Car will be here at noon.
I'll see your bag is put in. You'll get to Paris in
plenty of time to meet the boat train."
The inspector nodded his thanks and handed the
man a written list of inquiries to be made. Then he
urged:
"And particularly I want Lansberg's laundry
found and his dress shirts that were sent this week
looked at. You understand?"
Jenkins nodded. The inspector picked up the tele-
phone again and gave the number of his home
address.
"That you, Agnes? I'm off to France for a day or
two. Starting in an hour. . . . Yes, I've all I need
here in my bag. . . . You've had a wire from
whom? . . . Oh, Bill? . . . When did his boat get
in? . . . Well, make him stay over Sunday, then.
. . . Oh, I'll be back by Thursday probably. . . .
Good-by, my dear."


140 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
He had only just replaced the receiver when the
bell tinkled.
"Hello!" he replied. "Who? ... Of course I've
got time," he snapped over the wire. "Send her up
immediately."
A constable presently ushered in a nervous-looking
girl of about twenty-four or five, who was obviously
in a condition bordering on panic.
Inspector Reynolds knew the symptoms quite well.
A witness had something to tell that might be dan-
gerous to conceal, yet also realized that the revela-
tion might be prejudicial to her reputation or
position.
He glanced at his watch anxiously. These cases
often took time to deal with. "Wrigglers" he dubbed
them.
"Sit down, please, Miss —" he looked up ques-
tioningly.
"Perring. May Perring." She sat down timidly,
her eyes lowered.
"You're a telephone operator, I hear," Reynolds
began in conversational tones, "employed at the ex-
change which connects Beresford Street and there-
fore Miss Laureen's flat." So much he had learned
on the telephone a moment before.
The girl swallowed.
"Yes, sir. I was on duty Sunday night from four
until ten thirty."
The inspector bent across his desk.
"What are you worried about?" he asked in
kindly fashion.


142 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
listen in," the inspector smiled. "What calls went
through on Sunday?"
"The maid replied each time," the telephone clerk
said. "She said her mistress was out or engaged, to
every call."
"That certainly was tiresome," agreed Reynolds.
"There was a call at eight thirty p. M., wasn't
there?"
The girl referred to a piece of paper. "From a
Miss Gilbert in a call box in Piccadilly, ordering
some shoes to be taken to a certain address and
saying the maid was to sleep out as Laureen would
not be back that night."
"Could you recognize that voice again, Miss Per-
ring?"
The girl's eyes opened with astonishment. "Why,
of course, sir. We get to know voices like you know
faces. This was easily remembered: high and clear
and—queer, somehow."
"Ever heard Miss Gilbert's voice since?" the
inspector inquired.
"No, sir," replied the telephone girl promptly.
"Never since those two calls."
Reynolds looked up quickly.
"Two calls?"
"Yes, sir, that's why I came here. Miss Gilbert
gave the message from Piccadilly Circus at eight
thirty saying the maid was to go out and leave this
parcel at ten P.M. at Chelsea where her mistress
would be. So it seemed strange that when at nine
fifty a Mr. Spencer rang up Laureen's flat this Miss


THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE
Gilbert's voice should answer, this time, and say her
mistress had already started for the studio!"
Inspector Reynolds felt a pulse of excitement
race through him.
"You're quite sure it was the same voice that first
spoke from Piccadilly and then spoke from Miss
Laureen's flat?" he asked eagerly.
"Quite sure," the girl replied. "When I read of
the man found dead there I thought it was a woman
who had telephoned first to get the maid away and
then had gone there to burgle the flat with some
man who died suddenly."
"Do you happen to remember why this Mr. Spen-
cer called up Laureen?"
The girl nodded.
"Yes, he wanted to know if he could come and
fetch her. He adores her and is always ringing her
up.
The detective rose.
"Your evidence is very valuable, Miss Perring,"
he assured her. "Don't worry about the consequences
this time. I'll let you know if I need you again. Good
morning."
"Two calls in the same voice and one of them
from Laureen's flat," he repeated to himself as he
hurried off to-the inquest. "And Laureen is a mar-
velous mimic! She left the restaurant at eight
twenty-five p.m. I wonder . .


XII
THE MAIMED HAND
M RS. DE GROOT glanced restlessly at her
M1 diamond wrist-watch and for the sixth time
that afternoon compared it with the ornate clock on
the mantelpiece, which at that moment chimed the
hour. She counted its strokes eagerly. Five o'clock
at last!
"Therese,” she called to her maid.
A serious-faced, neatly clad Frenchwoman of
about thirty-five came from the adjoining bedroom
at her mistress's summons.
“Yes, madame."
Mrs. de Groot spoke irritably:
“Lady Avice ought to be here any moment now.
This room's insufferably hot. Open the windows or
something, and do try to make the place look a
little less ghastly. Push those hideous vases in a
cupboard."
Mrs. de Groot glared round at the offending red
plush and gilt furnishings. Her suite of rooms was
in one of the most expensive hotels in Paris, and,
she reflected, evidently the only taste its designer
144


THE MAIMED HAND
145
had was in his mouth. She flung herself back on the
chaise-longue impatiently.
Therese opened a window, started an electric fan
and deftly placed bowls of lilies in place of the ugly
vases she put away.
“Shall I ring for tea, madame, or will you wait
for her ladyship?”
"I'll wait until she comes," Mrs. de Groot an-
swered.
She pressed her forehead with thick heavily jew-
eled fingers. “My headache is worse. Give me an-
other aspirin and some eau de Cologne."
Therese obeyed and brushed her mistress's
shingled hair that had been rumpled by the cushions
on which she had been tossing. She was a faithful
maid who knew and liked her mistress and her
duties, but she sighed inwardly as she looked down
at the squat figure and clumsy features of her lady.
Not even the exquisite negligée Mrs. de Groot was
wearing, nor all the artifices of cosmetic delicately
and skilfully applied, could turn this ugly duckling
into a swan.
Mrs. de Groot smiled good-naturedly as the maid
dusted a powder-puff lightly across her face.
"That will do, thank you, Therese. I look a hag
and feel a wreck to-day, and touching me up won't
hide the facts. I'm forty-five and that's too old for
these all-night parties. Got back here at five this
morning, didn't I ?”
"Half past five, madame," corrected the maid.
"Where are the English papers?” demanded her


146 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
mistress, turning over a pile of journals beside her.
"I don't see the Continental Daily Mail either."
Therese made some confused excuse about sending
for them and left the room.
The widow of an American "tobacco king," Mrs.
de Groot found existence more agreeable in Eu-
rope, and passed her life scouring the fashionable
"season" resorts in search of gaiety.
It was on the Riviera four years ago, in a Nice
hotel, that she had met Lady Avice Garth. At first
Mrs. de Groot's love of a title had led her to court
the girl's society, but as she grew to know her, the
wealthy American found in Avice a true generous
heartedness and loved her.
"Another of Avice's weird friends," the girl's
circle had said. But Avice had recognized a certain
pathos in this lonely rich woman and the two had
become warm friends.
There was a quick double knock on the outer door
of Mrs. de Groot's suite, and Therese went hur-
riedly to open it, closing the sitting-room door care-
fully behind her.
A tall, slim, dark-haired girl entered the little hall
and spoke in rapid French to the maid.
"You had the telegram I sent to-you as well as
the one to Mrs. de Groot, Therese?" she questioned
anxiously.
"Yes, my lady, and I managed to keep the Eng-
lish papers out of sight as you ordered. My mistress
was delighted to know you were coming. May I take
your wrap?"


THE MAIMED HAND
H7
The girl slipped her arms from the loose light
traveling coat she wore, and stood as one accus-
tomed to such service, while the maid smoothed out
a crease from her frock.
She thanked the maid with a gesture.
"Where is Mrs. de Groot?"
"In here, my lady. She had a late night and has a
bad headache."
Therese opened the sitting room door and an-
nounced with pride, "Lady Avice Garth."
Mrs. de Groot held out her arms.
"Avice, you're an angel to come over and see me
in this dreadful heat wave. I was tickled to death to
get your wire this morning, my dear."
The girl kissed her warmly, sat down on the
couch beside her, regarding her with a serious face.
Something in the girl's grave expression warned
the older woman of trouble.
"Is anything wrong?"
Avice nodded; and as if to gain time, took her
hat off and smoothed her hair back with her slender
ringless hand.
Mrs. de Groot squeezed the girl's arm affection-
ately.
"Tony?" she questioned. And as Avice did not
reply, she went on, "Well, whatever it is, you know
you can count on me to the last ditch."
The girl turned to her with troubled eyes.
"Mary, what I'm going to say will hurt you. It's
—it's about Leslie Delmond."
The older woman's lips parted in a startled gasp.


148
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
leaving the pand" she repeated bland
knowing the
“Leslie !” she breathed. “Where is he? I've not
seen him since-he left me."
Avice Garth took her friend's hands in hers and
held them tightly as if she would impart courage to
the woman on whom she was going to inflict suffer.
ing by her news.
"Try to be plucky, Mary dear. Leslie Delmond
is dead.”
The color drained from Mrs. de Groot's face,
leaving the patches of rouge standing out.
"Leslie-dead," she repeated blankly.
The girl looked at her pityingly, knowing the
worst of the ordeal was to come for this poor foolish
woman who had idolized and been discarded by this
struggling film artist.
“Yes," Avice continued steadily. "Two nights ago,
June thirtieth. It-it was chloroform caused his
death, Mary."
The older woman raised her haggard face.
"Suicide ?" she whispered.
The girl shook her head.
“He was murdered," she replied slowly.
“Murdered!” Mrs. de Groot closed her eyes and
caught her breath in anguish.
Avice Garth waited until that first terrible mo-
ment of knowledge had passed, then she went on
gently:
"He was found dead in Laureen's flat. She is a
great friend of mine. You remember meeting her in
Nice. I can't believe Delmond was there by Lau-
reen's invitation,” she added loyally. "No details are


THE MAIMED HAND
149
known yet but I couldn't let you learn it from the
newspapers, so this morning I decided to come over
to you."
Slow tears forced themselves from under Mary
de Groot's eyelids. For a minute she was silent,
then she caught Avice to her.
"Thank you, my dear. He was a worthless scoun-
drel, but—I loved him. He had me in his clutches
because I cared so much."
"He had me in his clutches also in another way,"
the girl said bitterly. "Tony, too."
Suddenly Mrs. de Groot sat erect, horror-
stricken.
"Avice," she gasped, "who murdered Leslie? Oh,
my God, you can't mean—" She broke off as she saw
the tragic fear on the girl's quivering face.
"I don't know what to think," the girl said. "Tony
was in London on Sunday. Dick Spencer saw him
and told me so: I was at a party in Dick's studio on
Sunday. Oh, Mary, I'm terrified!"
The older woman slid her arm round the girl
and held her comfortingly.
"My poor darling," she murmured. "And with
all your own worry you took this journey to break
this ghastly news tenderly to me."
"Not entirely for that," Avice replied honestly.
"Dick Spencer told me that Tony was half mad
with drink or rage or both, and said he was going
back to Paris when he'd done his job! Dick laughed
at him and said he looked more fit for an ambulance
than a job. He begged Tony to go to the studio with


150 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
him, but Tony rushed off. And that very night Leslie
Delmond was murdered!"
The sight of the girl's suffering helped Mrs. de
Groot to recover from her own shock.
"Avice dear, money can do a lot. We can find
Tony and get him away. Do you know where he is
in Paris?"
"He wrote me a month ago saying he couldn't
bear to meet me—yet. I understood. But now I
must find him. I think possibly he may be in his old
rooms in— What was that?" the girl broke off. "I
heard a creaking sound from over there." She
pointed to a door behind her friend.
Mary de Groot twisted round to see what it was.
"No, dear, your nerves are on edge. It's probably
the waiter bringing our tea."
"Where does that door lead to?" demanded
Avice.
"Into the bedroom of the next suite, which is
vacant. All the rooms seem to communicate in this
hotel. I knew the woman there; she went away this
morning."
Lady Avice stood up, not quite satisfied.
"I'm going to look for myself," she announced.
Crossing the room she pushed back the bolt fas-
tening the door and pulled it open swiftly. In front
of her—six inches away—was a second door which
she tried to open but failed.
Which was just as well for Inspector Reynolds,
who had only a moment before bolted it, and now
was crouched closely on the other side, listening.


THE MAIMED HAND
He had reached the Gare du Nord ten minutes
before the boat train was due, after a wild half-hour
in a Paris taxi—a journey he had found infinitely
more of an adventure than his placid flight from
Croydon.
At the train his task was made easier by the fact
that Lady Avice Garth did not know him, so there
was no need for concealment. There was not a large
crowd of passengers. The tourist season had scarcely
begun and the intense heat Paris was undergoing
had kept away many casual visitors.
In a few minutes Inspector Reynolds had picked
out the tall graceful figure of the girl he wanted.
Her face appeared wan and pale and he thought
there was a strained look in her eyes.
He had half expected that Spencer, whom he had
never seen, would meet her, thereby allowing him to
kill two birds with one stone. But giving her dressing
bag to a porter, she had walked at once to a taxi,
looking neither to right nor left.
Reynolds managed to brush past her as she was
giving the address, and was lucky enough to hear it
as he had hoped. On arrival at the hotel he walked
into the hall immediately behind his quarry and
straight to the bureau, where he heard her ask for
Mrs. de Groot's suite.
"Number 54, madame, first floor. The lift is
there." The reception clerk waved a highly mani-
cured hand vaguely and turned to Reynolds as the
lady went in the direction indicated.
"I want a quiet room," the detective said. "First


152 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
floor preferably. Perhaps you have a suite that
would suit me."
The clerk referred to his chart.
"We have three suites vacant on the first floor,
sir. You shall see them." He touched a bell and to
the attendant who appeared said, "Show this gentle-
man numbers twenty-seven, thirty-eight and fifty-
three."
Within a few minutes Reynolds had settled on
Number 53, which was next to the suite occupied by
Mrs. de Groot.
He locked himself in, and taking off his shoes,
crept to the communicating door between the two
suites, unbolted it and placed his ear against the
panel of the second door in good time to hear virtu-
ally the beginning of the conversation, every nerve
strained to the effort of missing no word that passed
between the two women.
So now he had another hitherto unknown quan-
tity to reckon with in "Tony," whoever he was.
Maybe the fiance, brother or lover of Lady Avice.
And "Tony" had been in London mad with rage or
drink on Sunday, and both Lady Avice and Spencer
were alarmed.
Ah! thought the inspector, so that is why Spencer
is in Paris. He has come over to get "Tony," who is
probably a close friend, out of danger. No wonder
Spencer and Lady Avice had become infected with
this sudden fancy to come to France.
Reynolds was devoutly thankful that he had
caught the same malady.


THE MAIMED HAND
153
If he could only get hold of "Tony's" address!
He blocked up one ear and forced the other even
tighter against the communicating door in his keen
anxiety to hear the address. And that pressure was
his undoing. The door gave an ominous creak and
Lady Avice stopped abruptly in the middle of the
sentence that was most vital—for Inspector
Reynolds.
Instantly he darted back and silently closed and
bolted his door only a moment before the girl opened
the other and tried his.
He held his breath as he crouched there with
beating heart. Sick with disappointment he heard
her shut the door and go back to her friend.
But they talked in undertones after that, and
though he again ventured to open his door and re-
peat his former performance, the only phrase he
heard was Mrs. de Groot insisting on her friend
staying the night there.
Apparently Lady Avice agreed for he heard the
American woman order Therese to get the bed pre-
pared in the dressing-room.
Inspector Reynolds rubbed his chin. He was in
for a dose of tiresome surveillance during which
time he dared not leave his room to get food, dared
not even smoke there.
Bitterly he regretted his office in Scotland Yard
where, at a touch of the bell, he could despatch
trained men to do his present detestable job. But
generally he preferred to play a lone hand, with
Jenkins as assistant. And his work had been such at


154 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
the Yard that those in authority over him gave him
a fairly loose rope.
Just then three things happened in quick succes-
sion in Mrs. de Groot's sitting-room—things which
cheered the detective considerably.
Lady Avice asked if she could have a bath, which
Reynolds thought would place her safely for half
an hour.
Mrs. de Groot announced that they would have
a light dinner sent up at seven o'clock and go out
afterward.
The telephone bell rang and Mrs. de Groot,
being called by her maid, answered:
"Yes, this is Mrs. de Groot speaking," the detec-
tive heard her say. "Who are you? . . . Well,
that's the best news I've heard to-day. We were
going to hunt you up after dinner. You'd better
come along here at once and dine with us. Seven
o'clock. My suite is Number 54 . . . Who do I
mean by 'we'? . . . Oh, I forgot you didn't know
Avice was here. . . . Lady Avice Garth," she re-
peated distinctly. "Yes, she's just arrived. Came to
tell me the—the news. . . . Have you found him?
. . . Oh, dear, well, we can't do anything by tele-
phone. You come right along."
The detective heard her slam down the receiver
and could guess she had gone into the bedroom to
tell Lady Avice. He got up from his cramped posi-
tion and stretched himself.
In the corridor, not far from his door and at the
other side of the lift, was an alcove with big chairs.


THE MAIMED HAND
155
He would order some sandwiches to be brought
there at once and keep his eye on Mrs. de Groot's
suite for the coming visitor. He expected Spencer,
but hoped for "Tony."
Settled in a comfortable armchair in a shaded
corner of the alcove, his light meal concluded, In-
spector Reynolds lighted a cigar, held a newspaper
up to screen his face and gave himself up to patient
waiting. He was not sorry for this interlude, for his
future plan of action demanded careful thought.
There were many things he needed to ask Lady
Avice. The half-sheet of her note-paper found in the
dead man's pocket and the conversation he had just
overheard, proved she had known Leslie Delmond.
Probably knew where he had been staying in London.
Should he wait until Mrs. de Groot's guest ar-
rived, then boldly knock at their door and demand
an interview? In which case, he feared, they might
deny any knowledge of the mysterious "Tony." Or
should he to-night follow Mrs. de Groot, Lady
Avice and the man—probably Spencer?
He had just decided on this course when the lift
gates opened and the attendant conducted a gentle-
man along the corridor to Number 54.
Reynolds could not see the man's face, but guessed
him to be about thirty years of age. The attendant
knocked at the door and then went farther along
the corridor and around a corner, leaving the lift
gates open. Presently Mrs. de Groot's maid opened
the door and the visitor entered.
There was nothing to be done for an hour and


156 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Reynolds was continuing his mental resume when
some sixth sense made him aware he was no longer
alone in the corridor.
The lift gates were still wide open but creeping
up the stairs was a man in a light dust coat carrying
a suitcase. He turned and walked stealthily to Mrs.
de Groot's suite, stooped, and putting his hand to
his ear, listened at the door.
The detective inadvertently let the newspaper he
held crackle as he tried to rise silently.
The man heard it, turned, and in a second divined
that he was being watched. He made a sudden dive
for the lift, which was nearer him than it was to the
detective, slammed the gates and let it glide up-
ward.
Reynolds dashed for the stairs which circled round
the lift, watching as he ran to see at which floor the
car stopped.
At the sixth floor! He heard the gates open as he
raced up two steps at a time. Half-way up the sixth
flight he heard the gates crash again, and saw the
lift shoot down past him to the ground, leaving him
more angry than he had been for years. Fooled at
his age, he growled to himself, by the simplest of
tricks!
Rapidly he ran down to the crowded hall, asking
two or three porters if they had seen a man in a
light dust coat go out. A hopeless question, he
knew, as he received negative replies from each
person.
Furious and baffled, he went back to his post in


XIII
ESCAPE!
THE girl opened her eyes dazedly, blinked at the
sunlight that peeped through cracks of the cur-
tained window, and lapsed into queer dreams again.
Presently she was aware of voices near.
"Is she conscious yet, nurse?" some one was say-
ing.
"No, she hasn't moved," was the answer.
The girl could feel the bedclothes being adjusted
round her, but had no wish to see who was doing it.
In a few moments her heavy lids lifted again and,
with clearer consciousness, she stared at the screens
round her bed, realizing that she must be in a hos-
pital. On the far side of the screen she heard a
continuous murmur of conversation, probably visi-
tors to the other patients.
Bit by bit she tried to piece things together. She
remembered attempting to cross the road hurriedly
in front of a car that morning, and had felt a terrible
blow. It must be afternoon, now, hours since her
accident. Or was it even the next day? If only she
could find out!
IS8


ESCAPE!
159
There was a bandage round her head which
throbbed painfully, some plaster on her cheek, and
her right shoulder felt stiff and sore. Gently she
tried each limb in turn, trying to assess the damage,
raised her head from the pillow and laid it back,
languidly again. No bones were broken, she was
sure. Apparently the car had hit her shoulder,
knocking her down, and she had cut her cheek and
been stunned in the fall.
Who had brought her here, she wondered? Prob-
ably the people whose car had caused the accident.
She closed her eyes in case any one should look in
on her and strained every nerve to hear what was
being said to the patient on the other side of the
screen. At all costs she must lie still until she could
find out more and decide what to do. Suppose they
demanded her name and an account of her accident
was made public!
The visitor on the other side of the screen was
evidently reading aloud from a newspaper. Then as
a light firm step sounded on the wooden floor she
heard a whining voice—presumably that of the pa-
tient in the next bed—ask:
"How's that pore young girl, nurse? She's been
moaning a lot."
"Just the same, Mrs. Rookes," replied the crisp
tones of the nurse.
"Found out her name and address yet?" By dili-
gent listening Mrs. Rookes had overheard the nurse
inform Sister that there was nothing to indicate who
the unconscious girl was. "Her friends must be


i6o THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
anxious about her," Mrs. Rookes added mourn-
fully.
"They'll know in good time," responded the
nurse. "Don't let me find that your visitors have
brought you in ham sandwiches this time, Mrs.
Rookes, or I shall have to report it," she warned as
she walked on through the ward.
Mrs. Rookes chuckled, supremely conscious of a
greasy packet now reposing snugly under her pillow.
"Crool hard they are here. No feelin' at all," she
remarked to her visitor. "Did you bring me that
shawl you promised?"
"Hadn't time to fetch it to-day. I'll bring it in on
Sunday," replied her friend.
The girl behind the screens caught at the remark.
"Bring it in on Sunday." Hospital visiting days were
usually twice a week, she knew, so that probably
meant to-day was Wednesday or Thursday. And she
had been knocked down on Monday, at least two
days ago!
"Go on reading, dearie," said Mrs. Rookes. "Is
there any more about that Beresford Street flat
murder? That actress knows something about it, I'll
bet. Actresses are never up to much good," she
sniffed.
"Beresford Street." The name roused some link
of memory in the girl. Laureen lived in that street,
and was an actress! But of course other actresses
might live in the same street, she reflected.
"Well," went on Mrs. Rookes's friend obligingly,
picking out the most thrilling bits, "I think this other


ESCAPE!
girl did it. The one who bolted from her lodgings in
Bloomsbury on Sunday night and hasn't been back
since."
"What was the name of the man she murdered?"
asked Mrs. Rookes.
"Leslie Delmond, a film artist. Between you and
me," the friend answered, reconstructing the drama,
"I believe he was potty on this Laureen and went
to her flat to see her. This other girl followed and
murdered him. He'd probably cast her off," she
added unctuously.
"What do the papers say about her?" demanded
Mrs. Rookes, impressed but cautious in passing
judgment.
"They're all demanding news of this Valerie
Somebody." Her visitor searched down the columns.
"Valerie Baird," she announced. "They've found
her landlady and they'll scour London until they get
this girl."
"The police'll find her all right for sure," Mrs.
Rookes said contentedly, as a bell thundered in the
corridor. "That's four o'clock. You must go. Don't
forget my shawl, and give my love to Nellie. Good-
by-"
Behind the screen the girl lay trembling, bathed
in a cold perspiration. Leslie Delmond murdered in
Laureen's flat and all London being searched to find
Valerie! Oh, if she could only see that newspaper,
learn more about it all. What was she to do, she
thought distractedly.
Perhaps even now the police knew where she was


162 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
and were waiting to pounce directly she came round.
She must lie perfectly still, pretend to be semi-
conscious, and moan a little as Mrs. Rookes said she
had been doing.
Were her clothes here? Stealthily she raised the
lid of the locker and was comforted to see them
folded inside. How soon would she be strong enough
to stand? And how could she steal away from this
place where for her lurked that ghastly fear of
detection, of arrest, of a possible trial for murder?
Yes, she must escape, plan it cunningly and watch
her chance. For the moment she must concentrate all
her will-power on getting well enough to slip away,
given the opportunity.
Would they give her any food? she asked herself.
A hysterical desire came over her for Mrs. Rookes's
ham sandwiches, now being slipped into that lady's
locker she judged by the crackling of paper. The
locker was quite close—she could see the edge of it
as she lay—and if only Mrs. Rookes went to sleep
before eating the sandwiches Valerie vowed desper-
ately she would have a shot at securing them that
night.
She dozed off and awoke to find some liquid, broth
she fancied, being administered from a feeding cup.
Allowing her eyes to open half-way for a second
she saw a young, fresh-faced nurse beside her, so
intent on preventing the broth from being spilled
that she did not observe the girl's swift glance. Evi-
dently she didn't suspect her patient was fully con-
scious, Valerie decided, as the nurse covered her


ESCAPE!
163
carefully and went away leaving the screen open a
little at the foot.
Opposite Valerie's bed, which was against the
wall on one side, was a pantry, and leading from
that apparently was a back staircase, for at intervals
through her half-closed eyes she could see nurses
coming up or going down.
She determined to sleep now and wake about
three in the morning to watch the routine as a guide
for the moment when she could get free. She knew
she would not physically be able to attempt it to-
night. Even at the risk of being found out the next
day, she must lie still.
Fortunately most of her luggage was in the cloak-
room at Victoria. She had only taken suitcases to her
room in Bloomsbury and, not trusting the inquisitive
landlady, had never left any letters or papers there.
For a second her heart almost stopped beating as
she remembered the cloak-room ticket.
Days ago she had ripped the lining of her hand-
bag, slipped the cloak-room check inside and sewn
up the slit carefully for fear of losing it. Had they
discovered it in the hospital when they searched her
things? Was her handbag in the locker with her
clothes?
Well, she dared not look until the middle of the
night when she hoped the staff would be consider-
ably diminished and the patients asleep. Definitely
she must rest now.
Just as she was becoming drowsy she heard the
stealthy crackling of paper from the next bed. Mrs.


164 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Rookes getting ready to attack the sandwiches,
Valerie thought angrily; and then almost smiled, for
the nurse's quick step was heard coming along the
ward and Mrs. Rookes with a muttered "Drat the
woman" thrust the forbidden food in her locker.
Valerie woke at three o'clock to the sound of faint
snoring. One shaded light burned at a table in the
middle of the ward, and she could hear the scratch-
ing of a pen. Presently a nurse walked quietly down
the ward, spoke softly to the writer at the table, and
Valerie heard the reply:
"Yes, I'm coming now."
A moment later the night sister passed through
the ward with a glance at each bed and went out.
Valerie sat up quickly, her heart beating fast, and
opening her locker felt for her handbag. It was not
there! Nearly sick with disappointment she twisted
round and saw it underneath a towel on the top of
the locker. With breathless eagerness she opened it
and searched for the cloak-room ticket. To her joy
she felt it safely at the side of her bag inside the
lining. In the dim light she examined her face and
head with her tiny mirror.
There was a huge purple bruise on her forehead
and a slight scar at the side. Lifting the plaster a
little she discovered a few scratches on one side of
her face. She replaced her bag and sliding out of
bed, moved the screen an inch or two to get at Mrs.
Rookes's sandwiches from which she was thankful
the crackling paper had been removed.
Sitting on the edge of her bed a trifle dizzily, she


ESCAPE!
165
munched the thick sandwiches with a wary eye for
the return of the nurse. There was one thing more
to be accomplished before she settled down to the
long twenty-four hours of pretended unconsciousness
which must pass before she dared attempt flight. She
must see where those stairs led from the pantry.
Suppose they terminated at the floor below!
Staggering a little, she opened the screens and
crept across the ward on bare feet.
The pantry contained cups and saucers and so on,
and in a cupboard she found bread, butter and cake
and a large jug of milk. With her mind on the neces-
sity for gaining strength, she drank a large cup of
milk and took a piece of cake to eat, if possible, dur-
ing the long day ahead of her. A clock on the wall
showed the hour to be three fifteen; a fact to be
remembered in to-morrow's adventure.
Leaning over, she could see the well of the narrow
stone staircase which, she decided, certainly went to
the ground floor. She could do no more to-night.
Her head was swimming as she reached her bed,
and hiding the cake in her locker, she lay down after
winding and setting the little wrist watch in her
handbag and hoping its ticking would not give her
away.
Carefully she timed the length of the night sister's
absence from the ward. Forty minutes ! And no other
sound from the corridors outside. With luck that
would be the routine to-morrow night.
The long day passed more quickly than she had
dared hope. She slept through most of it, taking the


166 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
broth at intervals and trying to keep herself limp
and apparently helpless while being fed. The doc-
tor's visit was brief. He was exceptionally busy, she
heard him tell Sister, and seemed content with a
report that the patient was not yet fully conscious.
She awoke at three A.M. feeling much stronger,
and the pain in her head was bearable. Again the
nurse came in, spoke to the night sister, who sur-
veyed the ward and they went out.
Now for it, thought the girl. As swiftly as her
trembling fingers allowed, she dressed herself, took
off the bandage and plaster, and pulled her black
felt hat well down over her face.
Taking her shoes in her hand, she stole lightly
across the ward to the pantry. There she stopped a
second to select three newspapers from a pile—she
must read about what had happened in Laureen's
flat—folded them tightly and crept noiselessly down
the stone stairs.
Two flights lower she paused, terrified at the
sound of voices from a room near by, the door being
ajar. The night staff having a meal, perhaps.
She fled shakily down two more flights and found
herself in the hospital basement near the furnaces,
which in this summer weather were not alight, other-
wise she knew men would have been there on duty.
Stumbling weakly around, she at last found a door
bolted on the inside, which when unfastened led to
the foot of the area steps.
It took her some time to reach Charing Cross, as
buses were infrequent. With the pretense of waiting


ESCAPE!
167
for an early train she spent some hours on the plat-
form, where she studied the newspapers, and after-
ward entered a near-by all-night cafe. Before nine
o'clock she took a bus to Victoria, bought a thin
black coat and long black scarf, and went to the
cloak-room where she claimed a trunk and suitcase.
"Boat train, ma'am?" the porter questioned. "If
so, better hurry up."
She nodded.
In the train, the morning papers beside her, she
arranged her gauze scarf over her hat like a widow's
veil and felt fairly secure from detection. At last she
knew the day: it was Friday, July 5th.
From the suitcase she took her passport, thankful
she had left it there and not taken it to her lodgings.
Yes, there was nothing for her but flight and long
months of terrible loneliness: a hunted creature,
hiding until the chase had died down.
It was an ordeal which seemed the only way out
of this impasse. For on opening the morning news-
paper huge head-lines had met her eye.
WHERE IS
VALERIE?
Scotland Yard Finds
a Fresh Clue
Then followed an excellent description of her
height, coloring and the clothes she had last been
wearing.


XIV
ALADDIN'S CAVE
TNSPECTOR REYNOLDS often laughingly said
of Jenkins that he had a woman's eye for detail
and the instincts of a burglar. However true that
summing up of Jenkins's character was it would
have been incomplete without adding his almost
slavish adoration of his chief.
The inspector had the broad vision that could
fathom motives. Jenkins, having no imaginative
qualities, could concentrate intensively on the more
trifling links in the chain, plodding through seem-
ingly irrelevant masses of evidence in the hope of
extracting one useful point to pass on to his beloved
chief.
Directly Reynolds had left for Paris on this Tues-
day after the brief opening of the inquest, Jenkins
dealt patiently with various commissions and reports,
and then gave himself up to an ambitious idea of
his own that was rapidly developing into clarity. It
was not the first time he had worked out a plan and
succeeded in giving the inspector some pleasant
surprise.
168


ALADDIN'S CAVE
169
Jenkins couldn't forget a remark his chief had
made about Lansberg.
"I'd give something to have a quiet hour alone in
his rooms, Jenkins," he had confessed. “But it just
can't be done. I've not enough against him to justify
a search-warrant. He's a big man apparently, and
not to be disturbed unnecessarily, I'm informed. All
the same I'd like to know a lot more about him."
Jenkins's thoughts were interrupted by the tele-
phone bell. Answering, he discovered its summons
was from the detective who was trailing Lansberg.
“Lansberg," came the voice, "has just gone off in
his Rolls. His secretary's with him. They've got
golf-clubs and a black tin case. There was no taxi
about so I couldn't follow, and anyhow their car
would go too fast."
"Any idea where they are going?” Jenkins de-
manded.
“Crowborough. That's near Tunbridge Wells.
What am I to do?" asked the man.
“Report here now, and pick him up on his return.
I can easily phone the golf house later, and find out
if he's been there. It's a pity, but you couldn't help
it."
Crowborough and golf, Jenkins reflected with
satisfaction! Lansberg couldn't get back for some
hours.
A little later a young man, wearing horn-rimmed
spectacles and carrying a small bag, rang the care-
taker's bell in the basement of a block of flats. He
pulled at the brim of his hat without raising it and


172 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
The young man gazed at her admiringly as he
refilled her tumbler generously.
"Shows how this gentleman must trust you," he
murmured.
Mrs. Milligan sniffed complacently and picked up
her full glass.
"Well, Milligan and me knows our work. Butler
and parlor maid in the best Irish families we was
before we came here. But as for trustin'—that
heathen servant is always sneakin' round there of a
mornin' when we're cleanin' the place."
"Shure and couldn't you do your work when he
goes out?" suggested the young man. "Or perhaps
he rarely leaves the flat."
Mrs. Milligan withdrew her lips reluctantly from
the tumbler.
"Oh, that Neron goes out every afternoon for
hours," she asserted, "but me husband likes to get
his work done in the mornin' and go off. He's gone
to Brighton for the afternoon. That's why I'm
alone. Good thing, too," she giggled nervously, "and
me drinkin' all this fine whisky of yours."
"Suppose there was a fire or anything in this Mr.
Lansberg's flat and his servant out," her guest said
as he again tilted the bottle over her glass.
The Irishwoman's face assumed a pompous air.
"And haven't I got duplicate keys of all the flats
in case of em—em," she suppressed a hiccough deli-
cately and finished the word with care, "—emer-
gency."
"I believe you're jokin'," chaffed the young man.


ALADDIN'S CAVE
173
But his eyes watched her keenly as she opened a
small cupboard where hung rows of keys on hooks
with a name over each.
"I'd take ye through the flats to prove it,” she
remarked indistinctly as she lurched back to her
chair, “but I've got a bit of a headache and think
I'll have forty winks."
"No, no, I don't want to see the flats, of course,
Mrs. Milligan. You drink up and get a bit of rest
while you can, and I'll be off to the next house and
hope for as good luck as I've had here. Now one
nice little drink to ould Ireland before I go and then
off you go to bye-byes.”
She smiled at him fondly over the rim of her
glass.
"Ould Oireland!” she repeated fervently, “Ye
might shut the door as you go out. I'm that sleepy !"
And she closed her eyes.
The young man regarded her for a second, then
opened the door to the area and slammed it,
thoughtfully remaining on the inside behind the
screen.
Jenkins waited there until Mrs. Milligan's heavy
snoring assured him that he could move with safety.
Then slipping a pair of cotton gloves on his hands
he stole noiselessly across to the key cupboard in his
rubber-soled shoes.
Outside the first-floor flat he pressed the bell sey-
eral times without response. His heart was beating
quickly as he inserted the key, entered the spacious
entrance hall and stood listening.


174 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Not a sound broke the silence save the ticking of
a clock.
He made a hurried preliminary search through
the apartment to make certain no one was there
before beginning a methodical scrutiny of each room.
Painstakingly he opened drawers and cupboards
in what was evidently Mr. Lansberg's bedroom and
dressing-room, turning over the linen.
In a smaller bedroom—the heathen servant's, he
guessed—between the mattresses he found two
things that sent a pleased glint to his eyes. He tucked
them both into the handbag he carried and returned
to the library.
There he made a tour of the room, memorizing
every detail, glanced through some letters on the
writing table and investigated the drawers and
waste-paper basket.
On the desk was a case which he opened and shut
swiftly as his fingers touched something soft inside
and a faint smell came to his nose. His eyes nar-
rowed speculatively as he saw a case on the wall and
some tall rods in a corner.
Then he gave his attention to the large old-fash-
ioned safe. Jenkins knew as much about safes as most
experts. This one had a combination lock, which his
fingers twisted and swung, his ear pressed closely to
it, listening for the faint almost indiscernible fall of
the tumblers. The perspiration was standing on his
forehead when at last the heavy door opened on
well-oiled hinges.
The safe was more than four feet high, with


ALADDIN'S CAVE
175
shelves and drawers inside. These contained sealed
documents which he could not unfasten and dared
not take.
The shelves had black velvet coverings draped
over some objects which could be seen bulging be-
neath them. He lifted up the cloths quickly and
drew back with a gasp of surprise. The shelves were
spread with jewels of an amazing kind.
Breathlessly he gazed upon magnificent tiaras
blazing with huge stones, a pile of rings, at least
two diamond necklaces, ropes of gleaming pearls
and pendants set in strange design.
Was this the Aladdin's cave of a rich connoisseur
or had he stumbled upon the hiding place of some
super-thief? Half dazed, he regarded the astonish-
ing collection but was afraid to touch them. This
job was beyond him.
With a start, he heard a clock chime and decided
it was wiser to go. Gently he pushed the door of the
safe and strove to close it. Something prevented it
from shutting, some unseen spring, perhaps. He
struggled hard, feeling all round for the obstruction,
but it obstinately resisted his efforts. The sweat was
pouring down his face as he decided he must leave
it open and get out quickly.
Picking up his bag he was walking toward the
library door when there was a faint sound from the
hall. Some one was putting a key in the lock!
Scrambling hurriedly behind the velvet curtains
that concealed the huge doors, he flattened himself.
If he were seen by Lansberg or his servant, they


176 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
would have even less mercy upon him than he would
get from Inspector Reynolds, he knew.
It was not the first time he had made a burglari-
ous trip and found undeniably useful information.
But each time his chief had warned him of the risk
he ran, a risk in which, if discovered, he would get
no help from Scotland Yard.
Crouched there with every sense alert, he heard
the entrance door open and close, and soft steps on
the carpet in the hall. In an agony of fear he waited
to find out whether they were coming to this room.
After a tension that seemed to last hours he cau-
tiously opened the library door an inch and peered
into the hall. It was empty!
Gathering his courage he crept out and listened
again. To his ears there came a faint grinding sound
which at first puzzled him.
Then he recognized it as a coffee-mill. The
heathen was evidently preparing coffee, Jenkins
thought with relief, as he stepped warily along the
hall. With trembling fingers he let himself out and
inserting the key outside, closed the entrance door
silently.
Mrs. Milligan was still snoring as he replaced the
key.


XV
A NIGHT HUNT IN PARIS
MONEY plays a good speaking part in most
civilized countries, but perhaps in France it
has a louder voice than in many others. Inspector
Reynolds remembered this fact with comfort as he
felt the thick packet of thousand franc notes in his
pocket-book.
For ten minutes, after the man with the missing
thumb had eluded him in the hotel lift he gave him-
self up to bitterness as he sat in the alcove watching
the door of Mrs. de Groot's suite.
Then he became galvanized into action, and his
face resumed its usual blank mask.
Near his hand was a telephone. Still keeping his
eye on the door of Number 54 he picked up the
instrument and asked for the hotel manager.
"I want you," he said, "to send up at once to the
alcove near my suite, Number 53, your most intelli-
gent porter. Choose carefully. I may need his ser-
vices for some hours. Don't send a boy; my business
is important. I am willing to pay both the hotel and
the man well if he can carry out my instructions."
177


178 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
The Gallic voice at the other end had almost a
lilt of joy as it replied:
"Of course, monsieur! Immediately!"
Clients like this were indeed rare and refreshing
fruit, the hotel manager reflected, as he proceeded
to his task of selection.
In two or three minutes an alert young man stood
at Reynolds's elbow reporting for action.
The inspector looked him up and down, asked
him his name and a few ordinary questions in con-
cise French, and was satisfied with the porter's
swift interested replies.
"Good!" commented the inspector, handing him
two thousand-franc notes. "Get these cables off at
once. Send them yourself, Pierre. Do you under-
stand English?"
The man's face gleamed to a smile as he replied
in that language. "I was a clerk in a shipping office
in London for three years after the war, sir. But
when I got married my wife wanted to live in Paris
where she was born."
"Right!" said Reynolds. "Now, after you've des-
patched the cables, call at a reliable garage and
hire a small, high-powered closed car with a driver
who knows his job. I don't want a breakdown. See
there's plenty of petrol put in," he added, recalling
a previous incident when he had lost his quarry
through a car running out of fuel at a critical
moment.
"I understand, monsieur. Have you dined?"
"Why do you ask that?"


A NIGHT HUNT IN PARIS
"The manager indicated you may need me for
some hours, monsieur. If you've not had dinner I
could bring some food in the car, in case we have a
long journey or a long wait."
Reynolds clapped his hand on the man's shoulder.
"Splendid!" he said approvingly. "You've not
only got a brain, but it works. Bring enough for the
chauffeur as well as ourselves, a bottle of wine,
cigars and cigarettes." He studied his watch and
glanced keenly at a tray which a waiter was carry-
ing to Mrs. de Groot's suite. "I can give you not
more than half an hour." He hesitated a second.
"I'm from Scotland Yard. A big jewel theft is ex-
pected," he added briefly. "I want to follow another
car to-night from this hotel to an unknown desti-
nation."
"In that case, monsieur, I will select a car as
nearly resembling a taxi as possible. It will be less
conspicuous. You will wish the driver to remain near
the hotel entrance?"
Reynolds assented.
"Choose the best spot, Pierre, and report here
to me."
He pored earnestly over a cross-word puzzle in
the newspaper as the man vanished on his errands,
in case any one from Mrs. de Groot's rooms
remarked his presence in the alcove.
But save for the waiters, no one entered or came
out of that suite until Pierre returned. Handing the
inspector a list of his expenses and a pile of change,
he announced that the car was waiting outside.


i8o THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"I've changed into an ordinary suit, monsieur,
lest my hotel uniform be noticed," Pierre remarked
eagerly. It was evident the man not only intended to
earn his money but was bringing to the task a vivid
intelligence which Reynolds felt to be magnetic.
The inspector's mental barometer was rising. An
hour before he had felt lonely and baffled. Now,
with this bright-eyed young lieutenant beside him,
he was keyed up, equal to any situation.
He gave the man a cigarette. Up to a point he
must confide in Pierre if he wished to get his best
assistance, he knew.
"Sit there and talk to me," he ordered. "And be
ready for my signal. I'm tracking two ladies and a
gentleman from Suite 54 in the hope that they will
lead me to the man I want."
Pierre's dark eyes flashed with pleasure at the
inspector's confidence. "I understand perfectly," he
replied. "Also I promise to respect monsieur's trust
in me. I will be back in one moment." He ran down
the stairs and had only just returned to the inspector
when there was a click of a door opening behind
them and they heard Mrs. de Groot's voice instruct-
ing her maid not to wait up.
Reynolds did not dare to raise his head from the
newspaper until they were at the lift. Then he ven-
tured a keen glance.
Both ladies wore small hats well over their eyes:
Lady Avice, tall and slender in her traveling wrap,
Mrs. de Groot short and square-figured in a black
coat with the collar turned up. Their companion was


A NIGHT HUNT IN PARIS
181
standing with his back toward the alcove and Reyn-
olds could not see his face.
The instant the lift vanished Pierre and the in-
spector tore down the stairs and made for the car
outside. As they entered it Mrs. de Groot and her
friends came from the hotel and, ignoring the row
of taxis, walked up the street.
"Tell the chauffeur to follow slowly," urged
Reynolds in an agony of fear lest he miss his trio
in the crowded streets. Pierre picked up the speak-
ing-tube and gave swift instructions.
"He understands, monsieur," consoled Pierre as
their car crawled slowly along.
At the corner of the street the man with Mrs.
de Groot beckoned a passing taxi and gave his
orders. Apparently the driver demurred, for Mrs.
de Groot suddenly pressed some money into his
hand, which reassured him. The three entered the
cab and drove off.
Reynolds's car followed at a discreet distance,
dodging in and out of the traffic skilfully.
"I've taken the number of the taxi,” Pierre said,
“but we shall not lose sight of it.”
The inspector leaned forward anxiously watch-
ing the taxi in front as it swirled along the streets.
"We're making for Montmartre," remarked
Pierre.
“What I would give to know his name !" Reyn-
olds muttered aloud.
"If monsieur means the gentleman in the taxi
with the ladies, his name is ‘Deek.'"


A NIGHT HUNT IN PARIS 183
up a small street nearly opposite the house. Through
the window at the back of the car Reynolds eagerly
watched the door, outside which the three were
waiting.
"Shall I get out and walk past the house?" asked
the Frenchman eagerly. "I may hear something."
Reynolds nodded quickly.
It was fully two minutes before Spencer could get
any answer to his repeated ringing, but at length the
door opened a little, and the inspector could see he
was arguing with some one inside. An argument
which Mrs. de Groot again ended by an offering of
money.
Then the three entered and the door was closed.
"Well?" inquired the inspector as Pierre returned
to the car.
"I think it's a private gambling house. There are
many in this quarter. Would you like to see if we
can get in, monsieur?"
Reynolds considered the suggestion. Very badly
indeed he wanted to go inside that house, but by
doing so he might miss his goal. Lady Avice and
her friends would recognize he was English if they
were in the same room and saw him. And if they
were not in the same room, it would be fatally easy
for them to slip away with this Tony.
No, he concluded, he would have to remain here
on guard.
"It's a pity to lose the chance, but I must stay in
the car prepared to follow them," he told the
Frenchman. "We'll have something to eat."


184 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Pierre produced his purchases and passing some
to the chauffeur, they began their al-fresco meal.
Presently the Frenchman spoke, his eyes flashing
as an idea struck him. "Monsieur, may / try to go
in? I'm French and they would not suspect me."
"Go to it, my lad!" agreed Reynolds.
The Frenchman laughed gaily and sprang out of
the car. "If your people come out of the house be-
fore I do," he said, "follow them and don't trouble
about me. I will see you at the hotel later."
Reynolds watched him stroll along to the house
and ring for admittance. There was a little colloquy,
and then Pierre vanished inside.
The inspector looked at his watch. A quarter past
ten. Settling himself sideways on the seat, he kept
guard through the back window of the car.
It was long after midnight when he woke the
sleeping chauffeur and told him to turn the car to
save time.
The car was scarcely in its new position before
Reynolds saw Pierre stagger out from the house.
Up the street he rolled and swayed in the opposite
direction from the car, while Reynolds sat in a fever
of anxiety to know whether he ought to follow him
or remain where he was. Suppose Pierre had been
drugged or wounded!
Then suddenly he noticed an old woman's head
peering out from the door, and guessed the French-
man's maneuver.
As the woman withdrew, apparently satisfied, and
shut the door, Pierre darted into a doorway, stood


A NIGHT HUNT IN PARIS 185
still a second listening, and then rapidly retraced his
steps to the car. He was barely inside, assuring
Reynolds all was well with him, when a taxi drove
down the street and stopped at the house.
The cab must have been expected for again the
door opened, and the two ladies came out and
entered it.
"Quick, tell me," Reynolds demanded of Pierre,
"have you found out anything?"
"Yes, there's a big gambling room on the first
floor, monsieur. A rough crowd. Your people were
not there but I had to stay and play and drink."
He laughed reminiscently. "Oh, the good wine I
spilled on the floor! As soon as I dared I slipped
out of the room and crept upstairs."
"Plucky but risky," commented the inspector, his
eye still on the waiting taxi across the road.
"I heard English voices in a back room on the
third floor. The man you look for is there, but is
either drunk or ill. He seemed to be very excited,
shouting he would not go with them. At last he
became calmer and I heard Monsieur Deek say he
would telephone for a taxi. Then I crept down-
stairs and pretending to be drunk, came out. Voila!"
He spread his hands deprecatingly.
"You're a jewel, my boy!" remarked the inspector
warmly. "Hello! They've called their taxi driver
inside the house."
The tall slim figure of Lady Avice suddenly
stepped out of the taxi. She glanced anxiously up
and down the street.


186 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
The detective and Pierre ducked their heads,
though there was little risk of their being seen in
the narrow dark side street.
"Here they come," said Pierre's voice excitedly
as the cabman and Spencer appeared supporting the
drooping form of a man clad in a long dark coat
that came nearly to his heels. Probably borrowed
for the occasion, the inspector surmised. The new-
comer was helped inside the cab. Spencer pushed two
suitcases in with him, afterward climbing beside the
driver. Then the cab started up the street.
The inspector's car pursued at a prudent range;
the taxi going at an exceptionally moderate pace.
"This is a queer route!" murmured Pierre.
"Queer?" questioned the detective.
"They're zigzagging up one street and back
another. Do you think they've seen us following,
monsieur?"
The detective frowned. "I sincerely hope not,"
he replied uneasily.
"Ah, now we're making for somewhere definite,"
the Frenchman decided as the taxi in front gathered
speed.
It stopped in a few minutes at a small corner
hotel near the Louvre. The taxi man and Spencer
got down and almost lifted out the helpless man
in the long dark coat.
Instantly Reynolds slipped out of his car. He
strolled casually along, as near as he dared, and
concealed himself in a doorway.
He watched the two men assist the sagging form


A NIGHT HUNT IN PARIS
189
up and Therese, the maid, answered. She said she
had not gone to bed and that no one had entered
the suite since her mistress with her friends had left
it just after eight o'clock."
"Either they hadn't arrived or they had been and
gone without the maid's knowledge," commented
the detective.
The Frenchman shook his head. "Impossible,
monsieur," he urged insistently. "The maid had de-
cided to wait up for Mrs. de Groot, who had had a
bad headache all day, in case her mistress needed
something. And Therese had bolted the entrance
door to the suite." He paused. "Monsieur, the hotel
is not five minutes by taxi from here and they have
been gone forty minutes!"
Reynolds clapped his hands to his head with an
exclamation, and then started to go along the cor-
ridor to Number 19.
"Wait, monsieur," implored Pierre. "There is
something more, but my friend is nervous that he
may get into trouble for telling me. Can you keep
his name out of it if I tell you?"
The detective bit his lip and cogitated a moment.
"Pierre," he said with decision, "this is more than
a suspected robbery. It is a murder case. I must
know all you can tell me, and I promise no harm
can befall your friend."
"Murder!" the Frenchman gasped. "Eh alors,
monsieur, indeed you must be told. My friend came
on duty at seven to-night and has been in charge of
the telephone department ever since. At seven thirty-


igo THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
five a gentleman—this Monsieur Deek, of course—
from Mrs. de Groot's suite demanded a number and
was given it. After he had finished speaking the per-
son he had called up rang the hotel and wished to
speak to the manager. The manager, who was busy,
instructed my friend to take the message. He did so.
It was to ask if Mrs. de Groot of Suite 54 was
financially reliable as she, or the gentleman acting
for her, had ordered a private aeroplane to be
ready to start at any moment after midnight."
"An aeroplane!" repeated Reynolds—amazed.
Pierre nodded.
"Yes, monsieur. The call was from the big aero-
drome at Le Bourget. The manager returned an
answer to the effect that Mrs. de Groot was very
wealthy and entirely to be trusted."
The inspector's lips tightened grimly.
"Well, their little joy ride will be a bit delayed,
I think. Stay here, Pierre. I'm going to interview
this man in Number Nineteen, whether he's ill or
drunk or both."
He strode along the corridor and knocked
firmly at the door. It was opened at once by Mrs.
de Groot, who puckered her brows in surprise as
the detective walked past her into the room.
He glanced round quickly. There was only one
other occupant of the room.
Sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette, with a
long dark coat thrown back from her shoulders,
was Lady Avice Garth, regarding him with cold,
amused eyes.


XVI
A NEW FEAR
LAUREEN awoke from troubled dreams to the
sound of the telephone bell ringing. Sleepily
she punched her pillow into a more comfortable
position, and, without opening her eyes, felt for
the electric bell push suspended over the head of
her bed. Her fingers groped lazily about for a mo-
ment, encountering at last a strange knob, which
roused her to consciousness.
She looked round blankly at the unfamiliar room,
and her brow puckered as gradual remembrance
came to her that she was in the St. Andrew's Hotel.
She thrust away the memory of why she was there.
It was too early in the day to let that horrible
shadow creep over her, haunting every hour, as it
had, since Sunday night. Could this only be Tues-
day morning? It seemed an eternity.
Resolutely she raised herself on her elbow and
called her maid.
"Bertha! I'm awake. Do you make tea or shall
I ring for it?"
From the adjoining room the maid came in, her
191


192 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
face a little drawn. "Good morning, miss. Please
don't ring. Hotel tea is awful stuff. I brought our
electric kettle with me and it's nearly boiling."
Laureen stretched her arms and yawned. "Now
isn't that thoughtful of you! Did you sleep, Ber-
tha?"
The maid averted her head and drew back the
curtains. "Not very well, miss, thank you. I hope
you did. After all you've been through—"
Her mistress extended a warning hand.
"No," she said sternly. "We won't talk about
that yet, please. It's bad for both of us. Who rang
me up just now?"
"Mr. Lansberg, miss. I said you were asleep. He
told me he would be glad if you would telephone
him as soon as you awoke." Bertha added with im-
portance: "Two lots of flowers have come this
morning—roses and orchids. Mr. Lansberg sent
the roses."
"H'm," commented Laureen to herself with a
grimace. "Very devoted after all the bother I've
let the poor man in for." She clapped her hands.
"Tea, letters, newspapers, quick, Bertha! Oh, the
letters will be at the flat, though."
"No, miss. Carter brought them round ten min-
utes ago. It's a quarter past nine. Shall I bring the
telephone in? There's a plug by your bed."
Laureen nodded, her mind on her letters. The
mail was delivered at seven thirty at the flats. Had
that wretched inspector spent an hour looking over
her correspondence first?


A NEW FEAR
193
She glanced swiftly through the little pile Bertha
brought in, throwing one envelop aside after an-
other with a sigh of relief. Suppose Valerie had
written and Inspector Reynolds had got hold of it!
Oh, if only she could talk to somebody, ask advice.
The maid returned with a tray and an armful of
red roses which she laid on the bed. The orchids
could wait, she surmised.
Laureen picked up the flowers, burying her nose
in the cool scented petals for a moment.
"Ring up Mr. Lansberg, please, Bertha," she
asked, knowing quite well how the maid adored
doing these little intimate things for her.
Bertha obeyed, her heart warm with gratitude.
Her mistress was ignoring the fact that this dread-
ful tragedy might never have happened but for her
—Bertha's—fatal weakness for the dead man.
The maid's lips quivered as she demanded the
number and silently passed over the receiver.
Laureen laid her hand on the woman's arm, no-
ticed the brimming eyes, and with an impulsive ges-
ture drew her down and kissed her.
"Don't worry," she said gently. "I'm not blaming
you in any way."
"It was all my fault, miss," the maid sobbed.
"Look at the trouble I've brought on you."
"I hate looking at unpleasant things," replied her
mistress with a smile. She pulled the telephone
toward her as a voice came over the wire.
"Speaking," she replied. "Good morning, Mr.
Lansberg. Thank you for the marvelous roses. I'm


194
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
embedded in them. Yes indeed, the reporters would
say that I live in the lap of luxury could they but
see me now, which thank goodness they can't.”
"Two of them tried to half an hour ago, miss,"
whispered Bertha. “I cleared them off,” she added
grimly.
Laureen repeated Bertha's rejoinder over the
telephone delightedly. Her face grew grave as
Lansberg told her the inquest on Leslie Delmond
was fixed for ten thirty that morning.
“Very well,” she answered, “I'll be punctual.”
She listened attentively to a request of Lansberg's
and reflected a moment before she replied.
"Thank you, yes, I'd love to come. I believe it's
just what I need and there's no matinée to-day. May
I telephone Avice and ask her to come? Lady Avice
Garth. ... Thanks so much. Good-by."
She hung up the receiver and announced to her
maid:
"The inquest is at ten thirty, Bertha. After it's
over I'm going to motor to Crowborough with Mr.
Lansberg and his secretary and play a round of
golf. In case Inspector Reynolds wants to know
where I am, you can explain.”
The maid brought her mistress's dressing-gown
and held it for her.
“Your bath's ready, miss,” she temporized, se-
cretly determined to tell the inspector nothing.
What right had he to pry into Laureen's move-
ments ?
“Ring up Lady Avice, Bertha, while I have my


A NEW FEAR
195
bath, and ask her if she's disengaged to-day. If so,
will she come with Mr. Lansberg and myself to
Crowborough for golf. Say we'll call for her about
noon. Explain I'm in a hurry because of the inquest."
In a few minutes the maid came to the bathroom
with the reply.
"The butler says that Lady Avice left for Paris
unexpectedly early this morning, miss," she re-
ported. "He has no idea of her address or when
she will return."
"Oh, ho," sang out Laureen. Then to herself she
said, "Gone to Paris indeed! Funny she never men-
tioned it last night! Why, she even asked me to
come to tea to-day!"
The inquest was brevity itself. Laureen and Lans-
berg deposed to finding the man dead in her flat;
she identified him and the coroner then adjourned
the proceedings.
After luncheon and a foursome on the links at
Crowborough they strolled back across the crisp
scented turf, under a blue and gold sky that Lans-
berg felt was reflected in the eyes and hair of the
girl beside him. A soft breeze beat lightly against
their faces, cooling the heat of the sun.
"A perfect day," sighed Laureen. "If only one
need never leave this heavenly spot for the crowds
and noise of London!"
Lansberg bent toward her. "If you're so happy
here, why go back?" he questioned.
Her eyes gazed wistfully round the panoramic
view before them. "I don't know. Ambition, I sup-


196 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
pose. Having worked so hard to get where I am, it
seems foolish to abandon it all. Also," she waved
her hand toward the landscape, "this won't always
be like it is to-day, and London is always London,
whatever the weather or season."
They were almost at the Club House when the
man stopped and put his hand on her shoulder.
"Laureen, forgive me if I spoil to-day by such a
subject, but I've grown to know you very well since
Sunday night and," he spoke with diffidence, "I find
it difficult to believe that Leslie Delmond was ever
your lover."
She raised frank gray eyes to his grave face.
"So do I," she said whimsically.
"You mean—?" he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders and the shadow of a
smile drifted over her expression. "When one is in
a desperate hole, even a soiled ladder is not to be
despised to clamber out by. I wish I could explain,
man ami, but I can't, and that's all there is to it."
Some acquaintances seized Laureen as they
reached the big veranda, and Lansberg left her.
"I have an—appointment," he said a trifle for-
mally. "May I fetch you in an hour?" He turned
to his secretary. "Lyall, please wait here for me
and see to Miss Laureen's comfort."
He bowed to her and to her friends with an
almost foreign grace, in which there was nothing
effeminate. Indeed, Laureen thought, as she watched
him stroll off to the car, she had never seen any
man with such extraordinary dignity. He was in-


A NEW FEAR
197
variably courteous; yet when he spoke, men listened;
when he commanded, he was obeyed. He neither
strained after effect, nor sought to impress himself
on others.
A beautiful revue actress of her attainments could
have been a favorite in any circle. But one reason
for her success was that hers was not merely a the-
atrical personality. Her private life was her own,
she had long ago decided, and half-way up the lad-
der she had kicked herself free from those social
invitations which most girls in her sphere would
have grasped tenaciously. She did not fawn on a
duchess to be asked to her ball, nor expect that
duchess's husband to fawn on herl Many acquaint-
ances said she was hard and cold; her friends found
her warm and generous.
A little tired and listless after her game—she had
played well and Lansberg badly for some reason—
she leaned back in the low wicker chair and listened
idly to the conversation. Her attention turned to
Lansberg's secretary, and subconsciously she began
to sum him up. Rather characterless, amiable, hon-
est, probably efficient at his job. A man with no
particular ambition, was her decision.
"Don't you golf, Captain Lyall?" she asked, ac-
cepting the cigarette and light he offered her. "I
thought you were going to play in our foursome
to-day."
"Yes, I often play," he replied, "but Mr. Lans-
berg wanted me to do something else this after-
noon."


198
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
He lifted a black tin case from the floor beside
him and opened it cautiously.
“I went after these," he explained. “Had quite a
bit of luck, too. Those are golden Emperors, not
very rare, but rather nice specimens which Mr.
Lansberg wanted.”
He raised the lid of the box and Laureen glanced
in carelessly, her thoughts elsewhere. There were
about half a dozen large butterflies inside. A curi-
ous hobby it seemed to her for a man of Lansberg's
type.
Then a faint odor came to her senses. She sniffed
it and frowned. Where had she known that smell
before? What did it remind her of ?
Suddenly she remembered in one horrified flash.
She forced herself to ask a question.
“How do you kill them, Captain Lyall ?”
He shut the lid and fastened it carefully. “Oh,
just a few drops of chloroform on cotton wool,"
he answered. “They die quickly."
Chloroform! The world seemed to spin round
her. Dimly she heard the light babel of conversation
near and strove desperately to fight back a terrible
fear.
Was it only a minute since she had been so happy,
able for a time to forget the tragedy of two nights
ago? And now everything had crashed! Stumbling
she rose to her feet, murmuring some excuse, and
walked round the veranda-almost into Lansberg's
arms.
He surveyed her closely. "You look tired, my


A NEW FEAR
199
child. Get your wrap and let me take you back at
once."
"No, no, I'm all right," she protested.
"It has been too long a day for you," he blamed
himself reproachfully. "You must rest before the
theater to-night. Lyall ought to have looked after
you better."
"He—he was very thoughtful. He showed me
your butterflies," she jerked out with a nervous
laugh. And fled toward the coat room.


XVII
EVASION
FOR the second time that evening in Paris, In-
spector Reynolds knew he had been fooled.
The next trick, however, might yet be his, since he
had cabled instructions to have all channel ports
watched for the man with the missing thumb.
The ruse played on him by Lady Avice Garth
was of a complicated nature. It would call for much
bluffing on his part, and he was afraid, judging from
this evening's escapade, that the young lady might
beat him at his own game, the cards being certainly
in her hands up to now. Well, he would take his lead
from her.
But apparently Lady Avice knew the value of
silence.
She regarded the inspector slowly from head to
foot with as detached and impersonal a look as
though he were a piece of furniture not entirely to
her taste.
Then, as if he did not exist, she flicked the ash
from her cigarette and turned to her friend.
"Yes, in a measure I agree with you, Mary," she
200


EVASION
201
remarked casually. "Climate does affect tempera-
ment enormously. The Italian becomes indolent and
warbles grand opera more or less well, but none of
those Latin races can be compared to the Russians
for temperament and mentality. Look at the Rus-
sian ballet for instance. . . ."
Mrs. de Groot appeared incapable of looking at
anything but her friend. Her heavy jaw had dropped
in astonishment as Avice had begun this rambling
monologue of nonsense, ignoring the sudden ap-
pearance of a man. Who was he? Why had he
forced his way in here? How much did he know?
Why had Avice played this sudden trick? Why in-
deed had Avice sent her back to the taxi to call,
through the window, that stupid message about her
keys?
All these questions flooded through the elder
woman's mind as she endeavored to follow her
friend's cue.
"Of course they are—" she began valiantly.
But whatever they were was left unrecorded.
Inspector Reynolds stepped forward briskly, and
forced himself into the conversation. A tired and
irritable man, he had no intention of being de-
feated at this hour. He addressed the girl who sat
curled up on the foot of the bed, one slender arm
dangling negligently over the rail.
"Lady Avice Garth?" he began questioningly.
She twisted round a little in his direction as if
she had suddenly become aware of his presence, and
gave the faintest inclination of her head.


202 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"You have entered this room, unasked by my
friend or myself, to see Mr. Spencer, I suppose,"
she remarked frigidly. "The procedure seems a
little unusual."
"Quite a good card, my Lady," said Reynolds to
himself in grim admiration, "but I'll trump it."
"That is correct, madam," he replied with de-
liberation. "What time will Mr. Spencer return
from the aerodrome or is he crossing too?"
If the girl flinched inwardly at his questions she
showed no outward indication, as she tossed her cig-
arette end in the grate and stretched her hand
toward Mrs. de Groot.
"Give me a cigarette, Mary. Egyptian, please."
Mrs. de Groot eagerly opened her case and
passed it to Avice.
The girl selected and lit a cigarette with studied
leisure before she replied to the detective. But she
roused no sign of annoyance or impatience on his
expressionless face. Stolidly he awaited her answer.
"There is no reason why I should discuss Mr.
Spencer's movements with you," Lady Avice
hedged.
The C. I. D. man almost smiled. Indeed she had
played into his hands. He drew a card from his
pocket and gave it to her.
"Detective Inspector Reynolds, Criminal Investi-
gation Department, Scotland Yard," the girl read
out slowly, with a steadying glance at Mrs. de
Groot, who had visibly paled. She twirled the card
in her fingers. "What does this mean, Inspector?"


EVASION
203
"I am investigating the murder of Leslie Del-
mond," Reynolds explained patiently, perfectly
aware that a lady of her proved intelligence already
knew this. Then with a touch of his old manner he
rapped out: "When did you last see Delmond, Lady
Avice?"
This time it was Mrs. de Groot who caused a
delay. With a faint sigh she leaned back in her chair,
cheeks blanched to an alarming pallor.
The girl went swiftly to her side, sat on the arm
of the chair and pulled the elder woman's head on
her shoulder protectingly.
"It's all right, Mary," she murmured. "Inspector
Reynolds must ask these questions," she said with
a reasonableness that surprised the detective.
Still holding her friend closely she answered the
detective with calm frankness.
"I have not seen Leslie Delmond for more than
four years, Inspector."
"It might save time," Reynolds suggested, "if
you would explain how and why your friendship
with the dead man ceased."
Lady Avice drew her fine brows together with a
puzzled air. "But he never was my friend," she
announced in surprise.
"Acquaintance, if you prefer," conceded Reyn-
olds.
The girl looked a little troubled, then bent toward
Mrs. de Groot. "Mary dear, I'm afraid one of us
must tell the inspector. Will you do so or do you
prefer that I should?"


204 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
The elder woman opened her eyes and spoke in a
trembling voice. "Leslie Delmond was my friend. 1
loved him, foolishly, although Lady Avice warned
me against him over and over again. She had noth-
ing whatever to do with him in any way."
"Then, Mrs. de Groot—" Both women started
slightly as the man spoke the name with emphasis,
for it had not been mentioned since he entered. To
them it indicated that he knew more than they im-
agined. "Then, Mrs. de Groot, if Leslie Delmond
was never Lady Avice Garth's friend, will you tell
me why she wrote him a letter just before he was
murdered?"
The girl's face was blank, but the inspector's eyes
flickered to her fingers which had suddenly clenched.
"Wrote him a letter?" gasped Mrs. de Groot.
There was almost suspicion in the hurt gaze she
turned to her friend. "Avice, you never told me—"
she began.
The detective metaphorically rubbed his hands
with joy.
"Perhaps Lady Avice would explain better her-
self," he volunteered mildly.
But that was what Lady Avice did not intend
to do. "Are you asking a question or stating a fact,
Inspector?" she demanded.
Reynolds's eyes hardened.
"Both," he replied. And decided to make a chance
shot. That plain crumpled half sheet of note-paper
had undoubtedly been torn from a letter she had
written. "A part of a letter of yours was found in


EVASION
205
Leslie Delmond's pocket after he was murdered,
Lady Avice."
The girl faced him without a tremor, her voice
clear and firm.
"Then in that case you know the contents and do
not need me to repeat them," she retorted.
"Undoubtedly your trick, my Lady," he thought,
"but I've not finished yet."
"Nevertheless, Lady Avice," he urged doggedly,
"I must ask you the reason for that letter."
The girl drew a quick breath of relief. It was
quite obvious this detective had not read the letter
and was bluffing. "Inspector Reynolds, if you have
read the letter you say you found on Leslie Del-
mond, then you know the reason. If you have not
read it, then I cannot at this stage tell you anything
about it."
Reynolds frowned slightly. The girl had courage
and the restraint of her class, and added to that, a
vivid intelligence.
"Are you reserving your statement, Lady Avice,
because it involves some one else? The man you call
Tony, for instance?" he chanced.
His question had a different effect on the two
women. Mrs. de Groot clutched her friend's hand
in quick sympathy. Reynolds heard her whisper,
"What are we to do, Avice?"
The girl's fine features set as if they were chis-
eled in marble and she stared blankly at the C. I. D.
man.
There was a silence, broken by footsteps in the


2o6 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
corridor outside. At the sound Reynolds slipped im-
mediately behind the door, hoping to overhear at
least one unsuspecting sentence from the new-
comer.
The door opened suddenly. A young man burst
in and announced breathlessly: "Well, of all the
surprising adventures. That boy has grit and de-
serves—" He broke off, alarmed at the startled
faces of the two women.
Lady Avice was the first to regain her poise.
"Inspector Reynolds of Scotland Yard is waiting to
see you, Dick. This is Mr. Spencer, Inspector," she
introduced him tranquilly, with an air of leaving
the matter to the two men.
Dick Spencer wheeled round. The inspector saw
a frank good-humored face, rumpled brown hair,
and merry eyes that were gazing at him in bewil-
derment.
Before the detective could speak the younger man
shot a mischievous glance at Mrs. de Groot. "Mary,
I'm surprised at you!" he remarked sternly. "What
have you been up to now?" He turned to the detec-
tive with a friendly smile. "Well, it's a bit late or
early for a call, Inspector, but you've had a long
journey, so do sit down and let's hear what it's all
about."
"The murder of Leslie Delmond in Laureen's
apartment," replied the inspector crisply, taking the
chair Spencer pulled forward.
Spencer nodded understandingly.
"Of course, I might have guessed," he replied.


EVASION
207
"Jolly rough on Laureen," he flushed as he men-
tioned her name, "having a tragedy like that in
her flat. And I suppose, as her pals, we're all more
or less suspected until we can prove our innocence,
what?"
"More or less," agreed Reynolds, his eyes twin-
kling a little at his own thoughts.
Spencer grinned. "Well, I'm going to propose we
have a useful little drink all round. Mary, you look
as if you need one."
He dug up a bottle of whisky, found glasses and
prepared the drinks, keeping up a cheery patter all
the time that made even Lady Avice smile.
"Here you are, Inspector." Reynolds shook his
head. "Well, well, I suppose you know best. Mary,
you drink up yours quickly. Your face reminds me
of a bad channel crossing."
Somehow this young man with his disarming
friendliness was very likeable, Reynolds felt, par-
ticularly after the frosty reception he had had from
Lady Avice. Of all the many classes the detective
had to deal with, he invariably disliked contact with
that into which Lady Avice had been born. Their
cold poise baffled him.
Therefore he welcomed this more Bohemian tem-
perament of Spencer's. Quickly he summed him up
as a wealthy young dilettante, who dabbled in paint-
ing, had no great talent or intelligence, was impul-
sive and amiable, and had tumbled across to Paris
like an eager school-boy to help Tony—evidently a
scapegoat pal—at the request of either Laureen or


208 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Lady Avice. The detective decided it would not be
difficult to find out all this volatile young man
knew.
Spencer was perched on the bed near Lady Avice,
his long legs swinging to and fro.
"I say, we are making hay of my bye-byes, aren't
we?" he remarked ruefully. "Thank goodness I'll
be in London to-morrow night in the good old stu-
dio. I never can sleep in these stuffy hotel bed-
rooms." He grimaced. "Maybe I'll not be so lucky
as that, though. I say, Inspector, do I sleep on a
box-spring mattress or a plank at Pentonville or
wherever you propose to dump me?"
Reynolds was thankful he had refused a drink.
He was conscious that a long and exhausting day,
following previous sleepless nights, was taking the
desire for battle out of him. And outside in the cor-
ridor Pierre was waiting for instructions.
Spencer glanced at Mrs. de Groot, whose weari-
ness was apparent, lowered an eyelid at the girl
beside him, and said: "Look here, Inspector. My
friends are pretty well tired. Shall we call it a day
and go to our respective stables? I'll give you my
parole to meet you when and where you like in the
morning."
The detective fought back the haze of drowsi-
ness and reflected. He was entirely at a loss, he
knew. There was no reason to believe Spencer had
actually committed the murder. "Very well, Mr.
Spencer," he agreed. "I have a car outside and can
take these ladies to their hotel, where I also am


EVASION
209
staying. Will you please meet me in Mrs. de Groot's
sitting-room in her suite at nine thirty A. M.?"
"I'll be there, Inspector," promised Spencer, as
he wished the ladies good night.
Pierre was standing beside the car, now drawn
up outside the hotel. Hat in hand, the Frenchman
assisted the ladies and murmured a quick offer to
Reynolds, who shook his head.
"No, no, my boy. You've done good work. Get
off to bed and come to my room in the morning if
you can. It's no use cabling every air-port when I
don't know what this man they call Tony is like, or
the name he's got on his passport. He's beaten me
this time."
At the door of Mrs. de Groot's suite the in-
spector left her and Lady Avice, reminding them
he would be there at half past nine. But he did not
mention that he was their neighbor in the adjoining
suite.
Singing in his bath was not a vice of Inspector
Reynolds's, but at nine o'clock next morning he
splashed and hummed cheerfully, reveling in the
unusual luxury of his private suite. His sleep had
refreshed his optimism. After all if Tony had got
away, he could be traced through Lady Avice sooner
or later.
Reynolds contemplated with satisfaction all that
the forthcoming interview might disclose. He looked
at his wrist watch as he wrestled with his collar
stud: twenty past nine. Nine minutes more in which
to plan a course of action. There were four ques-


210 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
tions he meant to put before he was much older,
questions to which Lady Avice could and should give
the answers.
Who was Tony?
Where was he now?
Where was he at the time of the murder?
What had Lady Avice written to Delmond?
Replies to those questions would carry him a long
way.
There was a soft tapping at his outer door, and
wondering who his visitor could be, Reynolds flung
it open.
Pierre, now in his hotel uniform again, slipped
inside quickly, an uneasy expression on his face.
"Monsieur," he said urgently, "she has gone!"
The C. I. D. man started back with a frown.
"Gone! Who?"
The Frenchman spread his hands deprecatingly.
"The young lady 'Aveese,' monsieur. I came on duty
at nine this morning and as soon as I could, went
to the telephone bureau to learn if any calls came
through from or to Mrs. de Groot's room last
night. I had previously asked my friend to get a
record of all calls made even when he went off
duty."
"Lady Avice Garth!" Reynolds groaned. "Go on,
Pierre."
"Less than half an hour after you went to bed
last night, or rather early this morning, monsieur,
Lady Avice telephoned the aerodrome and asked if
the gentleman had arrived for whom Mrs. de Groot


EVASION
211
had ordered a private aeroplane to be ready after
midnight. She was told he was there waiting and
would speak to her himself."
A vein stood out on Reynolds's forehead.
The Frenchman went on: "The gentleman came
to the telephone, monsieur, but, alas, my friend in
the telephone bureau was off duty and the operator
who replaced him knew very little English. All he
could understand was that the lady said, 'Wait for
me.
"'Wait for me!' " repeated the detective bitterly
to himself.
"The young lady left the hotel in a taxi a few
minutes after that, monsieur. About two fifteen
A. M. it must have been. I'm very sorry I did not
know earlier."
The inspector held out his hand kindly.
"I can't thank you enough, Pierre. This is a bit
of bad luck but we'll get through. I'll see you again
before I leave the hotel. I'm going at once to Mrs.
de Groot's suite."
Outside in the corridor he met Spencer coming
from the lift.
The young man waved his stick and sang out
cheerily: "Hello, Inspector. Had a good night?"
Reynolds studied him a moment. Was this young
man as innocent as he appeared, or was he a remark-
ably good actor?
"Thank you, yes," the detective replied calmly.
Then with a keen glance: "Are the ladies all right?"
Spencer gave his boyish grin. "I dunno. Lady


212 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Avice should be, but my bet is that Mrs. de Groot's
still in bed weeping over her black sheep—" He
broke off. "I say, I'm talking too much. Let's go in
and see 'em."
The maid admitted them to the salon, her face
inscrutable. "I will tell madame," she responded to
their request for Mrs. de Groot and Lady Avice
Garth.
Spencer lighted a cigarette and strolled about the
room, the inspector grimly watching him.
In about five minutes Mrs. de Groot entered the
room wrapped in a negligee, her face bearing the
signs of recent tears. She was trembling obviously
as she greeted the two men and sank into an arm-
chair.
"Mrs. de Groot, where is Lady Avice?" the de-
tective demanded of her, though his eyes were on
Spencer.
Mrs. de Groot's lips quivered. "I—don't know,"
she said in a terrified whisper. "I begged her not to
go but she is very impulsive. Please don't be angry,
Inspector. She didn't do it to annoy you."
Spencer's face showed nothing but blank bewil-
derment. "What on earth are you talking about,
Mary?" he demanded. "Where's Avice?"
Mrs. de Groot gazed up at him piteously.
"Gone!" she said. "Last night she sent me to bed
and then came in with her hat and cloak on and
kissed me good-by. She left a message for you,
Inspector." Mrs. de Groot pressed a hand to her
forehead. "I was to tell you she would be at your


EVASION
213
service to-night or to-morrow at her London ad-
dress. That's all I know." She raised her hands
despairingly.
"Avice gone!" Spencer's jaw dropped. "Well, of
all the prize lunatics!"
It was evident the news had been a surprise to
him, the detective decided. "Mr. Spencer," he re-
marked sternly, "I shall be glad if you will tell me
exactly who and where 'Tony' is, and why you came
to Paris suddenly to get him safely away?"
Spencer's face was still placid and amiable, but
there was a determined glint in his eye as he
drawled:
"And that, my dear Inspector, is precisely what I
cannot tell you—anyhow until I've seen Lady Avice.
Y'see, some of it I don't know, some of it I don't
want to know, and some of it I couldn't tell you
because—er—well, because it's not my business. You
can lock me up as hostage or any jolly old thing you
like, and that's that."
And that certainly was that, as far as opening
Spencer's mouth was concerned. After a rather un-
fruitful conversation with Mrs. de Groot, Reynolds
and the young man traveled back to England
together that day.
They were nearing London when the detective
had a bright idea. In a measure he appreciated and
understood this young man's reticence concerning
Lady Avice's affairs which appeared to include
Tony. Well, Reynolds decided, he could obtain all
his information—insist upon getting it too—from


214 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
her later. Meanwhile there was one question that
had nothing to do with her.
"Mr. Spencer, do you remember telephoning to
Miss Laureen's flat on Sunday night at nine fifty
P. M.?"
"I do," replied that young man promptly,
"though I'm hazy as to the exact time."
"Will you tell me all the conversation that took
place?"
"Certainly." Spencer thought a moment. "I asked
if Miss Laureen had started for my studio yet and
the reply was that she was on her way. That was
every word so far as I can remember."
"Was it her maid's voice that you heard?" Reyn-
olds asked.
Spencer shot a glance at the detective. "That's the
funny part of it," he declared. "I'll swear it wasn't
Bertha's voice." He reddened slightly. "You see,
I'm absolutely crazy on Laureen and often ring her
up, and I know the maid's voice very well. No, it
was high and clear, I wondered who the woman was.
If it was a woman," he added.
"If it was a woman!" caught up the inspector
sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it might have been a man's falsetto just
as easily," explained Spencer with no particular in-
terest. He peered through the carriage window.
"Ah, here we are. Good old Charing Cross."
But the detective's mind was echoing "It might
have been a man's falsetto." Why hadn't he thought
of that before?


XVIII
THE KNIFE
LAUREEN had proved an unusually silent com-
panion on the journey back from Crowborough
with Lansberg. From his seat at the wheel he
glanced at her several times as she stared ahead
with a troubled expression.
He had over-tired her, he feared. After the ten-
sion she had endured since Sunday night this jour-
ney down and back, the heat on a shadeless golf-
links and a strenuous game had all been too much.
And to-night she had her work in the theater!
He metaphorically kicked himself for his thought-
lessness as the big car slid silently along.
Suddenly she relaxed, and leaned back with a little
gurgle of laughter as she noticed Lansberg's wor-
ried face. "Did you think I'd developed motor
nerves or had become 'mental'?" she asked.
Lansberg smiled down into her gray eyes with
relief. "Neither," he affirmed. "But I do know you
are a very tired girl, thanks to my selfishness. I
ought not to have asked you to come on this long
exhausting trip after—"
215


THE KNIFE
217
held them closely. "You will make me very happy,
my child."
She peeped mischievously over her shoulder at the
secretary, who was discreetly studying the streets
they were now gliding through. "That very correct
person will blush presently," she predicted.
But Lansberg was in a dream that made him ob-
livious of trivialities, as automatically he guided the
car through the traffic and a little later pulled up
before his house.
Lansberg put his key in the lock and stood aside
for Laureen to pass into the impressive entrance
hall of his apartment. She looked round wonder-
ingly, appreciating its dignity and beauty, all en-
hanced now by the sunlight drifting in iridescent
coloring through the old stained window.
"This isn't a flat: it's a fairy palace, Ivan," she
said softly.
"Sometimes a palace can be only a dungeon when
it lacks a princess," he replied as he led her to the
large double doors that opened into his library. "I
think you may like this room where I work. If you
will go in I'll find my servant and order tea."
Laureen drew back the heavy curtains and entered
the room. For a moment, coming from the subdued
light of theghall, she was dazzled by the glare.
Then she distinguished a dark menacing figure
rising from a crouching position, and gave an in-
voluntary cry that brought Lansberg quickly to her.
"What is it?" he asked.
With a shaking hand she pointed. "That man—


THE KNIFE
219
your secretary showed me some he had caught to-
day." She bit on her lip to still the shudder that
passed through her.
But there was no trace of embarrassment in Lans-
berg's frank answer. "I used to have quite a fine
collection," he admitted. "Then I became too busy
or lost interest. Now I've started again because a
young twelve-year-old god-son of mine has begun to
collect and I'm sending all I find to him. He wrote
asking for a variety—common enough—to be found
in Sussex. That's why Lyall went a-hunting for me
to-day."
His explanation was so natural that the girl
almost laughed at her previous fears. Absurd to im-
agine that a man of Lansberg's type and wealth
could have any connection with Leslie Delmond or
any motive for murdering him.
They had finished tea and were smoking ciga-
rettes when suddenly Lansberg leaned toward her,
idly twisting the long string of pearls that dangled
from her neck.
"I've often meant to ask you if you had any sis-
ters or brothers, Laureen."
"My father died a few months after I was born,"
she replied. "He and my mother believed in a small
but good family. I'm it," she added with a quaint
little smile.
"My dear, forgive these questions, but I'm very
worried," he said presently. "Did you write a letter
to the girl—I thought maybe it was your sister—
called Valerie the night we discovered the murder?"


THE KNIFE
221
Her lips framed the words mechanically. Lans-
berg stood up, obviously much annoyed at his care-
lessness.
"Yes, my man will find it, I'm sure. You must let
me get the pearls re-strung for you, Laureen.
They're valuable."
"An actress's bank," she managed to say lightly.
As they walked across the room his foot touched
the small article he had dropped. Deftly he picked
it up and slipped it into his pocket. It was only after
she had gone that he remembered she had not
answered his question.
But in her mind now there was no question
whether he knew Delmond. For, with wildly beating
heart, in one instant she had recognized that the
small thing dropped from Lansberg's pocket was a
seal which Leslie Delmond had worn four years ago
in Nice.
It was just after eleven o'clock that same night—
Tuesday—when Inspector Reynolds's wife and her
brother-in-law came out of a cinema house in High-
gate. She blinked a little in the jostling crowds.
"There's our tram, Bill, but we shall have to wait
for the next. It's full."
"Trams be blowed!" exclaimed her brother-in-
law. "When I take a lady out I like to do things
properly. Hi, taxi, ahoy!" he shouted vigorously to
a passing cab.
Remonstrating gently at his extravagance she
allowed Bill to help her into the vehicle. She adored


222
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
her husband's bluff-mannered brother-a sea cap-
tain.
Bill had not been in England for two years, and
early this morning he had telegraphed saying he
would arrive that afternoon for a short visit.
"Got any idea when Tom will be back, Agnes ?"
Captain Reynolds asked as their taxi jolted up the
hill.
She shook her head. “Not exactly," she sighed.
“He telephoned me this morning from the Yard, as
I told you, saying he had to go to France at once,
and expected he'd be back by Thursday. He said I
was to be sure and make you stay over Sunday.”
Captain Reynolds lighted his pipe and blew out
a heavy cloud of smoke contentedly. He was very
fond of his brother and sister-in-law and nothing
pleased him better than to potter about their house
and garden when he was ashore.
“Of course I'll stay," he said in his bluff tones.
“Couldn't go away without a sight of the old chap.
I say, Agnes, what's he gone to France about?”
Mrs. Reynolds looked important.
"He's in charge of a big case that happened two
nights ago. Some film actor found murdered with
chloroform in Laureen's flat. She's that famous
revue artist. I shouldn't be surprised if Tom's
tracking a clue in Paris."
The taxi pulled up at the gate of the semi-de-
tached house and Captain Reynolds helped his
sister-in-law out.
“A beautiful film," she murmured as he unfas-


THE KNIFE
223
tened the door, "but very sad. Thank you, Bill, for
taking me. I've enjoyed my evening so much."
"Give me Charlie Chaplin and a good laugh for
my money. You put on a kettle for some toddy. Do
you good after crying your eyes out over that
blessed film."
Mrs. Reynolds entered the house, switched on the
lights and obediently put water on to boil. Then
hastened to remove the traces of tears still remain-
ing after her evening's enjoyment. She had laid sup-
per and the kettle was singing before she realized
Bill had not yet come into the house.
"Smoking that horrible old pipe outside because
he knows his tobacco makes me cough," she decided.
Opening the front door she called him. "Kettle's
boiling, supper's ready, Bill."
There was no answer. Probably he was walking
up and down the road in his restless way.
She went to the gate.
"Bill!" she called again. From somewhere near
in the garden she heard a faint choking sound.
As she listened, fearful, she heard it once more,
saw something dragging itself heavily, slowly along
the ground toward her.
A wild scream came to her lips but she suppressed
it. Inspector Reynolds's wife was no coward.
Deliberately she opened the hall door so that the
light should fall on this object, whatever it was, and
seized a heavy stick from the umbrella-stand.
But the weapon dropped from her hand as the
crawling thing drew nearer to the circle of light and


224.
11
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
she recognized it to be her brother-in-law. Before
she could reach him, he rolled on his back and, with
a shuddering groan, lay still.
She knelt on the path beside him, slipping her
arm beneath his neck to raise his head. Could he
have had a heart attack or a seizure?
"Bill," she cried, "it's all right! I'm here." And
then sank back trembling, for her lingers felt some-
thing warm and moist. Protruding from the man's
left shoulder was the handle of a knife.


XIX
FINGERPRINTS
"INSPECTOR REYNOLDS felt like a horse near-
ing its stables as he stepped out of the boat train
that Wednesday evening with Spencer.
"You'll find me at my studio to-night, Inspector,"
said the painter, "or I'll come along to the Yard now
if you prefer."
"I'll ring you up probably to-morrow morning,"
replied the detective, out of his abstraction.
He had more important interviews ahead than the
one with this young man who had unwittingly
thrown a new light on the problem. A falsetto voice
might be the solution of that telephone call. If so,
whose? Was it Delmond's before he was murdered?
Mrs. Carter had overheard men's voices through
the speaking tube. Was it one of those men who had
spoken on the telephone?
Thrusting aside the newspaper boys calling up
their "six-thirty finals" the detective jumped into a
taxi and ordered the man to drive to Scotland Yard.
He was eager to see Jenkins and hear all his faithful
assistant had discovered. Then he would call on
225


226 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Lady Avice Garth and wring from her the truth
about Tony.
Reynolds marched into his office with a jaunty air
as if a thirty-six hour trip to Paris and back was
an ordinary occurrence.
"Well, Jenkins, get my cables? Had any luck any-
where?" he asked.
Jenkins rose, his face somber, hands fidgeting
with a pen. "I'm afraid I've got some rather bad
news for you, sir," he began.
The inspector glanced at him with a frown.
"Lady Avice Garth not turned up at her house?"
he questioned sharply.
Jenkins shook his head. "It's your brother, sir.
He was stabbed about eleven thirty last night in the
front garden of your house. Mrs. Reynolds found
him and telephoned here at once. He's alive but
unconscious."
"Bill !" exclaimed Reynolds in amazement. "Why,
he hadn't an enemy in the world." Then as a light
broke on him, "I suppose somebody was after me
and got him instead. We are very much the same
build."
He sat down at his desk and rested his head on
his hands. At that moment he bitterly regretted his
profession.
"Where is he?" the C. I. D. man asked Jenkins
dejectedly.
"Highgate Infirmary, private ward, sir. The
Yard sent down two specialists and Dr. Tempest
was there most of last night with him and twice


FINGERPRINTS
227
to-day. Dr. Tempest told me to ring up directly you
arrived. Shall I do so?"
The detective nodded, his face drawn with pain.
Poor defenseless old Bill, knifed in his own brother's
home by some malicious fiend. Reynolds's fist
clenched. If he had to scour Europe he'd get that
brute and make him suffer for it!
Jenkins passed over the receiver. "Dr. Tempest
is waiting, sir."
"That you, Inspector?"
"Yes, I've only just heard the news," Reynolds
replied. "Thank you for all you've done, Doctor. Is
there any hope?"
At Dr. Tempest's words the strain on the detec-
tive's face relaxed.
"You think he has a chance," he repeated eagerly.
"Conscious for a few minutes and now sleeping. . . .
A clean wound, missed the lungs by half an inch.
. . . Do whatever you think best. Don't spare any
money so long as you save him. . . . No, I won't
try to see him until you say I may. . . . Thank you
again, Doctor."
Reynolds turned from the instrument joyfully.
"Did you hear that, Jenkins? The doctor says my
brother has a chance now."
He put through a call to his home and waited
impatiently.
"Yes, Agnes, I've just got back and heard about
Bill," he told his wife, and then gave her the gist of
his conversation with Dr. Tempest. "Don't worry
too much. I'll be with you as soon as I can."


228 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
The inspector hung up the receiver and drummed
his fingers on the desk. "I'll find out the scoundrel
who did this or change my job," he announced
sternly.
His assistant looked uneasy. "I suppose it couldn't
have been any one connected with this murder case,"
he suggested.
His chief reflected a moment, running over the
principals in his mind. Certainly no woman could
have done it. Bill was a remarkably strong man.
Lansberg he dismissed at once as being unlikely.
Spencer, Tony and the man with the missing thumb
were definitely in Paris at the time.
"No," Reynolds replied slowly. "I shouldn't think
it probable. Besides, how would they know my house
address? There are dozens of Reynoldses in the
telephone book, and my official position is not shown
there."
Jenkins stared at his chief aghast. Sweeping over
him was the dreadful knowledge of a confession he
had to make: of over-zealous efforts that possibly
had had tragically far-reaching effects. For he re-
membered that on Lansberg's desk he had seen
Inspector Reynolds's private address written on a
slip of paper.
The detective regarded Jenkins's haggard face
with a puzzled air. What on earth was the matter
with the man? It wasn't his brother who had been
stabbed!
"Have we got the knife that was used?" Reynolds
asked.


FINGERPRINTS
229
Jenkins pulled out a drawer and produced a card-
board box.
“It's in there, sir. The doctor was very careful
not to touch the handle.”
Lifting the lid, the inspector gazed at the weapon
-a blade, curved on one side like a French table-
knife, hinged and set in a wooden handle.
"A most unusual type,” muttered Reynolds as he
pushed the box away with a shiver. “I've never seen
anything quite like it. What about fingerprints ?”
Jenkins replaced the cover and put the box back
in the drawer before he answered.
"Three different sets were found. Overlapping a
bit, but distinct and identifiable. Right hand in each
case. Two sets have been identified," Jenkins an-
nounced.
Reynolds sprang up with excitement. “One set
has a thumb missing?” he demanded eagerly. Add-
ing as Jenkins shook his head, “No, of course he
was in Paris at the time, but he might have handled
the knife previously.” Suddenly he observed his
assistant's worried manner, noticed the perspiration
standing on his forehead.
“What's wrong? Are you ill ?"
Jenkins drew a long breath and raised his eyes.
"No, sir. I'm in a mess. Yesterday when you went
to Paris-1-tried to be clever, thinking I could
help you. You warned me before and now I'm afraid
I'm responsible for this—this stabbing affair."
"You, responsible!” The detective echoed the
words blankly, surveying his assistant with a frown.


230 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Was the man demented? Then he added quietly,
"Sit down, Jenkins, and tell me what the trouble is."
The man sank to a chair and moistened his lips,
eyes resting piteously on his chief's face as if ask-
ing at least for understanding.
Inspector Reynolds's countenance was inscrutable
as the man poured out the story of how he had
gained admission to Lansberg's apartment, the trick
he had played on the caretaker to get the key, his
search in the apartment, the opening of the safe and
the amazing collections of jewels on the shelves.
The detective interrupted him.
"That's queer," he returned. "Bachelors don't
usually hoard tiaras and necklaces and rings such
as you describe, in a private safe. Unless they're
connoisseurs or jewel thieves. Lansberg seems too
austere to be the former and too wealthy, I should
have thought, for the latter. However, go on with
your story, Jenkins. You locked the safe," he
prompted, "and got out without any one seeing you,
I hope."
The man mopped his brow.
"That's the mischief, sir. I could not close the
darned safe, let alone lock it. There was some catch
keeping it open and I'd just decided I daren't stay
any longer when I heard some one enter the flat."
He described hiding behind the curtain, creeping
out while the servant was grinding coffee, and
replacing the keys in the basement cupboard.
"How do you know it was the servant? It might
have been Mr. Lansberg or the secretary."


232
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
sir, was the knife which stabbed your brother," he
said slowly.
And then indeed, Inspector Reynolds was aroused
as the probabilities unfolded before him. He could
picture Lansberg's servant finding the safe open
and guessing it was the inspector who had been there
searching the flat. The detective's face hardened as
he recalled the scarcely veiled antagonism to him in
the servant's eye when he was ordered to bring his
master's clothes. His devotion to Lansberg was
obvious. Why else had he hidden that shirt and vest
under his own mattress ?
When the servant discovered that these had been
taken it was easy to link up their disappearance with
the detective's previous visit, easier still to imagine
that fanatical creature bent on revenge, seizing the
weapon in the safe and watching outside Reynolds's
house in the dark.
Then another vital point occurred to the detec-
tive.
How had that knife come to be in Lansberg's
safe? From whom had he taken it and when ?
Aloud he demanded swiftly, "Whose fingerprints
were on the handle of that knife?"
“Those of Lansberg were there. Also those of
Delmond, the murdered man."
“Lansberg!" shouted the detective. “How can
you be sure they're his?”
"We got some from the cigarette-box left in Lau-
reen's flat,” Jenkins replied, “and fresh ones to-day
from the driving wheel of Lansberg's car."


FINGERPRINTS
233
Reynolds thumped his clenched fist on his desk.
"D'you see what all this means, Jenkins? That
knife must have belonged to Delmond, and he evi-
dently struck at Lansberg the night he was mur-
dered, as this slashed shirt proves. So Lansberg was
in Laureen's flat, after all. He must have seized the
knife after he or his accomplices had chloroformed
Delmond, and locked it up in his safe. Butterflies!"
commented the detective grimly. "In this case a
butterfly with golden hair and a pretty face! He'll
have a job to explain away this evidence, I fancy."
"You would like the fingerprints of Lansberg's
servant, sir?" asked Jenkins.
"Like?" snorted the inspector. "I mean to have
them. They're an indispensable link in the chain."
Then his animation flickered a little. Was not all
this merely circumstantial, a trifle too simple and
easy? Why should a man of Lansberg's position
commit murder and risk its consequences? Certainly
not to obtain Laureen, who, if Reynolds could read
character, disliked the dead man and liked Lansberg.
Also, in that case, where did Tony and Spencer,
Lady Avice and Mrs. de Groot fit in? What about
Valerie Baird and the packet of letters? And who
was the man with the missing thumb who had un-
doubtedly been in Laureen's flat, as his fingerprints
on the table proved?
No, Reynolds decided, he wasn't out of the woods
yet, even if there was a glimmer of daylight.
"What about those cabled orders I sent to watch
the ports?" he asked suddenly.


234 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Jenkins's face clouded. "No luck, sir," he reported.
"No man minus a thumb was seen anywhere."
His chief, however, showed no signs of disap-
pointment.
"H'm, well, I didn't expect any. It was a forlorn
hope, but worth trying. Ring up Lady Avice Garth,
Warnham House, and if she has arrived say I want
to speak to her."
Jenkins gave the number and presently passed
over the receiver.
"Inspector Reynolds of Scotland Yard speaking.
. . . Left a message. Well, repeat it exactly,
please." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and
turned to Jenkins hurriedly. "Take down this con-
versation," he whispered. "Lady Avice Garth ar-
rived at four o'clock and said she would call at
Scotland Yard at eleven to-morrow, Thursday morn-
ing, and see Inspector Reynolds," he repeated.
"Was her ladyship alone when she arrived? . . .
She was? . . . Where has she gone now? Her
ladyship did not say."
He banged down the receiver angrily.
"If I go off my head with this confounded case,
Jenkins, it will be through the tangle of women
mixed up in it. They've tied the men's tongues nicely.
Chivalry, I suppose, would be their fancy name for
it. Concealment of facts hindering the course of
justice, that's what I call it."
The inspector was thoroughly irritated by this
postponement of the interview with Lady Avice.
Jenkins wisely tried to change the subject.


FINGERPRINTS
235
"No news of this Valerie Baird has come in yet,
sir. Funny how she seems to have vanished."
"There are a lot of funny things in this case,"
agreed the inspector gloomily. "Come in," he called
as a knock sounded on the door.
"A man to see you, sir," announced a constable.
"Says he thinks Delmond was his lodger."
"Show him up at once," ordered Reynolds.
A short narrow-chested man with furtive darting
eyes entered and sat down at the inspector's invita-
tion.
"What makes you think the murdered man was
your lodger?" demanded Reynolds bluntly. He had
already sized up his visitor and knew the best way
of tackling him.
"I recognized the photo in the paper and thought
it might be the same man who'd had a room in my
private hotel up to last Sunday."
The inspector gazed at him with steely eyes.
"This is Wednesday evening," he commented.
"The photographs were printed in Tuesday's morn-
ing papers. It took you two days to decide whether
you recognized it or not, eh?"
The man shuffled uneasily in his chair. "A murder
case isn't nice to be mixed up in when you've got
your business to consider," he whined.
"And where is this hotel of yours?"
"Near Euston station," replied the man, adding
the address reluctantly. "Besides, I never knew he
was called Delmond. Mr. Leslie Jackson he said
was his name. The room's locked—he has the key."


236 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"I shall be there to see it to-morrow," promised
the inspector. "How long had he lodged at your
house?"
"Going on for a month. Always paid well too and
gave no trouble," replied the man sullenly. "Out all
day. So as I didn't know anything against him, I
thought I'd wait and see if he came back."
"Although by the photograph you knew he'd been
murdered!" commented the detective. "Had he any
visitors or letters?"
"No letters ever came for him. But once I found
a torn envelop and addressed to L. Delmond, Poste
Restante, Charing Cross, so his mail went there in
that name probably. As to his visitors, I mind my
own affairs so long as my rent is paid and my
lodgers behave themselves."
"Answer my question," said the inspector sharply.
"Didyou ever see any visitors?"
"Well, once I believe a lady went up to his room,
but I'm not sure. Might have been to see some-
body else. I don't pry into other folk's affairs."
"A slim young lady, fair or dark?" suggested the
inspector.
"Neither," affirmed the man. "I'm not certain
which room she went to but I know what the lady
was like. She was elderly, with gray hair and wore
handsome clothes. A real lady, too."
"You're sure she was elderly?" questioned the
inspector. "It might have been a young woman dis-
guised."
"Well, it wasn't," said the man definitely.


FINGERPRINTS
237
"What's more, I know who the old lady is," he
added with a touch of triumph at scoring over the
detective. "I've seen her since then."
"Where?"
"I was in the pit of Laureen's theater on Mon-
day night and a lot of swells were in the stage box.
I recognized the old party who'd been to my hotel
a few days before and I asked the program girl
who she was. That's how I know."
The detective bit back his impatience.
"And the program girl knew her name?" he
asked mildly.
"Yes. The Countess of Warnham, and with her
in the box was her niece, Lady Something Garth."


XX
THE THIRD KEY
THE Countess of Warnham l" echoed the detec-
1 tive after Delmond's landlord had gone. "Do
you hear that, Jenkins ? Another woman to deal
with. Will you tell me what was Delmond's attrac-
tion that all these females hung round him?".
Jenkins shrugged his shoulders.
"From the photographs he seemed a good-looking
fellow," he conceded. “And of course a film actor,
successful or no, always has a certain glamour.”
"Glamour!” Reynolds sniffed disdainfully.
"Surely a woman of the Countess of Warnham's age
and social standing—she must be over seventy-was
not dazzled. What about that American woman,
Mrs. de Groot? She's an astute bird in the early
forties. Yet she fell for him.”
“Has he some hold on them, do you think, sir?"
Jenkins suggested.
"It's an idea, but Mrs. de Groot's feeling for
Leslie Delmond was sincere. There is no doubt she
really loved him. And I tell you, Jenkins, her grief
was pitiful when she knew he was dead. Love! Why
238


THE THIRD KEY
239
she was almost jealous of her friend Lady Avice
when it came out that Lady Avice had written Del-
mond recently!"
The inspector had outlined the whole history of
his Paris trip to his assistant. He often did this kind
of thing: it arranged the pattern of events in his
own mind and often drew valuable suggestions from
Jenkins.
Jenkins pondered.
"It seems to me you did fine work in Paris, sir.
You've definitely established the fact that this man
with the missing thumb knows Mrs. de Groot and
Lady Avice. You've discovered the liaison between
Mrs. de Groot and Delmond, and that Tony is
mixed up with them all. Shall I look up Lady Avice's
pedigree?" he inquired.
"Look up any darned thing you can about her
and her family," he said bitterly. "All / know is
that they're nearly broke and Lady Avice's father,
the Earl of Brentshire, is a dissolute old gambler
who lives chiefly by his wits on the Riviera."
Presently Jenkins looked up from the big red
book he was poring over.
"Lady Avice has three brothers," he announced,
"and one of the younger brother's names is Anthony.
They've got about five apiece !'•'
"Aha!" the inspector ejaculated. "Tony is short
for Anthony." He picked up the telephone receiver
and gave a number.
After a short conversation he hung it up with a
look of satisfaction.


THE THIRD KEY
241
He crept through the flat to be sure it was un-
occupied. Then satisfied he was alone, he began his
work.
At first he searched with method and delibera-
tion, going through drawers and cupboards pa-
tiently. But as time passed and still he was unsuc-
cessful, beads of perspiration stood on his brow.
He tore frantically at carpets, cut open the cush-
ions and chair coverings with a knife taken from
the kitchen, muttering to himself in a frenzy of
rage. Pictures he ripped from their frames and
flung down, as if lost to all fear of being discovered.
One room was locked, but he forced it easily with
his shoulder. Inside was a large leather arm-chair
before which he knelt, slashing the arms and seat
wildly and inserting his hand amongst the padding.
At one side of the seat the springs had sagged a
little, leaving a gap between it and the arm.
With a gleam of hope on his white face he
pushed his hand down, feeling carefully. But the
thing he sought was not there.
Holding his head, he staggered out into the hall,
reeling as if drunk, and regardless now of being
seen or heard, shut the door behind him and went
downstairs.
Walking blindly he came at last to the Embank-
ment and sank on a seat shivering, although the
night was warm and dry. Mechanically he moved
along if a policeman came in sight, slinking back
again when he had passed.
Haggard, the man's frenzy calmed to despair


244 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
a box of face-powder, nail polishing pad, brilliantine
highly scented on the toilet table, together with two
ornate silver-backed hair brushes. A pile of old
paper-covered novels and out-of-date film journals
were lying on a chair.
The mantelpiece held several photographs of
film stars, all dated two to four years ago. There
were also half a dozen pictures of the dead man in
various attitudes and costumes, probably from the
films he had played in.
The wardrobe and chest of drawers showed Del-
mond's taste in clothes to have been florid.
Reynolds searched the pockets deftly, finding
nothing more interesting than old bus tickets.
"Where is his luggage?" the detective asked the
landlord.
The man lifted the bed valance and dragged out
two suitcases. One was unfastened and empty. The
other the detective opened with one of Delmond's
keys which he had brought with him.
Inside the suitcase was a small locked compart-
ment. This too Reynolds unfastened with another
key and quickly closed again when he saw it con-
tained papers.
"I shall take this with me," he told the man. "The
room will be locked again and no one must enter
without my permission."
"Very well, sir," agreed the landlord, as they
went downstairs to the hall.
"Do you remember which day that elderly lady
called on Delmond?" asked the detective.


THE THIRD KEY
245
"Yes, I do," the man replied promptly. "Last
Friday afternoon about three o'clock. That was
June twenty-eighth, two days before Mr. Delmond
was murdered."
"Why should you recollect that so clearly?" the
inspector questioned suspiciously.
"Because it had rained heavily all the night be-
fore and that morning the lodgers who sleep on the
top floor said the roof was leaking. I was too busy
to go up and see about it until after I'd had my
dinner. Then I remembered and went up."
"Quite so. But that might have happened any
night or day." Reynolds was anxious to test the
accuracy of this man's statements.
"No, sir, it was Friday, I'm positive, for when
I saw the ceiling so wet, I was vexed, knowing Sat-
urday was a half-day and I'd not get any work done
on the roof until Monday."
"Have you a telephone here?" the inspector
asked.
The man pointed to an alcove behind the hall
door.
"Did you ever hear Delmond telephone to any
one?"
The landlord shook his head.
"He never called any one up so far as I know, but
once or twice I fetched him to the telephone. Each
time it was a lady speaking—a haughty kind of
voice—a youngish lady, I think."
"Can you remember when those calls were made?"
The man thought a minute.


246 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Within the last few days that Delmond was
here I'm sure, as before that I scarcely saw him ex-
cept when he paid his bill!" He puckered his fore-
head in an effort to recall something.
"Ah, now I've got it, sir. One call was last Thurs-
day or Friday. It was a lady speaking. The second
call—in the same voice, I fancy—was last Sunday
about half past one when I was having my dinner
in there." He indicated the room next the telephone.
The detective's eyes gleamed.
"Go on!" he urged.
"I ran up and called Mr. Delmond. He came
down at once but I couldn't hear what was said
except I think he replied, 'Oh, you've nothing to
add to your letter, eh? We'll see about that.' He
pushed open my door and thanked me and said,
'Your dinner smells good.' I laughed and replied,
'You'd better have some with me.' His answer was
that he'd only just got up and had to go out on
business. I never saw him again," the man added,
"but I think he went out soon after."
"H'm. A telephone call in a lady's voice about
Thursday. The Countess of Garth at three thirty
on Friday to see him, and another telephone call
about one thirty on Sunday, June thirtieth in the
same voice," checked up the inspector.
"That's right, sir," agreed the man.
"Who answers the telephone when you're out?"
The landlord smiled. "Nobody: it just rings. My
wife's deaf as a post and the old charwoman doesn't
understand it."


THE THIRD KEY
247
In his office, Reynolds opened the compartment
in the suitcase and scrutinized the contents care-
fully.
He found several letters signed "Mary" couched
in terms of deepest affection, some indicating that
money had been sent with them—without doubt
from Mrs. de Groot. A few insignificant trinkets,
such as links and tie pins. Three pictures of Lau-
reen, cut out of current magazines, on one of which
the address of her flat was penciled. A few other
notes and bills.
Three pawn-tickets in his haul pleased Reynolds
most of all and he decided to have these investi-
gated at once.
Of passport, bank or check book, or addressed
envelops there was no trace. To the detective it
suggested that the dead man had much to conceal,
and trusted nobody.
Also, Delmond might have been near the end of
his resources, as his total cash appeared to be the
money found in his pockets.
Again the detective's mind went back to the
scene in Laureen's flat when he had questioned Car-
ter the caretaker, about the letter to Valerie which
he had posted.
What did that letter contain and where was it
now? Could Laureen, or Lansberg, acting either
separately or in collusion, have taken papers from
the dead man's pocket, and fearing a personal
search, posted them in the hall box?
And then at the bottom of the case, tucked inside


THE THIRD KEY
249
After a moment's reflection the inspector gave the
required permission, adding, "Let me know when
you wish to get your things."
"I must," came the quick retort, "since you have
the keys."
"By the way, Miss Laureen, I meant to ask you
before, have you any family living?"
Over the wire he heard a gurgle of laughter.
"Inspector Reynolds, I'm surprised at you. I told
you I was as yet unmarried."
The detective thanked his stars that television
was not yet universal as he suppressed a smile.
"I referred to parents and possible brothers and
sisters," he said.
"That's funny," she replied. "You're the second
person in two days who has shown interest in my
family-tree. I will give you the same reply I gave
to—the other person. Which was to the effect that
my father and mother believed in a small but good
family and I'm it. My father died when I was a
baby," she added.
"Thank you," replied Reynolds. "May I ask for
the name of the other person interested in your
family history?"
"Certainly," she answered casually. "It was Mr.
Lansberg. Good morning, Inspector. Thank you for
permission to get my belongings."
So Lansberg asked Laureen that question, Reyn-
olds mused, as he hung up the receiver. Which
meant that the man knew little of Laureen's past,
or wished to verify the knowledge he had.


250 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
He turned to Jenkins. "Any one likely to be in
Laureen's flat if I ring up?"
"Yes, sir. The photographers have gone round
again to see if they can pick up any more finger-
prints. They must be there now."
"Well, ring 'em up. I want them to get every-
thing they can before Miss Laureen has her furni-
ture removed. The dining-room of course must not
be touched, until after the inquest."
Jenkins gave the number and waited for a reply.
Presently he turned to his chief with a startled ex-
pression.
"Our men have just arrived, sir, and say they are
certain the flat has been burgled. Everything is in
disorder; drawers turned upside down, clc-hes all
over the floor, carpets torn up and even cha rs and
cushions slashed open."
Reynolds snatched the receiver from him and
asked a dozen swift questions. "Was the lock of
the flat broken or the door open when you ar-
rived?" he demanded.
"No," was the reply. "The lock is in perfect
order and the door was fastened properly."
"The third key!" the detective snapped. "The
person who entered that flat last night had the miss-
ing key and got it from Delmond—alive or dead."
The clock chimed the hour and reminded him that
his interview with Lady Avice Garth was due. His
bet was that she would not keep her appointment.
"A lady to see you, sir," said a constable at the
door.


THE THIRD KEY
251
"Show her in," ordered Reynolds. So she had
come after all.
But he was astounded to hear the constable an-
nounce:
“The Countess of Warnham."


XXI
REVELATIONS
"INSPECTOR REYNOLDS felt a tremor of ex-
citement pass through him as he rose deferen-
tially to greet the elderly lady who entered. It was
not a rare thing for him to come into contact with
titled people, but it was certainly the first time a
countess, and one of an old and distinguished fam-
ily, had sought an interview with him.
Or, better still, obeyed a summons by proxy in
place of her niece. A subtle distinction with an in-
finite difference, decided Reynolds, knowing per-
fectly well that he was at heart a thorough snob.
A little uneasily he sought in his memory for the
correct mode of address.
"Will your ladyship be seated?" he invited, draw-
ing forward a chair to face the light.
The old woman surveyed him and the room im-
partially through her lorgnette.
"Thank you," she said briefly, and seated herself
in another chair with her back to the window, re-
suming her research work on the office.
252


REVELATIONS
253
"I am indebted to your ladyship for calling, but
it was your niece—" began Reynolds heavily.
The woman withdrew her gaze from the mantel-
piece and turned it on him. "It will be simpler if you
address me as Lady Warnham," she interrupted.
"I presume you are Inspector Reynolds." Her tone
was peremptory.
The detective bowed, momentarily nonplussed by
the inadequacy of his social knowledge.
"My niece, Lady Avice Garth, is ill. She insisted
that I should keep her appointment with you and
explain."
The detective smiled inwardly. These aristocrats
imagined they could bluff the law, did they? Ill, in-
deed!
"Lady Avice seemed in perfect health last night
in Paris when I saw her," he remarked blandly.
"And this Leslie Delmond was probably in per-
fect health on Sunday afternoon, yet he was dead by
midnight," retorted Lady Warnham unexpectedly.
"There is no reason to imagine that Lady Avice
will meet with such an untimely end," Reynolds ob-
served, cynically.
"Indeed!" his visitor remarked coldly. "Perhaps
this note will stimulate your imagination, Inspec-
tor."
Reynolds took the envelop she offered him, deter-
mined not to be beguiled by any plea of fatigue as a
cause for postponing an interview.
Opening it he saw the inclosure was a medical


254 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
certificate. Persuaded their tame doctor to come in
on the job, he murmured to himself.
But his eyes widened as he read the few lines cer-
tifying that Lady Avice Garth was suffering from
shock and loss of blood owing to a bullet wound in
the left shoulder.
"A bullet wound!" he exclaimed. "What does
this mean, your—Lady Warnham?"
"Probably just what it says," his visitor remarked
indifferently. "I am not a medical man, but should
say it also means considerable pain and fever for at
least several days."
The inspector swallowed his temper and longed
to give vent to a few ungentlemanly words not
usually employed when conversing with a countess.
Exasperating old woman, sitting there at insolent
ease as if she had the whip hand over him. In his
own office tool
Controlling his feelings with difficulty, he said
quietly, "Please tell me how and when this hap-
pened, Lady Warnham."
"At five minutes to ten, just over an hour ago.
My niece's friend, Laureen, called to see her at nine
thirty, asking Avice to go with her to look over
some flat she had been offered."
"Excuse me a moment," Reynolds interrupted.
"What time was it, Jenkins, when Miss Laureen
rang me up?"
"About ten thirty, sir," replied Jenkins from the
far corner of the room.
"Thank you. Please continue, Lady Warnham."


REVELATIONS
255
"My niece said she could not do so as she had an
appointment with you at eleven o'clock. After a
short conversation Laureen went. She was driving
herself in her new two-seater car and my niece went
down to look at it. They stood by the car for a mo-
ment. Then Laureen got in, pressed the self-starter
and drove off."
"Where were you at the time, Lady Warnham?"
"Reading the Times in the dining-room, on the
ground floor. With my back to the window, as I am
now," the lady remarked pointedly. "I heard a bang
but thought it was the back-fire of the engine. Then
a minute later Avice staggered in, holding her shoul-
der. She looked ghastly. I thought she was going to7
faint."
"Were you alone? I mean, were there any serv-
ants in the hall or dining-room?" the inspector
asked.
"Nobody was in the hall, but as my niece came
into the dining-room the parlor-maid came to clear
away the breakfast. She saw the blood pouring from
my niece's shoulder and, of course, screamed."
Inspector Reynolds frowned.
"And you mean to say that Miss Laureen calmly
motored away knowing her friend had been shot?"
he questioned sternly.
"Nonsense, my good man, I mean nothing of the
kind. Laureen motored calmly away not dreaming
what had happened. If she heard anything, she
probably thought, as I did, that it was an engine
back-firing."


256 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"How long after Miss Laureen's departure was
the shot fired?"
"I should say at the second she started."
The inspector weighed the matter a moment. No,
it was quite evident Laureen had not known her
friend had been shot when she telephoned to him so
light-heartedly at ten thirty. Then a point struck
him. That shot, might it not equally well have been
intended for Laureen? If so, who fired it?
"Did you see any one in Curzon Street near your
house?" he asked.
"I have already told you, Inspector, that I was
reading the newspaper with my back to the window
and knew nothing of the incident until my niece en-
tered the room and the idiotic maid screamed."
"Of course you immediately sent for the police."
"Of course I immediately sent for the doctor,"
Lady Warnham corrected caustically.
"The police also should have been informed," he
told her.
"Well, I'm informing them now. There was no
time before. My niece was my first concern. Directly
the doctor had arrived and dressed her wound—a
clean flesh wound, the bullet having passed straight
through—Lady Avice insisted that you should be
sent for. She said you would not believe in the acci-
dent unless you actually saw the wound."
The detective reddened.
"I didn't know my previous behavior had been so
inhuman, Lady Warnham."
The lady raised her eyebrows.


REVELATIONS
257
"One doesn't expect humanity from a detective,"
she responded with blunt indifference. "Ce n'est pas
son metier. Also, my niece hasn't forgotten that she
evaded her appointment with you in Paris yesterday
morning."
"She also promised to see me last night in London
and then left a message saying she would call this
morning," he offered in extenuation of his apparent
disbelief.
Lady Warnham gave him an amiable smile.
"Ah well, we mustn't be too severe on the erratic
younger generation, Inspector. The war bred a new
type, you know."
The friendly "we" was as balm to the detective
after the rankling "my good man" of a few mo-
ments before. But it did not blind him to the fallacy
of the lady's diplomatic words.
"Perhaps you would like to call at 'Warnham
House,' Inspector. The doctor may give you permis-
sion to see my niece, even if you may not question
her to-day."
"I shall most certainly call there this morning,"
Reynolds assured her gravely.
He turned to Jenkins and gave him some rapid
instructions. His visitor rose, gathering her cloak
round her. The detective raised his hand detaining
her. "One moment, please, Lady Warnham. There
is something I should like to ask you."
The lady's face expressed bored surprise as she
resumed her seat.
"I have told you all I know of this shooting af-


REVELATIONS
259
though she were deciding how much or little she
should reveal.
"If I hesitate, Inspector, it is because one does
not willingly wash soiled linen in public," she ex-
plained. "Especially when it involves the honor of a
member of one's own family."
"I'm afraid the law does not consider niceties of
that kind," the C. I. D. man said in a warning tone.
The lady raised her head proudly. "There is yet
another law that my family has obeyed for cen-
turies, Inspector. Its members even endured torture
in the observance of it—but they held their
tongues." She was silent for a second. Then she said
clearly, "I have said this to prove to you that I am
not to be frightened into speech. I am old now, but
alive to the duty I owe to those of my own blood."
"Even though you protect a criminal by your
silence, Lady Warnham?" His voice was toneless
but in his heart was a deep respect for this coura-
geous old woman who faced him now.
"Thank God I am not called upon to decide on
so serious a matter as that, Inspector," she replied
fervently. "No, my problem is purely a matter of
family honor and nothing more. Please let me think
a moment."
She leaned her head on her thin, finely-veined
hand while Reynolds regarded her compassionately.
Deeply attached to his own mother—she was about
the same age as Lady Warnham, he reflected—how
would he feel if some man were roughly urging her
to speak against some member of her family. But


26o THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
thrusting sentiment aside, he reminded himself that
possibly on Lady Warnham's frankness rested the
detection of a murder.
"Two years ago last February I went to Nice,
Inspector," she began suddenly. "My niece, Lady
Avice Garth, was then living with her father, who is
my brother."
"The Earl of Brentshire," put in the detective.
"Yes. My brother had been gambling as usual,
but with worse than the usual results. I am a child-
less widow and very fond of Avice. She was leading
an unhappy existence; a very undignified one too,
for, thanks to her father, they were in debt every-
where. At great personal inconvenience I paid what
they owed, stipulating that my niece should be al-
lowed in future to live with me. My brother agreed.
He still spends his winters there and gambles wildly,
I believe, though where he gets the money is a mys-
tery I've never solved."
Inspector Reynolds thought he could guess, re-
membering the many company prospectuses on
which the Earl of Brentshire's name figured as en-
ticing bait.
"And you met Delmond that winter in Nice," he
suggested.
Lady Warnham nodded.
"He was acting in some film and a scene was
taken on the terrace of my hotel. The guests were
invited to figure in the scene, seated at little tables,
and some of them did so. My niece among them.
She was very excited about it and became so at-


REVELATIONS
tracted to Laureen—who was the heroine of this
film, that we drove out to the studios and visited
the place next day, on Laureen's invitation."
"Was Mrs. de Groot, an American lady, by any
chance staying in your hotel?"
His visitor's expression altered slightly.
"She was. A floridly dressed, be-jeweled woman,
very wealthy but good-natured. She apparently had
few or no friends and my niece with her warm im-
pulsiveness promptly adopted Mrs. de Groot and
insisted on taking her in our party everywhere. I
was against it at first, but I must admit that Mary
de Groot has sterling qualities, even if—" She broke
off a trifle confused.
"Even if she became infatuated with Delmond,"
supplemented Reynolds with a reassuring smile.
Lady Warnham looked relieved.
"Oh, you know about that affair. Yes, Mrs. de
Groot was of our party. That is how she met Del-
mond. After that he spent all his spare time with
her while Laureen and my niece became great
friends and have remained so ever since."
"You raised no objection to their friendship?"
asked the detective.
"Certainly not," the lady replied firmly. "Apart
from the fact that Laureen is as charming as she
looks, I had no right to interfere. One of the les-
sons age has to learn is not to antagonize youth by
applying ancient rules to these modern times. I love
my niece and wish to keep her affection and friend-
ship. Therefore I leave her absolutely free."


262
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Possibly too free,” thought the inspector, re-
membering that midnight escapade in Paris.
"Were Laureen and Delmond very friendly ?” he
asked.
“Never," declared the countess emphatically.
"She despised and disliked the man for taking Mary
de Groot's money and gifts and laughing about her
behind her back. He and Laureen quarreled bit-
terly about it.”
"Maybe Laureen was jealous ?" the detective sur-
mised.
Lady Warnham scorned the idea.
"Jealous ? Of what? She was the star, while he
played a small part. The film director told me that
Laureen detested Delmond the first day she was
introduced to him. He attempted to kiss her in pub-
lic and she ridiculed him—also in public. After that,
it was war to the knife. She tried very hard to save
Mrs. de Groot from a vain, unworthy man.”
So Laureen had detested Delmond from the first
day! Yet only last Sunday night she said he had been
her lover and they had quarreled. Why had she
lied? Whom was she protecting? For that her state-
ment was untrue the detective was fully convinced.
“And now I come to the part I dislike, Inspector.
My jewels are valuable; a few of them are heir-
looms, the rest I have the right to dispose of.” Her
lips twitched. “And I have exercised that right
through force of circumstances in regard to a part
of them.
“One day my brother came to me at my hotel in


REVELATIONS
263
Nice in great trouble," she continued. "Financial,
of course! He had gambled and lost and borrowed
to such an extent that he owed several hundreds of
pounds. He implored me to sell some jewels to help
him. I refused and he actually struggled with me to
obtain my keys! We were on the hotel terrace and
Delmond and Mrs. de Groot came along. Delmond
pretended not to have seen or heard anything and
Mrs. de Groot introduced him to my brother. To
my astonishment my brother and Delmond became
friendly and were often together after that."
A tinge of shame crept over the old lady's pale
cheeks. "About a fortnight later I discovered acci-
dentally that all my brother's debts had been paid.
Discovered—" She stopped and faced the detective
steadily.
"I am afraid, Inspector," she went on, "in spite
of all you can do to me, that this is where my story
must end abruptly. I have no right to tell you more,"
she said with dignity.
"Since others are involved," finished Reynolds to
himself. He changed the subject deftly. "Lady
Warnham, where is Tony?" he asked swiftly.
The old lady appeared puzzled or disturbed. He
could not decide which.
"Tony!" she repeated blankly.
"Yes. One of Lady Avice's brothers—the young-
est, I believe—is called Anthony. Abbreviated, that
would be Tony, wouldn't it?"
"Lady Avice's youngest brother was generally
known as 'Stinker.'" The old lady's eyes twinkled


XXII
TIGHTENING THE NET
IN Laureen's flat, to which Inspector Reynolds
went immediately the Countess of Warnham
had left him, there was utter chaos. The photogra-
phers and a policeman awaited him.
He addressed the constable sharply. "You were
in charge here?"
"Yes, sir. I locked up at six last night after look-
ing round as I've done each evening by your in-
structions. Everything was in order then."
"What time did you get here this morning?"
"With the photographers, sir, about ten thirty."
Reynolds walked from room to room, and
thought a tornado might have produced much the
same effect. Surely this could not have been done
by a sane person. Was it the result of madness,
malice or panic? The answer to that might help
considerably, he realized.
The dining-room doors had been locked the eve-
ning before. Now the one leading into the hall was
open, the lock roughly forced.
Before the big leather chair in which Delmond
265


266 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
had been found dead the inspector paused, with
pursed lips. For the first time he noticed the space
between the seat and the arm, and thought how
easy it would have been for something to have
slipped from Delmond's hand or pocket and lain
concealed. Had the searcher of last night found
what he wanted there? Reynolds was inclined to
believe not. He slid his hand along the lining but
there was nothing there now.
"Lock the place up again, and have it watched.
The burglar may come back, but I doubt it."
In Curzon Street, almost opposite the Countess
of Warnham's house, he took out a cigarette and
asked a man for a match. It was the same constable
who had trailed Laureen unsuccessfully three days
before.
"Well?" demanded Reynolds abruptly.
"Nobody round here heard the shot or noticed
any one loitering before it happened. The bullet
struck the wall by Warnham House visitors' bell.
You can see the mark. I picked up the bullet, sir. No
visitors to the house since I came."
Reynolds slipped the leaden ball in his pocket.
"All right. Hang round," he said.
As the inspector crossed the road a small car
driven by Laureen pulled up at Warnham House
and its occupant jumped out hurriedly. The actress
was about to ring the bell when she saw Reynolds
beside her.
"Of course you've heard about Lady Avice?" she
said. "I've just rushed back to see how she is."


TIGHTENING THE NET
267
The inspector eyed her keenly. “When did you
learn about the accident, Miss Laureen ?” he asked
pointedly.
She frowned as she pressed the button. “Ten min-
utes ago. Lady Warnham telephoned to my hotel
and my maid rang me up at the new flat I was look-
ing at. I came here immediately."
The butler opened the door and admitted them
at once.
"How is Lady Avice, Mason?” Laureen asked
anxiously.
“I hear there is no danger, miss, but her ladyship
has lost a lot of blood and must be kept quiet, the
doctor says." He cast a frigid eye at the C. I. D.
man.
"This is an inspector from Scotland Yard. Lady
Warnham expects him," Laureen explained.
"I should like to see the butler alone a moment,"
Reynolds told her.
Turning to the man, he asked him where he was
when the accident occurred.
"In my pantry at the back of the house, sir."
“Any of the other servants see or hear any-
thing?"
The butler shook his head. “I questioned them,
but only the parlor-maid knew anything about it.
And all she saw was Lady Avice stagger into the
dining-room.”
“Who closed the front door behind Lady Avice
as she came in from the street?"
“The parlor-maid says she shut it. That was only


268 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
a few seconds before she entered the dining-room,"
he added.
A dead end there, decided the inspector, though
he patiently questioned the staff one by one.
None had heard the shot or been near the front
of the house at the time.
"The doctor has just called again, sir," said the
butler. "He says he will see you when he comes
down from her ladyship's room, if you wish. If you
will wait here I will bring him to you."
An elderly man was presently shown into the din-
ing-room where Reynolds was standing at the win-
dow, visualizing the shooting affair.
"You signed the medical certificate I received this
morning, Doctor?" asked Reynolds.
The doctor assented curtly. "I did; at Lady
Avice's express wish. She seemed more distressed
at being unable to keep her appointment with you
than by the unfortunate cause."
Reynolds sensed the sting in his words. "How is
she now?" he asked.
"In no danger, but in considerable pain and very
weak," the doctor announced.
The C. I. D. man held something out on his hand.
"Here is the bullet," he said.
The medical man took it to the light and re-
garded it with interest. "A little lower and the
wound would have been serious," he declared, re-
turning the thing to Reynolds. "I suppose you wish
to know when you can see Lady Avice?"
"It would help me considerably, Doctor."


TIGHTENING THE NET 269
"Well, you may see her now, and nothing more.
I greatly disapprove, but again it is her particular
wish. Perhaps to-morrow afternoon she can talk to
you a little, but on no account must she be agitated,"
he said severely.
"I understand perfectly. Why does she wish me
to see her now if I may not speak?" Reynolds asked
in a puzzled voice.
The doctor laughed. "Don't ask me to explain
the mental processes of a woman. I'm far too busy.
Please come with me. Miss Laureen is sitting with
Lady Avice. I allowed her to go in on the under-
standing that she does not permit her friend to
speak."
Hat in hand, Reynolds followed the doctor up
the wide shallow staircase to a room on the first
floor, feeling perhaps more awkward than he had
for years.
He stood in the darkened room gazing at the
pale face of the girl who lay propped against pil-
lows. She raised one hand in greeting and smiled
faintly.
The detective saw her lips move, and Laureen
bent quickly over her friend.
"Lady Avice wishes me to say she is so sorry, but
this time it is not her fault, Inspector," Laureen re-
peated.
"Please believe how deeply I regret that you
should be suffering like this, Lady Avice," Reynolds
said in a low voice. "Thank you for allowing me to
come in."


TIGHTENING THE NET 271
There was cold reserve in the man's voice, al-
though he replied unhesitatingly. His mistress had
given him instructions to answer the detective's
questions, but Reynolds realized that the man re-
sented it when Lady Avice was ill and defenseless.
Ah well, he thought, his was a ruthless, indelicate
job.
Outside, Laureen sat in her car waiting for him.
He went out to her.
"I want you to put the car, as nearly as you can
remember, in the exact position it was in this morn-
ing when you were talking to Lady Avice," Reyn-
olds requested.
The girl measured the distance with her eye and
then reversed for about a yard.
"Just here," she said. "I left it where it could
be seen from the dining-room. Avice stood there,"
she pointed to a spot immediately in front of the
bell marked "Visitors."
Across the road was a narrow alley running be-
tween two houses, where it was obvious that any
one could have remained fairly well concealed.
"From the position you were in the bullet might
easily have hit you instead, Miss Laureen," he re-
marked as he got into her car.
"Why, of course," she said, staring at him in
astonishment. "It was meant for me," and bit her
lip quickly as she pressed the self-starter. "Where
shall I drop you, Inspector? I'm going back to my
hotel."
"Anywhere near there will do for me," he an-


272 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
swered vaguely. "Meant for you, eh!" he thought
to himself. "That was a slip, young lady."
"Have you any enemy that you know of?" the
C. I. D. man asked quietly, admiring the sure way
she guided the car through the busy traffic.
"Dozens, I should think," she replied lightly, her
eyes dancing with fun. "But I can't believe they
would willingly risk their necks for the pleasure of
shooting me."
"Yet you thought that shot was meant for you,"
persisted Reynolds.
"Well, who could possibly have wanted to hurt
Avice?" she fenced. "Whereas I—maybe I've an
unknown foe more venturesome than those I know
of."
"Among those enemies, known or unknown, do
you think there is a man who lacks a thumb?" Reyn-
olds watched her intently and was certain that she
started.
"Is it a conundrum?" she demanded. "If so, I
can't tell you the answer. My unknown enemy may
even lack a nose or ears, Inspector." She pulled into
the curb by her hotel. "Here we are, but here I shall
not be for many days, thanks to your permission to
get my furniture and belongings."
Reynolds got out of the car and stood with his
hand resting on the wind screen, a position that
gave him a good angle from which to watch her
face.
"That reminds me," he said. "I've news for you.
Your flat was broken into last night."


TIGHTENING THE NET 273
"What? With a real live policeman of your own
choice on guard!" she mocked.
"He does not stay there all night," the detective
told her.
"Well, unless they wanted my clothing or the
chairs and tables there wasn't much to interest them.
My jewelry is in the hotel."
"Nothing apparently was taken. The intruder
seems to have been searching for something and in
the process to have gone berserker. He slashed open
the padding of chairs and cushions, tore down the
pictures and ripped up the carpets."
A look of relief, almost of triumph, crossed her
face. "There was nothing there—I mean," she
added hurriedly, "nothing of value."
"Have you a matinee this afternoon, Miss Lau-
reen?"
The girl shook her head.
"Not on Thursdays. Matinees are Wednesdays
and Saturdays."
"I may need to ring you up," Reynolds explained.
"I shall be at Mr. Spencer's studio all this after-
noon. He's doing a portrait of me. You might tell
that little pet of yours who is on guard. He lost me
twice yesterday and I saw him trotting round like a
stray rabbit. I felt sorry for him. Good-by. I'm go-
ing to the garage."
She slipped in the gear and slid off, her eyes
twinkling. Inspector Reynolds amused her with his
stolidity. But he had asked questions that she dared
not answer just now. Yet she found something like-


274 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
able in him, and her heart had warmed with quick
sympathy when Bertha showed her the photograph
of her quondam lover which Reynolds had not for-
gotten to send.
"A nice man with a nasty job, Bertha," she had
replied, when Bertha had said the inspector was
very kind.
The C. I. D. man walked slowly back to Scotland
Yard deep in thought and fully aware that Laureen
had avoided a reply.
There were so many things to sift out in this case.
His chief difficulty lay in deciding which to work at
first. Every hour that passed now was that much to
the good for the murderer.
Rarely had he come across so, apparently, simple
a murder case involving three people that had
opened out into one that enmeshed at least a dozen.
In his office he found Lansberg and Dr. Tempest
waiting to see him.
The doctor greeted him hurriedly. "I can wait,
Inspector. Your brother's doing nicely. I'll tell you
all details when you've seen Mr. Lansberg."
"Thank you, Doctor. Will you have a hurried
luncheon with me?"
The doctor assented. "I'll wait downstairs," he
added. "Good-by, Lansberg."
"Can you dine with me to-night, Doctor? Eight
o'clock at the club?" Lansberg asked.
Dr. Tempest smiled. "That will make two free
meals in one day," he remarked. "Thanks very
much, Lansberg. I'll be there."


TIGHTENING THE NET 275
Lansberg turned to the detective as Dr. Tempest
went out. "Dr. Tempest has just told me of this
murderous attack on your brother, Inspector. I'm
very sorry to hear of it. It was a senseless, cruel
act."
The detective sat down at his desk and began
slowly to fill his pipe.
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Lansberg," he re-
plied. "I suppose the attack appeared to be sense-
less, but no more so than the one made on Lady
Avice Garth this morning." He seemed to be only
occupied with pressing in the tobacco but for one
second his swift glance shot to Lansberg's face.
It expressed utter surprise and consternation.
"An attack on Lady Avice!" Lansberg repeated.
Suspense was always a favorite card with Reyn-
olds. He lighted a match and drew several lei-
surely puffs at his pipe to make sure it was well
alight before he answered.
"Yes. She was shot outside Warnham House this
morning. Happily only a flesh wound in the shoul-
der."
Lansberg uttered an exclamation. "She might
have been killed," he said indignantly.
"Easily," agreed Reynolds. "Or her companion.
They were both within the same range. It's possibly
a parallel case with that of my brother."
"I don't understand."
The inspector watched a curl of smoke fade up-
ward. Then he brought his gaze back to the man
opposite him.


TIGHTENING THE NET 277
borough for golf, with Miss Laureen and my secre-
tary."
"I am aware of that," said Reynolds succinctly.
"On returning to my apartment at four thirty I
found some one had got in during my servant's ab-
sence and managed to open my safe. Miss Laureen
was with me."
"And maybe that's why you're reporting this,"
thought the detective shrewdly. "Indeed," he re-
plied aloud. "Was anything missing?"
Lansberg shook his head.
"Nothing of value, although the safe contained
some valuable things. It seemed purely a voyage of
discovery."
The inspector forebore from asking if any article
of no intrinsic value had been taken.
"You are sure you locked the safe before going
out?" he questioned mildly.
The color was gradually coming back to Lans-
berg's face now, as he replied in a troubled tone. "I
could have sworn I did, only memory plays strange
tricks at times. Because of that I might even not
have troubled to report this to you but for an ex-
traordinary occurrence."
The detective glanced up curiously. "What's
that?"
"My servant Neron—you saw him the previous
day—went out that evening and has not returned.
He is absolutely faithful and devoted to my in-
terests. I'm afraid something may have happened
to him."


TIGHTENING THE NET
279
"Nor reason to suspect his fight?” Reynolds's
voice had a clearer, harder tone now.
“Flight!" Lansberg echoed looking puzzled.
"Flight," repeated the detective. “Self-preserva-
tion is the first law."
"I don't understand you, Inspector."
"No?" queried Reynolds mildly. He drew a box
from a drawer beside him and laid it on the table.
"Perhaps this will explain.”
He whipped off the lid and exhibited a long
curved knife within.
"This knife, Mr. Lansberg, was taken”he
paused a second—“from my brother's shoulder. I
think it may account for your servant's absence."


XXIII
BEHIND THE STAGE
LANSBERG looked at the ugly weapon, its curv-
ing blade dulled with ominous spots. His face
was like a mask, the color again driven from it by
the sheer horror this thing had conjured up.
"Mr. Lansberg, this damnable concealment of
fact and evasion of frankness has to come to an
end," the detective thundered, banging his fist on
the desk. "It has already caused suffering to two in-
nocent people. My brother at least is entirely guilt-
less of complicity. Of Lady Avice Garth's part in
this conspiracy of silence I have yet to judge. Her
worst crime is shielding some one else, I think."
The ghost of a smile flickered across Lansberg's
face, giving it an extraordinary sweetness.
"You may be quite sure of that, Inspector. I'
know her to be a loyal, courageous and honorable
woman. As for my own case, maybe you will not
think so harshly of me by this time to-morrow, if I
may ask for so much grace to decide my course of
action. One hesitates to involve others, you see."
Reynolds was taken aback by Lansberg's obvious
280


282 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"You did not know him?" the detective ques-
tioned.
Lansberg raised his head abstractedly.
"No," he replied. "But he resembles a woman
who twice came to me in queer circumstances; once
about a couple of years ago, and once more re-
cently. The likeness is so extraordinary that she
might be his twin sister," he added as he laid the
picture back on the desk.
"Will you tell me about it?" The inspector tried
to speak idly and cloak his curiosity.
Lansberg hesitated. "It can have nothing to do
with this case and the woman asked me to tell no
one." He smiled. "A promise to a mysterious un-
known—it sounds quite romantic."
"You don't know her name and address?"
"Neither. She was thickly veiled each time but
her features were unmistakable. After all, as the
incident is finished, maybe there is no harm in tell-
ing you the rough outline. She asked me the first
time to lock something up for her as her husband
might steal it. And recently she called to claim it.
That's all."
"I see," Reynolds nodded, his eyes bent on his
writing pad. "Had she a husky contralto voice by
any chance?"
"The very reverse," stated Lansberg definitely.
"It was clear, very clear, and rather high." He rose.
"I must be off or Tempest will be tired of waiting
for you. I'll see you to-morrow, Inspector."
A high, clear voice, reflected Reynolds as he


BEHIND THE STAGE 283
stumped solidly downstairs. Oh, undoubtedly he'd
got a very nice little clue that suggested many possi-
bilities.
He was rather distrait over luncheon. Dr. Tem-
pest studied him thoughtfully. "You need not worry
about your brother, Inspector. You can see him
when you like. Your wife was there this morning.
He's enjoying poor health, he says, thanks to a
pretty nurse who happens to be looking after him.
This morning he informed me he didn't mind how
long he was ill."
The inspector roared with laughter. "Bill's at his
old games then. He's a rascal; flirts desperately
with every good-looking girl he meets."
The doctor's thin face brightened with amuse-
ment. "I can promise you he's losing no time now.
Insists on kissing the hand that feeds him, as he
puts it. He'll pull through all right."
"I'm deeply grateful to you," Reynolds said sin-
cerely.
Dr. Tempest brushed aside the remark. "Your
brother says he has no idea who struck him. He saw
and heard nothing. Just felt a terrible pain and
went down unconscious."
Reynolds's face was grim.
"I've a pretty good idea, though." He peered at
his companion closely. "I say, Doctor, you're eat-
ing nothing and look like a ghost. What's wrong?"
"Working a bit too hard possibly."
"And probably up all night with Bill. I shall
always feel you saved his life."


284 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Nonsense," said Tempest bruskly. "Well, I must
be off. I've a lot to do."
The inspector was in his office a little later when
the telephone bell rang. His wife's voice answered
him. "I've seen Bill," she said. "He's getting on
well. By the way, the matron told me that Dr. Tem-
pest insisted on blood transfusion at once last night,
and he unselfishly offered to be the donor. Couldn't
get any one else at that hour. Wasn't it splendid of
him? I thought he looked very ill this morning."
So that was why Tempest seemed so wan and
tired, thought Reynolds as he put back the receiver.
Indeed he owed him a debt of gratitude. A pang of
remorse touched the detective as he remembered
how he and Dr. Tempest had crossed swords more
than once. He had thought the doctor was inclined
to be nervous and weak, though clever at his job.
Now he realized there was a fine, quiet courage
underlying those aloof, gentle manners.
"I've determined to find out something about
that Valerie Baird, Jenkins," he said. "Ring up the
hospitals again and at the same time ask if a man
answering to the description of Lansberg's servant
has been brought in. Hang it all, it's ridiculous to
think of two people disappearing, both mixed up in
this Delmond case."
Reynolds walked up Whitehall in a troubled
frame of mind. The murder had been committed on
Sunday night. This was Thursday afternoon and
he was as far off laying his hands on the culprit as
he had ever been.


BEHIND THE STAGE
285
True, he had discovered many important details,
and proved that several people, in a more or less
indirect way, were linked up with the affair. Dozens
of little irritating clues leading to no real issue. Mo-
tive was the main thing to search for, but he could
not trace a sufficient reason why any of these peo-
ple should risk their own lives to put Leslie Del-
mond out of the way.
Always the detective liked to see a background to
the leading actors in a murder drama. It helped him
tremendously. Now in the cases of the Countess of
Warnham and her niece, of Dick Spencer, even of
Mrs. de Groot, it was easy to see more than the
bare picture. Their environment stood out around
them clearly. But with Laureen, Lansberg, and the
valet, he had nothing but the barest silhouette. Of
their previous life and surroundings he knew prac-
tically nothing.
And three others who undoubtedly played a big
part in the affair, Valerie, Tony and the man with
the missing thumb, had never really materialized.
They were merely shadows. And who was the
woman who had intrusted something to Lansberg's
care years ago and had claimed it recently? Was she
implicated in this case? Was it a woman?
There was a big theatrical agency near, the man-
ager of which he knew well. Presently Reynolds was
in that manager's office, refusing a large cigar.
"Can you tell me anything about this man?" he
asked, showing him Delmond's photograph.
The manager grinned. "I know he was murdered


286 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
in Laureen's flat last Sunday and that he'd been
doing film work off and on—chiefly off—for the
past few years. You probably know all that too,
Inspector."
"I meant before that," Reynolds explained pa-
tiently. "Film actors often start on the stage."
The manager picked up a desk telephone and
talked rapidly for a few minutes. Presently he
turned to the detective. "Am afraid I can't help you
much. My man says Delmond was doing a turn on
the halls for a bit several years ago, but was a fail-
ure so he turned to film work. That's all he can tell
and he'd know if any one did."
Reynolds got up, a little disappointed. "Thanks
very much. You've done your best. Oh, by the way,
do you happen to know what Delmond's turn con-
sisted of?"
The manager picked up the instrument again and
asked the question.
"Female impersonator," he announced.
The detective wondered whether it was Delmond,
dressed as a woman, who had twice called on Lans-
berg. A high, clear voice! Yes, and that telephone
operator said it was a high, clear voice that had
answered Spencer's telephone call at nine fifty last
Sunday night, and that same voice had called Bertha
at eight thirty and sent her out of the flat on a false
errand. Suppose that was Delmond too! Not too
bad a jump so far as guesses went.
Outside the theater, where each night Laureen's
name blazed on huge electric signs, he slowed his


288 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
ers-on after the chorus girls, more elegantly attired
men wanting Laureen, authors with manuscripts of
plays they wanted read—Minnis knew them by
heart and could classify them before they opened
their mouths.
But the detective puzzled him. There was no
category into which he quite fitted. Minnis had an-
other good look: he hated to be baffled.
He saw a stolidly built man of about forty with
rather a heavy face and dull eyes. His clothes were
neat and well-cut without a touch of flashiness. He
carried neither flowers for chorus girls nor a parcel
of manuscript. By his assured bearing he was not a
betting tout. There was no tinge of nervousness in
his manner, no hint that he wanted to curry favor
with Minnis, as most of them did.
"What d'you want?" he demanded of the
stranger, with a faint touch of aggressiveness.
"Whoever you wish to see, they aren't here. There
isn't a matinee to-day."
Reynolds glanced round the tiny cupboard of an
office as he leaned negligently against the door
frame.
"I know there's nobody here. That's why I
came," he observed mildly. His sole interest ap-
parently was in the signed portraits, chiefly of ac-
tresses, with effusive dedications to their dear Min-
nis scrawled in large handwriting, decorating the
walls.
The detective strolled inside now and gazed at
one photograph, which appeared to be chiefly an


290 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
Half-way up the darkish staircase the detective
noticed the iron door leading through into the thea-
ter. Along the corridor there was a sound of cheery
whistling.
Following the direction of it the inspector came
on a shirt-sleeved workman on a step-ladder, paint-
ing a door. He laid down his brush as Reynolds
approached.
"Good afternoon, sir," the man said politely.
"Good afternoon," the detective responded in his
pleasantest tones. "I'm an inspector from Scotland
Yard. I just want to have a glance round the rooms."
Joe looked a trifle apprehensive. Strangers going
through the dressing-rooms! Still, that was up to
Minnis. If he allowed this detective here, it must
be all right.
"Hope there's nothing wrong, sir," he ventured.
Had one of those giddy chorus-girls been up to
something? The Delmond murder case never en-
tered his thoughts.
"Nothing," murmured Reynolds easily. "You
might tell me the owners of the dressing-rooms, Joe,
and then I needn't hinder you any more."
Joe obediently indicated the various rooms, and
the detective wandered in and out of each one,
methodically working up one side of the corridor,
remaining only a minute or so in each.
Presently he came to the empty room where Joe
was at work on the door.
"I've been doing a bit of papering and painting
here, sir," remarked Joe.


BEHIND THE STAGE
291
"You've made quite a good job of it too," the
inspector said approvingly.
Joe surveyed his work from the doorway with
some pride. "Not too bad," he pronounced. Nice
friendly chap this detective; not at all the pouncing
type with hard eyes he'd read of in novels. "The
only nuisance is I never can get time to finish a
thing, sir. Keep getting called off to do other jobs."
"Papering's difficult," said the inspector. "I once
tried to do my attic and it took me nearly two days.
Must have taken you some time to hang this paper.
It's a largish room. Three or four days, I'll warrant,
in odd hours."
Joe scratched his chin.
"No, not so long as that. Let me see. I started
Saturday, worked as far as the mantelpiece and
finished the rest Monday afternoon. And 1 painted
the baseboard too," he added. "But I was able to
get on without hindrance."
Reynolds made a mental note. So Joe was here
then! "That makes a difference, of course," he re-
plied. "Let me see, Miss Laureen was in her dress-
ing-room on Monday afternoon resting. I expect she
finds it's the only quiet place."
"Yes, I saw her, sir. She very rarely comes in if
it's not a matinee day. I was working in this room
and didn't know she was here then until she called
me to get her some cigarettes."
"Well, that was a hindrance you didn't mind, I
expect," laughed the inspector.
"Not a bit, sir," agreed Joe fervently, "and any-


292 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
how it didn't take me more than ten minutes. Our
Miss Laureen's a wonder. The house is packed at
every show."
"Yes, she's an extremely clever young woman.
Good afternoon," Reynolds said, and left Joe to go
on with his job.
He sauntered through two more dressing-rooms
before he turned into that of Laureen. A hurried
search assured him there was no place to hide any-
thing here. He reverted to the other matter.
It took him less than two minutes to locate a long
dark brown coat hanging in a big wardrobe. He car-
ried it to the window, examined the sleeve and
smelled it carefully.
Yes, undoubtedly it had had a large stain on it.
In two spots he could even detect a trace of red
paint which had resisted the amateur efforts to
clean it off. He was replacing it in the wardrobe
when a hostile voice made him start.
"What d'you think you're doing there?"
He turned round sharply and confronted a
hatchet-faced woman who had just entered the
dressing-room.
Without a second's hesitation he attacked swiftly.
"I'm a Scotland Yard inspector. Who cleaned
that red paint from this sleeve?" he demanded.
The woman's belligerent tone changed at once.
"I did, sir. I'm Miss Laureen's dresser. Of course
if I knew I was intruding I wouldn't have come in.
I just thought as I was passing I could do some
mending for her."


BEHIND THE STAGE
293
Her eyes flickered around the room restlessly as
the inspector scrutinized her face. He was not con-
cerned with her loquacious and cringing explana-
tion. Somewhere he had seen this woman before.
Suddenly she put her hand up to straighten her
hat: he noticed the little finger was bent and stiff.
In a second he remembered.
"Got a new job, Lily, eh? We've not seen your
face for quite a long while. How's George behaving
himself?"
The woman started—then shifted from one foot
to the other.
"I've not seen him for ages," she lied boldly. "It
was always him that got me into trouble, Mr. Reyn-
olds. I'm running straight now, so please don't let
them know anything here or I'll lose my place."
"I'm not sure you've any right to be here at all.
But let me catch you either stealing or receiving,"
emphasized the detective, "other people's property
again and you'll get a longer stretch than you'll
like."
"Yes, sir, I'll remember," Lily promised glibly.
"Did you want to know anything about Miss Lau-
reen?"
Reynolds did, badly.
"Not about Miss Laureen exactly," he parried.
"But I'd like to know something about her visitors."
Lily at once poured out a stream of useless de-
tails about the people who called on her mistress.
"Did a young lady—a Miss Valerie Baird—ever
call on Miss Laureen?" he asked to stem the flood.


BEHIND THE STAGE
295
long time it took me too. But I'm glad I did if it's
of use to you, Mr. Reynolds."
Any satisfaction she hoped to get proved disap-
pointing. For the inspector cast a quick glance at it,
tucked it into his pocket and strode out of the room,
his pulse beating a tattoo of excitement.


XXIV
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
JUST one little cigarette, Dick," pleaded Laureen
from her seat on the dais in the studio that
afternoon.
Spencer dabbed some paint on with his thumb
and carefully wiped it off again.
"You've done that three times," she teased.
"Can't I have a cigarette?"
"Certainly not," he remarked sternly. "You had
one half an hour ago. How can I work? You alter
the muscles of your face and neck when you smoke.
Heaven knows," he groaned, "it's difficult enough
to make you keep still for five minutes."
"Think how boring it is for me to sit here gazing
beautifully at nothing."
Dick Spencer ran his fingers through his hair.
"You've got my face to look at," he announced
complacently.
Laureen cocked her head on one side and screwed
up her nose. "I've seen it. That's what I'm com-
plaining about." She flung up her arms and
stretched. "It's no good, Dick. I can't sit still an-
296


THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 297
other minute. You're not painting well to-day and
you know it. Call it a day and let's make tea and
talk."
Dick flung down his palette resignedly.
"Which means I'll make the tea and you'll talk,"
he retorted.
He filled the kettle and set it on a gas ring.
Flinging himself on the big divan on which she
had seated herself, he rested his head against her
shoulder.
She picked up a cushion, thereby uncovering a
pair of pajamas.
"What's the matter with your bedroom?" she
demanded teasingly. "Have you suddenly become so
completely artistic that you must sleep in your
studio?"
Dick flushed scarlet as he tossed the garments
behind the divan.
"Yes—no. Look here, Laureen," he said ear-
nestly, "I'm worried to death about this beastly
murder case. Darling, can't you think it over? Let's
be married and clear out on a honeymoon."
She looked at his worried face kindly.
"Dear old Dick, one can't run away from the
law of England just because you're foolish enough
to want to marry me. Indeed that suet-faced inspec-
tor would think I'd murdered Delmond and shot
Avice into the bargain if I attempted any stunts
like that."
"Well, didn't you?" he jested idly, playing with
the scarf she wore.


THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
299
Laureen caught her breath. If only she could be
alone a moment to think undisturbed.
"The kettle's boiling, Dick," she announced.
Spencer obediently vanished to make the tea.
Laureen leaned back against the cushions, star-
ing miserably across the room at the big windows.
They nearly covered one half of the wall, one win-
dow opening on to a balcony from which a small
iron staircase led to the garden.
Her brain reeled with the news of the attack on
Reynolds's brother. Was that too mixed up with
the Delmond affair? If so, where was it all going
to end? Whose turn would it be next?
She felt wearily that she did not care if she were
to be the next victim, so long as this lonely terror
locked up in her mind could be ended.
Oh, if only she could confide in some one! Almost
she had spoken to Lansberg. But now, with a new
panic, she feared he also was involved, if not actu-
ally guilty.
Dick Spencer as an adviser she rejected from her
thoughts. For one thing he was too much in love
with her to give unprejudiced advice, and also she
could not add a sense of obligation when her feel-
ings for him were merely those of friendship.
Suddenly her eyes dilated as she saw the shadow
of a man creep across one end of the window. Be-
fore the shadow could materialize she instinctively
dived beneath the cushions piled beside her. Leav-
ing a tiny opening between them she crouched,
watching.


30o THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
A man's white face was pressed to the glass. He
was trying to peer into the studio. Dark unkempt
hair tumbled over his brows, a thin nervous hand
shaded his burning eyes.
"Tea's ready," shouted Dick cheerfully from the
kitchen. "And I've made some toast."
At the first sound of Spencer's voice the man
quickly slid away. Listening intently, Laureen could
hear his feet faintly stumbling down the iron stair-
case.
Trembling, she flung aside the cushions and tried
to stand up.
Dick heard a cry and rushed in to find her lying
unconscious on the floor. He lifted her on the couch
and bent over her anxiously.
"What a fool I am !" she murmured as she opened
her gray eyes and gazed round the room. "I've only
done that once before in my life, Dick."
"And I've been making you sit in that tiresome
position," he reproached himself. "As if all the
other worry and strain were not enough to have ex-
hausted you. Let me get you some brandy, darling.
Don't move," he begged.
She declined the offer.
"I'm all right now."
"Can you drink a cup of tea?"
"Two, maybe three," she assured him. "You pour
it out and don't look like an old hen fussing over
her chicken."
She raised herself and made an effort to draw his
attention from her fainting attack.


302 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
prive me of the only chance I get of seeing you,
Laureen," he pleaded.
In spite of her wish he rang up Lansberg after
leaving her.
"Laureen's not fit to go on to-night," he said
over the wire. "After her sitting this afternoon in
my studio she fainted. She told me not to interfere
but I felt you'd persuade her better than I."
Lansberg expressed consternation.
"Thanks, old chap," he said. "You did quite
right. I'll go to the theater at once and tell the man-
ager to warn the understudy. Of course Laureen
mustn't dream of acting to-night."
Dick Spencer grinned sardonically as he came out
of the call-box.
"That's being decent, if not noble," he reflected.
"She and Lansberg are getting keen about each
other, and here am I, the rejected suitor, lending
a helping hand. This is where I untie my knot for
the day."
He trudged along the hot pavements to his club
feeling rather forlorn and despondent. Even in-
side its doors his gloom did not pass off. Desperately
he hated all the publicity that had centered round
Laureen since the murder. Every other man he came
across developed a sudden desire to be chatty with
Spencer, and sooner or later would ask for the lat-
est news of the murder case, knowing he was a
friend of Laureen's.
He wandered into the reading-room but it was
even worse in that hall of silence. Every newspaper


THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
he picked up had some screaming headlines about
Laureen, audaciously recounting supposed inter-
views with her, reprinting photographs of her at dif-
ferent stages of her career. And all of them fiercely
demanded news of Valerie Baird.
Flinging them down in disgust he determined to
call at Warnham House to ask after Avice.
He arrived hot and irritable. On the steps he met
the Countess of Warnham, about to enter. She cast
a comprehensive glance over Dick's angry face and
with an inward smile divined the symptoms.
"Come in and have a cocktail with me," she in-
vited. Tactfully adding "And don't mention murder
cases or this dastardly attack on Avice to-day or I
shall become really violent."
Dick Spencer relaxed. He and Lady Warnham
were very good friends. A sympathetic amusing old
woman, worth nearly all the young ones put to-
gether, he decided. Always excepting Laureen and
Avice.
All of which Lady Warnham knew perfectly—
including the two exceptions.
"Avice is doing very well," she informed him
over an artistically mixed "Soul's Ruin." "Slip up
and see her for a minute, but don't let her talk. That
inspector person has a rendezvous with her to-mor-
row afternoon and she'll need all her strength for
that."
In a few minutes Dick returned. "She's asleep. I
didn't disturb her."
Lady Warnham nodded approvingly. "Good


304 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
child. Stay and have dinner and cheer me up a
little."
It was nearly ten o'clock when Dick returned to
his flat in a far more peaceful state of mind. He
unlocked his door, whistling a tune from Laureen's
revue, switched on the light and strolled inside the
big studio. For a moment he stood, blinking, dazed,
wondering if he had carelessly wandered into the
wrong flat.
The entire place was in the wildest disorder:
chairs flung over, draperies torn, canvases trodden
on. For once, it would seem, burglars had availed
themselves of that convenient back lane!
It didn't greatly disturb him. He was insured and
anyhow had no valuables. Except that one picture of
Laureen. Suppose-
With one quick stride he reached the big easel
and stood back aghast. The canvas had been slashed
in all directions, with particular savage gashes on
the face and golden hair he loved so well.
Spencer was not quite the good-humored fool
Reynolds imagined him to be. There was something
cruelly malicious in the way Laureen's pictured face
had been cut. An unmistakable menace lay there.
With shaking hands he picked up the telephone and
demanded Scotland Yard.
"I want Inspector Reynolds at once," he said.
“Give me his private number if he's not there. It's
urgent."
In a moment he recognized a quiet voice reply-
ing, and for the first time was thankful to hear it.
cruelly m. imagined 1. quite the


THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 305
"Inspector Reynolds speaking. What's the trou-
ble, Mr. Spencer?"
Breathlessly Spencer explained what he had just
discovered, adding that Laureen was probably not
at the theater that night.
"I know she's not," replied the detective. "Meet
me at her hotel as soon as you can. I want to make
sure she's all right. If so, I'll come along with you
and see the damage at the studio."
Laureen had reached her hotel at about five
thirty and found Bertha anxiously studying a tele-
gram she had just received.
"One of my friends at Clapham is ill, miss, and
they've wired to know if I can go down and stay the
night," she explained.
"Of course," assented Laureen at once. "Go by
all means, Bertha. You've scarcely been outside this
hotel since we came. I may not act to-night. If not,
I shall go to bed and shan't need you at all."
"Oh, I can't leave you if you're not well, miss,"
the maid demurred.
"Nonsense. Off you go at once," insisted Laureen.
"I'm going to bed, anyhow, for a while."
An hour later, as she was half dozing, the theater
manager rang up and told her everything was ar-
ranged for her understudy to appear that evening.
"The slips for the programs are being printed.
The girl's rehearsing now, delighted to have her
chance," he added, mindful of Lansberg's firm in-
structions—"At all costs I will not allow Miss Lau-


THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
307
"Quick, tell me—whose room is that in there? Your
maid's?" The door was slightly open.
"My sitting-room. Bertha's room is beyond that.
She's away for the night," Laureen gasped.
"Stay with her," the inspector commanded Spen-
cer, and rapidly searched the two communicating
rooms, whose doors also opened on the outside cor-
ridor. Neither room bore signs of disturbance.
He raced downstairs and startled the night porter.
"Seen any one go out?"
"Only the man who went up to see Miss Laureen
half an hour ago," the porter replied. "He said
she was expecting him."
"Which way did he go? Quick, it's important."
"He got into a bus that was just passing, going
toward Charing Cross."
"His hands—did you see them?"
"Going in he had on yellow chamois gloves. I
was on the curb when he ran out and as he caught
hold of the bus rail his hand looked as if—"
But before he could finish the sentence, the in-
spector was on his way.


XXV
PIERCING THE VEIL
DICK SPENCER bent over Laureen anxiously
when Reynolds dashed into the adjoining
rooms on his search.
"Are you sure that brute didn't hurt you?" He
gently touched the inflamed marks on her neck where
those cruel fingers had gripped her.
Laureen scarcely heeded his question.
"Dick, I—I want to see Mr. Lansberg at once.
Have you any idea where he is? The theater?" she
suggested.
Spencer grinned. Love's young dream must be
very real for Laureen to wish to see Lansberg five
minutes after she'd had a narrow escape from being
murdered! Well, he'd be a father to them both, he
decided, and bury his own feelings.
"For once the fool of the family can help you,
lady," he replied. "Lansberg is dining at his club
to-night with Dr. Tempest as his guest. They're
probably still there talking solemnly in that mauso-
leum. Shall I ring up and ask?"
"Yes. Tell him what's happened and ask him to
308


3io THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
in the room. I rang my bell in terror, probably only
half awake, thinking I was being smothered by
something. I saw no one. And the next minute you
and Mr. Spencer had burst open my door. That is
all. How did you get here?"
"A bell rang as we came in the hall downstairs,"
Reynolds explained. "The porter said it was from
your room. As we reached the door you screamed.
Not knowing the sitting-room door was unlocked,
we broke yours open. Who was your assailant?"
he snapped.
"How can I tell when I didn't see him?" Laureen
retorted.
"Has anything been stolen?"
"Not so far as I can see. Certainly my jewels
and money are safe. I have just looked."
"The person who searched your room and at-
tacked you was not after money or jewelry, Miss
Laureen. Had you any valuable papers or docu-
ments?"
Her gray eyes widened and her breathing was
uneven.
"No," she replied. "Why do you ask?"
"Because," the detective said deliberately, "the
man who searched here to-night is undoubtedly the
man who played such havoc in your flat. The same
man," his voice dropped to a tenser tone, "who
entered Mr. Spencer's studio this evening and hav-
ing searched wildly and fruitlessly there, slashed
your picture to ribbons. What does he want?" the
C. I. D. official demanded imperatively.


PIERCING THE VEIL
3"
Spencer moved restlessly, tried to speak, but the
detective silenced him.
"I can allow no interruption, Mr. Spencer. There
has been too much concealment already, with dis-
astrous results. I mean to know the truth now.
Answer my question, Miss Laureen. What is this
man searching for?"
Laureen gazed at him helplessly, her dry lips in-
capable of making audible sound. Spencer hurriedly
gave her a glass of water.
As she took it from him her hand dropped from
her chin. In one stride the detective had reached her
and peered at those telltale marks livid now on her
white throat.
"So you would even shelter the man who tried
to strangle you," Reynolds said sternly. "This man
is desperate, remember. Think! He tore your fur-
niture to pieces in his desire to find something. This
morning your friend, Lady Avice Garth, was
wounded by a shot undoubtedly intended for you, as
you accidentally admitted to me. This evening the
man ransacked Mr. Spencer's studio, after you had
been there this afternoon and possibly hidden what
he wants, he must have thought. Again he was
baffled, so to-night he comes here and would un-
doubtedly have murdered you if we had not been
in time. The slashed picture gave me the clue that
you were in real danger."
The girl raised her eyes and met the detective's
glance steadily.
"He must be mad," she answered clearly. "How


3 H THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
themselves out. I think I understand what you've
been trying to do."
He stood up, holding her hands in one of his,
an arm round her shoulder.
"Now, Inspector," he said frigidly, "that your
ill-timed examination has brought Miss Laureen to
the verge of collapse after all she had suffered pre-
viously, I suggest you put any vital questions to me
or defer them until to-morrow when I have prom-
ised to be at your disposal. By the way, I should
prefer that interview to be at my apartment at two
thirty instead of at the Yard."
Reynolds assented reluctantly.
"I have asked Miss Laureen to say what is in the
packet and where it is," the detective stated. "She
says she cannot tell me."
Laureen nodded, her eyes half closed.
"That is true, Ivan. Please make him believe it,"
she implored piteously.
"You have had your answer, Inspector. I think
you can go no further in this matter to-night," said
Lansberg.
The detective bit his lip. Then he smiled frankly.
He knew when he was beaten and was willing to
admit it.
"Very well, Mr. Lansberg," he agreed. "Will you
tell me one thing, please, that may help me very
much? When did this woman who resembled Del-
mond call at your apartment to reclaim that packet
from your care?"
"A week ago," Lansberg replied. "No, this is


PIERCING THE VEIL
317
ingly, but at a few words from Reynolds unlocked
the shed door, led them inside, and produced an
electric lamp.
On a rough table lay something covered with a
tarpaulin.
The policeman raised it and Reynolds looked at
the still form.
"They got him out of the river an hour ago, sir,”
the constable explained.
Jenkins stared at the features of the man lying
there. “Do you know who it is, sir?” he asked.
Reynolds nodded. “Lansberg's missing servant.
The man who stabbed my brother. I expect you'll
find his fingerprints tally with those on the knife.”


XXVI
VALERIE
ON that journey from Victoria to Dover, Valerie
had ample time to read and reread the whole
history of Leslie Delmond's murder. The news-
papers of earlier date that she had brought from
the hospital linked it all up clearly. Yes, undoubtedly
suspicion rested heavily on her and she had no means
of proving her innocence.
Who would believe her story of how she passed
last Sunday night? And if she could prove it, would
not the very publicity tell that other man she so
feared where she could be found?
After church last Sunday night she had walked
past Laureen's flat and he had seen and followed
her. She had run wildly, trying to dodge him. Afraid
to go back to her room, lest he was following and
even that refuge would be taken from her, she had
gone by bus to Richmond Park and slept fitfully
hidden in a bank of fern.
Who would believe that story? What witnesses
had she?
Next morning she had determined to see Laureen,
318


VALERIE
319
to warn her, but in crossing the road near her
friend's flat a car had knocked her down.
No, she decided, there was only one way. She
must hide until this hue and cry had died down and
Leslie Delmond's murderer was discovered.
Folding the newspapers mechanically, her glance
fell on the "agony" column. One notice stood out,
for her, in letters of fire. Tears blinded her eyes as
she read the appeal:
Remember Tuileries Gardens, May 20, 1927.
Implore you to write or telephone my number in
London directory. Am in terrible anxiety about
you. D.
He remembered then and cared still, this man
she loved! Two years of sorrow had divided them,
but now that she was alone and in terror he had sent
this assurance of his love to comfort her.
Hurriedly she took paper and envelop from her
case and wrote:
My beloved,
I have just read the Times personal column. You
can never know what comfort your message has
brought.
Try to believe in me. I cannot extricate myself
from these complications. I can only hide. As soon
as possible I will let you know where I am. I dare
not explain more clearly. Always yours.
She did not even sign an initial to this letter. Ad-
dressing it, she dropped the envelop into the post-
box at Dover station.


320 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
As she did so, a well-dressed woman, also posting
letters, looked at her curiously, but the thick veil
hid her features fairly well, and she was sure the
woman had not definitely recognized her.
Suddenly she felt faintness creeping over her and
realized that only excitement had buoyed her up
since her escape from the hospital. Whatever hap-
pened, for the moment she could go no further
without rest. Checking her luggage she went to a
small hotel near the station and asked for a room.
"I've had a long journey and need sleep before
going on," she told the proprietor.
The man assured her she should not be disturbed.
"A nice cup of tea when you wake up and you'll be
all right, ma'am. The sea's a bit choppy to-day.
There's plenty of trains to London."
She sank down on the bed and drew the cover
over her thankfully. Anyhow she was safe here for
a few hours. The hotel proprietor evidently mis-
took her for a weary passenger from France.
It was late afternoon when Valeria awoke and
rang for tea. After drinking it she felt much more
able to plan out clearly what she must do. Her
idea had been to bury herself in Paris in some quar-
ter where tourists and English-speaking visitors did
not come. Thanks to ten years spent in a Belgian
convent school she could always pass as a French-
woman.
It might be safe there, but it would certainly be
terribly lonely, and she dreaded solitude now un-
speakably.


VALERIE
Then the memory returned of the woman she
had encountered at the post-box on Dover platform
that morning. What was Mrs. de Groot doing
there? Probably going to London. In a flash it came
to her that Mary de Groot was going to Avice and
Laureen because she knew they were in trouble. It
was like Mary, the girl reflected. The American
woman was brimming over with kindness and gen-
erosity.
Yes, that was it, Valerie decided. Mary de Groot
was going to stand by her friends and prove her af-
fection, while she—Valerie—was stealing away to
hide, regardless of everything except her own safety.
Laureen must be unhappy and anxious, fighting
bravely—this much was obvious to her—to keep
Valerie's secret. So far she had succeeded wonder-
fully.
But suppose by this very secrecy Laureen herself
should be suspected, perhaps arrested! Her career
would be ruined, even if she cleared herself: mud
always stuck.
Besides, worse than that in Valerie's mind was
the knowledge that she had abandoned Laureen,
leaving her defenseless to the attacks of a man who
had always hated her, and who would now certainly
try to do her harm in some way. Maybe even bodily
injury.
Valerie recoiled from the thought of what might
happen if she carried out her plan to run away and
to hide. She must go back to London at once. No mat-
ter what the result might be, that was her plain duty.


322
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
First of all, she must see Laureen and warn her
of the danger. Suppose after this delay she could
not get to her in time! Oh, how unutterably selfish
had been this flight!
She rang for a time-table and looked up the
trains. The next one arrived in London at eight
thirty-five. Laureen would be in the theater then.
“I must go straight there and see her in her
dressing-room," she made up her mind. “After that
I don't care what they do to me."
Leaving her other luggage in the cloak-room and
taking only a suitcase, she entered a compartment,
drawing her thick veil carefully over her face. She
must run no risk of being discovered before she had
seen Laureen.
Disgust at her previous cowardice grew upon her,
with every passing mile. How could she have thought
of deserting Laureen in such a crisis ? Knowing her
loyalty, Valerie was well aware that nothing would
induce Laureen to protect herself by breaking faith.
There was that note, Valerie remembered, in
which she had desperately revealed her fears to
Laureen. That, if nothing else, would make Laureen
do her utmost to protect her.
The slow train fretted her but at last it arrived
almost half an hour late.
In the taxi Valerie wondered how she should
get to the dressing-room. That stage-door keeper,
with whom she had left her note last Saturday, had
looked very stern and forbidding. He would prob-
ably refuse to admit her unless she gave her name.


VALERIE
And if she did that, she might be arrested before
she could speak to Laureen!
Dismissing the taxi she took her bag and walked
up the alley. Minnis was in his office talking loudly
to two or three men.
Like a shadow she slipped through the doorway
and went noiselessly up the stairs.
"Which is Miss Laureen's dressing-room?" she
asked as authoritatively as she could of a workman
in the corridor. The man indicated an open door
and with a beating heart Valerie stepped inside.
Early that morning in London, Inspector Reyn-
olds had telephoned to Lansberg. "I'm afraid your
man has been found, sir. He was taken out of the
river last night. Will you come along to the Yard
now and go with me to identify the body?"
A little later Lansberg stood looking down at
the still face of the man he had known as a faith-
ful servant.
Reynolds handed him a note, still damp. "This
was tied in his handkerchief," he said. "Can you
translate it? It's in a language I don't understand."
Lansberg smoothed out the paper and with diffi-
culty deciphered the smudged words. He read aloud:
"To my master. Farewell. I have sinned greatly.
Forgive thy servant. I make this reparation."
"Poor Neron!" Lansberg murmured. "It's hard
to imagine his committing any sin that could re-
quire this penalty."


324
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"He probably thought he had killed me?” said
Reynolds, watching Lansberg's face.
“I don't understand, Inspector."
“Yet it's easy if one traces cause and effect, Mr.
Lansberg. My brother was stabbed last Tuesday,
undoubtedly in mistake for me. The knife found in
his shoulder was taken from your safe. You remem-
ber finding it open last Tuesday afternoon when you
returned from Crowborough with Miss Laureen.”
Lansberg assented with a puzzled frown.
"Something else had been taken from your flat-
from your servant's room-before that. Something,"
the detective went on deliberately, “that your sery-
ant had hidden fearing it might incriminate you.
He naturally imagined I had searched your flat.”
“But you were in Paris. Spencer told me so."
"Your man didn't know that. He recalled my
questioning of the day before and saw my name and
private address on your desk.” Reynolds raised his
hand. "We know the result.”
"Your reasoning is logical, Inspector. It appals
me." He pressed his forehead. "If there is nothing
more you need me for, I will go now. I have much
to do before we meet this afternoon.”
As Lansberg's tall figure vanished Reynolds for
one second wondered if he would ever see the man
again. But reflection reassured him. Lansberg was
being carefully trailed and, short of suicide, could
not escape.
At Scotland Yard, Jenkins was waiting for Reyn-
olds with news.


VALERIE
"No need to go to the hospital about that girl,
sir. They have just rung up to say she vanished dur-
ing the night."
"Vanished!" exclaimed his chief. "How could she?
You told me she'd been unconscious since the acci-
dent."
"The hospital is overcrowded at the moment and
apparently this girl's case has not been closely ex-
amined. It's all very mysterious."
"Mysterious," snapped the inspector. "It's in-
credible. Unconscious people don't get up and walk.
We should have had her watched. Give me the tele-
phone."
After five minutes of extremely irate question-
ing the inspector thumped the receiver back on the
hook and scowled at his assistant.
"I'll bet a dollar this girl was Valerie Baird. We
can try her old address in Bloomsbury. But I'm sure
she won't go back there. She was knocked down
about twenty yards from Laureen's flat last Monday
morning, between eleven and twelve." He swore
softly. "I was actually in the flat at the time. Think
of it! But for that accident this girl would have
walked right into our arms."
"You have proof of that, sir?" queried Jenkins
eagerly.
"I've a copy of a note she wrote to Laureen say-
ing she'd call. Here, read it." He passed over the
copy given him by Laureen's dresser.
Jenkins read it with great interest.
"Did you notice that bit: 'I've been in England


326 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
some weeks'?" He put his finger to the phrase as
he passed the note back.
"Well, what of it?" demanded the inspector im-
patiently.
"As so much of this affair has centered in Paris,
sir, perhaps Valerie might have come from Paris
to England. And if so—"
Reynolds nodded quickly. "Yes, I've got the rest.
She might try to go back. We must watch for that.
Let me see, she probably aimed for that nine o'clock
boat train. Is it Victoria or Charing Cross it starts
from? Don't waste any time. And tell the men to
use their brains for once."
Jenkins was hurrying from the room when the
telephone bell rang.
"You answer," the inspector told Jenkins. "I
must get off to my appointment with Lady Avice
Garth. Ring me at Warnham House if necessary."
He was half-way down the stairs when Jenkins
ran after him, breathless. "It's from Cripps, who's
trailing Miss Laureen. He says you told him to
ring you if she went to the theater."
"I did. What's the message?"
"Cripps says that Miss Laureen has just gone in
by the stage-door of the theater, sir. He telephoned
at once."
The inspector took the remaining steps in one
leap and jumping in a taxi gave the address of the
theater.
"Drive like blazes," he ordered.


XXVII
LADY AVICE EXPLAINS
HEN Reynolds arrived at the theater huge
placards were already displayed announcing
that Laureen would positively appear that day at
both performances.
"If not otherwise engaged," Reynolds reflected
grimly. He was determined to speed up events to-day
whatever happened, his softer mood of the night
before gone in his irritation because Valerie had
again slipped through his fingers.
He hurried along the alley to the stage-door,
brushed past Minnis and ran lightly up the stairs.
The door of Laureen's dressing-room was open,
but she was not there. Reynolds was not surprised.
He had been sure she would visit the other dressing-
rooms and now she had acted more quickly than
he had expected.
He tiptoed silently along the stone corridor, stop-
ping every now and then to listen.
Outside the empty room that had been newly
papered, he paused. The door was shut but he could
detect faint sounds from within.

327


328 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
With the utmost caution his fingers closed on the
door handle and began to twist it. It turned with-
out a squeak, and by delicate pressure he found the
door was not locked.
Suddenly he flung it open and entered.
Laureen was on her knees near the mantelpiece.
She gave a startled cry as she saw who it was and
struggled to her feet.
"An early visit, Inspector," she remarked.
"A surprise visit," emphasized Reynolds mildly,
strolling toward her. "An ingenious hiding place,
Miss Laureen. Don't let me interrupt you."
He bent down and examined a long slit in the
wallpaper parallel to the baseboard.
She rested one arm on the mantelpiece to sup-
port her shaking limbs, but made no reply.
The inspector opened his pocket knife and slipped
the blade into the aperture between the board and
the wall.
"Ah, here we are, I think. I was so afraid I should
be too late to see this part of the drama." He
stuck the blade into something soft and with a little
difficulty worked into sight a thick envelop.
He turned it over curiously. It had been through
the post but was unopened!
"You have not opened it since—" he stated.
"Of course not," replied Laureen. "I had no
right to do so."
"But you know what is inside. You addressed it
to Miss Valerie Baird."
"I have my shoes on but I'm not walking," was


330 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
the seat. I lifted his hand and found the packet in
the lining of the chair. He must have slipped it there
when he was dying." She shuddered at the memory.
"Then you went into your bedroom and glanced
through the packet before you sealed it in this en-
velop. Or was it sealed before?"
"I did as you said. The packet was not sealed. I
hurriedly looked through it and discovered a paper
belonging to—somebody else," Laureen murmured.
"Fearing you and the flat might be searched that
night, you addressed and stamped the envelop and,
on the pretext of whistling for the policeman, ran
down and dropped it in the hall-box. Carter took it
from there and posted it next morning," he went on.
"Yes." She was watching him with fascinated
eyes as he told the story of her movements.
"The next afternoon you came here ostensibly to
rest, disguised yourself as an old lady and called at
Valerie Baird's address in Bloomsbury. The red
paint from the wet railings has now been cleaned
off the brown coat you wear in a sketch each night."
This time Laureen gave a gasp of astonishment.
"That is all perfectly true, Inspector," she ad-
mitted, with a touch of admiration in her voice.
His lips twisted in a faint smile. "Not quite such
a dull old fool as you imagined, eh, miss!" he
thought.
"You then went to the hotel to which you had
sent this letter, booked a room in order to get a
number and called for this packet at the letter
bureau."


332 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
one long terror now. I'm afraid of L. D. but far
more afraid of—you know who. I'd die rather than
see him again.
I'm staying at 30 Carisbroke Road, Bloomsbury,
but don't write there. I don't trust the landlady.
Will call at your flat on Monday morning if I'm
sure L. D. is not watching there. I wouldn't bring
you into this mess for anything, darling, after all
your kindness to me. Have sold a few sketches so
am not needing money. „ , . __ „
6 } Your devoted Val"
"I think it is absolutely identical with the one I
received, but I burned—"
Reynolds smiled casually.
"Yes, you burned the original in the ashtray last
Sunday night," he replied. "Your dresser is an old
acquaintance of mine. She opened and copied this
before giving it to you on Saturday night. She sup-
plied me with this. Beware of her: she's a wily old
creature with a streaky past."
Laureen looked at him calmly.
"Probably you know where I went after dinner
on Sunday night also," she suggested.
The detective's eyes twinkled.
"I think so," he answered. "You left your friends
in the restaurant, strolled out in your pink velvet
cloak. Later you reversed it, pulled a small black hat
on and called at Valerie Baird's address. After that
you walked toward Regent Street and drove to Mr.
Spencer's studio." He glanced at his watch. "I have
an appointment."


LADY AVICE EXPLAINS
333
"The packet?" she questioned earnestly.
"I can make no promises," he told her. He felt
certain there was a document there belonging to
Lansberg. He must consult his chiefs on the matter.
He buttoned the packet carefully into an inner
pocket.
All that he had reeled off to Laureen had sounded
very glib and impressive, but actually he feared that
the things which really counted in this case had yet
to be discovered. Suddenly he recalled another point
on which Laureen might be able to help him.
"Do you ever remember hearing Leslie Delmond
speak in a falsetto voice?" he asked.
She seemed a little surprised at what was appar-
ently a trivial question.
"Often," she replied without hesitation. "It was
a favorite trick of his."
"Where did you hear him do it?"
Her eyes opened in wonder.
"Why, in Nice, when we were acting in the film.
He used to do it for fun, perhaps also to attract
attention. I told you I had not seen him since."
"Thank you, Miss Laureen," he replied. "That's
all for the present, I think."
At Warnham House he found the countess await-
ing him. She met him graciously.
"My niece is much better and quite ready to see
you, Inspector."
He was taken up to the darkened room in which
he had been on the previous day. Lady Avice was
lying on a couch, and after an inquiry concerning


334 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
her health the inspector sat down facing her, his
back to the shaded alcove window.
Buried in a big easy-chair, only his long legs
showing, was a man who did not move at the in-
spector's entrance, and Reynolds made no comment
on his presence. But Lady Avice did.
"I have asked Mr. Spencer to be present at our
interview, but to take no part in it until I ask him
to do so."
Reynolds agreed amiably. Half London could be
there as far as he was concerned, as long as he heard
Lady Avice's explanation.
"First of all, where were you and Lady Warn-
ham on the night of the murder, Lady Avice?"
Reynolds asked.
"We dined here and played chess until it was time
for me to go to Mr. Spencer's studio. Then my aunt
went to bed and I went to the party. The servants
will probably be able to corroborate that."
"Who sent the telegram you received early on
Tuesday morning immediately before you rushed off
to Paris?"
The girl bit her lip to hide a smile.
"My dressmaker, canceling an appointment. I
threw it into my drawer, so mercifully it was saved.
Here it is."
"Thank you," said Reynolds, glancing at the tele-
gram and observing that date and hour tallied.
"Please give me your account of things in your own
way."
"My aunt, Lady Warnham, did not complete her


LADY AVICE EXPLAINS
335
story for two reasons, Inspector," Lady Avice be-
gan. "She tried to protect my father's name and,
indirectly, mine."
"I gathered that," the detective replied.
"My aunt has already told you that a little more
than two years ago she came to my rescue in Nice,
of our meeting with Mrs. de Groot, and later with
Laureen and Delmond. She, however, did not tell
you that Mr. Spencer was with us part of the time,
and that he and my father gambled a lot together."
"No, she did not mention Mr. Spencer," said
Reynolds. "Before we go any further, Lady Avice,
I have an important question to ask you. Was Tony,
your brother, I believe, with you also?" He watched
her keenly.
Lady Avice's lips twitched.
"No," she said gravely, "Stinker was not there."
Then in her cool voice she continued:
"You know of Mary de Groot's infatuation for
Delmond. Well, a big fancy-dress ball was to be
held in Nice and we decided to go together in various
costumes.
"A week before the ball Mr. Spencer came to my
aunt and Mrs. de Groot and casually said they ought
to have their jewelry cleaned for the great occasion
and that he had heard of a wonderful jeweler who
would do it beautifully.
"My aunt and Mary de Groot thought it an ex-
cellent plan. Mr. Spencer took their jewels—very
valuable in both cases—and four or five days later
brought them back, glistening marvelously.


336 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"You understand, Inspector, Mr. Spencer alone
took them and brought them back and was entirely
responsible for them."
The inspector nodded. "It is quite clear."
"A few days after the ball," went on the girl,
"we discovered that my father's debts had been mys-
teriously paid. But we suspected nothing."
"Naturally, Lady Avice."
"After the film was finished Laureen went to
America, and Delmond to Paris, I think. Mrs. de
Groot and Mr. Spencer came to London with my
aunt and myself. We were trying to cure Mary of
her infatuation, you see."
"A difficult task," asserted Reynolds.
"A hopeless one," the girl sighed, "for soon Mrs.
de Groot went back to Paris to find Delmond. Occa-
sionally I went over to see her, and once she told
me she wanted to marry Delmond but he always
made some excuse and that she was sure there was
another woman."
"There seem to have been several," commented
the detective dryly.
"I must tell you that my aunt very rarely wore
her jewels—those she had in Nice, I mean. At times,
when we were hard up, she would sell a brooch or
a ring, but the more valuable articles were kept at
the bank.
"About fifteen months ago I had an agitated let-
ter from Mrs. de Groot, asking me to have my
aunt's jewels examined at once but giving no reason.
We took them that day to a well-known expert and


LADY AVICE EXPLAINS
339
was sentenced to one year's imprisonment and his
companion to nine months."
She caught her lip as if the memory were painful,
but finished firmly: "Mr. Spencer was released a
few weeks ago."
The inspector frowned. Spencer, he knew, was in
love with Laureen. "But, forgive me, Lady Avice,
you ought to have told me all this before."
Lady Avice shook her head and smiled. "I think
not, Inspector. You see, when I heard of the murder
I feared naturally that Mr. Spencer had committed
it."
"Then surely you should have been frank with
me earlier. The law demands that," Reynolds as-
serted.
"The law also makes an exception to that rule,
Inspector."
"I'm afraid I don't understand you. Neither do I
understand where the mysterious Tony comes in."
Lady Avice laughed softly and beckoned to the
man in the window. He rose instantly and came to
her side, looking full at the detective.
Reynolds stared blankly. He had never seen this
fellow's face before!
The girl twined her soft fingers round the man's
hand. "The law concedes that a wife need not give
evidence against her husband," she said clearly.
"Inspector Reynolds, this is my husband, Tony
Spencer. Dick Spencer's twin brother, whom I
secretly married in Paris a little more than a year
ago—almost against his will too."


XXVIII
THE LINGERING SHADOW
AUTOMATICALLY Inspector Reynolds took
the hand that Tony held out, looking into
clear brown eyes which still held a hint of suffering.
He could see the strong resemblance now to the
artist brother, and began to fathom the reason for
Lady Avice's wild rush to Paris. She had feared
then that her husband had murdered his enemy. That
much was clear.
Lady Avice's voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Now you will understand why Delmond black-
mailed my aunt, Inspector. He found out I was mar-
ried to Tony Spencer and threatened to expose the
fact that my husband had gone to prison for passing
false bank-notes. Delmond wrote me giving his ad-
dress and demanding money. My aunt courageously
went to see him and said he could do his worst. And
I wrote him:
"If you write or attempt to see either my aunt or
myself again, I shall immediately go to Scotland
Yard and tell the whole story.
340


THE LINGERING SHADOW 341
"That must be the note you found. I never wrote
to him before or since. But I telephoned to him
twice. The last time was on Sunday afternoon—the
day he was murdered."
"Thank you. That clears that up, Lady Avice.
And it explains why he was desperate after your
message and went to Laureen's flat."
Reynolds was still churning over his surprise
about Tony when he heard Laureen's voice in the
doorway.
"May I come in?" she asked.
Reynolds assented, still a little bewildered. What
new knot would be unraveled now?
Suddenly he turned to Tony. "Where were you,
Mr. Spencer, on the night of the murder, Sunday,
June thirtieth?"
"Roaming about London, extremely drunk and
angry, up to six o'clock looking for Delmond," the
young man replied frankly. "Accidentally I met my
brother who begged me to come back to his studio
and go to bed. I refused and broke away from him.
Ten minutes after, in the Berkeley, I met three men
I know who were motoring to Dover. They made
me go with them and I crossed on the night boat to
Paris. I can give you their names and addresses, of
course."
Tony paused. "I—I wanted to see my wife, but I
was too ashamed of myself then," he went on. "I'd
written to her, when I came out of prison, saying I
must get that horror off my mind a bit first."
With a glance at the detective, which demanded


342
THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
permission for the interruption, Laureen bent down
and kissed her friend.
“Mary de Groot's downstairs, Avice," she said.
“She crossed yesterday from Paris but felt so tired
that she stayed the night in Dover. This morning
on Dover station whom do you think she saw post-
ing a letter?”
"I can't guess," smiled Avice.
“Valerie,” said Laureen emphatically, casting a
mischievous look at the detective.
Reynolds's lips parted in surprise.
“Valerie!” he repeated in amazement.
“Why not?" asked Laureen lightly. “She has to
be somewhere if she's alive, so why not Dover sta-
tion?”
"She only left the hospital early this morning,"
the detective almost stammered.
Laureen caught his arm anxiously.
"Hospital? What do you mean? Please tell me
quickly."
“I have every reason to believe that Valerie
Baird was knocked down and stunned by a car last
Monday morning. It happened in Berkeley Street,
quite close to your flat.”
"I heard the crash and Mr. Lansberg went to the
window," cried Laureen. “Oh, to think my poor
Valerie was so close and I never knew it. Was she
badly hurt?"
"It was thought that she was still unconscious
up to ten o'clock last night,” Reynolds observed
drily. “But during the night she was well enough
windoneard the car flat." Pened in Berhad


THE LINGERING SHADOW 343
to get up, dress, and get out of the building unno-
ticed."
"Don't they have nurses there?" indignantly de-
manded Laureen. "Poor girl, she was probably de-
lirious at the time."
"Well, for a delirious person she seems to be
remarkably capable, Miss Laureen. Posting letters
on Dover platform appears very normal."
"Possibly to you," commented Laureen bitterly.
"But where is she now?"
"That is what I should very much like to know.
May I use your telephone, Lady Warnham?"
Hurriedly he rang up Jenkins and told him to
telephone the Dover officials to find and detain the
girl. "Hold the line a minute," he added.
"Mrs. de Groot," he said, entering the dining-
room and surprising that lady considerably, "how
was Valerie Baird dressed when you saw her this
morning?"
"In black with a heavy veil," she replied.
He thanked her, gave Jenkins the description and
returned to the American woman.
"When Lady Avice arrived at your hotel in Paris
last Tuesday did you know Mr. Tony Spencer was
her husband?"
"I sure did, Inspector," replied Mary de Groot,
lapsing for once into her vernacular.
"Did you telegraph for her to come?"
"I did not. On the contrary she cabled me. Also
she cabled my maid telling her to hide the English
newspapers so that I should not get a shock."


344 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"About this affair of the jewels being cleaned at
Nice. How did Tony Spencer hear of this jew-
eler?"
A red flush swept over the woman's face and
neck.
"Leslie Delmond gave him the address but told
Tony not to mention his name in the matter for fear
the ladies might imagine he was getting a commis-
sion out of the job. Of course Tony promised and,
like the good-natured, honorable fool he is, kept
the promise."
"Have you any idea who his companion was in
the false bank-note arrest, Mrs. de Groot?"
She stared at the detective as if she doubted his
sanity.
"Sakes alive! Have I any idea? I should say so."
Reynolds restrained a smile with difficulty. He
was getting plain truth from this daughter of God's
own country, and the novelty was refreshing.
"There has been so much concealment in this
case, Mrs. de Groot, everybody trying to protect
somebody else, that my way has been made very
difficult. I shall be grateful if you will be frank and
tell me what you know," he said tactfully.
The lady extended her bejeweled fingers.
"Well now, isn't that what I've come from Paris
for? Judging by the newspapers you're all in an
unholy mess through this damfool secrecy. The
truth has to come out sooner or later. What do you
want to know?"
The inspector repeated his question.


THE LINGERING SHADOW
345
“Who was arrested with Tony Spencer?” he
asked.
“Valerie, of course.”
“Valerie Baird,” exclaimed the astonished detec-
tive.
“Fiddlesticks !" snapped the American. “Valerie's
maiden name was Baird, but it isn't now, worse luck
for her."
"What is it?' asked Reynolds, his pulse thumping
with eagerness.
“Valerie Delmond. She is Leslie Delmond's
widow."
The detective gazed at her, speechless. Never
once had he dreamed of this. It explained a thou-
sand things.
“They were married in Nice," Mrs. de Groot
went on, pluckily reciting these painful reminis-
cences, "before I ever knew Delmond. She was a
marvelous black and white artist and also did-
what do you call it?—they draw with acid on
metal.”
“Etching," suggested the inspector, recovering a
little from this series of surprises.
“Yes, etching, I never can remember that word.
I didn't know her in Nice. None of the Warnham
party met her, neither did any of us know Delmond
was married.” She sighed. “Might have saved me
from making such a prize idiot of myself.”
“But why did none of you meet her as Mrs. Del-
mond?”
“Because Delmond was at the studio most of the


348 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
like. I can't and Avice won't, and soon we'll all be
in jail together if this goes on.' She's a wise old
lady, I'll tell you, Inspector. What was it you
asked?"
"About the bank-notes," prompted Reynolds.
"Oh, yes. Well, Tony frightened Delmond, and
at last Delmond said the jewels were pawned, but
in a few days he'd give Tony the money to redeem
them. It was a lie to begin with, for most of the
jewels had been sold, not pawned. He told Tony to
call in three days at an address he gave him, when
the money and pawn-tickets would be handed to
him. Delmond added that he might have to go off
on a film job at a moment's notice."
"Very nicely arranged," put in Reynolds. "Del-
mond could slide out of view easily."
"Tony went to the address and found a girl he'd
never seen before. It was Valerie, Delmond's wife,
but Tony didn't know and she didn't tell him who
she was. She gave him the packet but insisted she
must go to the pawnshop with him—she seemed
frightened, Tony said. They were both arrested
there for having false money.
"Tony sent for me. He told me the story and
made me swear not to let Avice know if he was con-
victed, but to get her back to England. Family
honor and all that bunk. I tried everywhere to find
Delmond, but it was no use."
"Tony Spencer got a year and the girl nine
months," said the inspector.
"Yes. I met Valerie when she came out and made


THE LINGERING SHADOW 349
her stay with me. About a month ago she left me
to go to London. I believe she'd met Delmond, or
some man, and was worried about Laureen."
"Why should she be? Were they such close
friends as all that?" asked Reynolds with interest.
"Friends! Why, listen—" She looked up and saw
Laureen standing in the doorway. "I say, Laureen,
you all have sewed up the facts of this case so tight
that what this poor man doesn't know will never
hurt him. Think of it! He's just asked me if you
and Valerie were friends." Mrs. de Groot laughed
heartily at the thought.
Laureen smiled rather pathetically as she walked
into the room and stood before the inspector.
"Valerie is my sister; a very dearly loved sister,
Inspector," she said.
"You told me you were an only child. You told
Mr. Lansberg that also," the detective exploded in
irritated tones.
Laureen shook her finger to and fro. "These
were my exact words: 'My father and mother be-
lieved in a small but good family and I'm it,' " she
repeated. "Valerie is my stepsister."
"Yes, those were your exact words. But they de-
ceived me."
"I'm afraid I meant them to," she replied
frankly. "You see my father died when I was a few
months old and my mother married again very
soon. Valerie was born when I was two and a half.
We grew up together, went to the same school in
Belgium and were only parted when my mother


XXIX
A CONFESSION
LANSBERG rose from his desk to greet Reyn-
olds as he entered the room that afternoon.
"Sit down, Inspector," he invited courteously. "I
have quite a lot to tell you. Dr. Tempest insists on
being present." His eyes twinkled. "He and I had
a long talk after dinner last night and I think he
wishes to protect my interests. I'm expecting him
at any moment. Are there any preliminary questions
you'd like to ask me?"
"Several," said the detective curtly. He was not
going to be swerved from his purpose by this man's
calm dignity, nor allow him to be unduly backed up
by Dr. Tempest. The doctor was a good chap—
didn't he owe his brother's life to the surgeon's
prompt and generous action?—but inclined to be
fussy over one's methods.
Boiled down, all he had learned this morning
brought him no nearer the actual criminal. It merely
eliminated certain suspicious characters and ex-
plained how and why they had been entangled in the
case.
352


A CONFESSION
353
"How and where did you first meet Miss Lau-
reen?" he asked.
"In Nice, when she was acting in the film I was
financing. I called at the studios one afternoon, was
introduced to her and didn't see her again until this
year."
H'm, that agreed with what Laureen had said.
Reynolds loved checking up statements.
"Did you meet a Mrs. de Groot then?"
Lansberg smiled. "No, I've not met her yet, but
I have heard a lot about her from Lady Avice."
"Did you meet Delmond in Nice?"
"I have never met Delmond," Lansberg asserted.
"Lady Warnham and Lady Avice Garth?" Reyn-
olds queried.
"I've met them many times, of course, in Lon-
don. Never on the Riviera, which I dislike and
rarely visit."
"Do you know Valerie?" Reynolds asked, with
emphasis.
Lansberg's eyebrows lifted slightly. "No, Inspec-
tor, I do not. But I've read of your search for her
in the newspapers this week."
"Tony Spencer. Do you know him?"
"No. But I remember hearing some one say that
Dick Spencer had a twin brother whom one never
saw nowadays."
"Thank you, Mr. Lansberg. Those points are
settled."
The door was opened at that moment and Dr.
Tempest came in. Reynolds looked at him anxiously


A CONFESSION
355
near Tunbridge Well and met them, leaving Miss
Laureen at the golf house for an hour. As you were
probably told."
"That is so, sir," Reynolds replied. Most heartily
he wished Lansberg had no connection with this
murder case. Yet what about that gashed shirt and
vest? And the knife in the safe which was later used
to stab his brother? Why was Neron alarmed if his
master had nothing to do with it?
And what was inside that packet he was half
afraid to open? He decided to plunge boldly.
"Could there be any document of yours in the
envelop the mysterious woman brought you to take
care of and reclaimed recently?" the detective
asked.
"How could there be?" Lansberg replied. "It
was brought to me sealed and was returned intact,
of course."
Reynolds took it from his inner pocket.
"Is that the same one, Mr. Lansberg?"
Lansberg inspected it closely and handed it back
to the detective.
"It appears to be of the same size and weight.
But the one I guarded was in a plain envelop. This
is addressed to Valerie Baird."
Reynolds tore off the outer cover, revealing a
plain white envelop, slit open along its length.
"Yes, that looks like it. Only it's been opened
since it left my possession."
The first paper the inspector took out was boldly
headed "Lansberg." This must have been what Lau-


A CONFESSION
357
it. No wonder she was afraid, no wonder Laureen
had concealed the packet.
Looking further he discovered Tony Spencer's
and Avice Garth's marriage certificate, and folded
in it Avice's note to Delmond. One or two old let-
ters from Mrs. de Groot were there, but these he
only glanced at. There was also a tiny clipping from
a French newspaper dealing with the prosecution of
Tony and Valerie*
The papers of recent date had evidently been
slipped in the envelop after the owner had received
it back from Lansberg. Probably to ensure all the
valuable articles being kept together.
Reynolds put the packet away safely after show-
ing Lansberg and Dr. Tempest the etching and Va-
lerie's note.
Lansberg drew himself up stiffly, almost as though
he were standing at attention. "And now, Inspec-
tor," he said slowly and emphatically, "we come to
a more serious matter. Dr. Tempest has heard my
story and absolutely disagrees with the action I
have decided on. He insists on being present at this
interview and I in turn insist that he shall be silent
until I have spoken."
Dr. Tempest's eyes had something akin to agony
in them as he gazed mutely at Lansberg.
"I have agreed under protest," he murmured.
Lansberg faced the detective. "Then, Inspector,"
he said calmly, "I wish to give myself up for the
murder of Leslie Delmond."
The detective forced himself to appear as emo-


360 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
swear that he was breathing heavily when I went
away.
"I left the chloroform bottle there, but brought
away the knife and also this which I picked up." He
took a tiny stone seal from the table and passed it
to Reynolds.
"Then, to calm myself a little, I walked to my
apartment, locked the knife in my safe, and went on
to Victoria where Laureen's maid saw me get on a
bus."
"You did not change your shirt at your flat?"
the detective asked keenly.
Lansberg shook his head. "I didn't think of it.
Only one thing was in my mind, that at all costs I
must manage to see Laureen home in case that man
was still there. That he was dead never occurred to
me.
"When we entered one could smell chloroform,
but she thought it was benzine Bertha might have
used. I was longing to look in the dining-room but
did not want to rouse her fears unduly, as you will
easily understand."
"Do you remember closing the door of the flat
after you, Mr. Lansberg?"
"That is what I cannot remember. Sometimes I
think I must have left it unfastened in my agita-
tion."
"Why didn't you call in the police?"
Lansberg raised his hand with that rare gesture
of his. "And draw lurid attention to the woman I
cared fori" he exclaimed. "It was quite obvious


A CONFESSION
363
and tipped it three times on to the handkerchief.
Making a quick stride he sprang on the doctor's
stooping form and held the handkerchief to Tem-
pest's mouth while the inspector counted the sec-
onds.
Then Lansberg withdrew the handkerchief and
laid it on the paper.
"I can't be positive," he said, "but it seemed
about that length of time."
Reynolds nodded and regarded the bottle. Only
a very little of the water had been used in Lans-
berg's demonstration.
Dr. Tempest rose to his feet.
"Absolutely impossible," he declared, "to have
killed Delmond in that short time, Inspector, as I
said before. And, in any case, remember Mr. Lans-
berg acted in self-defense. The whole thing lacks
motive. Why should a man of Mr. Lansberg's
wealth and position wish to murder an unknown film
actor?"
"Why did you offer to give yourself up, Mr.
Lansberg?" asked Reynolds.
"Because," replied he clearly, "the situation these
past few days has been intolerable. I have been
spied upon from morning until night, my rooms
were entered by a trick last Tuesday afternoon and
searched, and my safe was opened presumably by
one of your men, Inspector. Miss Laureen's safety
has been threatened and her health is at stake if
this condition lasts. At first I kept silent believing
some one else must have entered that flat, finished


A CONFESSION
365
known person entered, and after murdering the
unconscious Delmond took away the chloroform
bottle.
Who was his assailant? Could it have been
Valerie? Everybody else implicated in the case was
accounted for on that night.
Then suddenly he remembered there was one
other. Where was the man with the missing thumb
whose fingerprints had been found on the dining
table?
"Mr. Lansberg," Reynolds said firmly, "I have
not sufficient evidence to prove that Leslie Delmond
died by your hand."


XXX
A SHOT IN THE THEATER
MINDFUL of his promise to Laureen, Inspec-
tor Reynolds was at the theater in good time
that night, accompanied by Dr. Tempest whom he
had invited.
"Laureen's in a highly nervous condition and if
she collapses to-night, Doctor, you'd be mighty use-
ful, knowing the cause as you do."
Throughout the first part of the revue, the detec-
tive's attention was occupied chiefly by the audience.
From the box which Laureen had reserved, he
scanned her closely when she first came on. She re-
ceived a tremendous ovation and her vivacity seemed
normal rather than forced.
When the curtain was rung down for the interval
Reynolds strolled round the corridors, observing the
people.
"Boxes full?" he asked the attendant.
"Two of the parties haven't come yet," was the
answer. "That often happens. Especially with young
gentlemen who've seen the show several times. They
come in after the intermission usually."
366


368 THE WESTMINSTER MYSTERY
"Thank you, yes, Inspector. I was just a nervous
fool, I suppose. Oh," she laughed suddenly, "shut
your eyes. I've a surprise for you."
The detective obeyed, amused at the spectacle of
a Scotland Yard officer, intent on a murder case,
being led with closed eyes across a revue actress's
dressing-room!
"You can look now," Laureen allowed. "Guess
who that is!"
Standing before him was a frail slender girl with
soft fair hair. Her violet eyes gazed at him sadly
but with no hint of fear. He didn't need Laureen's
introduction to tell him her name, for she was un-
doubtedly the original of the snapshot in Delmond's
attache case.
"This is the inspector engaged on the case, Va-
lerie," Laureen explained. "He probably hates me.
I've been a mass of prevarication for your sake—
until to-day."
"Don't hate Laureen, Inspector," pleaded Va-
lerie. "Hate me if you like. I deserve it for my cow-
ardice in running away. But my sister's the most
wonderful being in the world to me."
"I don't hate either of you," said Reynolds. And
meant it as he took Valerie's thin fingers in his own
big hand.
"Probably you want to ask me hundreds of ques-
tions, Inspector. I promise to answer them truth-
fully," Valerie offered.
"I can only think of one urgent one at the mo-
ment. Other people have told me so much that I can


A SHOT IN THE THEATER 371
free. You have had all the suffering—Laureen all
the money and pleasure. Your turn now, Valerie!"
He muttered inaudibly for a minute and then Reyn-
olds drew the girl away.
"He's gone," said the detective softly. "Who was
he?"
"My father," replied Valerie simply. "He had
fits of madness at times. He worshiped me but was
bitterly jealous of Laureen and her success, for my
sake. He was a brilliant artist until that accident to
his hand." She was trembling violently.
"Take her back to the dressing-room, Doctor,"
said Reynolds. "She'll faint in a minute. I shall be
here some time."
As the door of the box closed behind them the
inspector stooped over the dead man. Yes, un-
doubtedly this was the same type of pistol as that
used in the attack on Lady Avice.
Suddenly he drew back. The pistol was near the
dead man's left hand! Reynolds paused a moment,
then pulled the right hand into view and gazed at
it. Here, he reflected, his task obviously ended. The
last link was complete. For this hand lacked a
thumb!