I HAVE KILLED A MAN!


By the Same Author:
THE MURDER ON THE BUS
THE THREE DAGGERS
THE BODY IN THE SAFE


I HAVE KILLED
A MANX
B,
CECIL FREEMAN GREGG

LINCOLN MAC VEAGH
THE DIAL PRESS
NEW YORK • MCMXXXI
LONGMANS, OUBBM AMD CO., TORONTO


COPYRIGHT, 1931, BY DIAL PRESS, INC
MANUFACTURED IH THE UNITED STATES OF AMEBIC*
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, M. Y.


TO
ERIC PENDRELL SMITH





The author wishes it clearly to be understood that the
characters in this story are entirely fictitious, and that no ref-
erence is made, or intended to be made, to any living person.





CONTENTS
PART ONE
m PAQB
L IN WHICH MR. SCOTT LAYS BARE HIS SOUL 3
n. IN WHICH MR. SCOTT FALLS BY THE WAY-
SIDE II
IIL IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES INTRODUCES
HIMSELF 19
IV. IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES TAKES MATTERS
IN HAND 27
V. IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES STANDS UP FOR
HIS RIGHTS 34
VI. IN WHICH MR. SCOTT CONTINUES HIS CON-
FESSION— 42
Vn. AND CONCLUDES IT 51
PART TWO
I. IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES RETURNS TO THE
HOME OF HIS FATHERS .... 55
II. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS CALLED
TO A CASE 6l
III. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS LOOKS
THROUGH A KEYHOLE 68
IV. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS CLEVER . 76
V. IN WHICH A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS 83
ix


X
CONTENTS
CHAPTBE MO
VI. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS HEARS OF
THE BULL— 90
VII. AND MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE . . IOI
VUI. IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR ENJOYS HIM-
SELF IO8
IX. IN WHICH THE COLUMNAR HOTEL STARTS
BUSINESS 115
X. IN WHICH AN OPENING NIGHT IS NOT AN
UNQUALIFIED SUCCESS . . . .122
XI. IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR IS PUZZLED . I3I
XII. IN WHICH SERGEANT MERCIER IS CERTAIN I38
XIII. IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES IS ONE UP . . 145
XIV. IN WHICH MR. SCOTT IS QUESTIONED . . I52
XV. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS INVESTI-
GATES 159
XVI. IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR PRAISES A SUB-
ORDINATE 169
XVII. IN WHICH A MAN DIES 177
XVIH. IN WHICH HIGGINS RECEIVES AN INVITA-
TION 184
XIX. IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS FEELS HUM-
BLE 192
XX. IN WHICH HE GIVES SOME ADVICE . . . 200
XXI. IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS
PACES 209
XXII. IN WHICH A PLATE IS BROKEN . . . 217
XXIII. IN WHICH A TRAP IS BAITED .... 225


CONTENTS
xi

XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
IN WHICH HIGGINS SHUDDERS .... 23I
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR IS DISAPPOINTED 237
IN WHICH A RAID IS PLANNED .... 245
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR IS SURPRISED . 254
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR IS EVEN MORE
SURPRISED 26b
IN WHICH THE BULL WAITS .... 267
IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES IS SOMEWHAT
ANNOYED 273
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR DINES OUT . 280
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS THINKS— 288
—AND ACTS 295





PART ONE





CHAPTER I
IN WHICH MR. SCOTT LAYS BARE HIS SOUL
IHAVE killed a man!.
There you are, dear reader; you cannot say that I
haven't warned you! And by the expression "dear reader"
I include not only those who have paid seven shillings and
sixpence, or two dollars as the case may be, for their copy,
but also those who have borrowed this book from a li-
brary. For, in either case, it means a few extra pence in
my pocket, or a small addition to my estate should I have
passed away. Naturally I don't expect to die for many
years to come, and when this sad event occurs, I state
here and now that it won't be at the hands of the public
executioner. There's going to be no toeing of the chalk
line waiting for the trapdoor to open for this child! No
passive submission to being strapped into a chair in prep-
aration of ten thousand (or more) volts! Oh dear me,
no! I'm far too clever.
But let me revert to my original sentence. I have killed
a man.
You can't conceive the enormous pleasure it gives me
to write that sentence. Let's do it again. I have killed
a man! In caps this time, for all the world to see.
Of course, I shall never be caught. That goes without
saying.
And let me assure you that I'm not writing this con-
fession behind closed doors. No hole-in-the-corner busi-
ness for me. If the entire Metropolitan Police Force and
all the private detectives in the world were standing behind
me at this very moment, it would not cause me the least
concern. In fact, I should welcome their presence.
3


4
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
And why?
Well, that's because I'm who I am. I'm an author. I
write detective stories for a living. So you see my posi-
tion. I'm engaged in writing a thriller. This confession
is merely the MS. of my latest novel. It's too easy. No
one will believe it's the truth. Unless it's published before-
hand, when I'm dead and gone this story will be found
among my effects and hailed as a masterpiece of fiction.
My very profession protects me!
The names, too, are real—that's the scream of it! Of
course, I shall protect myself by denying it on the flyleaf.
You know the thing:
"The author wishes it clearly to be understood that the
characters in this story are entirely fictitious, and that no
reference is made, or intended to be made, to any living
person."
Just turn back a page or two and have a look. There
you are, you see! I told you so!
I've also headed this story, as you can see:
I Have Killed a Man!
Ah! By whom? Shall I use my real name, my nom de
plume, or a pseudonym? I must think this over. After all,
I may be a criminal, but that does not necessarily mean
I'm to be criminally foolish. Supposing that Inspector
Higgins (a fictional Detective-Inspector Higgins, of
course—not the one at Scotland Yard) were to read this,
it might make things awkward. Not, of course, that he
could get anything on me, but I do hate to have a man
trailing my footsteps: it's most inconvenient, for one thing
—and one has to be so circumspect.
For a moment, therefore, I think I'll omit my name.
Sorry, and all that, but . . .


MR. SCOTT LAYS BARE HIS SOUL
5
I have killed a man! Sorry to repeat myself like this,
but I get paid, on occasion, so much per line, and repeti-
tion naturally helps.
At one time there were three of us in our little gang,
and now there are only two. How very sad! Like the ten
little nigger boys. Soon, perhaps there'll be only one. I
must think this over. Our thirty-three-and-a-third per cent,
division has recently increased to fifty per cent. And one
hundred per cent, is exactly twice as much. Yes. It really
is worth my consideration.
Yet Jimmy Pearson is useful, very useful. But, then,
so was Bobby Baynes, and Bobby, alas, is no more. How-
ever, I cannot abide treachery. For one thing, the conse-
quences are apt to be serious. I flatter myself that my
prompt action stopped Bobby Baynes squeaking. I must
take the matter up with Jimmy Pearson. I'm entitled to
some material recompense for protecting him in the mat-
ter, for he would have been in the soup as well as I had
I not acted with such alacrity.
I have looked up the word "alacrity" and find that it
means "cheerful promptitude to do some act." And I
must say that my removal of Bobby Baynes was cheerfully
accomplished. In fact, if I only get half of his share in
our swag I shall have been amply rewarded. Yet why
should Jimmy Pearson get the other half when he had
nothing to do with it? Surely I'm entitled to all of Bobby
Baynes' share? I'll have this out with Pearson. Not only
should I get Baynes' share, but I think that in all fairness
Pearson should give me some of his. I acted for both of
us. I'll put the matter to him. He's bound to agree. Of
course, if he doesn't, well ... I must take steps to in-
sure that I get the lot, that's all!
In any case, dear reader, I fear that I am digressing.
The matter is one for mutual adjustment between Pear-
son and myself, and, with all due respect, is no concern of
yours. Purely personal to me. No offence, I trust.
However, to resume my—er—tragic history. . . .


6
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
In my early days as an author I went to great lengths
to acquire what is termed local colour. Periodically I in-
flicted my presence on sundry officers of Scotland Yard
in order to ascertain, where possible, the inside workings
of the more famous cases. I should like to state here and
now that they always treated me with the utmost courtesy.
They "suffered me gladly."
It is some years ago now since I first obtained from
a friend—my local M.P. as a matter of fact—an intro-
duction to Inspector Higgins of Scotland Yard. I did
not know what my friend had said in his letter of intro-
duction—nowadays of course I should have steamed it
open before delivering it in person—but Higgins, having
read the letter, looked up at me with a quizzical smile.
"So, Mr. Scott"—it's not my name really, but it will
suffice—"so, Mr. Scott, you're an author. Well, well,
well!"
I'm afraid I blushed. I was younger then.
"Hardly that, sir. You see . . ." Frankly, I stam-
mered.
"That's all right, Mr. Scott, we've all got to start at
something or other, and, presumably, there must be worse
jobs." He sounded doubtful, but I let it pass. "I'm afraid
that our work at the Yard here is much more prosaic
than some of the more imaginative writers of thrillers
would have us believe. Still, if you're keen you can come
along with me to Pearson's flat, where I'm about to in-
stitute a search for hidden swag. Sounds romantic, but
logically his flat is the only place where Pearson could pos-
sibly have hidden the stuff he lifted from the Columnar
Hotel."
"Oh! Thai Pearson!" I was somewhat awed, for the
papers had recently been full of the burglary at this fa-
mous hotel, for only the previous day the thief, Pearson,
had been arrested. I had imagined that his haul had been
recovered when the arrest was made, but apparently I was
wrong.


MR. SCOTT LAYS BARE HIS SOUL
7,
"Yes. That Pearson"—grimly from the inspector.
"He'll get seven years if he gets a day."
We set off together, and I had a job to keep up with
the long-legged detective. Here's a good place to describe
him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and athletic-looking. Immacu-
lately dressed, his clothes seemingly a part of his person-
ality. An exceptionally fine figure of a man in the late
thirties. Humorously twinkling eyes. It was patently ob-
vious that he was well able to take care of himself under
any circumstances. Well liked by his superiors and his
subordinates at Scotland Yard, as was evidenced by the
smile as well as the salute he received from the uniformed
constable on duty at the gates, and the cheery nod he re-
ceived from Chief-Inspector Dryan whom we met in the
corridor. I was mighty proud to be seen in his company.
I piously trust I shall always be so!
I ambled along by his side, for he is a much taller man
than I, but in about two minutes I was completely out
of breath. He stopped, smiled at me, then hailed a taxi.
I subsided thankfully on the well-worn cushions.
Shortly afterwards the taxi drew up at the kerb, and
we alighted. In a somewhat embarrassed manner I fum-
bled for change, but Inspector Higgins waved me aside
and paid the fare. Then he turned and surveyed the block
of flats before which the taxi had stopped. The block
seemingly contained about a dozen flats, each self-con-
tained and with a common entrance. Higgins ran up the
steps leading to this entrance in pairs, and I trotted meekly
behind. Eventually he stopped at a door numbered Thir-
teen, and rapped smartly with his knuckles. The door was
immediately opened by a uniformed constable, who saluted
smartly.
"All ready, Jones?"
"Ay, ay, sir"
"Cut out the naval patter, sonny. You're in the police
force now."


8
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
The man coloured resentfully, but his resentment faded
into a wan smile when Inspector Higgins grinned broadly
at him and laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder.
I was not so quick mounting the stairs as the inspector,
and, although I was in time to hear the remarks which
passed, I found my passage barred by the constable. Hig-
gins, however, called from an adjacent room:
"O.K., Jones. Let him in."
I entered and made my way to the room from which
the voice had proceeded.
Inspector Higgins was standing in the middle of the
room, his hands in his trousers pockets and his hat thrust
back. The room itself was in a state of the utmost con-
fusion : chairs were lying upon the floor; one window was
cracked; a telephone instrument had been completely
wrenched from the wall and still had about two feet of
flex attached, the broken wires of which shone brightly
in the light from the window; a metal waste-paper basket
had been completely buckled; the protective plate glass
on top of a flat desk was chipped at one corner; whilst
lying in the middle of the room at the inspector's feet was
a typewriter, completely smashed.
"Some scrap," muttered Higgins reminiscently. Taking
his hands from his pockets his started a search in his
jacket and eventually removed therefrom a pipe, pouch,
and an automatic lighter. Slowly he filled his pipe, placed
the stem in his mouth and clamped it therein with his
strong white teeth, then speculatively rubbed the flint of
his lighter. He was instantly rewarded with a small flame,
and he turned to me with a beaming face.
"Lit first time, laddie."
Soon he had the pipe drawing to his entire satisfaction,
and he emitted a cloud of pungent smoke.
Mechanically I began to set the place in order, and as
a preliminary seized hold of a fallen chair.
"Drop it!" A yell from the inspector so startled me
that I carried out his order involuntarily, and literally.


io I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
help me to recollect. You be our friend Pearson—go and
stand behind that desk. I entered the door here, and he
immediately jumped up from his chair, which fell back-
wards and still remains on the floor." I walked behind the
desk and stood waiting for further instructions. It re-
minded me of a few years before when I had been a lead-
ing light in our local Amateur Dramatic Society. I was
to play a part. But without any make-up. Pity! I was
good at this sort of thing!
Higgins stood in the centre of the room and whistled
tunelessly.
"As soon as I entered the room Pearson grabbed the
telephone instrument, wrenched it from the wall—pretty
useful effort, that!"—in parenthesis—"and went for me."
A pause. "The point is—why?"
"I don't know," I answered; but he ignored this piti-
ful contribution to the discussion, and said sharply:
"Grab hold of that instrument, and hold it aloft ready
to charge!" He smiled.
I picked up the telephone instrument with the attached
flex and held it up. Immediately, within the instrument,
there was a faint rattle.


CHAPTER II
IN WHICH MR. SCOTT FALLS BY THE WAYSIDE
ON looking back I realise that the interruption which
immediately followed was the turning point in my
life.
There was a sound of running footsteps up the stone
steps from the common entrance to the flats, which stopped
outside the front door. Inspector Higgins walked to the
door of the room, opened it and peered out.
"What is it, Jones?"
"Messenger for you, sir."
"All right. Show him in."
A man entered breathlessly. The raised eyebrows of
the inspector were a silent invitation to the man to say
his piece.
"Pearson, sir."
"Well?"
"Escaped, sir."
"How?"
"He was being taken to court by taxi, sir. A collision
was his opportunity."
"I see." Higgins nodded dismissal to the man, and
turned to me. "Sorry, Mr. Scott. We must go."
Three minutes later I was standing on the kerb out-
side the block of flats, whilst the inspector's taxi was re-
ceding in the distance.
I returned home to consider my position. I had not the
slightest doubt in my mind but that the diamond necklace
was hidden within the telephone instrument. I was also
sure that, but for the providential interruption, Inspector


12
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Higgins would have arrived at the same conclusion. Just
consider the position: A man has made a spectacular raid
on the Columnar Hotel and got away with an exceedingly
valuable lot of jewellery. He is surprised by a visit from
a detective. Obviously, not a social call! Instead of grab-
bing his revolver (the papers that morning had been full
of the account of his arrest—in which his revolver figured
largely) he wrenches the telephone instrument from the
wall. Why? Surely not for use as a weapon?
Thus my reasoning. Now for my conclusions.
I had here a story for which the newspapers would
pay handsomely—say one hundred pounds—perhaps two.
And the necklace was worth eighty thousand dollars—
roughly sixteen thousand pounds. A difference of about
fifteen thousand nine hundred pounds. Rather a big dif-
ference between honesty and—well—opportunity*
And again: Supposing I returned to that block of
flats, succeeded in getting past the ex-sailor guard and
carried off the instrument in triumph, no one would dream
that I had got the necklace. It sounded, bar the getting
into the flat, almost too easy.
Then a further thought assailed me: Pearson had es-
caped. The first thing he would do would be to return
to the flat and recover his loot. And, furthermore, I could
bet my bottom dollar that Inspector Higgins had already
made the same inference, and had somebody at the flat
to welcome Pearson's return. In which case it might pay
me to take what I could get for my story and try to for-
get the monetary value of the jewels. Unless, of course,
a substantial reward had been offered by their wealthy
owner. I went out and bought an Evening Standard.
Pearson's spectacular escape was recorded in the Stop
Press. There was no mention of a reward. Good enough.
If the American owner was as mean as all that, she must
take the consequences.
I would annex that necklace for my own personal use.
My decision made, I concentrated on my plan of cam-


MR. SCOTT FALLS BY THE WAYSIDE 13
paign. To be exact—on two plans of campaign. I would
state here that I attribute my subsequent successes to
the fact that I always had two strings to my bow: I was
always prepared with an alternative should my original
scheme gang agley.
In this case my original plan was simplicity itself. I
would present myself once more at the flat, and, should
the same constable still be on duty, inform him that I
had been sent by my friend, Inspector Higgins, to recover
a hypothetical pair of gloves, walking stick or so forth.
You see the idea? Bluff—pure and simple. Remember-
ing the man's "Ay, ay, sir!" and the inspector's remark
that he was not in the Navy now, I think I was justified
in assuming that the man was a newcomer to the Force.
Already I was using my wits! At least, I kidded myself
so at the time. Looking back, I can see the snags, for
if the man was not so green as he looked and refused to
let me in, he would doubtless justify his action to the
inspector the next time he saw him, and Higgins would
wonder what on earth my game had been in trying to
bluff an entrance. There were other pitfalls, but, fortu-
nately, it was my second plan which I had to put into
operation.
When I arrived at the flat, about five o'clock that eve-
ning, there was no guard in evidence, so I rang the bell
and waited in some trepidation for the door to be opened.
I had a small black leather bag in my hand, and my cap
was pulled well over my face. It was not strictly a disguise,
being the merest suggestion of an occupation. I waited for
three minutes, then rang again. This time there was a
sound of movement within the flat, and the door was
cautiously opened. A helmetted head was thrust through
the aperture and a curt voice inquired my business.
"Telephone Service," I replied, pushing at the door.
"You'll have to leave it. This flat is in the hands of
the police, and"


14
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"It's all right. We know that. I have permission"
"Oh! Come in then"—ungraciously and unwillingly.
I entered. ... A huge fist caught me on the point of
the chin.
Thus my introduction to a man who, in after years,
was my most trusted—I mean trustful—lieutenant. I'm
prepared to admit that, at the time, I cut a most ignoble
figure, but believe me, I made up for the indignity later.
Oh, yes! I received full compensation for that blow on
the jaw.
I suppose that I was knocked out for but a few seconds,
possibly for just about the Marquis of Queensberry's min-
imum, for I felt myself being dragged along the floor, and
realised that, subconsciously, I was still gripping the handle
of my black bag. I was flung without ceremony into a
corner, and was surprised to find that I wasn't the only
occupant, for there, securely bound and gagged, was
my old friend, the ex-naval constable. His eyes were
closed, and I wondered, without compassion, whether he
were dead or merely unconscious. Strangely enough, I
felt no fear for myself, for, the muzziness clearing from
my head, I began to take stock of my position. And it
was much better than I anticipated, for my assailant had
his back turned towards me and was frantically stuffing
the broken telephone instrument into a brown paper carrier.
Quietly I stood to my feet, and taking from my bag an
old revolver—which, had I but dared to fire would proba-
bly have burst—said, in a voice cold and menacing, "Stick
'em up."
The effect was electrical. The man crouched with his
back towards me, his shoulders hunched and with a ri-
diculously small police helmet perched on his head. He
dropped the paper carrier and the telephone instrument
and spread the fingers of his hands like the talons of some
predatory bird. Slowly his fingers clenched and he turned


MR. SCOTT FALLS BY THE WAYSIDE 15
with a snarl. The fact that I did not move a muscle save
to point the muzzle of my revolver straight at his head
seemed to bid him pause.
As a matter of fact, I was somewhat startled, although
I must admit that now I would find the phenomenon per-
fectly natural. The man with the ill-fitting helmet was not
a constable with an eye to the main chance, but was none
other than the recently-escaped Pearson. I decided to be
blase.
"Good evening, Mr. Pearson. This is indeed a pleasure."
He growled. I learned afterwards that he took me to
be a detective or similar myrmidon of the law.
"Oo're you?"
"Never mind that. I'm after the Columnar necklace.
Freely I admit it. You may lower your hands, but any
funny business ..." I waggled my obsolete revolver sug-
gestively. I discovered then that Mr. Pearson, to put it
coarsely, had no guts, for he wilted, muttered faintly
something about it being "a fair cop," and seemed at
the point of tears. "You can go and see if the course is
clear, and you can bolt if you like"—he glared at me,
apparently surprised at my generosity—"or you can see
the matter out with me."
He did not stop to consider my proposal, but nodded
his head quickly and decisively.
"I'll take a chance wiv you, guv'ner."
"Right. Take a peek out of the door, and let me know
whether it is safe to bolt."
Without further ado he hurried to carry out my in-
structions. It may be thought that I took a big chance,
presuming Pearson to be armed, but I reasoned thusly:
the man had but recently escaped from his guard, and
it is to be presumed that—big fools as the police may
be—at least they would have made certain that he was
unarmed before starting their abortive attempt to gaol
him; and further, any firearms found on the premises of
this flat would have been confiscated as additional evidence


16 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
of the ferocity of the man Pearson. As I have stated—
Pearson rushed to do my bidding.
As soon as he had left the room I acted. Seizing my
black bag I dragged therefrom a telephone instrument—
niched from an empty flat next to my own—and promptly
exchanged it for the one already packed in Pearson's
paper carrier. This was the second plan—already referred
to, or at least, part of it. For I had intended to exchange
the instruments if I had been allowed into the flat by
the police, and walk away ostensibly to find some forgotten
tool!
"All clear, mate." Pearson returned, and looked to me
for instructions.
"Good!" I peered at the man through lowered eyelids,
as if coming to a decision. "I'm going to trust you, Pear-
son. You can take your swag and bolt. But you've got
to divvy up with me afterwards. I want fifty per cent,
of the proceeds, see?"
"Sorry, sir, but there's anover bloke in wiv me. You
can avver third."
"Good enough! Where can I find you?"
He gave me an address without hesitation, which I
did not trouble to note.
"Thanks. You push off now. I'll follow in a minute or
two."
"Thank you, sir. You're a torf."
I nodded adieu, and looked out of the window. Com-
ing up the steps of the main entrance to this block of
flats was a man whom, even in the failing light, I had
no difficulty in recognising as Inspector Higgins. My first
impulse was to warn the unsuspecting Pearson, but, fortu-
nately, wiser counsels prevailed.
I had to act quickly. I ran through the flat to the rear
rooms and discovered that there was a goods service lift
on the outside wall, communicating with the kitchen. My
black bag was quickly recovered, and, with but a back-


MR. SCOTT FALLS BY THE WAYSIDE 17
ward glance to the still unconscious policeman, I closed
and locked the kitchen door.
The lift, unfortunately, was manipulated solely by hand,
and, as a test of sheer strength, I suggest to any interested
party the following: Just try to lower yourself in one of
these lifts! First of all there is the question of balance;
then that awkward decision which has to be made as to
whether one will stay with the box-lift or with the rope—
each of which pull against the other. Couple this to the
fact that I was at least forty feet in the air, and the
wonder is I did not turn grey. I placed my black bag on
the floor of the lift, then I seized the rope and hung on
to it like grim death before trusting my body to the lift.
Then a most agonising moment during which my arms
seemed to be almost pulled out of their sockets. Then
hand over hand, with infinite care, I lowered myself in
the lift.
I was but half-way down when there was a shout from
above, and an inkwell came hurtling in my direction.
How futile!
I let go of the rope and crashed to the ground. A minute
later I was walking briskly towards Maida Vale tube
station.
It was when I was stopped by a policeman outside the
station, that I gave Inspector Higgins full marks for
throwing that inkwell; for the constable pointed out, in
a very friendly manner, that I had spilled some ink on my
shirt front. Had he but known how near we both were to
death at that moment—for I had almost decided to fire
my ancient revolver—I think he would have kept his well-
intentioned remarks to himself.
"Th-that's all r-right, c-c-constable," I remarked with
a deliberate stutter, and ran down the steps.
As a matter of fact, all ended happily as far as I was
concerned. Pearson, as foreshadowed by Inspector Hig-


18 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
gins, got seven years, with six strokes of the "cat" for
violence to the ex-naval constable; Inspector Higgins re-
ceived official congratulations for his part in the recapture
of Pearson; a carefully worded notice appeared asking
for information re an inkstained suspect who stuttered;
and I got the Columnar diamond necklace!


CHAPTER III
IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES INTRODUCES HIMSELF
THE last paragraph of the preceding chapter succinctly
describes the happenings of the subsequent three
months. Pearson's trial—and his fruitless appeal—lasted
two months, and throughout the proceedings he reiterated
his ignorance of my identity and of the whereabouts of
the Columnar necklace—and was politely disbelieved. I,
too, was far from inactive. In the first place I took my
inkstained suit and, having removed therefrom all tell-
tale tailor's tabs and similar marks, deposited it at the
left-luggage office at Baker Street Station, giving the
name of the only acquaintance of mine possessed of a
congenital stutter. A bit crude perhaps, but he had a devil
of a time convincing the police of the authenticity of his
alibi. Fortunately for him it was cast-iron.
Then again, immediately after my escape from the flat,
I rang up Scotland Yard and asked whether Inspector
Higgins could give me an appointment without delay—
at once, if possible.
I was courteously informed that the inspector was other-
wise engaged and fixed an appointment for the following
morning. He eventually gave me an interview, somewhat
ungraciously, and with my tongue in my cheek I told him
how sorry I was that he had been unable to see me the pre-
vious evening when I had telephoned. Dear me! If only
he had!
I thanked him warmly for his kindness in allowing me
to accompany him to Pearson's flat the previous day, and
obtained from him an invitation to come to him at any
19


20
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
time, when, provided he was not as busy as he was at
present, he would always be glad to see me! I took the
hint, and went.
It is one thing to have in one's possession a diamond
necklace worth eighty thousand dollars, but an entirely
different horse to realise anything of its value. One has
to be so circumspect. I found the thing as I had anti-
cipated, inside the telephone instrument, the bottom of
which I had to unscrew before the necklace was revealed.
I had wondered at the outset why friend Pearson had
been trying to bolt with the entire instrument instead of
the necklace only, as one would have thought. This un-
screwing business explained his ostensible foolishness—
for, seemingly, he had no time to retrieve the jewels from
their peculiar hiding place and had, perforce, to take the
hiding place with him. He must have had a bit of a shock
when he realised that he had bolted with the wrong tele-
phone instrument! It amuses me even now when I think
of it.
The necklace was superb. Had it not been for my pe-
cuniary liabilities at that time, I do not doubt but that I
should have been tempted to keep it merely from pride in
its possession. Still—needs must et cetera, et cetera.
It was a definite handicap knowing no "fence," as the
purchasers of stolen goods, vide the yellow Press, are
called. Here I had a fortune in my hands and no means
of realising it!
I spent many a happy hour at the Old Bailey listening
to Pearson's trial, being careful to sit at the back of the
court in case the prisoner should recognise me. Not that
I imagine that, from our very short acquaintance, he could
possibly do so, but—careful is my middle name. In fact
I became adept in calculating the capacity of the court,
and would often wait until the queue was a certain length
before I would take my position therein—thus ensuring


BOBBY BAYNES INTRODUCES HIMSELF 21
that I would be in the back row. On one occasion I over-
did it, and had to stand. It was most annoying!
Coming out of the court on the third day of the trial
I ran into Inspector Higgins.
"Hallo, Mr. Scott. Gathering local colour?"
"Yes, Inspector. That, and the fact that I feel a sort of
proprietory interest in the case. Having been over the
scene of the slaughter," I added hastily.
"Oh, I see!"—casually, yet thoughtfully. Then and
there I decided that never again would I endeavour to be
clever and to play upon words merely for my own amuse-
ment whilst in the inspector's company. He was apt to
jump to a right conclusion too quickly for my liking.
I invited him to lunch, and basked in a lot of reflected
glory when he was discreetly pointed out by some of the
other customers.
Three weeks after the conviction of Pearson, and with
the matter of the disposal of the necklace still undecided,
I returned to my rooms, whereupon my landlady informed
me that a gentleman had called to see me. This, of itself,
was somewhat unsettling, for, though I do not boast a
conscience—let alone a guilty one—nevertheless, the
matter caused me some concern. You see I had no friends.
True, my original introduction to Inspector Higgins had
been obtained from my local M.P., and I see, on looking
back, that I referred to him as a friend, yet I must confess
I had never met him, and that, without a doubt, he gave
me the intro. more with an eye to a future election than
from any of the courtesies of friendship. I had no friends,
yet a "gentleman" had called to see me.
I quote the word advisedly, for, to my landlady, there
are three distinct types of human beings which she classi-
fies according to their outward appearances, (a) Persons:
said with a thinly-veiled deprecation and typifying someone
very low in her social scale, (b) Men and women: the


22 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
intermediates who were not exactly "Persons" and cer-
tainly not, in her opinion (c) Ladies and gentlemen. This
class consisted merely of well-dressed or apparently af-
fluent citizens. I believe that at that time I was hovering
between (b) and (c) in my landlady's estimation.
"Gentleman!" Did Inspector Higgins come within this
category? And why, at this juncture, think of Inspector
Higgins? I must pull myself together. Definitely, I decided
that he did, and for a moment felt like a cornered rat (I
don't like the simile, but I cannot think of a more ap-
propriate expression).
"He's gone now, sir. But I let him go to your room
as he wished to write a note." My expression must have
changed, for she added quickly: "I hope that was all
right, sir?" Apprehensively I nodded affirmatively, afraid
to trust my voice, and nervously mounted the stairs to
my room. I pushed open my door and peered into the
room, afraid at what I might see.
Nothing! Literally nothing! Not even the note which
this mysterious gentleman wished to write. Very, very
suspicous. And it wasn't Scotland Yard, for I was con-
vinced that a pretty thorough search had been made, and
the Yard, I believe, is very meticulous with regard to
search warrants. Not that there was any real evidence of
a search, mind you—but nevertheless, I was convinced
that one had been made. For instance, my pyjamas had
been folded—carelessly it is true—yet that is a thing I
rarely do; and my landlady, on principle, refuses to rectify
my omissions. I slept ill that night.
The following week was a nightmare. I was jostled in
the street; nearly run over by a taxi; became an unwilling
combatant in a street-corner fight; and was offered in-
numerable drinks by innocent-looking strangers; and
generally would have gone to the police forthwith for
protection, but for—the Columnar necklace.
Yes. That was it. The diamonds. Yet how had I given
myself away? Not a soul could possibly know that they


BOBBY BAYNES INTRODUCES HIMSELF 23
were in my possession, save Pearson, and he was due for
seven of the best. A mystery. I decided to stay at home
until the trouble had blown over.
I woke in the middle of the night with a vague feeling
of unrest. At first I attributed it to the natural reaction
to the excitement of the previous week, then—dimly out-
lined at the foot of my bed I perceived a still form. Cau-
tiously I groped beneath my pillow until my fingers closed
upon the butt of my ancient revolver, and my courage
returned with a rush. I felt for the electric light switch
near the head of the bed and deflected it, using, at the
same time, the identical formula which had proved so
effective in dealing with Pearson: "Stick 'em up!"
Seated at the foot of the bed was a man of under thirty
years of age. His trilby hat, pushed back from his head,
revealed brown curly hair. His right foot swung idly
at the side of the bed, whilst his left leg was drawn up
until his chin, square and strong, rested upon the knee.
His hands clasped his left ankle and helped to hide the
wonderful hue of his sock. I envied him his clothes.
An unlit cigarette was stuck jauntily in the corner of his
mouth.
"Stick 'em up!" It was humiliating to have to repeat
the order.
He surveyed me quizzically for a moment, then:
"You know you ought to be in the pictures, sonny!"
"Stick 'em up, blast you!"
"Naughty! Naughty !" A twinkling smile revealed white
strong-looking teeth. Laughingly he felt for his matches,
lit the cigarette, then rested his head on the bedrail and
blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling—a picture of indolent
ease. .
There was a tense silence—at least, tense on my part,
for already I could not cope with the situation. Then,
slowly my anger was mastering me, and I feared the
consequences to both of us should I pull the trigger. The


24 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
immediate consequences I mean, not the shadow of the
gallows. The stranger looked at me.
"Supposing you discard the—er—museum piece"—
with an airy wave of his hand at my revolver—"and we'll
talk business."
"And what business can I talk with you?" Rapidly I
was regaining my composure. "Who are you, anyway?
A detective?"
He smiled delightedly, and instinctively I knew that I
had said the wrong thing.
"Detective, eh? Now I wonder why our melodramatic
friend should think of detectives, when an—er—honest
man would be thinking rather of burglars or similar mid-
night marauders ?" he inquired of the world at large, much
to my discomfiture. "As to my name. A rose, et cetera.
Still. How about Robert Baynes? Bobby for short and
in the interests of alliteration."
"Well, Bobby Baynes. And what can I do for you?"
"That's more like it." Baynes stood up from the foot
of the bed, walked to the firegrate, threw his cigarette into
the dead ashes, and turned to me, his face keen and
businesslike.
"As a preliminary, suppose you hand over the Columnar
necklace."
"And suppose I don't!"—belligerently. A statement,
not a question.
He looked at me through narrowed eyelids. "We won't
suppose anything so foolish, although I'm thankful for
your tacit admission that you've got it. Come along, Scott.
Hand it over."
"It's likely, isn't it?"
"It's more than likely—it's a certainty."
"Look here, Baynes. I'm armed, and"
"You're not. So you can cut that out!" He interrupted
in so certain a tone of voice that without more ado I
broke the breech of my revolver, and gave a start as I
realised that it was not loaded.


BOBBY BAYNES INTRODUCES HIMSELF 25
"I—er—take all necessary precautions, Scott"—smil-
ingly. "So—er—what about it?"
For the space of a few seconds there was a complete
silence, whilst mentally I reviewed the position. I was
left holding the baby, and it might be worth my while to
dicker, particularly bearing in mind the fact that I alone
knew the whereabouts of the Columnar necklace.
"Well? What d'you suggest?"
"You hand over the necklace, and I'll give you one
hundred pounds for your trouble. And say no more
about it."
One hundred pounds. The hypothetical newspaper fee
for my story! I laughed shortly.
"Try again!"
He looked at me—somehow his expression chilled.
"Considering the dirty trick you played on my friend
Pearson, the offer is exactly one hundred pounds too
much. In spite of popular opinion to the contrary, there
is a certain honour—elementary I grant you!—amongst—
er—thieves."
"Pearson offered me a third," I stated, stung to a
reply.
"Ah! That was very generous of him. And you decided
to take the lot!"
"It wasn't his, anyway."
Baynes burst into a chuckle of complete merriment.
"Mr. Scott, your casuistry amuses me. I have neither time
nor the inclination to argue with you. As Pearson offered
you a third, his offer will stand. And now I'll offer you
some advice, free, gratis and for nothing: Hand over the
necklace without more ado, and thus make sure of your
third. To you it's a white elephant. You can't realise on
it, and you haven't a dog's chance of selling it to that
wealthy American with money but no conscience, so con-
venient in books. To me—although I cannot get mOre
than one-third of its value—the selling of the necklace is
mere child's play."


26 I HAVE KILLED A MAN 1
Still I hesitated. One-third of one-third made my pro-
portion something short of two thousand pounds. And
I'd reckoned on . . .
"Come on. Make your mind up!" Baynes glared at me
ferociously.
"All right!" Throwing aside the bedclothes, I groped
for my slippers; then I walked to the door, upon which
was hanging the disreputable cap which I had worn in
my guise as a telephone mechanic. I tore open the lining.
Then I gave a gasp.
The necklace had gone!


CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES TAKES MATTERS IN HAND
**TT AVE you ever been on the stage, Mr. Scott?"
** The ridiculous question, coming as it did so
quickly upon my consternation at discovering the loss of
the Columnar necklace, roused my ire.
"What on earth are you driving at?"
"But have you?" he persisted quietly.
"In a small way. Why?" Thus modestly did I inform
him of my many successes as a leading light in our local
Amateur Dramatic Society.
"I knew it." It pleased me to think that he had heard
of me.
"Yes. I used to be pretty good."
"And still are. Suppose you have another look,"—smil-
ingly.
The implication was so patent that for a moment it
completely took my breath away. I turned, glared bale-
fully at Baynes and strode forcefully in his direction, with
the mental determination of knocking his block off. In-
dolently he rose to meet my onslaught, and the fact that
he was at least a head taller than me, bid me pause.
"Blast you. D'y' think I'm play-acting?"
"If you are, you've missed your vocation." Gone was
his indolence. Bobby Baynes became a man of action.
"There this morning?"
"Yes."
"You didn't leave the house to-day!" A statement.
"I did. For half an hour, to get a drink."
"H'm. Must have missed you"—thoughtfully to himself.
27


28 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"I'm getting careless in my old age." Then: "You haven't
left the house for a week."
"You seem to know a lot about me."
"Naturally. It's my business to do so. And whilst I
was watching you, someone was watching me. Slick Sims?
I don't think so—he kills his own meat. Got it! It was
Beefy Bull." He stopped his ruminations and turned to
me.
"Scott! I know where our necklace is."
"Good! Let's go and get it."
He smiled. "Obviously you don't know Beefy Bull.
He's one of those scabs who wait until an enterprising
colleague has—er—pulled off a successful deal, and then
lifts the swag from its new owner, from whom, obviously,
there is no kick coming. Sort o' trick you played on Pear-
son"—in parenthesis and with a sniff of disgust. "Still,
you know no better, whereas Bull . . . H'm. We must
attend to Master Bull. Get dressed!"
Not being used to it I resented the tone of his order,
but if I ever hoped to see any part of my two thousand
pounds it was obvious that I must hook up with Baynes.
I dressed.
Whilst doing so I settled a point which had been at
the back of my mind since first becoming aware of Baynes'
identity.
"How did you get on to me, Baynes?"
"Simps! When a man of a similar build to one de-
scribed by both Pearson and Inspector Higgins as having
lifted the Columnar necklace takes such an interest in
the trial of Pearson, but always sits at the back of the
court even though there are seats to spare at the front,
then that man seemingly knows something. When coupled
with this, the same man has a hectic week of jostling and
so forth without applying for police protection, then that
man has something to hide. You see, I spent a few hours
in court myself."
A sudden fear assailed me.


BAYNES TAKES MATTERS IN HAND 29
"But if it is so obvious to you—what about the police?"
Baynes shrugged his shoulders. "Friend of Higgins,
aren't you?"
• "Not exactly, but . . ."
"He's vouched for you, I'll bet."
I breathed a sigh of relief as the explanation dawned
upon me. "Of course. I'm assimilating local colour. Hig-
gins was showing me over the flat when he received news
of Pearson's original escape."
"Yes. That was a bit of hard luck. I engineered the
taxi accident. Lot of expense and no result. But let me
warn you, young man"—he wagged an expressive fore-
finger in my direction—"don't take Higgins too cheaply.
He can see as far through a brick wall as most."
I laughed. He turned sharply towards me, and said
impressively:
"You seem to have embarked upon a—er—career of
crime. One day you will feel a tap on the shoulder. It'll
be Inspector Higgins offering to accompany you on a
little walk."
"Speak for yourself."
"Oh! Higgins'U get me before he's finished"—care-
lessly.
I dismissed the matter with a shrug. Then:
"And how did this—er—Beefy Bull person get on
to me?"
"He didn't. Bull got on to me. He knew I was Pear-
son's sidekick, and from his process of reasoning, deduced
that I had the Columnar necklace, vainly imagining Pear-
son's yarn of your intervention being all my eye—until
he discovered that I was after you. Then he—er—stepped
in."
I finished lacing my boots.
"Ready?"
"O.K."
There was a knock at the door.
Baynes glanced at me. Not apprehensively, but rather


30 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
quizzically. For the moment I was flustered, then, with
my forefinger to my lips enjoining silence, I tiptoed to the
window. We climbed out on to the roof of the garage
beneath, and two minutes later were hurrying away from
my house in the protective shadow of a high wall.
"I got in that way," remarked Baynes, nodding his
head in the direction of the house.
"And that's how I got out to get my drink."
"Ah! That's how I missed you—and how Bull got in.
He didn't waste much time."
The "Pink Mouse" at three o'clock in the morning was
a rum-looking place. We had to walk the entire distance
from my house, and by the time we arrived there I was
feeling pretty weary. Most of the journey was covered in
silence. For my part I was somewhat apprehensive as to
the identity of the person who had knocked at my door at
2 a.m., whilst Baynes seemed to be cogitating on his com-
ing interview with Beefy Bull. I imagine he was merely
planning his campaign, for he did not seem at all frightened
by the prospect, and kept up a particularly irritating whistle
during the major part of our journey—not penetrating,
but merely tuneless. At last:
"Ah! Here we are!"
We had, but a few seconds previously, turned down an
alley-way, a cul-de-sac, and facing us at the end of the
alley was a wooden door with an iron grille. Baynes
stepped to the door and rapped smartly thereon with his
knuckles. It was a distinctive rap—long, two shorts and
a long—like a Morse X. A silence before I became aware
of a pair of eyes peering from behind the grille. It was
eerie at that time of night. Soundlessly the door opened.
"Come in, Bobby. Wot abaht "im?" with a jerk of
his head in my direction.
"He's with me for to-night."
We entered the place, and the door closed silently be-
hind us. We were in an ill-lit passage showing every sign


BAYNES TAKES MATTERS IN HAND 31
of decay, whilst the porter-fellow carried a dilapidated,
evil-smelling lantern.
"Quiet-like 'ere to-night, Bobby."
"The Bull about?"
"Ain't seen 'im fer a week or more. Can't've bin pinched
or we'd've 'eard the 'oiler from 'ere."
"Ma Boggs available?"
"Wot d'y'want wiv 'er, Bobby?" suspiciously.
"Ah! Then she is in. I'll see her."
"Lumme, Bobby! Giv' us a chanst. I"
"Lead on, MacDuff."
"That ain't me nime, and yer know it."
Baynes waited no longer but pushed by the porter,
and together we descended a flight of stone steps. At
the bottom hung a heavy curtain from beyond which came
the tinkling strains of a tinny piano. I would have marched
boldly in but for Bobby's restraining arm.
"Better let me go first, unless you want a bullet through
the stomach."
I shuddered, not so much at the thought of the bullet,
as from the casual way he said it. He crept to the curtain,
gently pulled it away from the wall, then, with one eye,
viewed the company behind it. After a close scrutiny:
"All clear, Scott. Follow me."
He strode into the room, entirely oblivious of the
glances flung in his direction, whilst I followed sheepishly
behind.
It was a cell-like place, about forty feet square, with
a door curtained off, exactly opposite the one by which
we had entered. Round, marble-topped tables were scat-
tered round the room, at which sat ill-assorted couples,
garishly dressed, with some in a state, seemingly, of un-
dress. The air was heavy with smoke for which there
was, apparently, no outlet save the curtained doors. Half
a dozen evil-looking men were playing cards in the corner
on our extreme left, and they did not deign to look up
when we entered. For the rest, after a first glance at


32 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
which Bobby was recognised, and a suspicious snapping of
the eyes at me, they resumed their varied occupations.
Bobby walked straight across the room to the curtains
opposite. We had almost reached the curtains when our
way was barred by a huge negro. He appeared, apparently
from nowhere, his huge bulk obscuring half the curtain.
A white muffler round his neck served but to accentuate
the colour of his skin, whilst the clay pipe clenched in
his sparkling teeth added to the incongruity of his ap-
pearance. Never before, and certainly not since, have I
seen a negro with a pipe. A negress—yes—but a
negro . . .!
"Wot you want, suh?"
"Ma Boggs, Sambo."
"Ma name ain't Sambo, an' you knows it. Ma Boggs
is engaged. She tol' me so."
"That's all right, Sambo. She's expecting us."
"She ain't."
"Now look here, Lincoln. Ma Boggs is with the Bull,
and is just waiting for us to come along. I expect she
forgot to tell you. You can ask her if you like—but you
know what Ma Boggs is. Don't blame me if she bites your
ears off."
The negro was obviously in a quandary. His fear of
the quaintly-named Ma Boggs was very real, in spite of
his enormous size, and the seemingly straightforward sug-
gestion that he ask the lady whether she wished to see
Baynes did not aid him in his decision. As a general rule
a negro has a one-track mind, and I realised then some-
thing which I confirmed later, that as a convincing bluffer
Bobby Baynes had no peer. He could make a gold brick
syndicate appear a gilt-edged investment. Whilst the negro
was making up his mind Baynes acted.
"Don't you worry, Sambo. I'll explain to Ma Boggs."
Unceremoniously he pushed the man aside, and as I
followed, the negro was still muttering something about
his name being Lincoln. Thus we jumped our second fence.


BAYNES TAKES MATTERS IN HAND 33
Baynes pulled the curtain aside to reveal a heavily-
built wooden door behind it. He grasped the handle and
slowly turned it. Then he pushed the door open and stepped
through the aperture. I followed and shut the door behind
me. For a moment I was blinded by the light from an
electric globe. I shielded my eyes. Seated at a table was
the most repulsive woman I had ever seen; large and
shapeless, with ill-kempt hair and swarthy skin. She was
chewing the end of a lighted cigarette with her yellow
teeth. Also seated at the table was a man—huge, big-
chested and of immense muscular development. A bowler
hat, thrust well back from his forehead revealed no hair;
he had no eyebrows, and his cheeks were as smooth as a
child's. He blinked rapidly in our direction and I realised,
with a shudder, that he had no eyelashes. A mighty hair-
less creature of most repellent mien. His very appearance
made me feel sick. If this were the man who had the
Columnar diamonds, he could keep them for all the
trouble I should take to recover them. An aura of evil
hovered over him.
I fingered my lower lip in undisguised apprehension.
Gosh! I'd give anything merely to get away from his
fearsome presence.
And then he spoke.
"Well?"
A high-pitched, squeaky whisper—if I can so describe
it. The merest suggestion of sound, which set my teeth
on edge. I realised the truth of Baynes' statement that
when this man stole from a thief, there would be no kick
coming. Not from me, anyhow! Bobby Baynes straight-
ened his tie, and gazed impudently at the pair seated at
the table.
"Well." He smacked his lips appreciatively. "Here we
are again!"


CHAPTER V
IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES STANDS UP FOR HIS
RIGHTS
SLOWLY and ponderously the man rose from his seat,
easing his huge bulk from beneath the table and sliding
back his chair with one foot. To add to his unwholesome
aspect he had a cast in one eye, whilst the other winked
malevolently at Baynes.
Had I been alone I should have bolted. As it was, I
was fascinated, petrified to the spot by an overwhelming
curiosity: I could conveniently drag in here the outworn
isimile of the snake and the rabbit. Relentlessly, with shuf-
fling steps, the man advanced towards us. I retreated at
the same pace.
Bobby Baynes, however, stood his ground. Then, with-
out looking round:
"Scott. There's a door behind you—lock it!"
The mesmeric tension was broken, I swung on my
heel, stepped to the door and turned the key. When I
looked round again but a yard separated the pair. The
Bull was still advancing, but barely an inch at a time.
I could see that his jaws were working as though chewing
some imaginary gum. He thrust his head forward and
hunched his shoulders—even thus crouched he looked
taller than Bobby. His feet stopped their shuffling, his
fingers hooked like claws; his jaw was out-thrust and his
knees bent like a beast about to spring.
Smack!
The next moment he was lying on his back, a look of
the most ludicrous surprise on his face, his good eye
blinking rapidly in Bobby's direction.
34


BAYNES STANDS UP FOR HIS RIGHTS 35
"You waited too long, Bull. Besides I don't bluff worth
a cent."
A silence, whilst the Bull, his eye still on Baynes, slowly
rose to his feet.
"Get up and eat him, you big stiff." A shrill voice broke
the sound of his laboured breathing—Ma Boggs had
found her voice at last. I looked at her, a veritable virago,
her eyes glaring malevolently at the pair of us, and the
thought crossed my mind that, for the moment, she looked
even more aggressive than the mighty Bull. She threw
her cigarette to the floor and ground it beneath her heel,
then, arms akimbo, she stood and waited.
The Bull backed slowly to the wall, and, without taking
his eye off Baynes, groped with one hand in the corner
of the room. Then:
"Ah! Now, Mr. Robert Baynes," he squeaked. "Now
we'll see who's who!" Rapidly he advanced, flourishing a
heavy club. Still Bobby did not move.
"I—er—shouldn't do that, Beefy." Conversationally,
with no hidden menace, yet the brute paused, discon-
certed, dimly wondering what hidden ace Bobby could
have up his sleeve. Then Bobby acted. With a cat-like
spring he jumped at the Bull and seized his wrist. Whether
or not Baynes had a knowledge of jiu-jitsu I did not know,
but a second later the club dropped to the floor and, as
regards weapons, the pair were on equal terms.
Ma Boggs screamed. Immediately there was a pom-
melling upon the locked door, and the negro's voice could
be heard above the din, clamouring for a hatchet to smash
the panelling.
Baynes and the Bull were locked in each other's arms
swaying round the confined space, whilst Ma Boggs, still
screaming at the top of her voice, dodged from side to
side, and I stood irresolute with my back to the door.
With a herculean effort Bobby freed himself from the
Bull's embrace, and staggered back a couple of feet, gulp-
ing huge breaths of the foetid atmosphere into his tortured


BAYNES STANDS UP FOR HIS RIGHTS 37
I have seen almost fifty cents' worth of excitement. This
was different. I had a front seat for nothing. There were
no rounds, no rules, and no ring. Neither were there
gloves. Furthermore, the outcome would probably decide
whether I were to spend the next few months in hospital
myself.
"Kill him, Bull. Kill him!"
Beefy Bull turned and grinned at Ma Boggs as an
expression of thanks for her timely encouragement: a
mistake no experienced fighter would make. Baynes seized
the opportunity. He hurled himself at the Bull, and
launched a smashing blow straight from the shoulder
with all his fourteen stone of meat and muscle behind it.
The Bull took it on the point of the jaw.
It seemed, literally, to lift the man off his feet, and I
had the barest fraction of a second to dodge aside as
Beefy Bull crashed to the door. For an infinitesimal mo-
ment he stood upright with his back to the door, his arms
outspread, then his knees crumpled beneath him and he
collapsed to the floor.
For the second time since he had entered that room
Bobby Baynes straightened his tie. Then he carefully
brushed back his curly hair, and picked up his hat. He
walked to the recumbent Bull and turned him over with
the toe of his boot.
"You've had that coming to you for a long time,"
he apostrophised the unconscious figure. "And now you've
got it."
A slight sound of movement behind me made me turn.
I let out a yell.
"Look out, Bobby!"
Baynes ducked. Something whistled through the air
and struck the door with a "spat," and there, quivering
malevolently in the light from the electric globe, was a
dagger. Bobby straightened himself and stared fasci-
natedly at the weapon until the vibrations had subsided.
A crash on the other side of the door set it trembling


38
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
again, as the impatient negro added his quota to the reign-
ing pandemonium.
Bobby seized the dagger by the hilt, but it required
all his great strength before he had released it from the
woodwork. He turned. It was a long time before I forgot
the expression on his face.
Ma Boggs' scream was the quintessence of fear, as
Bobby Baynes advanced towards her.
"Madaip, you have signed your own death-warrant."
"Help! Help!" An ear-piercing shriek.
Entirely unperturbed Baynes strode towards the nerve-
shattered woman.
"There is one thing which can save you, Ma Boggs."
A pause. The hag was too frightened even to speak,
merely nodding her head eagerly and thankfully.
Bobby Baynes held out his hand.
"The Columnar necklace, if you please."
She fumbled beneath her voluminous dress and handed
over a glistening object without a word, furtively lick-
ing her slavering lips. Bobby's eyes never left the woman's
face: he took the diamonds with his free hand and thrust
them without a glance into his jacket pocket. The woman's
eyes strayed to the door, and then lit up with an unholy
light. Quickly Bobby turned. A glance was sufficient. Be-
neath the concentrated weight of the negro and his other
friends outside the door, it was slowly giving way.
Bobby turned a complete circle as he hastily scanned
the room, until his gaze rested upon an electric switch on
the wall.
"The lights, Scott."
I ran to the switch, but stopped as the head of an axe
crashed through the door with a teeth-edging, splintering
screech.
"Are you paralysed or petrified? The lights, man, the
lights."
The remainder of his vituperation was cut short by
another crash with the axe. The door swayed on its hinges,


BAYNES STANDS UP FOR HIS RIGHTS 39
and it was only the bulk of the inert Bull which prevented
the door from opening and the angry crowd outside from
pouring into the room.
Before I could move, Bobby Baynes stepped quickly
to the switch and deflected it, ignoring Ma Boggs' agonised
cry to let it alone.
Instead of an all-enveloping darkness, the solitary elec-
tric globe still functioned. The switch had failed. Bobby
gazed at the light in dismay, and turned the switch back
again. Above the din at the door there was a sound be-
hind us. Instinctively we turned, and were just in time
to see the entire fireplace slip back into its original position.
Bobby Baynes smiled in pure enjoyment, stretched out
his hand in elaborate gesture, then, with a preliminary
flourish extended his forefinger, and once more deflected
the switch.
Slowly the fireplace swung open, revealing a dark aper-
ture behind.
"Voila!"
I smiled, partly at his antics, but mainly from relief.
Still Bobby did not hurry. He stood beneath the electric
globe and gazed at it speculatively, then at the dagger in
his hand.
He smiled, and nodded his head, as though mentally
confirming a decision. Then he hurled the dagger at trie
globe. There was a faint explosion, and simultaneously
utter darkness. Immediately, through the cracks in the
door, the eager crowd outside became visible. We crunched
through the broken glass, then, hand in hand, crept be-
neath the open fireplace into the welcome blackness beyond.
We regained the street at the head of the alley-way,
and, glancing down as we hurried past, we saw a pair of
uniformed constables staring speculatively at the wooden
door with the iron grille, from behind which excited, yet
muffled, shouts were issuing.
Baynes grunted. "That'll give Ma Boggs and her satel-


40
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
lites something to think about—they don't want the police
nosing in there. I'd like to stay to see the outcome, but—
come along!"
"Where?"
"My place. Can't very well go to yours until we've
found out who was knocking on your door."
As he spoke we passed beneath a lighted lamp, and
I caught a glimpse of his face.
"Gosh, Baynes. Your eye!"
"Yellowish-purple?"
"More or less. I thought the Bull had put paid to your
account when he landed that lot."
"So did I. It was my own fault, too. That's the worst
of battling with a swivel-eyed opponent. When I was
initiated into the noble art of self-defence, my instructor
told me always to watch the other fellow's eyes—the—er
—windows of the soul—thus one can learn the other man's
intentions almost before he knows them himself. In this
case I watched the wrong eye. I doubt whether friend
Bull has a soul, but I'm certain of this—he's only got
one sound window thereto."
We walked along in silence, whilst I marvelled at what
manner of man this Bobby Baynes was. He could see
humour where none could be thought to exist; the recent
battle was proof of his immense vitality and strength; his
speech, the very intonation of his voice, suggested at
least a public school education; yet against this must be
set his open acknowledgment of his association with Pear-
son the convict, and the fact that the doorkeeper of the
"Pink Mouse" addressed him by his first name: well
known if not an habitue of a thieves' kitchen.
We marched on in silence, until it became irksome.
"Funny name—Pink Mouse," I ventured.
"Yes"—absently. "It becomes more obvious after
you've sampled their liquor."
I gave it up, and relapsed once more into silence. An
hour's walk, until the nature of the houses had changed


BAYNES STANDS UP FOR HIS RIGHTS 41
and we were in an obvious suburban district. Then Baynes
halted, laying his hand on my arm:
"A little circumspection is—er—indicated. Inspector
Higgins suffers from inspiration, and occasionally—er
"With infinite care he peered round a corner, and
remained, without movement, for perhaps thirty seconds,
then:
"All clear, Scott. Higgins is off duty."
Hurriedly we turned the corner, then Baynes marched
boldly up to a house of three stories, semi-detached with
garage. I followed.
Opening the front door with a tiny key he bade me
enter.
"Welcome to my mansion, Scott," he said. "There are
three flats here. All mine!"
I entered, and Baynes shut the door soundlessly, as
though afraid to disturb his neighbours.
"To the victor—the spoils," he remarked, placing his
hand in his jacket pocket, whilst he switched on the elec-
tric light with the other. A moment later the wonderful
Columnar necklace nestled glistening in his hand.
He gave a gasp, then looked at me.
"I'm sorry, Scott, but the entertainment this evening
has been of no avail."
"Why? What'd'you mean? Aren't they genuine?"
"Quite genuine"—quietly. "In fact so genuine that they
must be returned.'*


CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH MR. SCOTT CONTINUES HIS CONFESSION
FOR the space of a few seconds I failed utterly to grasp
his meaning. It seemed incongruous to me that a man
should fight as he had done, if not exactly for his own,
at least for something to which he considered he had a
right, and then calmly suggest he did not want it. Then
the possible explanation struck me and I smiled cynically:
"I see. The—er—Machiavellian Mr. Baynes will attend
to the—er—return of the necklace, whilst the simple-
minded Mr. Scott proceeds promptly to forget all about
it, and the unlucky Mr. Pearson languishes in gaol. Oh,
yes! I don't think!"
"Pearson? Yes. I was forgetting him."
"Still, he at least is conveniently out of the way," I
suggested, with a sneer, somewhat overawed at my own
temerity.
Without a word Baynes entered a room to the right of
the hall, and beckoned me to follow. He pulled the curtains
before turning on the electric light, then, with a wave of
his hand, he indicated the sideboard, where a bottle of
whisky and a syphon of soda-water stood upon a tray.
"Glasses in cupboard. Help yourself."
Baynes walked to a beautifully upholstered settee, and
slowly seated himself. With his left hand he groped at
a smoker's companion, found cigarette and matches, then
lit his cigarette, whilst his eyes stared thoughtfully at
his feet. He looked up.
"I'm sorry, Scott, but as I said, this necklace must be
returned. I cannot explain why—but there it is. I don't
42


MR. SCOTT CONTINUES HIS CONFESSION 43
mind the least how it's done—you can do it yourself if
you like, but it's got to be done. I must make it up to
Pearson, but, candidly, I don't like making it up to you.
In fact I don't intend doing so. You came into this by a
mean trick, and by similar means bluffed Pearson for a
third of the proceeds. Without me we should never have
recovered the necklace"
"And never have lost it," I reminded him, thinking of
the way the Bull had got on to his track.
"True. Well, I'll make you an offer. As a general rule
I'm a lone hand—this business with Pearson was rather
an exception—but I'm willing to take you in with me on
a fifty-fifty basis. Generous terms if you did but know it.
And when Pearson comes out we will split three ways."
I considered this for a moment, then:
"Good enough."
He nodded. Thus casually began our association.
I stayed with Baynes for the remaining hour or so
before daylight, and he convinced me of the advisability
of returning to my digs.
"Flight, my lad, is a tacit admission of wrongdoing.
Whoever knocked at your door during the night could
have known nothing of the Columnar diamonds. Million
to one against, anyhow. Go back and put up a bluff."
Easy enough for him, perhaps
On my way home I purchased a pair of revolvers in a
case and some ammunition. If I were to be a bandit I
would be a pukka one. Besides, I had read somewhere
that "Colonel Colt" made all men equal, and, as I was
to share equally with Baynes, I needed some mechanical
assistance to protect my share. You see I was still think-
ing of that fight with the Bull.
The landlady was responsible for my scare the previous
night, for she thought she had heard voices! My explana-
tion that I talked in my sleep was not well received, and


44 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
from the naughty look she gave me, I am sure she con-
siders me a bit of a roue. Let her!
A week later a reward of two thousand pounds was
offered for the return of the necklace, "no questions
asked." I telephoned to Baynes and suggested that this
might pay Pearson's rake-off.
"Good suggestion, Scott, if only such an offer were
legal. I somehow smell a rat."
Nevertheless, that very day, Bobby Baynes went to
Scotland Yard. He told me about it afterwards in his
quaintly humorous phraseology. Apparently he was fairly
well known at the Yard, and he assured me that the
constable at the gate fell down in a fit when he asked
him whether he could see Inspector Higgins. The inspector
himself had cheerily asked Baynes whether he had come
to give himself up. Seemingly the police knew all about
Bobby, but somehow lacked sufficient proof to lead to
a conviction for any of his alleged misdeeds—and of this
Bobby was well aware.
Baynes, without any beating about the bush, asked Hig-
gins whether the advertisement were a trap.
"Not a trap, Bobby, but a mistake by a misguided
woman with more money than brains. I told her that
myself. She didn't thank me for the information; neither
did she like the phrase 'compounding a felony.' I under-
stand that the reward still stands, but the 'no questions
asked' business has been dropped. So, if you know any-
thing about it, Bobby, take my tip and forget it."
Higgins, however, agreed that Pearson stuck to his story
about someone stealing it from him, but admitted it might
be merely a figment of his very fertile imagination. He
also agreed that Pearson might tell Baynes where he had
hidden the necklace.
"But don't imagine, Bobby, that I'll be such a fool
as to let him tell you where he's hidden it. I don't want
to lose my last chance of recovering it."
"Thanks for the compliment. Supposing I give you my


MR. SCOTT CONTINUES HIS CONFESSION 45
word of honour that, if Pearson reveals its whereabouts,
I will return it to its rightful owner—what then?"
"Word of honour?" (I understand that Inspector Hig-
gins did not laugh at this as I most certainly should have
done.) "H'm!"
"I always keep it." (I can well imagine the dignity
which Baynes would impart to such a statement.)
"Frankly, Bobby, I would trust you were it not out-
side your usual sphere. Generally speaking, you pull your
own chestnuts out of the fire: it's not like you to claim
a reward of someone else's labour."
"The reward to go to Pearson himself."
"H'm! That's different. I cannot condone the ethics,
but let it pass. We cannot choose our own weapons, and
I must admit that I'd very much like to get that necklace
back."
The pantomime was faithfully followed. Baynes, under
police escort, visited Pearson in prison, and they were
left alone for exactly two minutes. What he said I do
not know, but I imagine that Pearson must have been
greatly mystified by the visit from Bobby. The escort
duly returned to Scotland Yard, and Baynes asked for
forty-eight hours free from police surveillance. I don't
know the inspector's mental processes, but I imagine he
decided to take a chance. I asked Bob% whether he thought
he would be shadowed.
"No. Higgins, like myself, is a man of honour."
My titter changed to a cough.
Three days later the necklace was returned by regis-
tered post—anonymously—and a sum of two thousand
£ pounds was invested in Five per cent. War Stock, in the
name of James Pearson, the dividends to be utilised in
the purchase of additional stock until further notice.
Shortly afterwards Baynes and I started a legitimate
business as a cover for our more—er—unorthodox activi-


MR. SCOTT CONTINUES HIS CONFESSION 47
clean. You're building up quite a rep. as a free-lance
journalist, and I have seen you billed as 'our crime expert'
on more than one occasion. Blackmail leads to complica-
tions. Once let the—er—victim appeal to the police, and—
phut!—exit Messrs. Scott and Baynes."
We had occasional brushes with the Bull and his satel-
lites. Beefy had never forgiven Bobby for the tremendous
hiding he had once received, and if ever he could do us a
bad turn he wouldn't think twice.
"Why don't you kill the swine and done with it?" I
queried, after a very flagrant effort on the Bull's part.
"Not my line."
"Afraid?"
There was a silence whilst Baynes looked steadily in
my direction.
"Of the consequences?" I amended, somewhat hastily.
"H'm!"
"I seem to remember on one memorable occasion that
you threatened a certain lady with sudden death," I
ventured.
He laughed. "Ma Boggs? I should have had a job.
The blade of the dagger broke off as I was wrenching it
from the door. I thought you noticed it."
Then Pearson was released frorm^rison and joined us.
We were a pretty competent team. In my character of a
reporter I used to call upon all visitors of any means
arriving from abroad. They paid me handsomely for the
"write-up"; the papers paid me—not so handsomely—
for the news par.; whilst my impressions were invaluable
to Bobby when he came along to sell his pup. One visitor
was on the look out for a mining proposition. Bobby sold
him one! Another was buying pictures. Bobby found a
convenient "family heirloom."
Then for some unaccountable reason Baynes fell in
love. At least, not exactly unaccountable, for the lady in


48 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
question was certainly a humdinger. I saw them together,
dining at the Palatial. Sort of girl I should like for a wife.
Of medium height, lissom, svelte, and—proud. After-"
wards I asked Baynes for an introduction. I didn't get
it, and didn't like the manner of his refusal. I made
inquiries and found she was the Lady Muriel Beaumeere.
Bobby was flying high!
Late one afternoon, calling at Baynes' flat, I found him
ensconced with Inspector Higgins. Treachery! I waited,
and when Baynes left the flat, leaving Higgins in posses-
sion, I was sure. I crept to the door and locked the in-
spector in the room. Then I went in search of Baynes,
returning to the office on the off-chance of finding him,
He greeted me coldly, and advised me to bolt.
"Why?"
"Inspector Higgins is after us, that's why."
"Higgins, eh? I'll chance it."
"Please yourself—I'm hooking it."
"Afraid?"
"Yes."
I did not see him again for about a month. It was
Armistice Night, and a commemorative ball was in prog-
ress at the Palatial. I was there in a professional capacity,
both as a reporter aftid as a—crook. And again he was
with Inspector Higgins.
Time for me to act! I hurried home for my revolvers.
There they were, in the case, as unused as the day I
bought them, whilst still under the spell of Baynes' fury.
I loaded them both, then placed one under a pillow to
deaden the sound—and pulled the trigger. Having thus
made preparation I rushed back to the Palatial. I almost .
collided with the inspector just outside the bar. It was
unfortunate, but in my character of a reporter I whispered
in his ear:
"Anything doing?"
Impatiently he shook me off, and I hurried upstairs to


MR. SCOTT CONTINUES HIS CONFESSION 49
the large hall. Yes. There was Baynes, and talking to the
Lady Muriel Beaumeere as though he hadn't a care in the
world. I'd show him! I waited till the girl had gone, then
I sidled up to him.
"Baynes," I whispered. "Catch hold of this. I believe
H. is after you." I handed him the revolver from which
one cartridge had been fired. He took the weapon won-
deringly, although I almost had to force it upon him. I
slid away. Then I waited. It was essential to the success
of my plan that I catch him alone.
Inspector Higgins eventually returned to the table,
and I decided to go to Bobby's flat, there to await his
eventual return. I might utilise the time I had to wait
in picking up any unconsidered trifles. Baynes would
have no use for them after to-night!
I entered his flat with a key I had had made some
months before, from a wax impression of Baynes' own
key. I thought at the time it would come in useful if
I waited long enough, and this occasion proved my fore-
sight. I had scarcely begun my search when I heard a car
draw up to the kerb outside the flat. I peered through the
blinds. It was Baynes' car, and whilst I looked Higgins
himself stepped out. Thank goodness for the street lamp
so conveniently near! I was trapped. I hid behind a cur-
tain. Higgins let himself into the flat—presumably with
Baynes' key, and walked straight to the telephone. He
asked for a Mayfair number, and then for Lady Muriel
Beaumeere. And Baynes was alone—at last! The chance
for which I had been waiting had come. With infinite
care I slipped out of the flat. The inspector was too in-
tent on the telephone to have noticed me had I walked
out boldly!
Baynes was still waiting patiently at the wheel of his
car. Proof enough that he was in no trouble as far as the
police were concerned. I walked up to him. He saw me
almost at once.
"Hallo, Scott. Better clear off—Higgins is inside."


SO I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"What about you? I gave you a gun in case of an
accident such as this."
"I know. And you'd better take it back. I'm through.
Giving myself up, so to speak. I'm withdrawing from
our partnership, too." Then, whimsically: "I told you
Higgins would get me one day. And if I'm found with this
on me, they'll add at least three years to my sentence."
He laughed, and pulled from his pocket the revolver
which I had given him. As he did so, I shot him through
the head.


CHAPTER VII
AND CONCLUDES IT
AND that, dear reader, was the end of Mr. Robert
Baynes. He knew who'd got him, and I'm glad he
knew. He flung up an arm in a futile effort to ward off
my bullet, and I laughed in his face. So perish all traitors.
And Pearson and I are left to carry on, although I
haven't seen him for over a week, and the police want him
for something or other. I'll state here and now that I never
did like Bobby Baynes. For a crook he put on too many airs.
Lady Muriel Beaumeere indeed! That's like his gall.
She'll have to look elsewhere for a husband now, and
might do worse than look in my direction. What'll she
think when she reads in the morning's papers that her
lover has—committed suicide. There's no question of mur-
der, you understand. Suicide. They used to bury 'em at
the crossroads with a spit driven through their hearts, or
something of the sort. It'd serve Baynes right if they
treated him the same.
Since I got home to-night I've been busy writing this
confession. But it's been a longer job than I anticipated,
and I'm getting weary. And I'm sure to have a heavy
day to-morrow writing up the suicide of that underworld
character, "Bobby Baynes." I am, as a matter of fact,
expecting every moment a telephone call from the World,
informing me of the suicide and giving me the commis-
sion. If I weren't so tired I'd start now and save a little
time. . . .
I feel muzzy. I keep thinking, for some unknown reason,
of the Bull. If he starts his little gallops there will be no
Si


52 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Baynes to act as buffer. Pity I threw the other revolver
away. Thought it better in my hurried departure from
Baynes' flat. Chucked it in the Regent's Canal.
And the Bull is an ugly customer; and Ma Boggs may
still be alive: and Lincoln, the negro doorkeeper of the
"Pink Mouse."
Bah! What if they are? I'm Scott. Afraid of nobody.
Baynes was the king-pin till he met his equal, and more
than equal, for I killed him.
I'll finish as I started.
I have killed a man!
It only remains for me to sign my name along the
dotted line.
This is the dotted line ,
END OF PART ONE


PART TWO


CHAPTER I
IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES RETURNS TO THE HOME OF
HIS FATHERS
ON the thirty-first day of January, in the year of Our
Lord one thousand nine hundred and nineteen, half
a dozen ratings from a destroyer lying up Sheerness creek
were demobilised. Since the destroyer had left the Fourth
Flotilla, after a somewhat hectic time on convoy work at
Plymouth, it had been engaged for a month in masterly
inactivity up Sheerness creek, until the ratings (other
than active-service wallahs) had one and all applied to
the skipper to accelerate their dismissal from the ship.
He, poor chap, could do nothing. Yet at last came the
thirty-first day of January, and a happy band left the
destroyer, which had been their only home for years—
for ever.
The parting tears were non-existent. The afore-
mentioned active-service men, having signed on for twelve
years, viewed the departure with envious eyes, painfully
conscious of the years still to run, and entirely oblivious
of the fact that they, at least, had a home and a secure
profession, whilst these others—at best merely amateurs,
were returning to a world which had forgotten them, and,
having managed without them for so long, did not want
them.
The six, having received their pay and been passed fit
by the ship's surgeon, boarded the trot-boat with all their
belongings stuffed into their respective kitbags, and were
duly landed at Chatham: unwanted—and damned glad
of it!
55


56 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
A drink was indicated. In fact six drinks were indicated.
One complete round!
Ten o'clock and six happy ex-servicemen were incon-
tinently slung out of the "Boar's Head."
Should o-old er-quaintance be fergot an'
Bobby Baynes watched, with twinkling eyes, the other
five, rolling, with the exaggerated gait affected by amateur
sailors, somewhat accentuated by their recent libations,
down the street towards the station. He smiled.
"And that, seemingly, is that."
"'Ullo, mate. Demobbed?"
"Yes."
"And now returnin' to the ancestral 'ome, what?"
"You've said it."
Bobby waited until his new-found acquaintance had
gone, then he strolled to the station in the wake of the
other five.
Half an hour later a huge Rolls drew up to the station
gates, and a chauffeuse alighted. Bobby walked to the car
and pitched his kitbag into the luggage carrier.
"Master Robert?" the girl queried.
Bobby nodded. "Home, Jamesina."
It was midnight when the car eventually drew to a
halt. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the last few
minutes of the drive had been in the nature of a triumph,
for the entire village appeared to have turned out to wel-
come Bobby's return. He little thought when he had tele-
phoned for the car that the news would have travelled so
quickly. They cheered him through the lodge gates, and
the sudden cessation of sound as he had passed through
gave him a few moments respite during the drive up the
gravelled path.
The huge Elizabethan mansion, which was his home,
was lit up in every window and made an imposing sight
which gladdened his heart. As the car drew to a halt, a


BOBBY BAYNES RETURNS HOME 57
slight, girlish figure ran from the heavy oaken doorway.
"Bobby!"
"Hallo, kid. You've growed."
A portly figure then emerged from the doorway, its
gleaming shirtfront a spot of light in the darkness around.
With dignified mien it began its descent of the front-door
steps, then the pace was slightly accelerated, until, with a
quaint waddle, the figure ran to the car and dragged
therefrom Bobby's kitbag.
Bobby extended the glad hand, which the other seized.
"M-master Robert, sir—er—Master Robert, sir." The
man broke off; then, with a rush: "B-Bobby lad, b-but
I'm damned glad to see you again—er—sir. Er—begging
your pardon, sir."
Bobby laughed. "You're a good scout, Thomson. And
I'm—er—damned glad to see you, too."
"Now then, sir. No swearing. You know I'd never
allow that!"
Bustling to hide his emotion, the white-haired old but-
ler, rarely to be met outside the covers of a novel, strug-
gled to lift the kitbag to his shoulder. With one hand
Bobby Baynes lifted it to his back, and with the other
resting affectionately upon the girl's arm, he strode to the
house.
As he crossed the threshold he dropped the mantle of
Bobby Baynes and became the Honourable Robert Beau-
meere.
"His Lordship has retired, sir, but will see you in the
morning."
"Thank you."
"Well, Robert. So you're back—safe and sound?"
The question was purely rhetorical, yet Bobby meekly
answered it.
"Yes, sir."
"H'm! And now you are back, what do you propose
to do?"


58
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Why, sir, I—er—thought—er—what exactly do you
mean, sir?"
Bobby was amazed at his father's question, and for once
his usual aplomb deserted him.
"I mean that now you have returned to civil life, it's
high time you set about earning your own living."
"Naturally, sir. After I have completed my 'var-
sity"
"I'm sorry, but you cannot take up your—er—inter-
rupted studies," broke in the other, hastily.
"But, sir. The—er—Rolls—er"
"Placed at your sister's disposal by a—er—very great—
er—friend."
"Good lord, sir. Who?"
"A close neighbour of ours. A Mr. Brownworth."
"Never heard of him"—uncompromisingly. "Where
does he live?"
"At the Hall."
"But the Cumberleighs?"
"Sold out. Living at Wembley, I believe."
There was a silence, then the older man stood up and
rested a fatherly hand on Bobby's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, boy, but the old order changeth. Vast es-
tates are no longer an asset. What with taxation and one
thing or another they are more in the nature of a lia-
bility. I'm as near being broke as I have ever been before
in my life. Now you're back I'm afraid we'll have to sack
Thomson: it'll break the old chap's heart, but—" He
shrugged his shoulders. "Still it will all come right if your
sister marries this Brownworth fellow—er—I mean Mr.
Brownworth. He'll make very suitable settlements, and—
er—well, then you can take your degree and"
Bobby stood up, his face white and drawn.
"I suppose this Brownworth person made his money
out of the war?"
"What does it matter? He's got it. Isn't that enough?"
"It is not enough, sir. What does Muriel say?"


BOBBY BAYNES RETURNS HOME 59
"Oh! She—er—likes him well enough, I think. But in
any case she—er—knows her—er—duty."
"And that, presumably, is to sell her body to the highest
bidder, so that her father and brothers may live in idle-
ness. It may be good enough for you, sir, but not for me."
"Robert! You forget yourself."
"And high time I did, too!" He strode to the huge log
fire and stood for a moment gazing into the flames, then
he reached a silken cord hanging from the ceiling and
gave it a jerk. A minute later the soft-footed Thomson
stepped into the room.
"You rang, sir?"
"Yes, Thomson. Will you please ask Lady Muriel
whether she can spare us a moment."
"Very good, Master Bobby—Robert, sir."
Lady Muriel Beaumeere came into the room shortly
afterwards, and looked from her father to her brother
inquiringly.
"I want to ask you a question, sis. This Mr. Brown-
worth. What of him?"
"He—he's very nice."
"Thank you, sis. That's all."
"But he is—really."
Bobby smiled, and taking her arm, gently propelled her
to the door, which he opened. He bowed to her as she
passed through, then, having closed the door, turned to his
father. $
"Giving nothing away, sir. She's a Briton. Anyway,
she's decided me. I'm going."
"H'm! At least I've given you some sort of education."
"Yes"—bitterly. "You've taught me how to spend. I
think I'd better go now, sir, before I say something which
I shall afterwards regret. To satisfy a snobbish whim of
yours, I dropped the name which has been honoured
through the centuries when I joined the lower deck, so you
needn't worry that I shall bring dishonour to it. I'll drop
it. But I'll say this much: the Beaumeeres do not batten on


6o I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
their women; at least, the youngest representative has no
intention of so doing—I can only speak for myself."
"Robert. I think perhaps you'd better go."
"I think so, too."
He turned on his heel and strode to the door, but stopped
as the older man called him.
"What do you propose to do—beg or steal?" sneer-
ingly, white with rage.
The youngster laughed shortly. "What is the quotation?
To—er—beg I am ashamed! Good-bye." Curtly, with a
grim nod of his head, he walked to the door, opened it,
passed through, then slammed it with all his might, as
some small relief to the pent-up passion within him.
As he recrossed the threshold a minute later he dropped
the mantle of the Honourable Robert Beaumeere, and be-
came once more just plain Robert Baynes.


CHAPTER II
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS CALLED TO A CASE
INSPECTOR HIGGINS was seated at his desk in his
room at Scotland Yard: his elbows were on top of the
desk whilst his head rested in his hands: a faint fog of
tobacco smoke hung about the room.
His attitude was one of prayer, but this was somewhat
discounted by a pipe, long since cold, protruding from be-
tween his hands, and presumably clenched between his
teeth. Alternatively he might have been weeping save that
the only sound in the room was one of deep, measured
breathing.
There were footsteps in the corridor outside—quick and
decisive—which stopped for a second outside the door.
The handle was turned, and a man, with greying hair, en-
tered the room. The fact that he did not knock seemed to
suggest that he were either the equal or the superior in
rank to Inspector Higgins, and did not denote discourtesy.
He looked at the inspector, then coughed. The pipe clut-
tered to the desk, and liberally besprinkled the papers
thereon with burnt ash. Higgins sat up with a start.
"Lord, sir, you nearly frightened me to death."
"Take more than that to kill you, Higgins. What's the
matter with you? Concentrating?"
"Right first time, sir"—unblushingly.
"H'm! What time did you retire last night?"
"I didn't."
"I see. Then you wouldn't like a trip to Hatfield?"
"No, sir, I would not"—decisively.
"That's a pity. Murder case. You'd better push on.
61


62
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
There's no rest for the wicked. Except of course"—with a
bland gaze round the inspector's snug little office—"for
certain nameless—er—Government officials."
"Very good, sir."
With a sigh the inspector removed his hat and overcoat
from a peg on the wall, just stopped himself from stretch-
ing his limbs to ease a persistent yawn, gave Chief-
Inspector Dryan a somewhat sheepish grin, then picked up
his pipe from the desk.
"Police car waiting outside, Higgins. Good hunting."
"Thank you, sir."
"Inspector Higgins?"
Higgins nodded affirmatively. He felt much refreshed
by the journey to Hatfield, the well-upholstered car giving
some impetus to further concentration! As a matter of
fact he had been on duty the previous night and had only
that morning completed the dossier of the case. But for an
outbreak of 'flu at the Yard he would long since have been
off duty, but with thirty per cent, of the staff away it be-
hoved the others to carry on. He had hoped that the crim-
inal ranks would have been similarly depleted, but
"They 'phoned us from the Yard that you were on your
way. I'm Lumley, superintendent here. This is a bad busi-
ness."
"Tell me the facts—as you know them; and afterwards
we'll take a look at the place itself."
"Can't do better than show you this account in the local
rag. It states the facts pretty accurately, and possibly in
better English than I could tell it."
The account in question contained a highly coloured in-
troductory paragraph about the superintendent "in whose
hands the investigation of this terrible crime can safely be
left," but Higgins did not betray his amusement by so
much as the twinkling of an eye.
The previous night, about 12.30, a local constable had


INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS CALLED 63
been cycling along his beat near the Hall, "one of those
mansions for which our district is most justly famed,"
when, in a patch of moonlight he had observed a figure
running across the road about one hundred and fifty yards
ahead of him. Quickly he had pedalled to the spot where he
thought the man had vanished, but could find no signs of
the fugitive.
He waited for a minute or two, but there were no ap-
parent pursuers, and he might have dismissed the matter
from his mind as a simple case of poaching, when he
realised that the man must have been running from the
Hall itself.
Here seemingly was an opportunity not to be lost, for the
gentry hereabouts were pretty generous with their food
and drink, and it was a cold and—well—thirsty night, and
—a zealous officer was entitled to some recompense.
According to his report he had the devil's own job mak-
ing anyone hear, until at last he aroused the butler, a
tough-looking customer, who cursed the constable roundly
for disturbing his sleep.
They went the rounds together, and found that the
owner of the mansion had locked himself in his room, and
they could not arouse him.
Something like a panic seemed to have set in, but they
made two further discoveries. The first; that the french
windows of this room were open; and secondly: that Mr.
Brownworth had been stabbed in the back.
"So you're the constable who made the discovery?"
"Yessir."
"This running man. What was he like?"
"Big, beefy sort o' bloke, sir—like you. I mean"
"That's all right. The description is possibly quite apt—
don't apologise. Anything familiar about him?"
"Well, sir," the constable appeared to hesitate, then:
"No, sir. Not strictly speaking-like; yet some'ow"


64 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Don't force the recollection, but if you should remem-
ber, let me know. And now, Super, let's have a look at this
Hall."
"Righto."
"Who's in charge? I may know him."
"Sergeant Manton."
"Sergeant, Super?"
"Yes. What with this confounded 'flu and one thing
and another"
"Shorthanded, eh?"
"Well, you don't think we sh'd've called in the Yard—
I mean—er"
"Now don't go and spoil it all, Super."
They both laughed.
"There you are, Inspector. Fine looking place, isn't it?"
"Not so good as the other we just passed."
"Oh, you mean the Manor. That's the Earl de la
Monte's place."
"And why the flags and bunting. Don't say the populace
was expecting me"—quizzically.
"No. Young Beaumeere's just home from the war."
"H'm! Guard's a bit slack, if you don't mind my men-
tioning it," as the police car passed through the gates of
the Hall unchallenged.
The superintendent frowned, not so much from the ap-
parent slight, as from the fact that the guard certainly was
slack. This became more painfuly obvious as the car pro-
ceeded up the drive, and a crowd of curious sightseers
turned at the sound of their approach.
Half the village seemed to be within the grounds, and
the chauffeur had an anxious time picking his way through
the throng.
"What the blazes is the matter?" The superintendent
was certainly perplexed and more than a little annoyed. "I
gave strict instructions that no one was to be allowed in
the park."


INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS CALLED 65
Angrily he stepped from the car, followed by Inspector
Higgins, and pushed his way to the front door.
"Someone'll pay for this," he threatened, and nearly
jerked the handle of the bell from its support by the vi-
ciousness of his tug. A faint tinkling from the regions be-
low.
"Nothing doing, Super. Come round the side and give
me a bunk up to one of the windows."
A brisk walk, followed by the crowd, to one of the win-
dows. Here they stopped and willing hands hoisted the in-
spector until he was able to peer within.
A pause, then:
"Well?" impatiently from the waiting superintendent.
A subdued chortle, an open chuckle, then uncontrollable
laughter. The superintendent was surprised; he snapped
his fingers to a couple of hefty onlookers, who eagerly
lifted him up to the window.
"Damned funny, isn't it," he said, savagely.
Higgins stopped his cachinnations for a moment, "You
must admit, sir, that there is a certain element of humour."
Propped against the farther wall, securely bound and
gagged, their eyes protruding like organ stops, were four
uniformed constables—all in a row; whilst facing them,
his back to the window, was a sergeant—in like case!
Suddenly the inspector sobered, as the thought returned
that, if all the reports were correct, then somewhere within
this house lay a dead man, with the hilt of a dagger pro-
truding from his back. That, at least, was no joke. And
perhaps, after all, it was not in the best of taste to laugh
at the discomfiture of the uniformed police whilst their
superintendent was a fellow-spectator.
Ahem! An apology was needed.
"I am forgetting myself, Superintendent. Believe me,
sir, I am profoundly sorry."
The other nodded an ungracious acknowledgment.
Without more ado Inspector Higgins smashed the win-


66 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
dow with his elbow, thrust his hand through the hole and
released the catch, then, with the aid of his willing helpers,
he clambered through the open window. Five seconds later
the superintendent followed.
"Keep anyone else from looking in, Super, whilst I re-
lease these men. Don't want to broadcast this business."
The superintendent hastened to comply, somewhat
mollified by the suggestion.
Higgins removed the gag from Sergeant Manton, and
that gentleman relieved his feelings with somewhat lurid
vernacular. Soon they were all released.
Then the superintendent climbed through the window.
"You four clear the grounds. Sergeant, a word with
you."
"Yes, sir."
"This is Inspector Higgins of the Yard, come to take
over—and high time, too, according to the look of things."
"I'm sorry, sir, I can give no explanation. I was sand-
bagged or something from behind, and that's all I know
till I woke up with three of the constables sitting in front
of me; a big man with a handkerchief over his face
dragged in the fourth a minute later."
There was a sound of an altercation outside the window
as the villagers resented being turned out of the grounds,
but the constables, anxious to retrieve their self-respect
were making a thorough job of it.
"Come and view the body, Inspector."
"Hasn't it been removed?" in surprise.
"No. Nothing touched. Waiting for you."
"Excellent, sir. Excellent."
"This way, sir," from the sergeant. "This is the door
which was found locked, and which was opened after the
constable had entered by the open french windows. And
this, sir—er—this— Well—strike—me—pink!"
The room was in a state of almost indescribable con-
fusion, books from the library shelves had been flung upon
the floor, chairs knocked over, ink from the desk spilled


INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS CALLED 67
over the carpet, in fact there was every evidence of sheer
wanton destruction.
Yet in the middle of the room, untouched and isolated
by the debris, was a still form, shrouded by a sheet.
"That's still here, anyhow," from the sergeant. He
walked over, and, in spite of the casualness of his tongue,
used reverent hands to uncover the body.
Higgins stared at the still figure, still lying upon its
face. "The doctor has the dagger, I suppose?"
The superintendent did not reply. It was evident, from
the look of incredulous surprise on his face, that the in-
spector's supposition was not correct t


CHAPTER III
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS LOOKS THROUGH A KEY-
HOLE
F)R some minutes Inspector Higgins was silent. The
others, by tacit consent, did not disturb his ruminations.
There was a nightmarish quality about this case which, in
itself, formed a slender clue. The dagger had been stolen
for an obvious reason—it must have had the fingerprints
of the murderer on the hilt, and—or it must have been of a
sufficiently conspicuous pattern to make the tracing of the
owner a comparatively easy matter. In the latter case, it
argued that either the dagger was a museum or show
piece easily recognisable by connoisseurs, or it belonged to
some local man. Yet if it had, why had not the police rec-
ognised it? Ah! Its conspicuous marks were obviously
upon the blade itself, which, as the police had not removed
the dagger, had not yet been revealed.
So far—so good!
And the bizarre kidnapping of half the constabulary? A
corollary to the removal of the knife, and the unhampered
search of the room. Yet, why worry about the man on
duty at the gates? Surely it was in the intruder's advan-
tage to have the grounds unpatrolled by inquisitive stran-
gers. Except that this would make his getaway the more
easy. And how had the guard been enticed from the gates?
This was easy to determine.
"The man on the gates—I want him."
The sergeant hurried to do his bidding, and returned a
minute later with the constable.
"Why did you leave your post?"
"Well, sir. I told the crowd as 'ow they was not to come
68


HIGGINS LOOKS THROUGH A KEYHOLE 69
in the grounds, then I saw a big bloke who some'ow 'ad
got through."
"Where?"
"Lookin' outer one of the upper winders, sir. So I ran
to tell the sergeant. While I was looking fer 'im, someone
conked me on the nut."
"H'm! I see." Higgins nodded dismissal and resumed
his ruminations.
And the bull in the china shop business? Did it indi-
cate a search, or was the confusion an attempt to conceal?
And if so—what? And the man whom the constable saw
looking out of one of the upper windows! Soon settled.
Once again the man was sent for and told to take up his
original position at the gates, and to signal when the in-
spector appeared at the window in question.
Whilst they were mounting the stairs:
"Tell me, Super. This murder was discovered about one
o'clock this morning—nine hours ago. You 'phoned the
Yard at seven, and I arrived here at nine. Yet, in that short
space of time, the—er—local rag—your expression, not
mine"
"My son's sort of amateur reporter—cheeky young
devil, and"
"Oh, ah! Yes. H'm." Higgins subsided.
"And what about the domestic staff? Huge house like
this—where are they?"
"This fellow Brownworth hasn't been in the district
long—six months at the outside. He had local servants at
first, then about three months after he came he shut up
shop and dismissed the staff. Left his car with old de la
Monte, so I'm told. Didn't even know he was back, but
understand he returned a couple o' nights ago with a
couple o' menservants."
"And they've vamoosed?"
"Seemingly."
"H'm. Fishy sort of cove." They reached the floor
above. Then:


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Gosh! More funny business."
The door of one of the rooms had obviously but recently
been smashed open, and Higgins hurried to that room. He
gave a swift glance round, then walked to the window. Im-
mediately a figure in the distance by the drive gate waved
its arms.
"This is the room right enough."
Higgins gave the room a more detailed inspection.
There was a bed with the bedclothes flung to one side, a
wash-basin filled with dirty water, a tray with bread
crumbs and some cheese rind thereon, and a chair. No
carpet, no pictures.
"Like a prison," volunteered the superintendent.
Higgins walked to the door which he carefully exam-
ined. Then:
"As a matter of fact, that's just what it was. This door
was forced from the inside."
Inspector Higgins had sent one of the constables to the
local inn for some sandwiches and a large bottle of beer.
The superintendent had returned to the station, there to
broadcast descriptions of the missing menservants. An
ambulance from the local hospital had arrived and the
murdered man had been taken to the mortuary, there to
await formal identification.
Higgins was alone, and mentally reviewed the case.
The constable and the butler had together found the
murdered man, whereupon the constable had returned to
the station to make his report. Being a country place it
must have taken at least an hour and a half before the
guard of four men could have been collected for duty. The
butler had set out for a doctor, but had never arrived
there, for the police doctor himself had turned up and
merely pronounced life extinct.
Obviously, the butler must have been astounded to learn
of his master's decease, and, for some reason or other, had
bolted. What about the man at the window? A prisoner


HIGGINS LOOKS THROUGH A KEYHOLE 71
without a doubt. He wakes up in the early morning and
sees a policeman on obvious duty at the lodge gates. What
does he do? A chance to escape, he batters down the door
from the inside and he too vanishes. Yet why didn't he
escape before. Aha! And where the deuce had he got to?
Must have been pretty hefty to knock down that door. He
must have been the cove who knocked out the coppers and
laid them all out in a row. Pretty quick worker consider-
ing that the distance from the gates to the house was
barely one hundred and fifty yards. Unless, of course, he
had returned to his prison after laying out the cops, and it
was then that the guard had seen him. And come to that—
why lay out the cops at all? Surely after his escape, he
should have welcomed the police? Promiscuous imprison-
ment by unauthorised gaolers is frowned upon by the pow-
ers that be! Obviously, he, too, had something to hide.
There were three suspects—all big men. The mysterious
runner who had first aroused the constable's suspicions;
the surly butler who had gone for the doctor, and was still
looking for one; and the prisoner who had escaped.
It was unreasonable to suppose that one man had been
responsible for the capture of the police—it might well be
that all three were working in cahoots.
And the ostensible search or the deliberate damage in
the library where the body was found; who did that? And
why? And was the dagger retrieved at the same time?
Higgins swigged off the last drop of beer and returned
once more to the library to survey the damage. These books
hurled to the floor ought to be covered with fingerprints
considering the dust on some of them. And why waste
time chucking books about when it might be better used in
legging it for parts unknown? Books suggested concealed
papers which might be hidden between leaves—the secret
formula or Government papers so convenient to the writ-
ers of detective stories. Higgins smiled. Or a will written
in his own blood. . . .
A will ? Wonder who stands to benefit by Brownworth's


72 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
decease. The man was a newcomer from nowhere accord-
ing to the super. He banked with the Eastern Counties
Banking Corporation. . . .
Inspector Higgins turned his eyes from the books on
the floor, to the shelves on the walls from which they had
been hurled. One wall had not been touched, for each
book was in place, and there were no gaping spaces as on
the other shelves. A simple ordered array of bound vol-
umes. The inspector picked his way daintily through the
debris, to give this wall closer inspection: The Complete
Works of William Shakespeare. And of Charles Dickens.
A complete encyclopaedia in about a dozen volumes. The
Cumberleigh Family from William the Conqueror to Wil-
liam the Fourth. "Wonder who the Cumberleighs were?"
Psychology and Psycho-Analysis, translated from the
German. "Strewth!" A Treatise on the— "Golly!" Crimes
and Criminology. "Ah! This is more like it!" Famous
Criminals I Have Met. Higgins smiled. He wondered how
many criminals the author had really met—feeling cyni-
cally disposed.
Then he stopped short. Why this sudden interest in
criminals? A glance assured him that the last two books
were much newer than the others. Then he found several
more books of a like nature—also of more recent addition.
He pulled out one which was obviously the latest addition.
Notorious Cases. Many interlineations, underscorings and
marginal references.
". . . made the fatal mistake of . . ." Heavily under-
scored in red ink. "... a little slip, yet it cost him
dear . . ." More red ink. ". . . more care in covering his
tracks he would never have been caught. A small omission,
quickly seized upon by the police, and in due course it led
them straight to the murderer . . ."
Inspector Higgins was intrigued. The slips which led to
arrest; the fatal mistakes made; something done or
omitted which gave the miscreant away. All underlined.


74 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
ern construction was proof that this passage was known to
others, and that he had not stumbled on some forgotten
relic of the past. A pace forward, then a flight of steps
leading below. Higgins counted them. Twenty-four. The
lower he proceeded the more dank the atmosphere, until,
reaching the bottom level, the stench of the earth was al-
most overpowering.
And on the floor of this passage were some recent foot-
prints. The distance between each print, and the fact that
the toes were more deeply impressed than the heels, con-
vinced the inspector that the man who had made them
must have been sprinting at a goodly pace.
Carefully he followed. There was a sharp bend in the
passage, and Higgins noticed that the footprints led
straight to the wall, and immediately afterwards there was
a deep impression in the soil where the man had fallen.
"Running at that pace without a light. H'm. Must 'a'
known the way pretty well. Ran into the wall in the excite-
ment. Or forgot about the turn."
Two hundred yards farther on the spaces between foot-
prints gradually lessened, whilst the impression of the
heels became more pronounced. Obviously, the man had
slowed down to a walk. Then they proceeded to the wall
and Higgins found a used match. Either the man had
lost his sense of distance or he was looking for something.
Three more dead matches. Then the distance between the
prints increased. Higgins stopped. If the man had been
searching for something then he had obviously found it
here. The inspector flashed his torch round the passage.
Above the footprints where he had found the last match,
about five feet from the ground, and imbedded in a up-
right wooden prop, was a rusty nail. And yet, not entirely
rusted, for, between the protruding head of the nail and
the prop—a matter of half an inch or so—was a shiny
strip. Something had, until fairly recently, hung upon that
nail. "Ten to one it's a key."
A few paces more and then some steps led upwards.


HIGGINS LOOKS THROUGH A KEYHOLE 75
Twenty-six this time. Another door. With the aid of his
torch Higgins inspected the door. Wooden and ancient—
the cobwebs round the edges were broken and hung in
fronds; and there was the keyhole. For a foot round the
keyhole the dust have been brushed away as anxious fin-
gers groped for the aperture. Higgins deflected the ray of
his torch to the ground to examine the many prints. Im-
mediately he became conscious of a spot of light from the
other side of the keyhole.
Almost before his brain had registered this significant
fact his torch was out, and the passage was in darkness
save for that tiny spot of light.
Prudence suggested that he at once retire for assistance,
yet there was an undoubted fascination about that keyhole.
It might be as well to ascertain, if possible, the strength of
the—er—forces on the other side of the door. One peep
wouldn't hurt, anyhow!
Higgins dropped to one knee, then, screwing his face
into a hideous wink, applied his right eye to the keyhole.
At first he could see nothing, there appeared to be some-
thing in his line of sight, something scintillescent—the
merest suggestion of reflected light, the thickness of the
door away. He squinted in a determined effort to focus his
sight. Then he gasped.
It was a human eye—staring into his own.
To his intense disgust he felt his back hair bristle.
"Golly!" Inspector Higgins stood up and scratched his
head.


CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS IS CLEVER
THERE was an eerie silence. Inspector Higgins stood
well back, away from the keyhole, against the door.
Somehow he felt that the next move was up to him. The
main point at issue was whether or not the eye the other side
of the door had actually seen him. And in any case, he had
no intention of staying here for ever!
A sound—infinitesimal, yet strangely loud in the death-
like silence. The inspector strained his ears. Someone was
inserting a key into the keyhole. Slowly the key turned
and there was a protesting squeak from the bolt of the
lock. The sound ceased, and Higgins realised that the door
was now unlocked.
Attack is the better part of defence! A surprise move
wins the battle. Higgins waited until the door was pushed
open sufficient to allow the insertion between the jamb and
the door of his left hand. He gripped the door, then, ex-
erting his great strength, he pulled it open; fierce-eyed,
square-jawed, forbidding—prepared for anything or any-
body.
A slight, small figure tumbled into his arms.
"Er—good morning, miss."
The inspector's warlike aspect vanished like a wraith as
he gently set the girl upon her feet. A quick glance round
the room had assured him that the girl was its only other
occupant, and that her's must have been the eye. . . .
"Who—who are you? I—I thought—what are you do-
ing here?" The girl's voice was of gentle tone—low and
sweet. Higgins was charmed. Her attempt at dignified ut-
76


HIGGINS IS CLEVER
77
terance would have been humorous but for her evident dis-
tress. She was badly startled, yet determined not to show
it. Awkwardly the inspector fumbled for a card, which he
presented to the girl—a smile crinkling his eyes.
The girl paled, and bit her nether lip, clasping and un-
clasping her hands, which to one of the inspector's calling
and experience, suggested . . .
"You—er—thought . . . ?" prompted Higgins.
"Nothing. It's nothing! Won't you come in?" She
sidled behind the inspector, hastily shutting the door and
turning the key.
Higgins was intrigued. "You needn't worry, missie.
There's no one else in there."
"B-but surely there must—I—I mean—er—I—Ooh!"
The girl turned hurriedly, then incontinently burst into
tears, as she flung herself into a hide chair.
The inspector swallowed, and furtively licked his lips
whilst he ran a forefinger round the edge of his collar. If
this wasn't just about the last note! What with missing
daggers, semi-secret passages, eyes at keyholes and one
thing and another, he was cussed if . . .
He gazed round the room with professional interest,
deeply conscious of the sobbing girl and hoping to good-
ness she'd soon quit. He felt painfully embarrassed and
hopelessly at sea. He was not a ladies' man. It was obvi-
ously a gunroom, or trophy room: a number of sporting
guns and rifles were racked against the wall, strangely
reminiscent fo the inspector's plebeian mind to the stacking
of billiard cues; some glorious animal skins upon the par-
quet floor seemed sadly out of place; upon the walls, near
the roof, were some very fine heads, whilst two caps were
hung upon an antlered head lower down—a needless dese-
cration; boxes of gun cartridges stood upon a shelf; some
fishing tackle and some golf-clubs made an indiscriminate
heap in one corner; two or three well-worn saddles hung
upon steel hooks; whilst on the farther wall was an amaz-
ing collection of old-time weapons, spears, swords, as-


78 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
segais, flint locks, blunderbusses, knives, stilettos, daggers,
pistols and whatnot; and in the far corner, mounted on a
lay-figure was a complete suit of burnished armour.
"Owner anticipating a little private bother," he re-
flected, facetiously. A long drawn-out sigh from the girl
brought his mind back to the present.
"I—I'm so sorry, Inspector, but"—she smiled, and
Higgins grinned in return—"you know you did startle
me when you pulled open that door."
"That's all right, missie. I am a blundering ass on occa-
sion, and . . ."
"But how on earth did you get in there?"
"Walked"—laconically. "From the Hall."
"From—the—Hall?" An unbelieving pause between
each word. "But—but—whatever is Mr. Brownworth
thinking about?"
Higgins was startled.
"Friend of yours, missie?" sympathetically.
"Well, he—er—is, rather." She paused. "Th—there's
nothing the matter, is there?"
"Missie. Perhaps it would be as well if you fetched
your—er—father or mother—er ..." Higgins broke off
as the awful thought assailed him that the girl might be an
orphan, and that he had, so to speak, put his foot in it. He
hoped the girl were not a particular friend of this Mr.
Brownworth. . . .
"If you will come with me to my father's study," sug-
gested the girl tentatively, making for the door.
Higgins pondered for a moment. Really, it was not
quite so easy as all that—the last thing he wanted to do for
the moment was to leave this room without a more com-
prehensive search; why, the man might be hiding in that
suit of armour over there—he'd read such a thing in a
humorous book only a week or two before, and ... he
couldn't be in two places at once. He didn't want the girl
to go, neither did he want to go himself. Bit awkward.


HIGGINS IS CLEVER
79
A sound of footsteps outside, then a gentle knock upon
the door, which was slowly opened.
A white-haired man entered, shied as his eyes rested
upon the inspector, but recovered his composure as he saw
the girl standing close by.
"You rang, my lady?" It was the inspector's turn to
blink.
"Ask his lordship if he can spare me a moment, please."
"Very good, my lady."
The man retired, with an almost imperceptible bow in
Higgins' direction. The inspector thought rapidly: My
lady—his lordship. H'm. This must be the Manor. Earl
de la Monte. Golly!
Then, in mortification, he remembered his hat, his face
suffused with a brick-red flush as he clawed it from his
head. What on earth would this little girl think of him?
He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. The
girl watched him with ill-concealed amusement.
"I'm awfully sorry, missie"—naively, with a rueful
grin. "I'm—er forgetting what little manners I—er—it
isn't his lordship—er . . ." Higgins broke off—sunk.
"You know, for a policeman, you're rather a dear."
The inspector was mentally kicking himself, whilst his
language—unuttered, was, nevertheless, unutterable. The
sound of footsteps relieved, for Higgins, the tension.
A man entered the room, elderly, aristocratic, yet pale
and haggard. Ignoring the inspector he tottered to the girl.
"My dear! My dear!"
"Why—why . . ." apprehensively.
"Mr. Brownworth. Dead. Murdered."
Without a sound the girl slithered to the floor in a dead
faint. Inspector Higgins awoke to life. He ran to the inert
form and glared at the other.
"You blasted fool you! Where's your sense ? That's your
idea of breaking a thing gently, I suppose. Go and fetch
some water."


8o I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
The Earl de la Monte gave one look at the outraged
Higgins, then ran to do his bidding.
The Earl and his daughter were interested, if not ap-
prehensive, spectators of the inspector's activities. The
girl was seated in the hide chair, whilst her father sat upon
the arm of the chair with one arm thrown protectively
round his daughter's shoulders.
Higgins was most interested in the footprints which
gave a faint muddied trail from the door of the passage
to one of the animal-skin rugs, which the intruder had
used as a door mat. There the prints ceased. Higgins,
himself, had found some cotton waste and rags which
were obviously for the use of the groom or other servant
responsible for cleaning the guns, saddles, etc. With this
he had removed the dirt from his own boots, and he won-
dered why the intruder, who seemingly had more than a
slight knowledge of the house and its appurtenances, had
not done the same. Matter of time, possibly.
That the girl had noticed the footprints he had not the
slightest doubt, yet why, instead of obtaining masculine
assistance, had she essayed to open the passage door her-
self? And whom had she expected to find?
His hands in trousers pockets, a faint frown upon his
forehead, his mouth pursed for a soundless whistle, In-
spector Higgins swayed gently upon his feet and stared
unseeingly at the floor for inspiration.
It came! Upon the shining toe-cap of one of his boots
was a dull smear. ... He touched it with his finger . . .
blood. Golly! The cotton waste. H'm. So it was. Care-
lessly he thrust it into his pocket, fully conscious of the
eyes of the others. And then his gaze rested upon the col-
lection of weapons so artistically arranged upon that wall.
Ostensibly nothing was missing, for the symmetry was
preserved . . . unless, of course, the dagger had formed
the central theme of the design; or, being one of a pair,
the other had subsequently been removed.


HIGGINS IS CLEVER
81
"Nice collection, sir."
"Yes"—shortly. "Valuable, too," as the inspector moved
nearer to the wall, and tentatively touched one of the ex-
hibits with his forefinger. The inspector frowned at the
dust as he rubbed his finger on his handkerchief.
"I'll send for a maid to dust"—sarcastically from his
lordship.
"Don't bother," retorted the inspector without looking
round. "I shouldn't be at all surprised to find that one of
these has been—er—dusted."
"W—what do you mean?" anxiously from the girl.
"Nothing, my lady"—ungallantly from Higgins.
A strained silence. Dust—dust—more dust—dust—
Gosh! A pair of daggers, crossed, one of which was dusty,
and the other . . .
"Are you on the telephone, my lord? But, of course you
are I wonder whether you would be good enough to tele-
phone to the police station and ask them to send me a
messenger here? Thanks."
Without looking round Inspector Higgins continued his
inspection of the weapons—not by word or look did he
betray the fact that he was more interested in one weapon
than another.
"Certainly." Courteously and unhurriedly the nobleman
passed on the request to one of his servants who answered
his summons.
"I want you to take this dagger, constable, and ask the
Public Analyst to give it the once-over for traces of
blood."
Higgins was in the act of handing over a dagger when
it was snatched from his hand by Muriel Beaumeere, and
before the outraged constable could interfere, she had
rubbed her hand forcefully round the hilt.
"'Ere! 'Ere! 'Ere!" The constable snatched the dag-
ger from her hand, and blinked rapidly and apologetically
at the inspector.


82 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Really, my lady, you shouldn't have done that, you
know," said Higgins, mildly. "Perhaps, my lord," he sug-
gested, reprovingly, "it would be as well if you escorted
the lady to her room. She seems—er—somewhat agitated."
"Yes, yes"—in nervous agreement.
The door had scarcely closed behind the Earl and his
daughter, when Higgins turned to the constable with a
Machiavellian smile.
"I'm sorry, constable, but I gave you the—er—wrong
dagger. This is the one I meant you to take." He handed
the other the second weapon of the pair.
Upon occasion the inspector exhibited a certain amount
of what his disciples called "astuteness," and his detrac-
tors "low cunning!"


CHAPTER V
IN WHICH A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS
««T ADY MURIEL BEAUMEERE'S fingerprints
-I—' superimposed upon the set we found on the handle
at the Hall end of the passage, which in turn, were super-
imposed upon a third set practically indistinguishable."
"Thanks."
So the little girl knew considerably more than at first
had appeared to be the case, for she, undoubtedly, had
been the last to handle the weapon. Not for one moment
did the inspector imagine that hers had been the hand
which had ended Mr. Brownworth's existence—she wasn't
strong enough for that, but . . .
"And, without a doubt, it is the weapon which com-
mitted the—er—deed." The other interrupted the inspec-
tor's thoughts with this addendum to his original statement.
"Thanks."
"And the blood on the cotton waste—the same as the
deceased's."
"Thanks."
The Public Analyst gave it up. This famous detective,
apparently, had but a limited vocabulary.
"That, members of the jury, concludes our witnesses. It
is for you, if you can from the evidence we have offered,
to decide how this unfortunate gentleman met his death.
"The police have been unable to trace any relatives of
the deceased, and such servants as he had have felt it in-
cumbent upon them to sever their connection with his
house. That two of them—the only known persons who
83


84
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
accompanied the late Mr. Brownworth when he returned
to his house—should have vanished as soon as the body
was found, does not necessarily mean that either of them
had any hand in the—er—assassination of their employer.
Most of us shrink from contact with death, the more so
when such death is of a violent nature, so that the sudden
disappearance of these two servants may not be so fishy
—er—suspicious, I mean"—hastily the coroner corrected
himself—"as at first blush it may appear to be.
"The manager of the Eastern Counties Banking Cor-
poration has informed us that the deceased had made
arrangements to lodge his will at the bank but had not
done so. He had told the manager the day before his un-
timely death that he had decided to turn over half a mil-
lion pounds to trustees for the sole use and benefit of Lady
Muriel Beaumeere, and the manager had, in fact, con-
gratulated him on his reported engagement with the Lady
Muriel. Half a million pounds, members of the jury"—
impressively wagging his forefinger to accentuate each
syllable—'"yet the police assure us that his safe contained
but a few papers and twenty pounds in notes. Thus this
fortune in bonds, if it ever existed outside the brain of
the late Mr. Brownworth, which from his mode of living
we may perhaps be justified in assuming when one remem-
bers the Rolls which he left in the care of the Earl de la
Monte ..." The coroner broke off, completely tangled
in his own oratory, coughed peremptorily, hastily glanced
at his notes, took a deep breath and started again. "It's
gone." Not exactly what he had meant to say but ...
he frowned portentously and pulled himself together.
"Lady Muriel Beaumeere denies that any engagement,
understanding or—er—similar agreement existed between
her and the deceased gentleman. Perhaps he was optimis-
tically anticipating something which he er—hoped—er
—yes! H'm. Her ladyship has told you how, going to the
gunroom for a leash for her dog, she noticed that one of
the ornaments on the wall—the dagger—was somewhat


86
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
to assist us—I cannot say—but—there it is. His lordship
has told us that it was only the previous night that his son
had returned after faithful service to his country in the
Royal Navy, and that after a friendly discussion as to his
future, Mr. Beaumeere had once more left the home of his
fathers to resume his wanderings. I feel that there was
more behind this than is at present apparent, and I appeal
to Mr. Beaumeere when this dreadful case eventually
comes to his notice, to communicate with the police and
to render them such assistance as may be in his power. It
boils down to this: Mr. Brownworth was stabbed in the
back with a dagger from the Earl de la Monte's collection.
After the discovery, the servants vanish, and one of them
takes the dagger—at least, I should say someone takes the
dagger and, using the underground passage, wipes it on
some cotton waste, and replaces it on the wall with its fel-
low. That someone, undoubtedly, was well aware of the
existence of the passage, and also, where the dagger usually
was hung. Furthermore . . ."
"Murder by some person or persons unknown."
Inspector Higgins smiled as the verdict was given, and
turned to the superintendent.
"Young Beaumeere must be pretty popular, I should
imagine," he suggested cynically.
The superintendent nodded grimly.
A month of fruitless inquiry and Inspector Higgins re-
turned to Scotland Yard somewhat dispirited. Wherever
he had gone, whatever he had asked, he had, in every
case, come up against a blank wall of thinly veiled hos-
tility.
Take the Manor itself. No available photographs of
this Robert Beaumeere, save those when a boy, which he
could have obtained from the usual agencies without any


88
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Monte firmly believed that this search was one and the
same—the operations would no longer be controlled by
Inspector Higgins of Scotland Yard.
"Not exactly an unqualified success, eh, Higgins?"
Chief Inspector Dryan put the question when his subor-
dinate reported once more for duty. "Our friend Beau-
meere is somewhat elusive, what? He did it all right I
suppose?"
"I'm not so sure, sir. I'm half convinced he left his
fingerprints on that door handle and on the dagger, which
might be pretty conclusive evidence, but I'm not too sure
that they were his prints. Mind you, sir, he'd only been
back a day at the most—not much chance to leave undis-
puted fingerprints at the manor, which, in any case, had
been dusted from cellar to roof. There's someone with
brains at the Manor, who not only thinks our Robert com-
mitted the deed, but is also prepared to protect him from
his just deserts. The girl, in my opinion."
"H'm. What's she like?"
"Thoroughbred, sir. Eighteen at the most. A fine kid."
"And what did the Earl and our Robert quarrel about?"
Higgins looked up at his Chief with a quick smile. "Ah,
sir, so you guessed that too, eh?"
"Obvious. Son returns after five years, then goes off
at once without waiting for his address of welcome from
the village committee. I ask you!"
"I tackled his lordship." Higgins smiled at the recol-
lection. "My good man," he mimicked, "if I've told you
once, I've told you a dozen times—there was no quarrel.
Damme, sir, you'll make me cross in a minute."
"H'm. And the servants heard nothing?"
"All deaf."
"Like that, eh? H'm. And the whisper which reaches
me that some evilly disposed person made a parcel of four
constables and a sergeant?"


A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS 89
"Untrue, untrue. Otherwise it would surely have been
mentioned at the inquest, sir."
Chief Inspector Dryan smiled—then he chuckled. The
subject was dropped. This secret remained a secret, save
for two thousand officers of the Yard and a hundred odd
members of the Hertfordshire constabulary.
A month later Inspector Higgins received a letter, un-
dated and posted from China. It was the last time, for
some years, that the case had his undivided attention.
Sir,
If you think I had anything to do with the murder of
that skunk Brownworth, why not come into the open and
say so?
Yours, etc.,
Robert Beaumeere.
"So he got away. H'm."
Higgins replaced the notepaper into the envelope, and
sent it to Sergeant Merrier of the Records Department,
with instructions to file it away with the other records of
the Brownworth case.
Had his heart been in the case he would not have over-
looked the fact that destroyer DO 6, Beaumeere's old ship,
had been ordered to Hankow to protect British and Ameri-
can interests some weeks before, and had successfully
quelled one of the periodical outbreaks there.
And, with a series of successes, which lasted for the sub-
sequent five years, is it to be wondered that Inspector Hig-
gins thrust this failure into the background and kept it
there?


CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS HEARS OF
THE BULL
"\ NEW star has risen in our firmament, Higgins."
The inspector blinked, then squinted more closely
at his Chief, as though to convince himself that he had
heard aright. Dryan, as a general rule, was most abstemi-
ous! There he was at his desk, lolling back in his swivel
chair, his elbows resting on the arms, the tips of his fin-
gers pressed gently together, with an air of almost pontifi-
cal benignity in the tout ensemble.
"I—er—beg your pardon, sir."
Chief Inspector Dryan repeated the odious phrase.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I have no poetry in my soul," said
Higgins, as coldly as the exigency of his position would
allow.
Dryan lowered his gaze from the ceiling and frowned
slightly at his underling.
"I'm talking of the Bull," he snapped.
"And who's he?"
"He is the new star which"
"Oh, yes, sir," interrupted Higgins, somewhat hur-
riedly. "But what is he?"
"I don't rightly know. I haven't the slightest doubt that
one day, in the near future, it will be your job to walk up
to the Bull and point out to him the error of his ways."
A pause, whilst the Chief once more gazed at the ceiling
with a bland smile on his features. "And if what I hear is
correct—I don't envy you."
90


HIGGINS HEARS OF THE BULL
9*
"Oh?" politely. The inspector was not impressed. "And
why, sir?"
"He's not nice. No—decidedly not nice. Six foot six.
Twenty stone—and carries a knife."
"Oh!" doubtfully. Then: "Anyhow, I like 'em big."
"Good! That's a load off my mind then."
Once more Higgins gazed at his Chief. He had a faint
suspicion that Dryan was pulling his leg, but he was too
polite to mention it, and, in any case, Chief Inspectors
were entitled to their little jokes, otherwise what was the
use of being a Chief Inspector?
"The Bull, sir? That's a new one on me. What's his
line?"
"I don't rightly know. Parasitical, without a doubt. You
know the old fable of the flea which lived on the back of
another flea, which in turn"
"Twenty stone, I think you said, sir," reminded Hig-
gins, who knew exactly how far he could go with his
Chief. Dryan smiled.
"Anyhow, Higgins, I have, at great difficulty, through
the usual channels, obtained some information about the
Bull. He's a sort of uncrowned king of the underworld,
mainly owing to his ruthlessness and his prodigious
strength. He wants what our friends across the water term
a rake-off on any deal which his—er—subjects manage
to pull off. Either he gets it—or he puts them away. I
believe racketeering is the expression, but I'm not sure.
Anyhow, it's a very dirty business."
"A pole-axe rather than a humane-killer seems indi-
cated for this Bull."
"H'm." A pause. Then: "What d'y'think of Brown-
all?" inconsequentially from the Chief.
Higgins switched his thoughts away from the Bull.
"Sergeant Brownall, sir? Good man. Very good man
I should say. Hope you consider him when a vacancy
occurs. I like the way he got hold of that Kilburn burglar-
fellow. It was"


93
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Ah!"
Inspector Higgins was surprised at the interruption,
and must have looked it, for:
"The Bull"—cryptically from the Chief.
"Squeaked?"
Dryan nodded grimly.
"The utter swine." Higgins laughed shortly. "And they
talk of honour among thieves."
"And the Balham smash-and-grab business—the same."
"Easy money for us, Chief, but, personally, I could do
without it. I'd rather chase a man all over Europe for six
months and then lose him, than have him served up on a
plate by a common informer—a low-down snitcher. Talk
about Iscariot—dammit, sir, it makes my blood boil."
"I know exactly how you feel—yet what would you?"
Chief Inspector Dryan shrugged his shoulders. "Our job
is to protect the public, and to run down the evil-doer—
and we can't always be too squeamish as to the source of
our information. And the information in the Bull's case
is gratuitous—no payment expected like an ordinary cop-
per's nark! Unless he hopes for preferential treatment for
past favours should he ever fall in our hands."
"What a hope!"
"Anyhow—there it is. Twice now he's given us a red-
hot tip. Look at these." The Chief handed to Higgins two
typewritten slips of paper which the latter took fastidiously
between the finger and thumb of his right hand as though
fearing contamination.
Try Jacob Heckenstein for that Kilburn business. 12,
Horse Street, Poplar.
The Bull.
The Balham haul will be divided to-night at Godley's
Garage, Horton.
The Bull.


HIGGINS HEARS OF THE BULL
93
On plain paper and addressed to Scotland Yard.
"What made you take any notice of them in the first
place, Chief? We get dozens of these in the course of a
month."
Dryan sighed.
"You know as well as I do, Higgins, that we cannot
afford to overlook any communication when we're more
or less up against it. Ninety-nine out of a hundred are
either hoaxes, well-intentioned advice from blithering
idiots, meticulously exact evidence against someone
who is patently innocent, or complete confessions from
escaped lunatics. Gosh! The money and time we waste in
the course of a year. . . . And one in a hundred is help-
ful. And these"—he flicked the slips of paper with the
tips of his fingers—"these are the cream of the last—er
—two hundred."
A pause.
"And this is the cream of the next hundred."
Inspector Higgins took a further slip of paper from his
Chief.
An attempt will be made to-night on Rosenvaler's safe.
The Bull.
Higgins beamed.
"I hope I won't be reduced to the ranks when I say
that I hope the attempt succeeds. Rosenvaler! A usurer
of the very worst type. Made a million out of the necessi-
tous poor. Honestly, sir, I hope the fellow gets away
with it."
"He won't." Dryan looked at the inspector with a
malicious twinkle in his eyes. "You see, you'll be there."
"Golly!" With a reproachful frown Higgins gazed at
his Chief.
To Inspector Higgins the whole matter was, at its very
lowest denomination, distasteful. As a matter of fact, to


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
put it bluntly, he hated it. His detestation of informers
was but one step removed from his abhorrence of black-
mailers. Both, in his opinion, were the very scum of the
earth—the lowest of the very low. He had an open mind
as to capital punishment for murder generally—but con-
sidered it almost too good for a blackmailer, and was glad,
in his heart of hearts, that imprisonment took its place
as a punishment. Yet how far, if at all, was the informer
removed from the blackmailer? One extorted money from
his victim to suppress certain unsavoury facts of that
victim's past; whilst the other received payment for re-
vealing the very same thing!
And here was the inspector acting upon some such
gratuitous information in the sacred cause of duty! Duty!
Almost the highest god in Higgins' heaven!
If the Bull was to be believed, then some poor devil was
spending his last few hours of liberty in planning a raid
upon the ill-gotten wealth of the loathsome Rosenvaler,
entirely oblivious of the fact that the police were already
waiting for him. It was so damnably unfair. Had the in-
spector known who it was he would have risked his very
livelihood merely to warn him.
He sniffed his utter disgust.
Rosenvaler's. On the fourth floor of a seven-story build-
ing. The offices were in keeping with the man's mean soul:
two rooms at the end of a passage, a general office and
waiting-room combined, containing two hard chairs and
a desk; and a private office with similar furniture, with
the addition of a safe, which was worth about four times
as much as all the rest of the fittings combined. Old-
fashioned it is true, having a key, not a combination, but
massive and ostensibly inviolate.
Rosenvaler and his staff of one ill-fed, under-paid
clerk had gone. No one knew where he lived, nor seemed
to care. Higgins obtained a duplicate key of the outer
office from the housekeeper of the building, and, having
effected an entrance, locked the door behind him. A dingy


HIGGINS HEARS OF THE BULL 95
room, with one small window looking out into a well on
the left-hand wall, and a door exactly opposite the main
door.
This led to the private office, which had a window on
the left, overlooking the same well, and one on the right.
Opposite the door was the safe.
Higgins stepped to the right window, which was un-
glazed and covered with sacking. "Mean old humbug!"
He pulled the sacking aside and gazed outwards. Ob-
viously, until fairly recently, there had been another build-
ing abutting, but this had been completely demolished, and
even now was in the process of being rebuilt. A mighty
framework, crowned by a huge crane, had been erected
some eighty feet away. The party walls of this building
and the next but one were supported in position by enor-
mous horizontal wooden stays, until such time as the new
building in between should take their place. Steel girders
for the first three floors of the new building were already
in place, but were still some dozen feet below the window.
Although it might be possible to crawl along one of these
girders to the wall, it would be impossible, without a ladder,
to reach the window, and Higgins shuddered at the pros-
pects of climbing a ladder perched so precariously on one
of these girders, with an eighty-foot drop should it slip.
He peered upwards and was gratified to find that, in the
three floors above, there were no windows directly above
the one out of which he was looking. For some reason or
other Rosenvaler's window was out of alignment, and
from the positions of the windows generally, and from
the rough edges left by the demolished building, he real-
ised that these, too, had once overlooked a well. He guessed
that Rosenvaler's window had been broken in the course
of demolition, and that he had been too mean to have it
reglazed, or had a lawsuit on with the housebreakers.
And what of the windows on the left? Ah! These were
different. There were possibilities about these which the
other window did not possess, for there were windows di-


96 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
rectly above and below. An active man might lower him-
self from above, even though he might be unable to climb
up from below. Also there was the roof. Here he found
that there was only one way of getting up, and that was
by a ladder through a single trapdoor. The ladder was sup-
posed to be a fixture, but a little manipulation with a
spanner and the inspector removed it and carried it into
Rosenvaler's outer office. Still using the master-key he
visited the offices immediately above. With drawing-pins
he attached to the framework of each window a long
piece of string, from a ball found in the topmost office,
which he let fall down the well; then he closed each win-
dow. Arrived back in Rosenvaler's room, he once more
locked the outer door, retrieved the end of the string and
placed it upon Rosenvaler's desk. Should this end move
he would know at once whether an upstairs window had
been moved.
So far so good. What a devil of a lot of trouble he was
taking when he intended to remain in the office all night!
Still, he was a great believer in the old adage: "fore-
warned is forearmed."
Also, with a sheepish grin, he acknowledged to himself
that the most likely entrance which any thief would make
would be through the door.
He took an envelope from the desk, printed thereon in
red ink "Keep out," and stuck it on the private office door.
He had gone as far as his conscience would allow in warn-
ing the thief—should he effect an entrance.
And now for the dreary wait for someone who in all
probability would never come. The inspector seated him-
self comfortably at Rosenvaler's desk, pulled a pack of
cards from one pocket and a flask of whisky from another,
and settled himself to wait. When his pipe was drawing to
his entire satisfaction, he shuffled the cards, and com-
menced a game of patience or solitaire. The rules were
complicated, although—to Higgins—somewhat elastic.


HIGGINS HEARS OF THE BULL
97
The inspector wondered, cynically, whether Rosenvaler
would be able to sleep did he know that his electric lights
would be burning all night.
Black Queen on Red King . . . red six on black seven
. . . aha! Coming out nicely! . . . Black eight on . . .
Curse! the red nine's covered. . . . Stumped! . . . With
furtive air Higgins removed the offending card, and
sighed to think that once again he was compelled by the
exigencies of the case to stretch the rules. . . .
"Naughty! Naughty! T'ck! T'ck! T'ck!"
Higgins swung round, scattering the cards to the floor.
Behind him, with an air of complete unconcern, stood a
figure, its voice belying its labourer's clothes, its head com-
pletely draped in some black gauzy material, which effec-
tually concealed the features, yet allowed its wearer perfect
freedom of sight.
The voice was educated, with a pleasing quality of re-
finement.
"Cheats never prosper: although I'm prepared to admit
. . . Well, if someone hasn't been having you on the end
of a piece of string! From the window, too. . . ."
The voice broke off as the inspector made a flying leap
at the intruder, deeming the moment propitious whilst
the other's eyes were ostensibly elsewhere. It was a mis-
take. He saw the blow coming the merest fraction of a
second before it landed.
Oblivion—humiliating oblivion!
Inspector Higgins sat up with a start as his mind once
more adjusted itself to conditions. The room seemed un-
changed, the scattered cards being the only evidence of the
recent happenings, and wearily the inspector raised himself
from the floor. The safe door was closed, so was the office
door with its "Keep out" notice. How then had the man
entered. Not by the well window, and the other was im-


HIGGINS HEARS OF THE BULL 99
an inch bigger and he might have stumbled! And if he
had stumbled—Gosh! . . . And how his jaw ached! . . .
Damn it all! He was an inspector not an acrobat! All
very well for Blondin. . . . Higgins sank to his hands
and knees, and unashamedly crawled along the girder
... to the bitter end.
Very bitter. It ended suddenly about ten feet from the
framework holding the crane—and in between was a
yawning chasm! With a shock Higgins realised that the
remainder of this girder would not be put into position
until the crane was dismantled, or possibly it was the edge
of another well. He had been unlucky in his choice.
For two pins he'd burst into tears! Nonchalantly de-
scending a series of ladders in the heart of the scaffolding
was a big man, broader than his assailant in Rosenvaler's
room. Twelve feet away; might as well have been twelve
miles. Higgins pulled a whistle from his pocket and gave
three piercing blasts. It was his gesture of defeat.
The man gave one startled glance in his direction, then
started descending the ladders at an incredible speed.
Higgins turned and started his weary way backwards
along the girder, painfully conscious that, when (and if)
he did manage to reach the wall he had no means whatever
of getting back into the moneylender's office. Yet—pull
yourself together, man!—this girder was not suspended in
mid-air from the sky! There must be perpendicular sup-
ports!
Inspector Higgins never forgot that awful moment
when he left the horizontal for the upright. Nor that
monkey-like climb down the rivet heads to a wooden plat-
form twenty feet below. A rush to the ladders; he did not
wait to descend in an orthodox manner but wrapped his
arms and legs round the sides qf the ladder, and slid to
the bottom of each. The wood became red-hot by the
friction, but he did not care. Speed was what he wanted
—and he'd charge up a new suit in his expense sheet.
He arrived at the bottom of the framework but a few


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
yards behind the now frantically-hurrying accomplice.
A mad rush down the deserted street, at the bottom of
which was a taxi with its engine running, its driver beck-
oning excitedly at the fugitive to encourage him to further
bursts of speed.
The piercing blast of a police whistle behind him gave
the inspector a welcome intimation that help was at hand.
Perhaps instead of being reduced to a sergeant it would
merely mean that his promotion to Chief Inspector would
be delayed! The taxi was on the move as the fugitive
jumped on to the footboard. Higgins thought his lungs
would burst, but was cheered by the sound of footsteps
a few feet behind. He charged at the moving vehicle, and
was just about to fling himself aboard when something
caught between his feet, he tripped, then pitched headlong
on his face.


CHAPTER VII
—AND MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE
"/^OTCHER!"
VJ A wealth of triumph in the ejaculation from a
uniformed constable conscious of duty nobly done. Some
cove blows a whistle from a roof, two coves bolt from a
building to a waiting taxi—but they reckoned without
P.C. 161, holder of the Metropolitan Police hundred yards
sprint: a well-judged and accurately-aimed truncheon came
in very useful, and . . .
"Ber-limey! If it ain't old 'Iggins." Visions of promo-
tion faded as the man jumped up in a belated effort to
read the number of the taxi. . . . PR ... 8 ... 8
... 6 ... 4 ... 2. .. .
The constable retrieved his truncheon from the road-
way as the inspector wearily picked himself to his feet.
"I got the number, sir. PR 88642. Might 'a' got 'em
if you 'adn't 'a slipped. Most hunfortunate, if I might
say so."
Higgins surveyed the constable with owl-like gravity.
"As you so cleverly assert, constable, it is indeed most
unfortunate." A brief pause, then: "And now. All stations
call for that taxi. Driver to be apprehended. Jump to it,
man. Jump to it."
Rosenvaler hurried up the last flight of steps in a state
of great perturbation. The telephone message he had re-
ceived an hour ago had been very upsetting. An attempt
on his safe! Perspiring freely he stopped at the top of the
steps to survey with ill-concealed distaste a big man walk-
101


AND MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE 103
"As long as you're sure, Mr. Rosenvaler, that nothing
was taken, then I can do nothing. I can only tell you that
someone was here a couple of hours ago, and"
"What was he like?" eagerly.
"Big man. . . ."
"The Bull." An involuntary remark, instantly regretted.
"And what do you know of the Bull, Mr. Rosen-
valer?" quietly.
"Nossing. It was a meestake. When you say beeg, I
think bull, meaning strong, powerful man. See?"
Higgins saw. He knew well enough that the last man
the intruder was likely to be was the Bull, who had given
the police warning. Yet Rosenvaler had instantly thought
of this man as likely to be the culprit. And what was a
man of Rosenvaler's stamp doing to be acquainted with
this Bull? Something decidedly fishy here.
There was nothing to be gained, so Higgins went. He
was inwardly gratified with the outcome of what might
have been, for him, a very serious business. He knew
exactly what he would have said to an underling who had
been caught as he had been last night, and promptly said
the same things to himself! Rosenvaler asserted that noth-
ing had been taken, and the assumption was that, were the
intruder to be apprehended, Rosenvaler would not prose-
cute for trespass or whatever the legal offence might be.
Yet, what had been taken? And how? The safe had
been opened with a key. Someone had obtained a dupli-
cate of Rosenvaler's.
Ah, well! The inspector had some satisfaction that there
was no arrest caused by the Bull's squeak. Yet someone,
some day, was going to pay for that sock on the jaw—and
for half a flask of whisky!
"And he laid you out?" Chief Inspector Dryan chuckled.
Rosenvaler's extraordinary refusal to admit loss had saved
Higgins from serious trouble, and Dryan's chuckle was
tinged with relief, for he was very fond of his subor-
s


AND MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE 105
"Dunno what he wants, sir, but he says it's about the
Bull."
Inspector Higgins sat up with a jerk.
"Show him up, please."
A minute later a man was ushered into the room; of
enormous size and repulsive. Hairless. In a flash of in-
tuition Higgins realised that this man was the Bull him-
self. A bowler hat, set well back on his neck, he did not
trouble to remove; he walked aggressively to the inspec-
tor's desk, and said, without preamble:
"You want me?" A hideous squeaky voice.
"Er—yes! Take a seat. Who told you?"
"Never mind. Whadyer want?"
"You know, for a common informer, you're a pretty
impolite specimen." All the inspector's hatred of the class
was concentrated in the venom of his speech. It was not
exactly the right attitude to adopt when seeking informa-
tion, and although he was well aware of this, he felt
contaminated by the man's very presence.
Slowly the man rose to his feet from the chair to which
the inspector had waved him.
"Ho! Is that so, Mr. 'Iggins." He walked towards the
inspector, chin out-thrust. "And who the 'ell might you
think you are? You ask me 'ere and then insult me. For
two pins I'd smash yer face in."
Higgins smiled, and was tempted to pick out two pins
from the tray on his desk and hand them to the infuriated
Bull, but after all, he wanted something from this man.
"Cut it out," he said tersely. "You're in Scotland Yard
now, and"
"Plenty of friends about, eh?" with a sneer.
"Exactly. We have you to—er—thank for the appre-
hension of two criminals recently. . . ."
"Well?" belligerently.
"What do you know of Rosenvaler?"
The Bull's eyes narrowed as he stared at his interlocutor.
"What's it worth?"


io6 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Higgins sniffed.
"Exactly nothing."
"As a matter of fac', that's all I know of 'im."
Higgins breathed a sigh of relief. He hated this method
of obtaining information, and was inwardly glad that the
Bull had nothing to betray; but having asked the ques-
tion his conscience was salved.
"Good. And now let me talk to you, Bull. I believe you
make your living blackmailing petty thieves, who can't hit
back. Just the sort of a thing a man of your type goes in
for. It requires a certain amount of courage—however
misplaced—to steal for oneself. That courage you haven't
got. One day, Bull, you'll overstep yourself, and I'll get
you. I hope you commit a murder—I'll come to see you
hanged; and now"—Higgins stood to his feet, almost
carried away by his rather childish eloquence—"clear
out!"
The Bull backed away to the door.
"I'll get you for this, 'Iggins, if it's you I murder."
"You know where to find me."
Fully conscious that he had conducted the interview far
from diplomatically, Inspector Higgins pushed the bell-
button on his desk, and in response thereto a constable
entered inquiringly:
"Oh, Jones! Show this gentleman out; then fumigate
my room—an animal's been in it."
Dear Sir,
These are no use to me, and may not be of any use to
you, but in any case they belong to that blot on the land-
scape Rosenvaler.
I'm truly sorry about the other night. You know!
No signature. Higgins accepted the apology in the spirit
in which it was offered, but thought that mention might
have been made of the whisky.
The documents enclosed were one or two innocuous


AND MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE 107
agreements, duly stamped and apparently in order, and
some dividend counterfoils. Higgins wondered what Ro-
senvaler would say when he handed back the documents.
Would he still deny that anything had been taken? What
would be his reaction? Higgins shrugged his shoulders
and pressed the bell for his stenographer.
"Take this down, please. Rosenvaler—you'll find his
address in the directory.
Sir,
I beg to enclose herewith the documents enumerated be-
low which have recently come into my possession, receipt
of which kindly acknowledge. . . . Er—agreement for
tenancy of two rooms on fourth floor of Birkenhead
House, London, E.C. . . . Counterpart Lease of The
Hall, Hertfordshire. . . . You can get the full address
from the documents themselves, Jones. . . . Er—Part-
nership Agreement between Rudolph—oh, Rudolph!—
Rosenvaler and Henry Brownworth. . . . Brownworth.
. . . The Hall. . . . Gosh Almighty!"


CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR ENJOYS HIMSELF
FIVE years is a long time, if one lives at the speed at
which the inspector lived, yet time had not effaced that
failure to elucidate the Brownworth mystery. Yet after
the five years, during which no relative had come forward
to claim any of Brownworth's belongings, a partner turned
up. And what a partner! Rosenvaler the moneylender.
Why had he remained so unobtrusively in the background
when all those inquiries had been made five years before?
A slippery customer, this Rosenvaler, with something to
hide.
On second thoughts Inspector Higgins decided not to
send a letter, but to return the documents by hand—per-
sonally, and although the hour was late he thought there
was no time like the present. Rosenvaler would have left
the city, and would be at his home—a mean-looking house
in the East End. Why did he live amidst such squalor
when it was generally understood that he was worth a
million? And the telephone laid on. . . . How his soul
must revolt at the expense! . . . unless the expense were
amply justified. H'm.
Inspector Higgins strolled thoughtfully along the streets,
the documents in his overcoat pocket, and wondered. . . .
To think that Brownworth was once Rosenvaler's part-
ner. . . . Under an authentic legal agreement, too. . . .
Possibly to cover more nefarious deeds. . . .
Higgins stopped, then slowly resumed his way. Funny!
But he was being followed. The first time in his career
108


THE INSPECTOR ENJOYS HIMSELF 109
he ever remembered being the first in a procession of two!
He was usually cast for the shadower, not the—er—
shadowee! H'm! Wonder who it is? Not a very salubri-
ous neighbourhood to be abroad at the best of times. . . .
Higgins decided to make certain that his imagination was
not playing tricks by making a complete circuit of a block
of mean tenements.
Back once more at the same place, and the mysterious
figure hiding in a doorway some fifty yards behind. Hig-
gins smiled. He had no desire to shake off any pursuit,
but certainly had a tremendous curiosity as to the other's
identity.
That could easily be satisfied. Abruptly Higgins turned
on his heel and made for that doorway, which he ap-
proached with a bland inquisitiveness.
He was but five yards away when a figure leapt from
the doorway:
"At him, boys!"
Two more figures followed the first, and a second later
Higgins was in the thick of a desperate fight. He would
cheerfully have taken on any of the three in single com-
bat but the three together were about twice as much as he
could manage. There seemed to be nothing for it but flight
—if only the way was clear. But with one assailant in
front, one at each side, and his back to the wall . . .
He launched a savage blow with his walking-stick, and
was gratified when rewarded with a grunt of pain from
the one in front. ... A well-directed right found its
mark but nearly paralysed his arm. . . . Using his stick
like a battle-axe he managed to keep the men at bay. . . .
"Duck, laddie! Duck!"
Instinctively the inspector obeyed a voice from the dis-
tance—a large stone whistled over his head, struck a spark
from the wall, then ricochetted full into the face of one
of his assailants who uttered one shriek of pain then col-
lapsed to the pavement. The next moment the odds were
even. The benevolent stranger had entered into the fray.


110
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
From that moment Higgins began to enjoy himself. It
was too easy. Out of the corner of his eye the inspector
could see the newcomer had entered whole-heartedly into
the fight. Whole-heartedly? Well, hardly. For he seemed
to miss many opportunities of finishing off his man. It
was almost pitiful the openings he missed, when a feint
with the right and a well-directed left would terminate the
proceedings. The two remaining men seemed to have had
enough of it, for with one consent they started to bolt
down the street. The newcomer ran after his man and
placed a nicely-judged kick exactly where it was most
wanted, then he ruefully stared at the toe-cap of his shoe.
"Thirty bob's worth of patent leather spoiled to satisfy
but a momentary whim. T'ck! T'ck! T'ck!
"Why didn't you smash him when you had the chance?"
"Why should I? It was your entertainment, not mine."
Higgins advanced with outstretched hand. "Anyhow,
thanks for your timely assistance."
"Don't mench!" airily. "Let's have a look at our friend
on the pavement."
Together they walked to the man on the pavement, and
Higgins flashed a torch in his face. The sight almost turned
his stomach, for the stone had caught the man full in the
left eye, which was smashed to a pulp.
"H'm!" The stranger regarded the horrible sight with
unconcern. "I guess our friend here will have to wear a
monocle in future. Someone's closed for ever the window
of his soul. Very sad."
Higgins took another glance. It was the Bull, whose
attempt to "get" the inspector had not been the unquali-
fied success which he had undoubtedly hoped!
"For two pins I'd leave the swine where he is," com-
mented Higgins. "But I suppose I'll have to call an ambu-
lance and give him in charge for assault."
"On what evidence, sir? It would be your word against
the three of 'em, and they'd probably swear you started
it, or something."


THE INSPECTOR ENJOYS HIMSELF in
"But you'd support me, surely?"
The other shook his head sorrowfully. "No, sir, I should
not. It is one of the tenets of my—er—creed, never to
give evidence. I think on the whole your first thought is
the better. Leave him here, and his friends, who, I im-
agine, are not so very far away, will come and collect him
in due course. And one of them, I muchly fear, is due for
a very uncomfortable time explaining to this gentleman
when he recovers, his lack of skill with that stone. I should
like to be there, but life would not be worth living were
one always to have what one wanted. Strange, but true."
"Perhaps you're right. The police will find him if his
pals don't."
The other shook his head. "I think not. The police here
walk very circumspectly—in pairs. Not a nice neighbour-
hood."
"Yet you manage to walk along here fairly free from
molestation."
"Perhaps I'm a privileged person."
Higgins gave a quick glance at the other. "Well, any-
how, I don't like leaving this man here, but"—he shrugged
his shoulders—"he asked for all he's got."
They moved off together, but waited at the first corner.
Sure enough they were barely out of sight before two
figures crept along the street, and both slunk up to the in-
jured Bull, whom they lifted to his feet, and whose mighty
frame they tried to support. ...
Inspector Higgins and the stranger walked along in si-
lence. As they passed beneath street lamps, Higgins took
discreet stock of his companion, of which the other was
completely cognisant, but which he did not seem to resent.
In fact, on one occasion he removed his trilby hat and wiped
his brow with a silk handkerchief. The man was about
twenty-five or six years of age, and his action (humor-
ously deliberate) had revealed brown curly hair. His
clothes were sartorial perfection; his manner debonair.
And his speech . . .


THE INSPECTOR ENJOYS HIMSELF 113
"How clever you are"—brightly.
"But why return them via me? Why get me to return
them?"
"I—er—rather fancy that our friend will no longer
welcome a visit from the police. I'm rather subtle,
aren't I?"
"Very"—dryly. "You know, Bobby, by rights I ought
to cart you off to the nearest cooler."
"I have not the slightest doubt of your ability so to do"
—said entirely without offence.
Higgins, remembering their previous meeting, had the
grace to blush. Yet both of them were aware that Higgins
on that occasion had suffered under the double disability
of over-impetuosity and complete surprise. Had all things
been equal the result might have been different.
"Why don't you?" Bobby Baynes continued after a
pause.
"Don't tempt me."
"And the charge?" blandly.
"I suppose you don't know where I can lay my hands
on your—er—namesake, late of the Navy?" asked In-
spector Higgins after a painful silence.
"I—er—might. What do you want him for?"
"Possibly for murder."
"T'ckl T'ck! T'ck! Whoever would 'a' thought it? Not
the late lamented Mr. Brownworth?"
Inspector Higgins stopped short.
"Bobby Baynes—you know too much. You didn't hap-
pen to kill him yourself?"
"I should be a fool to say 'yes' even though we are
alone; and were I to say 'no' I might not be believed. And
isn't there some sort of opening conversational gambit re
the use of any subsequent conversation as—er—rebut-
ting evidence in the case of denial?" An inquiring tilt of
the head, then: "In any case Brownworth was not a nice
member of Society."


114
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Your sister did not seem to think so"—casually.
"My sister?" Bobby Baynes laughed. "Don't jump to
conclusions, Inspector Higgins."
"You know me, then?"
"Of course. Who doesn't?"
In the distance was the sound of a fire-bell furiously
clanging: it increased in volume until it was obvious to
both listeners that the fire engine was coming in their di-
rection and was not very far off. The purr of a power-
ful motor, the deafening clash of the bell, a diminuendo
of sound and then, half a minute later, comparative silence.
"I—er—rather fancy we shall be too late," casually
remarked Bobby Baynes, slightly increasing his pace. They
hurried on for another three hundred yards, then together
turned a corner, where an awe-inspiring spectacle greeted
their eyes. The bottom floor of a mean house was burning
furiously, and despite the frantic efforts of the fire bri-
gade it was apparent to the most untutored eye that the
building was doomed.
"Poor Rosenvaler. How his heart must bleed at this
extravagant, though possibly—to him—necessary waste-
fulness."
Inspector Higgins was staring at the conflagration, and
it was some seconds before the remark sank in. He turned
quickly.
"What d'y'mean . . ." he began, but stopped.
The gentleman who called himself Robert Baynes had
vanished.


CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH THE COLUMNAR HOTEL STARTS BUSINESS
"TNCENDIARISM! Arson! I haven't the slightest
* doubt." The speaker was the superintendent of the
fire brigade, furiously angry at the crime. "The place
reeked of petrol when we arrived on the scene, and we had
the devil's own job to prevent the fire spreading to the
adjacent houses. It's up to you now."
"I'll do my best of course, but as soon as the place is
cool enough I want to go over it."
"That'll be a couple o' days. Look along in the morn-
ing!"
Yes. The superintendent was very bitter. He felt better
after his little sarcastic pleasantry.
And in the debris was found the skeleton of a man.
"Do you think it was Rosenvaler himself, Higgins?"
"Possibly. The papers think so anyhow, which of course
may have been what Rosenvaler intended."
"You're a suspicious cuss, Higgins."
The inspector smiled. "But there's something else I
want to talk to you about, Chief. I believe after all these
years I've stumbled across the Honourable Robert Beau-
meere."
"And who's he when he's at home?"
Higgins explained, and also gave Chief Inspector Dryan
a brief resume of his recent meeting.
"Frankly, Chief, I like the fellow. He is decidedly not
the type of man to stab another in the back."
i iS


u6
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"You never can tell, Higgins, and the fact that you like
him cuts no ice. If you've proof—arrest him."
"That's just what I haven't got, Chief, or I'd have
brought him in that night."
"H'm. Hasn't he any marked physical trait—one leg
or something?"
"That'd be too easy. But he's got a birthmark some-
where, that I'll swear. We all have. But from what I re-
member of the case no one is likely to give him away. But
I have a plan, not very subtle and more than a little cruel,
which might work."
Thus, in due course, a stolid policeman called upon
the Lady Muriel Beaumeere and informed her that a man
had been found drowned and was believed to be her long-
lost brother. She did not faint, neither did she burst into
tears. She merely asked whether the deceased had a scar
on his right shoulder-blade.
"No, miss."
"Then it's not my brother."
"She told you that?" unbelievingly, from Inspector
Higgins.
"Yessir."
"H'm. I'm beginning to believe that girl's got brains."
Nevertheless he called at Bobby Baynes' flat, which had
been traced without much difficulty a few days before,
and rang the bell.
Baynes himself answered the ring in his dressing-gown.
"Ah! Inspector, I was expecting a visit from you. Wel-
come to my 'appy 'ome. Your visit is not exactly oppor-
tune, but I'm sure you'll not mind waiting whilst I dress.
We—er—night birds have to sleep during the day, you
know."
Higgins entered and seated himself in an easy chair.
"Cigarettes on your right. Whisky and siphon on the
sideboard. You can be as generous as you like with the
whisky," Baynes added, with an impish grin.


COLUMNAR HOTEL STARTS BUSINESS 117
The sound of splashing from the bathroom ceased, and
a tousled curly head was thrust round the door.
"Care to rub me down?" with a malicious twinkle in
his eye.
Higgins started to rise from his chair, then subsided.
"No, thanks. It wouldn't be there, anyhow."
"Perhaps you're right."
Three minutes later Bobby Baynes reappeared. Higgins
stood up.
"Bobby, my lad, you can flaunt the police once too
often."
"I know. I know. But believe me, Higgins, sometimes
it's necessary."
These are the fingerprints of Robert Baynes. The Bull.
With a shock Inspector Higgins realised that he had
completely forgotten the prints which had been left be-
hind on the door-knob of that secret passage and on the
dagger which had ended Brownworth's existence. He was
chagrined to think that the matter had been brought to
his attention by one such as the Bull. To obtain Bobby's
fingerprints should have been a fairly simple matter, al-
though perhaps this was open to doubt when one considered
the astuteness of that cheerful individual, and yet here
was another example of the Bull's thoroughness.
With a weary gesture Higgins handed the prints to a
subordinate to take to Sergeant Mercier of the Records
Department for comparison with the photographs in the
Brownworth case.
Bobby Baynes. Good lad gone wrong. Another black
mark against the Bull. One day he'd get the swine. . . .
A telephone bell tinkled on his desk: he raised the re-
ceiver.
"That you, Inspector?"
Higgins growled an affirmative.
"Mercier this end. Nothing doing."


n8 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Eh? Talk English, man."
A gentle cough the other end of the wire. "The finger-
prints handed me by Constable Worthington, labelled as
belonging to one Robert Baynes, differ widely from those
in the Brownworth file labelled 'Fingerprints on the door
handle of the secret '"
"Shut up!" said Higgins rudely, replacing the receiver.
A great load had been lifted from his mind.
With a flourish of hypothetical trumpets the Columnar
Hotel was launched to the waiting world. The biggest—
the finest—the most magnificent—a plethora of superla-
tives were used in the word-pictures of the Press. A for-
tune had been used in its construction, and a further
fortune was used in advertising the fact! The marble
swimming pool had no peer. Turkish baths were part of
the service! And the cuisine! A royal chef had been
tempted—and had fallen! A foreign prince had (for a
consideration it is true) condescended to perform the
opening ceremony. A millionaire's paradise. A world-
famed orchestra had been engaged, and the conductor
was a count! And the cabaret show!
And the charges . . .
The uniforms alone seemed worth the money.
Such was the success of the publicity campaign that
the opening night was in the nature of a social event.
Anybody who was anybody seemed to be going. Tables
were at a colossal premuim; to keep out the riff-raff, the
management explained.
Inspector Higgins was there, mighty uncomfortable in
a "boiled suit," in a semi-official capacity. It is always as
well at such a function to have someone there with a
knowledge of the underworld to weed out the undesir-
ables, and Higgins had received his invitation from a
retired inspector of the police who had taken on the job
of "house detective" to augment his pension.
The opening ceremony was a complete and utter frost,


COLUMNAR HOTEL STARTS BUSINESS 119
for the simple reason that all the guests were present and
had, most of them, ordered their meals, before the prince
put in an appearance. He merely declared in broken Eng-
lish that the hotel was ready to receive its guests, and then
retired—the easiest money he had ever made. His opening
speech, prepared by the management, was so much wasted
effort. There was no applause, but the conductor of the
orchestra, knowing his business, immediately struck up a
blaring jazz, and the reporters knowing their business,
promptly noted that the subsequent applause was drowned
by the opening bars of "The Kilburn Kutie. . . ."
Inspector Higgins sat at his table, so placed as to give
an almost uninterrupted view of the entire assembly, and
surveyed the throng. Although he did not know any of
the aristocracy he was informed that half Debrett was
present, and was tempted to believe it. So far he had
not seen any of his friends, and imagined that the ex-
inspector in the reception lounge had turned back such as
he had recognised.
Slowly his gaze swept round the vast hall, faltered for
a moment, then stopped. Seated at a table for two was a
girl of about twenty-three years of age, well-poised, but
simply dressed; conspicuous not only by being alone, but
by the entire absence of jewellery.
Higgins was intrigued. Although separated by about
half the hall he was impressed by her bearing. Pretty-
looking kid, too. Nice figure. Slim, and not too tall. Just
about right—he acknowledged to himself, having the big
man's aversion to tall women. Wonder who she is? He'd
get his pal in the lounge to tell him if he got a chance.
And where the deuce was her escort, and what on earth
did he think he was up to leaving such a decent-looking kid
unattended ? Must hold her cheap.
Inspector Higgins pulled himself together. His job was
to look out for undesirables (hateful word!), not to study
highly desirable ladies! Still it was hardly likely that any
such would get by his friend in the lobby. Once more his
r


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
eyes swept the throng, and once again came to rest on that
solitary diner. She had ordered the first course, apparently
tired of waiting for her swain. Higgins took the uncon-
scious hint and beckoned to a waiter.
Hors-d'ceuvres. A plate half-full of tasty bits and pieces.
Soup. Thick gravy but not enough of it. Fish.
"Gosh!" Higgins leaned forward in his chair and stared
openly. The girl's belated escort had at last arrived.
It was Bobby Baynes! Resplendent in his evening
clothes: tall, well-proportioned; a fine figure of a man.
Even in this company an outstanding personality.
Higgins sighed. He supposed he'd have to ask Bobby
to retire. Still it would afford an excellent opportunity
to become acquainted with the girl. Damned shame,
though. Bobby ought to have more sense playing about
with a girl like that. And supposing he went up to Bobby,
what the deuce could he say with that girl looking on?
Higgins could see that the pair were having an ani-
mated discussion, and it appeared that from the distance
the girl was pleading with the man. Then, with a grace
almost studied, Bobby Baynes leaned back on his chair,
and began a leisured inspection of the hall. Higgins re-
sumed his meal until he thought that Bobby's glance should
have passed his table. He looked up. For one brief second
his eyes met those of Baynes, then, with a few muttered
words to the girl the youth rose, bowed, and sauntered
carelessly towards the door.
"Thank goodness." The inspector's relief was heartfelt,
but he felt sorry for the girl thus to be robbed of her com-
panion. Perhaps he ought to speak with her! He could at
least ascertain who she was. A temptation, and—blow
it!—he had a more or less reasonable excuse, hadn't he?
Unconsciously his hand strayed to his bow, the tying of
which had caused him such distress earlier in the evening,
then he rose to his feet. As he walked towards the girl's
table the lights were lowered, and all eyes were diverted
to the brilliantly lighted cabaret stage.


COLUMNAR HOTEL STARTS BUSINESS 121
The moment was propitious: Higgins threaded his way
through the tables, and, with a brief "Please excuse me!"
seated himself in the chair recently vacated by Bobby
Baynes. The girl did not look up.
Cuss it! This warning was to be even more awkward
than he had anticipated. In the dimned light of the table
lamp he noticed that her hands were trembling. The poor
little kid was afraid of him.
"You'll excuse me, I'm sure, but I'm by way of being
a friend of Bobby's."
"A friend, eh? A new friend?" There was a harsh
timbre in her voice which the inspector did not like.
"Well—er—comparatively, I—er"
"Then let me tell you, whoever you are, that you've
got a nerve to come here and try to force your rotten
acquaintance upon me. For the price of a shoelace I'd
give you in charge."
"But"
"Friend!" A wealth of scorn in her voice She did not
even trouble to look him in the face. "Friend! It's no re-
flection on him when I say his friends are rotten to the
core. You lead him astray. You force him to—to— Please
go, before I forget myself."
"But"
"I said go."
"With all due respect, missie, I"
The girl stood to her feet. Higgins noted with dismay
that it was rage and not fear which caused her hands to
tremble. Then:
Smack!
As she turned on her heel the lights went up amidst a
storm of applause and he had one glimpse of the girl's
profile as she made a dignified exit.
It was the Lady Muriel Beaumeere.


CHAPTER X
IN WHICH AN OPENING NIGHT IS NOT AN
UNQUALIFIED SUCCESS
REFLECTIVELY Inspector Higgins rubbed his cheek
where a weal showed white against his deep flush.
The scene was discreetly ignored by the occupants of the
adjacent tables, but Higgins knew that he was the cynosure
of many surreptitious glances. Once more the lights were
dimmed as the artiste responded to repeated cries for an
encore. He stared at the stage for a few seconds. If the
artiste hadn't more brains than she had clothing . . . He
rose to his feet, and made for the lobby.
"Hallo, Higgy. Pushing off? Better have a drink first."
It was his friend, the ex-inspector. Higgins could not,
after the courtesy he had been shown, retire from the
Columnar Hotel without a few moments in his friend's
company. The few moments lengthened. After all, it was
getting on for a couple of years now since his friend had
retired, and . . .
A bell rang at the bar.
"Good Lord! Five to twelve," said Higgins, glancing
at his gun-metal watch. "Time for one more."
"Got an extension to-day, being opening day," vol-
unteered his friend, unnecessarily. Apparently they were
not the only pair who thought there was time for one
more, for just before the inspector had at last attracted
the attention of a distracted barman a second bell rang,
and a clock chimed the hour.
"Sorry, sir. Too late." The man lowered his voice and
continued mysteriously. "Gotter be careful, sir; gotter
122


124
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Why had he ever been bom?
"Put a man on each exit—we've wasted enough time
as it is. I expect we're too late, anyhow. They're probably
miles away by now."
Unconsciously and perfectly naturally Inspector Hig-
gins had assumed command. A hasty telephone call to the
Yard had resulted in the despatch of a half a dozen plain-
clothes men, well-versed in the ways of hotel thieves and
capable of recognising any known criminal. These men
would not arrive for at least ten minutes, and meanwhile
six waiters were pressed into service by the house detective.
What they hoped to achieve was not apparent, yet it helped
to stem the vituperation of the ladies and their swains.
Meanwhile the dance in the huge hall was proceeding
undisturbed, although the guests were drifting occasion-
ally to the cloakroom preparatory to departure.
Higgins was in a quandary. He did not doubt for one
moment that the thieves already had made their getaway,
yet there was an equal chance that they were still con-
tinuing their nefarious business within the hall. The fact
that the previous thefts had not been made public might
lull them into a sense of false security: yet they must know
that the ladies would miss their jewels at any moment. No.
Outside was the better chance.
The gorgeous commissionaire could give no help. Hun-
dreds of taxis and private cars had pulled up to the main
door within the last ten minutes, and he had been too busy
to notice anyone in particular. In any case he would be un-
likely to know by sight a thief! He stated the case rather
more strongly than this! The other exits were equally
nebulous as to the departing guests.
Then a stroke of luck. One of the liftmen reported find-
ing a brooch on the floor of his lift, and it was recognised
as belonging to one of the guests.
"On the floor, you say."
"Yessir. I gave it to the head-waiter."


NOT AN UNQUALIFIED SUCCESS 125
"Why not to the manager?" Higgins pointed to a
printed notice discreetly displayed in the hall that the man-
ager would esteem it a favour if guests would hand to him
personally anything found on the premises.
"'Cause this is a staff lift, sir." With a take-it-out-of-
that air.
"Oh! And the maids wear jewellery, eh? Or perhaps
it was one of the waiters?" with heavy sarcasm. Then:
"Who have you taken up within the last half-hour?"
"Well, sir . . ." ponderously—groping for his wits.
"Any maids?" impatiently from the inspector.
"No, sir."
"Ah! Then what about the menservants?"
"Lumme, sir. I ain't taken nobody up or down fer over
'arf an hour."
"You've what?" A pause. "When did you leave your
lift?"
"Well, sir, I 'ad a peep at the dancing like, an'"
"When, man, when?"
"Er—er—about twenty minutes ago, sir."
"Could anybody have used the lift without your no-
ticing it?"
"No, sir."
"It's automatic, isn't it? I mean one merely has to press
the button of the floor to which one wishes to go, and
it—er—goes."
"Yessir."
"So what exactly do you have to do?"
"Well, sir, I presses the button. You see, sir, people
likes to see a man in uniform in the lift, and some of 'em
is afraid of all these buttons."
"H'm. So anyone could have used this lift whilst you
were watching the dancing."
"I suppose they could, sir"—reluctantly; then, as the
idea struck him rather forcibly: "But the lift was still
down 'ere when I got back."
"H'm." Higgins digested this for a moment, then: "So


126 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
no one has used this lift for half an hour save possibly this
waiter who wears jewellery. And the management think
that servants need a uniformed attendant to look after a
staff lift. Needless ostentation, it seems to me."
"Well, sir, the guests haven't got used to this place yet,
and some of 'em might have wanted to use this lift. I'm
only 'ere tempally like."
"I see." A brief pause. "We'll go up to the servants'
quarters, but don't touch the buttons. Fingerprints."
Leaving a man to guard against any touching of the
bell-push outside the lift gates, Inspector Higgins and the
attendant entered the lift, and after pressing the button
for the top floor with his penknife the inspector experienced
that breathless feeling occasioned by a fast-moving lift.
A few seconds later the attendant threw back the gates.
A hurried inspection of the various bedrooms upon this
floor revealed one which showed signs of a hasty exit.
POLICE NOTICE
Wanted. For theft. James Pearson. 6 ft. i in., proportionately
broad: black hair, clean-shaven: last seen wearing opera hat
and cloak: at Columnar Hotel on opening night. Information
to nearest police station, or to Detective-Inspector C. Higgins,
of Scotland Yard, London, S.W.
Pearson had really been very careless, particularly
through dropping that brooch, and in leaving such a per-
fect thumbprint on the button in the lift. Inspector Higgins
made a reasonable guess at the man's movements. As a
waiter, and particularly during the darkened periods of the
cabaret turns, Pearson had contrived by sleight of hand
to relieve some of the guests of their jewels. He already
had a small reputation at the Yard in this respect. Having
made his haul, he was confronted with the problem of
escape. This was made comparatively easy by the absence of
the liftman. Pearson had bolted to his room, donned his
opera hat and cape, and had walked down the stairs. Pass-


NOT AN UNQUALIFIED SUCCESS 127
ing the lift he had pressed the button which had resulted
in the lift returning once more to the basement. (Higgins
reasoned that Pearson could not afford to take the chance
of descending by the lift, although he might have de-
scended to the first floor and walked down the remaining
flight.) A nonchalant exit in the habiliment of an aris-
tocratic diner. Simple.
Yet Inspector Higgins' thoughts were mostly on Bobby
Baynes. He could not get away from the fact that Pear-
son's intellect was not of a very high order, and that
somebody must have engineered his exploit. It had been
comparatively easy to obtain a position as waiter when
such a vast army had so recently been engaged. Yet Pear-
son was not the man to have come prepared with an opera
hat and cloak: his idea of escape would have been more
in the line of a dark coat and upturned collar complete
with well-pulled-down cap.
Bobby was not at his house late on the night of the
thefts, for Higgins had made a special journey in the hope
of catching him with some of the spoils. He had at long
last tracked him down to a cell in Brown Street Police
Station.
"Hallo, Bobby, how did you get in here?"
"Influence, just influence"—airily.
"I understand you want me to bail you out."
"That's right"—brightly.
"H'm. What made you get drunk?"
"Drunk?" Bobby smiled meaningly. "I'll have you know
I've been incarcerated here since eleven o'clock last night."
And careful inquiry elicited the fact that none of the
jewels had been missed till midnight, that most of the
owners were certain that they had not been robbed before
the cabaret show, and Higgins himself could state that the
cabaret show had not started until Baynes had left, which
was just before eleven.
Very, very fishy.


128 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Inspector Higgins spent an instructive half-hour study-
ing the Pearson file at Scotland Yard. Pearson's previous
activities had been perpetrated many years before the War,
thus he had not come before the inspector's immediate
purview. In fact Higgins was very small meat at the Yard
when Pearson had last made a mistake. Two convictions
as a pickpocket and then silence; and yet, even after that
lapse of time his thumbprint remained to give him away.
How had Pearson been employed meanwhile? He had
either been very respectable or very successful, mused Hig-
gins the cynic. His appearance had changed considerably
from that when last the man was convicted: he had filled
out, and his hair had changed from light-brown to black.
The former natural and the latter—probably chemical!
A fortnight elapsed and still no trace of Pearson. Hig-
gins had received (and ignored) a spirited protest from
Bobby Baynes against the constant police surveillance to
which he was subjected—and Bobby continued to be most
circumspect. . . .
And the newspapers (subsidised by the Columnar Ho-
tel?) howled!
The prison records of Pearson called him an engineer: a
fellow-convict of the time informed Higgins that after
his second conviction Pearson had got a job with a firm
of builders.
A strong report from the Huntingdon Police had sent
Higgins hot-foot to that county. He travelled alone in his
little two-seater, and the fact that all he found proved
to be a mare's nest did not detract from his enjoyment of
the outing. A friendly chat and he started for home.
He met Bobby Baynes just outside Hatfield on a motor
bicycle, with his faithful attendant woefully apparent
(also on a motor-bike) some two hundred yards behind.
And half a mile farther on almost collided with another
cycle.
With a squeal of his brakes he pulled up and com-


NOT AN UNQUALIFIED SUCCESS 129
menced to turn. It was the man he had last seen descend-
ing the ladder on the crane scaffolding and whom he had
almost caught on the moving taxi.
Pearson. And Pearson was an engineer who had once
worked for a firm of builders!
Gosh! When it came to the push these motor-bikes had
a pull over two-seaters! Higgins was chagrined that he
could not overhaul that machine in front. He wasted a
precious five minutes in giving an A.A. scout particulars
to telephone ahead. Wasted because a mile ahead Pearson
turned to the right to pick up the old North Road, and so
doubled on his tracks.
So Baynes and Pearson were in cahoots! Else what
were they all doing so close together? Yet Baynes' move-
ments had been faithfully reported each morning and were
of such obvious innocence as to preclude further com-
ment. Albeit somehow he had contrived to communicate
with Pearson, and the man, in all probability, had been
going to hand over to Bobby the proceeds of the Colum-
nar robbery. And that little speck in the distance was
Pearson!
Perhaps he would get pulled up for speeding. And per-
haps not. Couldn't be blamed if he didn't stop, anyhow!
Motor-cycle AB 70816 found abandoned near the Paddington
Recreation Ground.
The engine was still warm when Higgins inspected it
after his dash back to Town. A cordon of police had been
drawn round a circle of half a mile radius with the
cycle as the centre.
All looking for a black-haired man just over six feet
in height. The inspector started making inquiries of the
caretakers of the many blocks of flats close by.
"A tall man who has just arrived in crash-helmet and
similar exaggerated motorist's gear?"
r


130 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Try Mr. Jones. No. 13."
Higgins tried Mr. Jones, who resented the interference
so much that he tried to brain the inspector with a tele-
phone instrument.


THE INSPECTOR IS PUZZLED 133
"It's not that—I—I mean the other night—at the
Columnar." She paused, groping for words. "I—I'm
afraid I hurt you."
"You hurt neither my face nor my feelings. You can
do it again if you like"—gallantly. "Let's forget it."
"Thank you—you're very kind. And now I must be
going. Good-bye, Inspector."
She rose from her chair, and the inspector promptly
followed her example and seized his hat from a peg on
the wall.
"I'll come with you."
"Oh!" with an attempt at hauteur.
"Yes. We're going to lunch."
"Oh! We are—are we?"
"Yes!" brightly.
"Well, I like that!"
"That's good, so do I."
Lady Muriel gave it up—rather more willingly than
appeared on the surface. Higgins escorted her through the
seemingly endless corridors of Scotland Yard, smiled
brightly at the constable on duty at the gates, and started
walking towards the taxi rank outside.
He stopped, turned, then with a muttered "Excuse me"
to the girl, retraced his steps and strode up to a man who
had left the gates immediately in their wake.
"You can clear off."
"But, sir, Chief Inspector Dryan"
"Never mind. I'll make it all right with him. You just
get."
The man "got," unwillingly. Since when, he wondered,
had an inspector the right to countermand a chief in-
spector's orders? Still, one could trust old Higgins, he
never let one down. Nice bit o' skirt he'd got hold of, too
—some blokes have all the luck!
"The Palatial, please."
The taxi drew off.


134
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"You know you've grown since I saw you last."
They had finished their luncheon, and were having
coffee and cigarettes in a secluded corner of the palm
lounge.
The girl frowned at his remark—and peered more
closely at him.
"I can't think. Ever since I saw you that night at the
Columnar I've been under the impression that your face
is familiar. I put it down to my perhaps having seen you
in Bobby's company, and yet—I dunno. Give it up!"
"Soon after the War," prompted Higgins.
The girl gazed at the inspector intently through nar-
rowed eyelids, a look of dawning recollection in her face,
then she lowered her gaze and thoughtfully stirred her
coffee.
"So you're that inspector, are you?" quietly. "You—
you look older, somehow. Your hair is greying at the
temples."
"Eh?" Inspector Higgins sat bolt upright. Of a sud-
den he felt at least a hundred and fifty years old. "I—er—
sorry!—I'm forgetting myself. . . ." His voice trailed
off as he saw with a terrible fascination that a tear had
trickled down the girl's face. Dammit! He always seemed
to make this girl cry or . . . "You need never be afraid
of me, missie," he said gently.
"I—I know that. As a friend I r-rather like you. It's
as a policeman you f-frighten me so."
And it was as a policeman that the inspector almost
blurted out "Why?" He guessed that with a little judi-
cious prompting the girl would probably, in her distraught
state, reveal some missing link which would settle, once
and for all, the Brownworth case.
However, he salved his conscience with the thought that
even policemen were entitled to time off for meals.
On the whole Inspector Higgins regarded his impromptu


THE INSPECTOR IS PUZZLED
luncheon-party as but one step removed from a complete
frost.
And then along came Bobby Baynes with his outra-
geous suggestion regarding the recovery of the Columnar
necklace. And what was more to the point, actually re-
covered it! True there was no means of connecting Bobby
with the affair, for the necklace was returned by regis-
tered post, but . . .
And Scott and Company, Private Inquiry Agents. Rum
thing that. Bobby Baynes hooking himself up to that Scott
person. Perhaps he had turned over a new leaf. Doubtful.
It was intuition rather than evidence which prompted the
inspector to believe that Baynes earned his livelihood by
his wits. Had there been any actual evidence Bobby would
have been run in long ago. Yet he undoubtedly had some
good points. For one thing if he gave his solemn word he
kept it. And this business of the return of the Columnar
necklace. Pearson who pinched it now had two thousand
pounds salted away. Another proof of honesty being the
best policy! A bell tinkled.
"Wanted on the line, sir."
"Who is it?"
"Lady Something-or-other, sir. Boadicea it sounded
like."
"Oh, yes. Put her through."
A deafening click in the receiver, then a small voice
the other end of the wire.
"Inspector Higgins?"
"Speaking."
"I thought I'd congratulate you on the recovery of that
necklace. I'm so glad."
"Oh, well, you know," reluctantly, unable to take full
credit. "Bobby did it."
"He would."
"He did, anyhow. Goodness knows why."


136 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Well, you see, the necklace belonged to me years ago."
"Oh!" A pause. "And how did Bobby know that?"
"Er—good-bye."
A click, then a continuous buzzing. Lady Muriel Beau-
meere had disconnected. Inspector Higgins thoughtfully
replaced his own receiver.
What was the connection between Bobby Baynes and
Lady Muriel Beaumeere? Could the man who called him-
self Bobby Baynes be a twin brother of the Honourable
Robert Beaumeere, suspected as being concerned with the
death of Brownworth? Twin brothers! Such a convenient
let-out for novelists when tied up in the ramifications of
their own plots! A cousin perhaps?
Baynes could not be her brother: the shoulder scar busi-
ness for one thing; and the fingerprints. Yet was he not
becoming obsessed with the idea that the fingerprints left
on the door-knob of the secret passage and on the dagger
were made by Robert Beaumeere ? True everything pointed
that way, yet . . .
Was it not possible that Baynes and the vanished Beau-
meere had served together in the Navy during the War,
having been intimate friends before the outbreak of hos-
tilities? Yet why had the man Baynes taken Beaumeere's
nom de guerre—using the phrase both literally and collo-
quially?'
Was it worth while looking up a rating who had served
with Beaumeere and getting him to pass on Bobby's iden-
tity? Higgins remembered from his previous experience,
and could not help but admire, the extraordinary lapses of
memory which seemed to afflict naval men when called
upon to give away a pal!
Yet somehow he liked the fellow. Bobby Baynes had
personality, even though his sense of humour was some-
what distorted.
Six months constant surveillance of the offices of
Messrs. Scott and Company failed to reveal anything un-


THE INSPECTOR IS PUZZLED 137
derhand in their dealings. Scott himself did a little writ-
ing, occasionally made himself a nuisance at Scotland
Yard as a freelance journalist, and on more than one occa-
sion had endeavoured to obtain advance information to
retail to the news agencies. Bit of a publisher, this Scott—
but pretty harmless. And Baynes, too, seemed to have
turned over a new leaf, although there were the merest
breaths of a rumour that he had occasionally got away
with a confidence trick. Higgins did not mind unduly.
Until the victims complained he could do nothing, and
what victim is likely to complain that he has been caught
for a sucker? They could all afford any money lost, and
should contra the item against experience gained; the
funny part was that, in the inspector's experience, most of
the dupes of confidence tricksters were generally regarded
by their compeers as astute business men. It had a certain
humorous aspect.
The merest suspicion of rumour only—nothing con-
crete. Baynes must have chosen his victims (if any) with
consummate care.
Imperceptibly, by the very innocence of his everyday
actions, Bobby Baynes receded from the inspector's imme-
diate purview, and at long last dropped out altogether.


CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH SERGEANT MERCIER IS CERTAIN
NOT so the Lady Muriel Beaumeere. A warm friend-
ship had sprung up between her and the inspector
since his caveman invitation to luncheon. By tacit consent
no mention was ever made of Bobby or of her missing
brother, and it is very doubtful, if after the first few meet-
ings, either of them thought of these two whilst in each
other's company.
That she was weighed down with a tremendous secret
Higgins did not doubt. Neither did he doubt that were
he not a police inspector she would have confided in him.
Not that she did not trust him, but that she would not
have him betray his honour; at least she would not tempt
him to do so, knowing full well that he would arrest her
if duty demanded it, even though he handed in his resig-
nation with his prisoner!
They attended dances together, but Higgins made an
impatient wallflower, and viewed almost with contempt
her practised partners. She went to the Police Boxing
Championships at the Albert Hall, and was outwardly
shocked though inwardly exultant when Higgins knocked
his man clean through the ropes in the semi-finals, and
won on points in the final of the Light-Heavies. She
nearly cried when he received a cup from the wife of the
Commissioner, to the accompaniment of frenzied yells of
"Good old Higgy!" from men who would tremble at his
very glance when on duty.
Proudly Inspector Higgins exhibited the cup on their
way home in a taxi.
138


SERGEANT MERCIER IS CERTAIN 141
"I—er—suppose you couldn't—er—call off your watch-
dogs for a few hours."
"No. I'm sorry. But—er—should I learn that they have
lost track of you, I will refrain from making any sugges-
tions."
"That—that is very decent of you, Higgins." Baynes
held out his hand.
Pointedly Inspector Higgins ignored it.
"You have one day's grace. After that look out—for
I'm going to get you, Mr. Robert Beaumeere."
Bobby Baynes gave the inspector a queer look—then,
without a word, turned on his heel, and closed the door
quietly behind him.
That same night the police were called to a riot in the
East End—a gang war in miniature. There had been much
bloodshed, a few casualties, but no killings; chiefly be-
cause the war had been waged in comparative silence with
knives and bludgeons, and possibly because the two fac-
tions united when their common enemy, the police, arrived
on the scene. Two constables had been mauled, and there
had been no arrests—the only capture made by the police
being a bloodstained knife left behind by one of the com-
batants when he beat his hurried exit.
It afforded merely evidence of a disturbance of the
peace—a minor crime—and had been sent to the Yard
for examination by the fingerprint experts in order to
ascertain, if possible, to whom it belonged. This was merely
routine, there being no intention to press any charge
against the owner (unless, of course, any serious case
was reported by the hospitals), and it was done more to
ascertain which known criminal carried a knife as his
means of offence than for any other reason. Not for one
moment did the police doubt that the knife belonged to
someone who had already been through their hands.
And they were right.


142
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Sergeant Mercier of the Records Department of the
Yard soon reported the result to the East End police, and
knowing his interest in the culprit, to Inspector Higgins
himself.
"Belonged to Bobby Baynes?" said Higgins incredu-
lously. "Impossible!" Sergeant Mercier frowned. "No,
no, don't misunderstand me, Mercier. No reflection on
you whatsoever, but—but—it's beyond me."
The telephone bell rang and Higgins lifted the receiver.
"H'm! I see. Do your best."
He was not surprised. A constable had reported that
he had lost the trail of Baynes somewhere around King's
Cross Station, and had spent many hours trying to pick
it up again before reporting failure.
Thus Inspector Higgins went to the scene of the East
End riot in a very puzzled frame of mind.
"I thought I would ring you up, Higgy, to let you
know that, mainly through your kindness, Daddy has
turned the corner."
"I'm so glad. You had a visitor then?"
"Of course—that was the turning-point."
"And he's gone now?"
"Yes. Left last night as soon as Daddy was out of
danger."
"And when was that?" Higgins hated himself for
asking these questions, but needs must. . . .
"About ten. Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Well, good-bye, Higgy, and—and thank you so much
for all you've done for us. You're rather a dear."
"That's the second time you've told me that."
As the inspector replaced the receiver he wondered
whether she would still think so when he had Bobby
Baynes under lock and key. Duty was ever a hard task-
master.
So Bobby Baynes left about ten o'clock, and the riot


SERGEANT MERCIER IS CERTAIN 143
started at midnight. Barely time, unless he literally flew—
and who would be so eager for the fray?—knives and
sticks. No! There was something radically wrong some-
where.
It was as generally accepted now that no two sets of
fingerprints were alike as it was certain that no one could
be in two places at once. Without such a belief the whole
fingerprint system must break down. It had been estab-
lished by all the civilised countries of the world. Yet he
remembered reading somewhere that twins had identical
fingerprints, then he remembered it was in a novel, and
not in a duly-authenticated biological study.
Higgins consulted Sergeant Mercier.
The worthy sergeant was horrified at the merest sugges-
tion.
"Human fingerprints duplicated, sir? Two people with
the same fingerprints? Absolutely, categorically and in-
disputably impossible, sir."
"Thank you, sergeant. I—er—thought it—er—rather
unlikely myself."
Mercier retired somewhat mystified. From the twinkle
in the inspector's eye he gathered that there was a joke
somewhere, but he seemed to have missed the point of it.
He was about to close the door when the sound of a
mighty fist crashing on to a creaking desk assailed his ears,
and the inspector's stentorian voice announced: "Gosh
Almighty! As a detective I'd make a damned good dust-
man."
Mercier was tempted to agree, and timidly he poked
his head round the door.
"You called, sir?"
"I did not. But now you're here—these fingerprints of
Bobby Baynes. What have we got?"
"Why, sir, only those sent along by the Bull."
"H'm! Get them please."
t That must be the explanation of the phenomenon—
the Bull had made a mistake, and the prints were not


144
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Bobby's. Because the Bull had been right on so many-
occasions it did not mean to say he was infallible.
"Serves me right," muttered the inspector, mentally
castigating himself. "I ought to have checked up on
those fingerprints."


CHAPTER XIII
IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES IS ONE UP
INSPECTOR HIGGINS stared at the paper which
Sergeant Mercier had brought to him.
These are the fingerprints of Robert Baynes.
The Bull.
"Done with the same typewriter?" he queried.
"As far as I can make out, sir. The same make of
machine, anyhow."
"Paper any different?"
"All the Bull's messages have been on odd scraps of
paper, sir."
"H'm! Doesn't help much, does it?"
Higgins peered more closely at the paper which he held
up to the light. It seemed to have been torn from a child's
exercise book.
"There has been some writing on this which has rubbed
off. Have you found out what it is?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, what is it?" faintly exasperated at the stolid
sergeant.
Mercier tittered, and the inspector raised an inquiring
eyebrow.
"'I love you/ sir—in block letters."
"That's kind of you, I'm sure."
For the second time within two days an all stations
call was sent out for the apprehension of Bobby Baynes.
US


146 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
It was imperative that his fingerprints be taken without
delay. Higgins vowed that never again would he accept
anybody's unsupported statement; and from the Bull, too!
Almost criminal negligence!
Bobby Baynes, however, had vanished—having appar-
ently taken the inspector's warning to heart. A constable
had been sleeping at his flat (actually in his bed) awaiting
his return; his known haunts were carefully combed; his
partner Scott was interviewed, but resented the police inter-
ference. And the boats were watched. And yet Bobby
Baynes was still at large, and the belief was growing at
the Yard that he had slipped through the meshes of the net.
After a fruitless month of searching, Chief Inspector
Dryan began to grumble at the waste of men on the old
case, when there were so many more recent cases still
crying for solution. A fortnight later special searching was
abandoned, and although every officer in the police force
was on the look-out for Baynes, it was a full-time job for
nobody.
Except Inspector Higgins—to whom the apprehension
of Baynes was in the nature of a personal matter. He
made a nightly pilgrimage past Baynes' flat on his way
home, and knew that one day Baynes would have to re-
turn, unless he had eluded the watch on the boats. For in
one of the drawers of Bobby's desk were five hundred
pound notes done up in a neat brown-paper parcel and
labelled "paid cheques," together with his passport, this
latter not perhaps an essential to foreign travel but such a
great convenience. A piece of paper, its creases denoting
that it had once covered a package of similar size to the
"paid cheques," was labelled "receipted bills," so that
the inspector theorised that for the time being Bobby
Baynes was in funds.
But it was six weeks now since he had last been seen,
and he had five hundred pounds to start with—and ex-
pensive tastes. Still . . . give him another six months,
and . . .


BOBBY BAYNES IS ONE UP
147
"Gosh!"
When last he had visited Baynes' flat, the inspector had
left the lower corner of one of the curtains turned back,
as though accidentally caught by the wind. He reasoned
that the first thing a prudent man would do if wishing to
conceal his presence would be to straighten that corner.
And someone had done so since last night!
Cautiously Higgins mounted the steps and let himself
into the flat with a duplicate key made by the locksmith
of the Yard.
Somebody—if not Bobby Baynes himself—had been
in this flat during the last few hours. There was still a
faint smell of cigarette smoke about the place. Carefully
Inspector Higgins searched the rooms; kitchenette—
empty, but with a boiling kettle on the gas stove; bed-
room—cautiously Higgins pushed open the door. A tall,
military, grey-haired gentleman, his back to the door, was
busily engaged in brushing his hair whilst standing before
a long mirror. Then he carefully adjusted his tie, craning
his neck to get perfect ease. Humming the latest rag he
removed from the top of the dressing-table his beautifully-
shaped moustache, and reached for a bottle of spirit gum.
"Come in, Higgins. There's a beastly draught coming
from that door!"
Higgins started—surprised, until he caught the twinkle
of the other's eyes reflected in the mirror. Warily he en-
tered the room. Nonchalantly Bobby Baynes went on with
the affixing of his moustache, entirely ignoring the in-
spector.
At long last he turned with a sigh of satisfaction, picked
up his hair-brushes and dusted the polished backs with a
handkerchief, then reached for his jacket.
It looked uncommonly like legerdemain.
Baynes inserted an empty hand at the top of the sleeve,
yet when it emerged the other end it was gripping a wicked-
looking revolver.
"Believe me, Inspector, I'm sorry"—apologetically.


148
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"And foolish, too, Bobby. It'll add a couple of years
to your sentence."
"Sentence?"
"For murder."
"Murder, eh? Then talk sense. To add a couple of years
to a life sentence sounds rather like an anachronism. And
isn't there an old adage anent—talking of hanging—er—
sheep and—or lambs?"
Bobby's eyes glinted dangerously, and Higgins stopped
in his stride.
"It's not like you, Bobby, to carry firearms."
"I've had to—lately." A pause. "And talking of sen-
tences, there's another saying about first catching your
hare. I think you'll admit that you're—er—somewhat at
a disadvantage."
"Bobby," said Higgins impressively, staring into the
other's eyes. "I'm coming for you now—revolver or no
revolver—and if you kill me it will reduce your term of
imprisonment to three weeks after the judge removes the
black cap."
Baynes was not impressed—he laughed. A harsh un-
pleasant sound.
"That's better than three seconds, which is apparently
what you're allotting to yourself. I give you my solemn
word, that if you come a step nearer I'll pull this trigger.
You know me, Higgins. My solemn word."
Higgins stopped appalled. That Baynes was in earnest
he did not for a moment doubt. Deadlock.
A short laugh. "Higgins, this is damn silly."
The inspector did not move or give any sign that he
had heard. His brain was working furiously; no one knew
where he was, and the likelihood of anyone coming here
was very remote indeed. He could play for time, and had
indeed been doing so ever since Bobby Baynes had so
dramatically produced his firearm, and yet . . . what
was the good?
"Look here, Higgins, I'll make you an offer." Baynes


BOBBY BAYNES IS ONE UP
149
paused, but Higgins contented himself with a grunt to
indicate that he had heard. "Promise not to leave this
room for half an hour, and I'll go at once and you're at
liberty after that time to find me if you can."
Silence.
Bobby Baynes continued banteringly: "And what, you
ask, quite rightly, being well up in the dramatic melodrama
—if you refuse? If you refuse, Inspector Higgins"—the
banter giving place to menace—"I'll plug you in the leg,
tie you up and make sure of at least a three days' start—
assuming you are found within that period. I shall get
a day or two, anyhow."
Still silence.
"I hold all the aces, Higgins, and . . ."
Bobby stopped. There was the sound of movement out-
side the door. Neither man spoke nor moved.
Inspector Higgins wondered whether it was a pal of
Baynes' and hoped sincerely that it wasn't. A pal was
what Baynes needed most at this moment, for without any
aid how could he hope to tie up the inspector without in-
capacitating him first?
Baynes thought it was the police.
Yet neither, by word nor look, betrayed his thoughts.
Baynes made the only movement—he shifted his revolver
out of the line of sight from the keyhole.
A subdued shuffling—then complete silence.
"Phew!" Bobby Baynes awkwardly extracted with his
free hand a silk handkerchief, with which he mopped his
brow in heartfelt relief. Replacing it in his pocket he
grinned engagingly at the discomfited inspector.
"I guess we both feel better now."
Higgins smiled at the very impudence of the man. Dur-
ing the recent interruption he had done some furious think-
ing. He was in a hole—and knew it; besides what was half
an hour?
"All right—I agree"—ungraciously.
"Half an hour?"


150
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Higgins nodded.
Good.:
With careless abandon Bobby Baynes flung the revolver
on to the bed, and turned his back on the inspector. As a
gesture of supreme trust in the inspector's word it was
magnificent.
Higgins felt a warm glow suffuse his whole body. He
seated himself on the bed and pulled out his pipe and
tobacco. His whole manner indicated complete indifference
to the other's movements; yet his mind registered every
action. Through the doorway of the bedroom he saw Baynes
go to his desk and remove therefrom a labelled packet—
obviously the "paid cheques"—at which he frowned
thoughtfully. He opened it and gave a sigh as he realised
that its contents were intact. He grinned cheerfully at
the waiting Higgins.
"You ought to have taken these when you opened the
package," he said reprovingly. "Careless—very careless!"
Picking up a hat and walking stick, Bobby Baynes
strolled to the door, where he stopped and pulled out his
watch.
"Twenty-six and a half minutes, Higgins. Well, so
long!"
The door closed and Inspector Higgins heard the other's
firm tread receding down the corridor.
Higgins walked to the window facing the street—the
one in which he had disarranged the curtain many weeks
ago—and stared downwards.
Bobby Baynes emerged jauntily from the entrance to
the block of flats, and stood waiting at the kerb—un-
hurried and debonair—a middle-aged dandy with time to
A taxi crawled by, and at a flick of Bobby's stick, it
drew to the kerb. A careless direction to the driver and it
moved off.
Automatically Inspector Higgins made a mental note
of its number—JG 45994—before his conscience asked
kill.


CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH MR. SCOTT IS QUESTIONED
AND yet Bobby Baynes' dramatic gesture in leaving
behind his revolver with deliberate unconcern was a
mistake. He had sacrificed safety in order to posture.
There was something theatrical in his mental make-up I
And in his physical—thought the inspector, his chagrin
abating.
For Bobby Baynes had left a perfect print of his hand
on the smooth butt of the revolver.
Twenty minutes' wait! What a fool he was to stay at
all. Would Bobby Baynes wait were their positions re-
versed? The inspector had to admit that he thought he
would! And that telephone simply crying to be used whilst
all the time Baynes was getting farther and farther away.
Still, perhaps the time could be used beneficially. No
good rushing at things. Let's see, now; one couldn't get
very far in half an hour, could one? What about the big
railway termini? This flat was pretty central. Liverpool
Street was probably the most distant—say thirty-five
minutes; Victoria, half an hour; King's Cross, Euston
and St. Pancras, twenty minutes; Paddington, ten minutes.
Yes, Paddington seemed the most likely of the lot. What
train left Paddington about now? Should be an ABC or
other time-table knocking about somewhere. Higgins
glanced round the room. There was the time-table right
enough—and what was more it was open!
Open at the P's. Pitlochrie. Most unlikely sort of place
15a


MR. SCOTT IS QUESTIONED 153
for a refugee. Plymouth. Gosh! Plymouth. And a train in
five minutes. With Exeter the first stop—a three hour
run. It was too easy. No urgency at all. Telephone Exeter
at one's convenience and the middle-aged military gentle-
man would be asked to break his journey. Poor old Baynes
—as good as caught.
Unless he had purposely left the time-table open. Yet
he couldn't have known that the inspector was going to
call. But the thought, to say the least, was disturbing.
Ten minutes more. . . . Five minutes. . . .
Inspector Higgins snapped the case of his watch and
walked to the telephone. It was an automatic instrument;
he hated the things; nothing personal about them; no one
to curse if one got the wrong number—unless one dialled
"O" beforehand.
He dialled Victoria 7000. Nothing doing. Then he re-
alised that although the instrument was of the automatic
variety, it was not yet on an automatic exchange. A pre-
cious minute wasted.
"Taxi JG 45994. Apprehend at once. Also new de-
scription of Baynes. False hair and moustache—grey.
Military-looking pose. Trilby hat and gold-knobbed walk-
ing stick. Recently seen in above-mentioned taxi. Probably
making for Plymouth where there's an Atlantic liner call-
ing to-morrow"—this was a guess, but Higgins knew he
would be checked up on details—"notify Exeter police to
examine train arriving late to-night. When taxi-driver
found he can give you further particulars. I'll 'phone later
for news."
The outer door was locked—a hectic five minutes of
muscular effort, then Inspector Higgins dashed out of the
block of flats and hailed a taxi, in a vastly different man-
ner to that of Baynes, less than thirty-eight minutes
ago.
"Harrow Road Police Station—and put a jerk into it."
Inspector Higgins ran up the steps of the station at
breakneck speed.


MR. SCOTT IS QUESTIONED 155
But Exeter had proved a broken reed. True, a colonel
returning to barracks had been questioned, but his language
was not nice. Neither was he Bobby Baynes.
Taxi No. JG 45994 had been discovered on a rank at
Wembley, and the driver had been asked to proceed to the
police station there to await the coming of Inspector Hig-
gins. He did not have to wait long, for the inspector made
post-haste as soon as he had been notified.
"The fare you picked up at Maida Vale."
"Yessir."
"Where did you go to?"
"To the City, sir."
"The City?"
"Yessir. National Buildings."
"Gosh! That's Scott and Co. Wait a minute."
Inspector Higgins rushed to the telephone and a minute
later had passed on the information to the Moorgate
Police that Bobby Baynes was probably in their territory
and would they please put a man on Scott and Co., Inquiry
Agents. Thanks! Higgins returned to the taxi-driver.
"Did he pay you off, or did you go anywhere from
there?"
"Well, sir," began the man hesitantly, as though re-
luctant to speak.
"Come along, man. Cough it up," urged Higgins
coarsely. "This isn't a Sunday School treat—it's a police
matter."
"He asked me not to say"
"I don't give a damn what he asked you." Turning to
the local inspector, Higgins said conversationally: "This
chap wants to be an accessory after—seems to me."
It had the desired effect.
"All right, sir. I can't help meself. He gave me a letter
to take to a house in Carlton Avenue, off the Preston
Road, Wembley. The gentleman didn't seem to know what


156 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
to make of it when I delivered it, for there was only a
slip of paper inside with another envelope. It said: 'Please
give bearer letter to post.' So he gave me the other letter—
and I posted it."
"H'm! And you did all this for nothing, I suppose."
The man coloured.
"No, sir. The first gentleman gave me a couple of quid
to do it. Said something about it being urgent. He told me
the other gent would give me something. Seems silly,
though, sending me all that way merely to post a letter."
"And to whom was the second letter addressed—we
can attend to the other later."
"I didn't rightly notice, sir."
"Never mind—tell us"—bleakly from Inspector Hig-
gins.
"Well, sir, since you press me"
"We do."
"To Scotland Yard, sir."
"Eh?"
"Yessir. To an Inspector Piggery."
"Trying to be funny?"
"That's what it looked like, anyhow."
"H'm!"
And the gentleman in Carlton Avenue was equally in
the dark. He had never heard of Bobby Baynes, and didn't
want to. They'd probably got his name out of the local
directory. Yes, he'd kept the message as a curio. Please
give bearer letter to post. They could have it if they liked,
only he'd like it returned when finished with. Quiet place
Wembley—save on Cup and International days. . . .
And the post office was adamant. It didn't matter if he
was the Commissioner of the entire Metropolitan Police—
or the Duke of China—he'd have to wait for his letter until
it was delivered. There was no machinery by which it
could be handed over other than by the usual method.


MR. SCOTT IS QUESTIONED 157
Sorry and all that ... Of course I know that . . . we're
both Government officials . . . the public confidently be-
lieves that every letter posted in a letter box will reach
its destination . . . and so it will. . . . Patience is a
virtue. ... All right, write to the Postmaster-Gen-
eral. . . .
And Mr. Scott, of Scott and Co., National Buildings,
seemed none too pleased to see him. Yes, he had seen
Bobby Baynes a couple of hours ago.
"Rather late for you to be in the City, Mr. Scott."
"We often work late—in our business it's sometimes
necessary, as you are well aware, Inspector."
"H'm! Where did you see Baynes?"
"Ran into him outside these premises."
"Recognise him?"
"What do you mean?" sharply.
"Anything funny about his appearance—so to speak?"
"Well, he'd certainly got a rummy sort of suit on—for
him, I mean."
"Hadn't grown a moustache or anything since you saw
him last"—thinly sarcastic.
"Oh! I get you." The other laughed. "No. He'd left it
behind here. Been up to change, you know. When doing
any—er—commercial or social shadowing it is sometimes
convenient to adopt some sort of disguise. We private
inquiry agents do it—if you police don't."
"Oh! That's news."
"As a matter of fact, he told me you were after him."
"He did, eh? And you thought it your duty as a citizen
to let kim go, I suppose."
"Gosh! I thought he was kidding."
The other's face was a picture of surprise.
"What's he been up to? Won't injure the firm, will it?
To think that he was really on the run. . . . T'ck! T'ck!
. . . You astound me, Inspector."
"Well, I warned you, didn't I?"


158 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"You did. And I'm sorry now I didn't heed your warn-
ing. If I see him again I'll let you know."
"Mind you do."
With a sign to the watcher from the City police to re-
main on duty, Inspector Higgins left the building in an
embittered state of mind. To think that Baynes had had
the effrontery to go to his office in the City to doff his
elaborate disguise. Perhaps that Scott fellow was a crim-
inal as well as a business partner. Rum crowd altogether.
Pearson had recently joined them. Yes. Scott would cer-
tainly bear watching.
Before retiring for the night, Inspector Higgins rang
up Sergeant Mercier of Scotland Yard.
"What about those fingerprints on the revolver? Traced
them?"
"Yes. Identical with those found on the dagger and on
the door-knob of the Brownworth case. Whose are they,
sir?"
Inspector Higgins did not reply—he was stunned to have
a hideous suspicion so completely confirmed.
He slept ill that night.
Yet, even whilst he lay tossing on his bed the search
for Bobby Baynes went on unabated. The long arm of
the law does not tire.


CHAPTER XV
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS INVESTIGATES
THE following morning Inspector Higgins was early
on duty: not by reason of a new-found enthusiasm
for his job, but because he had been particularly unsuccess-
ful in his wooing of Morpheus. He had therefore followed
one of his own maxims: If you can't sleep, get up.
Instead of going to Scotland Yard he had first tele-
phoned there for news in what must have been one of the
shortest conversations on record.
"News?"
"None."
"Thanks."
He had then proceeded to the Moorgate Police Station
to thank the superintendent for his kindness in placing
a watcher on Scott and Co. (These little amenities must
be preserved!) and to get the report.
"Scott left soon after you did and went home. Our man
has just reported that Scott has returned to the City, and
I am just sending a man to relieve him."
"Thank you. I'll go along with the relief."
"Very good. I'll send for him now."
The relief was a sergeant—middle-aged. The moment
he set eyes on the newcomer Inspector Higgins knew that
he had seen him before, but his recollection was somewhat
dimmed.
"Seem to know your face, Sergeant."
"I was in the Hertfordshire Police, sir. Transferred
here a couple of years ago. I met you when a constable—
in the Brownworth case, sir."
,-
i59


INSPECTOR HIGGINS INVESTIGATES 161
of the inner office. Bit o' luck the sergeant was with him.
Grimly he supposed that Bobby Baynes was even now
standing behind that closed door waiting to wield some-
thing hard and heavy. How very nice. Higgins strode to
the door, flung it open and dodged back. Nothing happened.
A brief pause, then he peered within the room.
Seated at a desk on the far side of the room was a
man, frowningly gazing at the door as if in mute reprimand
of the violent disturbance of his peace. With a mixture of
relief and disappointment the inspector instantly recognised
the third partner of this strange trio—the ex-convict Pear-
son.
"Good mornin', Inspector. No 'ard feelings I 'ope."
Higgins turned to the waiting sergeant, still at his post
by the outer door, but with a thoughtful frown upon his
face.
"Er—Sergeant. I shan't be able to accompany you on
that Cresswell business. Sorry. You'd better carry on
alone."
The sergeant, who could take a hint as well as the next
man, replied: "Very good, sir," and departed—as far as
the bend in the corridor outside.
Higgins turned once more to the waiting Pearson: it
was the first time the two had met face to face since Hig-
gins had given his evidence at the other's trial. The man
had altered considerably. Five years of prison life had
left their indelible mark.
"I'm sorry abaht that crack on the 'ead I give you with
the telephone, Inspector, but"
"Don't worry, I've forgotten it. I can't really blame
anyone trying to bolt from five years p.s. I'm glad, how-
ever, that your seven was reduced for good conduct: that's
a sure sign you intend to turn over a new leaf. Now I
want a little information about Mr. Baynes."
"I don't know nothing abaht 'im—where 'e is—or wot
Vs doin'. An' I'm glad I don't."
Higgins smiled. He believed the man. Not because he


162 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
thought that Pearson would gladly have given away
Bobby, but because of the man's obvious relief at the turn
of the questioning. Pearson had feared some other reason
for his visit. He fired a shaft at random:
"Ah, well. So much for Bobby! But what about that
other business?"
Pearson half rose from his chair, passed his tongue
furtively round his lips, glanced quickly round the room
as though seeking a way of escape, then:
"I dunno wot you mean, guv'nor"—sullenly.
"I know a great deal more than you think, Pearson,
and let me warn you"—impressively, but the effect on
Pearson was neutralised by a voice from the doorway.
"Don't bluff, Inspector." It was Mr. Scott.
Higgins turned in a flash, furious at the interruption.
"Shut your mouth," he began, but again was inter-
rupted.
"Inspector Higgins, I'd remind you that you're in our
office." Blandly but with a wealth of dignity.
"Yus." Pearson had recovered his composure, and from
his observation, more than a little of his courage. In-
spector Higgins was ashamed of his outburst.
"I am sorry, but I'd have you know—both of you—that
if I find you aiding Baynes—" he shrugged his shoulders,
expressively. His interview had not been an entire success,
in fact as regards any information of Bobby it had been
a complete failure, yet had he but known it, it was the
first step towards the elucidation of the ten-year-old
Brownworth mystery.
And what peccadillo of Pearson's had he almost un-
earthed? The Columnar episode was finished and paid for.
Pearson had been lucky over that—two thousand pounds!
—yet, although he had not been "out" very long he had
already been up to his old tricks. What was Pearson's
"line"? Pocket-picking—anything where sleight of hand
was involved: a member of the light-fingered fraternity.


164 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
who more likely than the Lady Muriel Beaumeere? He
had already an example of her intense loyalty.
Inspector Higgins was ensconced with the Superin-
tendent of the Hatfield police.
"The Hall, Inspector, has no tenant—is unoccupied—
and has been so since that murder there many years ago."
"And the Manor?"
"Old de la Monte is very ill, so I hear. His daughter
is there and the servants."
"Anyone else?" casually.
"Not to my knowledge."
"H'm. A small favour, Super. Should the—er—con-
stable on his beat see any suspicious lights and—er—so
forth at the Hall, will he please ignore them."
The superintendent pondered this for a while, then:
"An unofficial visit?"
"More or less—unauthorised anyhow."
"H'm. I see."
Inspector Higgins stopped outside the gates leading to
the Hall, and surveyed through the ironwork the sombre
mansion at the end of the carriage drive. There were
many changes since last he had seen this stately old man-
sion. Gone were the well-kept lawns, and rank weeds had
taken their place. Higgins was astonished at the ravages
of a decade. Everything seemed dank, unhealthy, un-
wholesome. It was as though the spirit of the murdered
Brownworth brooded over the place: accentuated by the
falling dusk. In the distance could be seen the chimney
stacks of the Manor where the Earl de la Monte fought
a losing fight with death, and where that little girl Muriel
hugged her secret to her bosom. Bobby Baynes ought to
be pole-axed causing her such distress. . . . There could
be no doubt that she was his sister, and that his real name
was Beaumeere, too.
She must be twenty-seven or -eight now. Since the ill-


INSPECTOR HIGGINS INVESTIGATES 165
ness of her father Higgins had not seen Muriel Beau-
meere; and soon he would be afraid to see her—when
Bobby Baynes was under lock and key.
A discreet reconnaissance to ascertain that there were
no onlookers—and the inspector had scaled the gate. Once
within the grounds Higgins made straight for the house—
gloomy and foreboding in the gathering darkness, avoiding
more by instinct than design the gravelled path.
He had a well-defined plan once inside the house. He
would use once again that underground passage (assuming
that in the meantime the old Earl had not bricked up his
end of it), and pay a surreptitious call on the Manor. He
did not like this method of approach, yet he was absolutely
convinced that a straightforward visit would be futile.
If Bobby Baynes were being concealed in his father's house
then it was unlikely that anything could be ascertained by
a simple inquiry. In any case Baynes would be warned
long before an inquirer could discover his presence. Hence
this back-door method of approach. Unethical possibly,
yet guile must be defeated with stealth.
The inspector had almost completed a circle of the
house before he discovered a possible means of effecting
an entrance: a window with a faulty catch. He remem-
bered with a start that this was the identical window which
he had broken with his elbow whilst accompanying the
superintendent on his first official visit to this house. He
chortled at the reminiscence: Five little nigger boys all
in a row. And how brilliantly the whole matter had been
suppressed. Higgins carefully lowered himself from the
sill to the floor.
Dust. A cloud of it assailed his nostrils. A tremendous
sneeze shattered the silence. Higgins was glad he wasn't
a pukka burglar, he'd have awakened an entire household
before this.
He flashed an electric torch. The place was in a de-
plorable condition. Dust and decay—rot and refuse.
Damned shame that such a wonderful old house should


166 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
get into such a state. The passages, too, were caked with
dust: furniture rotting, the curtains moth-eaten.
And in the dust, from the front door to the library, a
beaten trail!
"Golly!"
Inspector Higgins swung round quickly as though ex-
pecting an attack from the rear. This was most unex-
pected—and disconcerting. Who the deuce used the front
door? A brief inspection of the tracks convinced him that
the front door was used for both ingress and egress. Ergo,
the man had a key. Yes, it was a man right enough, by
the size of the footprints. And he walked straight to and
from the library: and the library was at one end of that
underground passage.
Silently Inspector Higgins approached the library door
a foot at a time. He tested each tread before trusting his
entire weight on the flooring, it took him ten minutes to
negotiate the entire passage—and he considered it time
well spent. Not a crack of light—either beneath or around
the library door. Was he safe in assuming there was no
one at home?
Was it better to fling open the door and charge in, hop-
ing to take the man by surprise; or was it preferable to
ease the door gently open an inch at a time and . . .
In both cases the absence of light was a handicap. If
one charged in holding an electric torch wasn't one more or
less asking for trouble: and the alternative of silently creep-
ing in upon the other had its disadvantages unless one
got a bull's-eye with the electric torch the first time of
flashing!
H'm. Bit awkward. Ordinarily the silent method would
be the better. Ease open door—insert hand through re-
sultant crack—feel for electric light switch—deflect—
Robert Beaumeere, I arrest you in the name of the law—
tableau.
Higgins had already ascertained that the electric light


INSPECTOR HIGGINS INVESTIGATES 167
had been cut off. Not much use holding an inquest out here
in this dark and dusty passage.
Higgins seized the handle, opened the door, and walked
in—prepared for anything.
Nothing happened. The room was empty.
At leisure he once more surveyed that room of tragedy.
It had been tidied up since last he had seen it. Then the
floor was littered with books flung from the bookcases in
that frantic search for the handle of the underground
passage: now the books had been replaced on the shelves,
except—except where the door handle was. . . .
There was a suggestive vacant space. . . .
Higgins flashed his torch—some fine prints on that
handle, now covered with verdigris. Higgins grinned. The
whimsical thought had struck him that the other had as
much right as he had to be present here.
Should he carry out his original intention of visiting
the Manor through this passage, or should he wait to
ascertain the identity of this other? If, as he assumed,
the other was Bobby Baynes, then he might as well wait,
for Baynes probably used this passage as his means of
getting to and from the Manor, and the next time he used
the passage Higgins would pounce on him, and thereby
save the Lady Muriel added unpleasantness. H'm.
Higgins would be the first to admit that he was no
waiter. Patience with him was an acquired virtue—he
preferred action every time. Yet what hopes had he of
action with no Bobby? Unless he explored the Manor for
traces during the night.
Pretty sort of fool he'd look if caught! Yet hadn't that
been his original intention? And supposing he blundered
into the Lady Muriel Beaumeere's bedroom. Higgins
coughed apologetically.
He'd wait.
He could have done with a smoke—but virtuously re-
frained. He was attacked with cramp and dropped his


168 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
torch during one agonising spasm. . . . An agitated five
minutes trying to find it with the aid of his automatic
lighter, which alternately blew out in the draught from the
passage and then refused to ignite until after much frantic
thumbwork. . . . When he found the torch the bulb was
broken.
Not his lucky night.
And to crown it all there was the sound of movement
in the passage. Higgins buttoned up his jacket, prepared
for the worst.
He could now do with a drink.


CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR PRAISES A SUBORDINATE
INSPECTOR HIGGINS waited in some slight trepida-
tion—not that he was fearful as to the outcome of
any bother, but a scrap in the dark was such a tricky busi-
ness. One had completely to out the other fellow before
one could afford to lay off in order to get a light, and thus
ascertain who one's assailant (or should it be assailee?)
was. Of course one could wait until the other entered all
unsuspectingly and then crown him with a chair, but that
was hardly sporting. Besides it might turn out to be the
little girl.
Gosh! Higgins felt a prickly sensation run up and down
his spine at the very thought. Whoever it was must have
been pretty confident considering the noise that was
made. ...
And then a thin pencil of light behind the bookcase.
That was better! At least he could see whether or not it
was a girl and thus avoid any faux pas in that direction.
Dammit! The light was extinguished. Quickly Higgins
retired into the all-prevading darkness near the door so
that the other might come between him and the less opaque
rectangle of the french windows.
Slowly the bookcase swung open noiselessly on its
hinges.
A man's head (Thank goodness!) peered cautiously
round the edge. (Awful thought! Perhaps Muriel had now
an Eton crop!) A hand . . .
A blinding flash—and a bullet buried itself in a book
just above the inspector's head.
, 169


170 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Higgins dived at the other's feet. As a rugby tackle it
would probably have earned him a place in the Scotland
Yard first fifteen. . . . Gosh! ... the other was as putty
in the inspector's hands. ... A scream for help quickly
silenced. . . . Higgins stood to his feet.
Again his lighter refused to function, but from the
resultant spark the inspector glimpsed the other's electric
torch. He stooped and picked it up—then pressed the
button.
Inert upon the floor was the figure of a man, with one
hand still grasping a revolver. Higgins noticed that it was
fitted with a modern silencer. The man was masked—
Higgins tore it off.
"Gosh Almighty!"
So Mr. Rosenvaler had not succumbed in that fire!
It was the work of but a moment to relieve the man of
his revolver and to make sure that he had no other con-
cealed weapon. The man stirred, opened his eyes and
blinked in the blinding ray of the torch.
"Giddup!" Unfeelingly, from the inspector.
Rosenvaler rubbed with trembling fingers the point of
his chin, which had recently come into contact with Hig-
gins' knuckles; then:
"Who—who are you?"
"The police. Get up."
"Police?" The sigh was a mixture of relief and ap-
prehension. Rosenvaler sat up, working his jaws as though
chewing the cud—only a cow would have looked more
intelligent—and at last staggered to his feet.
"Well? What do you think you're up to?" Inspector
Higgins had not yet recovered his surprise at the identity
of the man.
"Nossing. I do what I like 'ere—it is my 'ouse. What
are you doing 'ere, eh? You 'ave no right 'ere."
Inspector Higgins blinked. He remembered the deeds
of this house which he had been going to return to Rosen-


INSPECTOR PRAISES A SUBORDINATE 171
valer the night of the fire. This was carrying the war into
his camp with a vengeance.
"I want to ask you a few questions—about that fire."
"Well? That, too, was my 'ouse."
"Someone deliberately set it alight."
"Well? It was my loss—I make no claim on the in-
surance."
Higgins was none too sure of his ground here, although
he guessed that there must be some charge which could
stick—endangering life, or property—or—Gosh!
"Here, Rosenvaler, get a light—I'm tired of holding
this torch."
Five minutes later the room was illuminated by half a
dozen candles, which Rosenvaler had produced from a
drawer. Higgins bid the man be seated before he began
his interrogation.
"You may or may not know it, Rosenvaler, but a skele-
ton was found in the debris after your fire."
To his complete astonishment the man laughed.
"I bought it—from the 'ospitals."
"That can easily be proved." A note of warning in his
statement.
"I know that—I'm glad it is so." A pause. "I 'ope—
I 'ope you will prove it—I 'ad a receipt but it got burned
up with my other things."
Inspector Higgins passed his hands through his hair:
he knew the other to be shifty, but in this case his voice
rang true—and the matter was so easy of proof that a lie
was not worth the telling. But there was something else—
much more serious.
"Now then, Mr. Rosenvaler—we'll leave for the time
being your fire and come to something much more recent.
Ten minutes ago you tried to shoot me."
Rosenvaler cowered—the inspector must have looked
pretty ferocious in the candlelight—then, with the first real
show of spirit since he had recovered consciousness, said:


172 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Eet was self-defence. I return to my 'ouse, I find a
beeg stranger in eet, and I am afraid of beeg men."
"H'm. And the silencer?"
Rosenvaler made no reply, and the inspector pondered
for a moment before he asked his next question.
"And why are you so afraid of big men."
"Eet was a big man who killed my partner."
"What? What d'y'know about that?" snapped Higgins.
"Who was it?"
"I do not know—I guess."
"Well, do some guessing," coarsely, from the inspector.
"A bit belated, aren't you! You'll have to have a pretty
good explanation for the delay, and I'm not sure I shouldn't
warn you beforehand."
"Wait. I will tell you everysing. Brownworth and I
were partners. We loaned money at interest."
"Interest is good!"
"Well? We take a beeg risk when there is no security."
"H'm. Go on."
"We buy this 'ouse and Brownworth comes to live 'ere
—'e is sweet on a girl living near." (Involuntarily Higgins
clenched his fists, but did not interrupt.) "We meet 'ere
on business in the morning."
"What business?"
"We look for somesing."
"Find it?"
"Non. Eet's 'id away somew'ere. We look—but no find.
Then there is a knock at the door—a man 'as called on
Brownworth. This man 'e is terrible—beeg, strong. 'E
call Brownworth a—a bleenking squirt—'e in beeg rage—
Brownworth call for 'elp. Our men come and capture
beeg man. I leave in a 'urry. I 'ave business abroad—I
fly to Amsterdam—I go from there to Capetown—I do
not 'ear Brownworth dead teel I return months after—
I thought 'e 'ad—I mean . . ." Rosenvaler stopped. To
Higgins it was apparent what the man had thought. Either


INSPECTOR PRAISES A SUBORDINATE 173
that his partner had bolted with the partnership funds or
that he was in the hands of the police.
"Very interesting"—faintly sarcastic. "And what ex-
actly were you looking for?"
Rosenvaler gazed earnestly at the floor, then peered
furtively round the room as though seeking out a possible
eavesdropper. The pantomime finished, he leaned over the
table mysteriously.
"Could you do with ten thousand pounds?" he whis-
pered, hoarsely.
"Eh? Could I not. But I may as well tell you that an
attempt to bribe me usually leads to a hospital case."
"Eet is not a bribe. This 'ouse is old: the Manor 'Ouse
is old. Very, very old. A fortune is buried 'ere. Brown-
worth is killed. The two men leave in a 'urry. Only me
left—and you. It is my 'ouse: anysing I find belongs to
me—don't it?"
"Cussed if I know—or care. You'll have to come with
me to the station, and . . ."
"Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes. We'll test your yarn there. Don't worry. If
there is a fortune here and it belongs to you—you'll get
it right enough. Though from what I've heard I should
have thought you had enough money already."
"What man ever 'as enough?"
Possibly the truest words he had spoken all the time,
reflected Higgins, as he pondered the other's story.
That it had an element of truth was pretty certain. For
one thing Rosenvaler had the right to the deeds of the
house. A hidden fortune! Romantic—if true.
"You say that the intruder on that day Brownworth was
killed was captured by your men."
"By Brownworth's men—they were nossing to do with
me.
"H'm." Higgins let the amendment pass. "And it was
Brownworth he was angry with—not you?"


174
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Mos' certainly."
"Then what exactly are you afraid of—you and your
big men."
"The—the servants. They—they were big men, too."
"Aah!" A little light on a dark subject. "And who were
they?"
Rosenvaler shot a glance charged with suspicion at the
inspector's face. He did not reply for a moment, and was
patently considering what form his reply should take. At
last:
"I do not know."
"You mean you won't?"
"'Ow can I? You will find them: then the three of you
will come 'ere to search for my fortune."
"Gosh!" Higgins sniffed his disgust.
"Ah, well. Clink for you, my boy."
As soon as it was light enough Inspector Higgins took
Rosenvaler to the local police station, there to be held
until his story about the fire were checked up, and pending
the decision of the authorities as to whether any further
action should be taken in the matter. Higgins decided to
look into the matter himself, and returned to town by
train, snatching an hour's sleep on the way.
. He proved the purchase of the skeleton—"for anatomi-
cal experiments"—without trouble, and had no difficulty
in reading Rosenvaler's processes of thought. Officially
dead, the easier to escape from his "beeg" enemies. What
really had happened that night at the Hall ? Most of Rosen-
valer's story was bunk, yet . . . Was it not likely that
Rosenvaler himself had done the deed? Yet his finger-
prints—surreptitiously taken from his cup of tea at the
station—were nothing like Bobby Baynes', and how ac-
count for the presence of the latter on the dagger handle?
Another instance of the wish being father to the thought.
Yet the inspector could not help wondering whether Rosen-
valer's very real fear of big men was not occasioned by


INSPECTOR PRAISES A SUBORDINATE 175
some act of betrayal on his part whilst at the Hall. Perhaps
Rosenvaler actually knew who had committed the murder
and was afraid to speak for fear what the murderer might
do—or say.
The big man who was captured by the men at the Hall
sounded mighty like Bobby Baynes. H'm. And the inspec-
tor was convinced that Bobby's real name was Beaumeere.
Brother to that little girl . . . whom Brownworth very
nearly married! Gosh! So that was what Beaumeere and
his father had quarrelled about! It must be! And Bobby
had gone off in a rage to tell Brownworth where he got off
. . . and had killed him. That did not sound quite so good.
. . . Still, if Bobby had been kept a prisoner he might
be able to prove self-defence. . . . Self-defence! And
Brownworth had been stabbed in the back.
Rosenvaler might not have done the deed, yet he was a
valuable witness all the same. What was his story? Busi-
ness abroad. ... "I fly to Amsterdam." Literally? So
soon after the War, with commercial aviation in its in-
fancy? Easily checked. Higgins put a man on it straight
away.
His meditations were interrupted by a knock at his door.
It was the sergeant of the City Police whom he had left
trailing Scott.
"'Morning, Sergeant."
"Good morning, sir. Scott went home last night, and I
understand returned to the City as usual this morning."
"I see." Higgins was slightly puzzled that the man
should have called at the Yard to make such a negligible
report in person.
"Well?" smilingly— an encouragement to the other to
proceed.
"That man you spoke to in the room, sir."
"Pearson. Yes?"
"I thought I recognised his voice, and . . ."
"Most likely, Sergeant. He is not unacquainted with the
inside of a gaol. What exactly do you want?"


176 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"I don't want to trouble you, sir"—tentatively.
"Don't mind that. I'm not the Commissioner—er—
yet."
"Could I see his file."
"Certainly. Take a seat."
A telephoned request to the Records Department, and
Sergeant Mercier delivered the dossier in person.
The sergeant did not bother to read any of the script, he
merely picked up the official photographs—full-face and
profile—then he nodded his head wisely.
"I thought so."
"Know him?"
"Yes, sir. He was with me when we found Mr. Brown-
worth stabbed." He paused. "Looks a bit older here,
but . . ."
"Eh? The butler who vanished afterwards?"
"That's him, sir."
"What's your name?"
"Freeman, sir."
"Thanks. You may go." Higgins turned to Mercier.
"All stations call, Mercier. Pearson."
"Very good, sir."
The two sergeants left together, whilst Inspector Hig-
gins drew a sheet of notepaper towards him.
To the Superintendent,
Moorgate Police Station,
E.C.
Dear Super.,
—The fiead of your Sergeant Freeman is screwed on
the right way. I commend him to your notice.
Yours,
C. Higgins,
Det.-Insp.
The irony of it was that the sergeant was almost old
enough to be the inspector's father.


CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH A MAN DIES
THE night Brownworth was killed, Rosenvaler stayed
at one of the principal hotels in Holland. He was
well-known there as a dealer in diamonds.
So ran the report, and Inspector Higgins was more or
less convinced. Diamonds! Did Rosenvaler convert his
money into portable property that way? And Capetown.
Johannesburg. Diamonds again. Was Rosenvaler's visit
an elaborate preparation: was he building up a reputation
as a dealer in diamonds as a preliminary to other deals of
a similar but more or less unsavoury nature? An ostensibly
reputable dealer in precious stones would have ready-made
opportunities for the disposal of—say—stolen gems! Here,
Higgins, my lad, steady! Don't let your imagination work
overtime! Got it! Brownworth's vanished quarter of a
million pounds! Or was it half a million? (What's two hun-
dred and fifty thousand pounds anyway?) Was that for-
tune in precious stones? And had Rosenvaler taken it with
him to turn into cash ? And had he bolted with the proceeds,
not daring to return until the news of Brownworth's death
had reached him? That might explain his fear of big men.
Brownworth's two "servants" must have had some sort of
interest in the money.
Yet where did Bobby Baynes come in?
And one of the servants was Pearson. Pearson—a pal of
Baynes. The two worked together—look at that rummy
Columnar necklace business, and the more recent partner-
ship in Scott and Co. Bobby Baynes must have been the
other servant.
Then who the hell was Robert Beaumeere ? the inspector
177


178
I HAVE KILLED A MAN I
asked himself, exasperated at his own reasoning. He'd go
crackers if this went on much longer.
And where did the little girl come in?
Higgins' mind reverted to their first meeting. It had
been after he had first explored the underground passage,
and he had wondered then, as he wondered now, why the
girl had not run for assistance instead of waiting for him
to emerge through the passage door.
She must have heard him, else why try to peer through
the keyhole?
Whom then was she expecting? Bobby Baynes? Was the
passage used for clandestine meetings? Perhaps it was
Bobby to whom she was half-engaged and not to Brown-
worth ? Perhaps Bobby was Brown worth!
Then who had been murdered the night of Robert Beau-
meere's return?
And the little girl. Was she a crook, too?
It was a very sombre Inspector Higgins who walked
to the canteen for a very stiff whisky and soda. And the
soda was hardly worth mentioning.
The stimulant merely suggested that the deceased man
might have been Robert Beaumeere himself, but the in-
spector could not bring himself to believe that the super-
intendent at Hatfield, the Earl de la Monte and sundry
others could have all conspired to defeat the ends of justice.
And then Inspector Higgins, in a blinding flash, con-
ceived a possible solution, which, even then, was more
or less an insult to his intelligence.
There were two Bobby Baynes'.
That at least would account for the mistake of the Bull
when sending those fingerprints to the Yard.
Higgins once more visualised the communication.
These are the fingerprints of Robert Baynes.
The Bull.


A MAN DIES
179
Terse and to the point.
But the Bull, for the first time since he had given his
gratuitous information, was wrong. Bobby's fingerprints
were entirely different when checked up by the police. Had
the Bull's information been correct, instead of convicting
Bobby Baynes (as the Bull had undoubtedly intended that
they should) they would have had a diametrically opposite
effect—they would have saved him from the gallows. Yet
all the Bull's communications were directed against some
criminal—and the fingerprints which the Bull had sent be-
longed to someone—without a doubt. And that someone
was a handy man with a knife. The knife found after that
East End riot had borne fingerprints which the Bull had
said were Bobby's.
Again the contention that there were two Bobbys seemed
to meet the case.
And yet Brownworth had been stabbed in the back.
Stabbed! Indicating that the murderer preferred this sort
of weapon. Yet if a Bobby Baynes had done the deed, then
it was far more likely to have been the Bull's Bobby than
the man whom Higgins firmly believed to be Robert Beau-
meere.
Complicated! This case was becoming far too involved
for straight thinking! Perhaps if the man were found who
had made those fingerprints sent by the Bull it would help
to straighten matters out.
That was obviously the next step.
Remembering their last meeting when, but for Bobby
Baynes, the Bull might have done him serious injury, In-
spector Higgins armed himself with a revolver before pro-
ceeding to the Bull's lair. It was very much the exception
rather than the rule for Higgins to go armed, for generally,
the mere fact that he was Inspector Higgins was sufficient
for him to move freely in the most disreputable neighbour-
hood. Not that he advertised the fact that he went unarmed,
for he was generally credited with being unusually quick
and accurate with a gun.


i8o I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
As a matter of fact, the only time he had really enjoyed
carrying a weapon was as a child, when, fired by many stir-
ring Wild West films, he had persistently carried an air
pistol which he flourished on each and every occasion, and
had spent hours each day practising the "draw." However,
this was stopped through over-exuberance, in that young
Higgins had pulled the trigger before he got the pistol out
of his home-made holster, with the result that the pellet
nearly severed one of his toes. Since then he had treated all
revolvers and similar weapons with due respect.
The Bull.
From one of his men well versed in the movements of
the more notorious members of the Underworld, Inspector
Higgins had learned that the Bull might be found most eve-
nings ensconced with another hideous character, Ma Boggs,
at a night-club known as the "Pink Mouse."
This resort of ill-fame might have been closed many
times had the police not winked at some of the broken
regulations, but it was convenient, inasmuch as it was used
by many criminal characters who, secure in the belief that
the police were unaware of the club's existence, would often
spend half the night beneath its portals.
The police never made the mistake of arresting anyone
on the club's premises—this would have frightened away
the habitues—but many were the arrests made within a
hundred yards of its partly concealed entrance.
The club had first come beneath police notice some five
years before when there had been a small riot behind its
doors, but no arrests were made on that occasion, and the
two constables who had been attracted by the noise had
found nothing to report
.
At the end of a cul-de-sac was a wooden door with an iron
grille, which Inspector Higgins viewed with marked dis-
taste. He was glad of the company of his revolver.
Fully conscious that he was being inspected from be-
hind the grille, Higgins whistled mournfully whilst he



I HAVE Km i FT> A MAN!
ho then had sent the fingerprints? Gosh! It must
Bdbbj Baynes hanseli! He had the most to gai;
t bit scat at the Ball's name someone else's fi
Is at order to divert suspicion from himself. C
**•1 'vnart chap, Bobby, but not quite
si. »■-
On the Thole, reflected the inspector, that com
tkw had not been exactly authentic; the fingerprii
not Bobby's and the BoH had not sent it. He was
to deslm? it bat remembered that the fingerprint -
belonged to someone particularly handy with a kt
—** »*> have gone the -
belonged to someone parbcoiariy
And Pearson seemed to have gone the 5
Bobby Baynes, for he, too, codki not be fou
had frightened Pearson? He had seemed pi
home when Higgins had called at Messrs. 5
Sergeant Freeman had not seen him then-
not mean that Pearson had not seen S
Obviocxsly thai was it! Freeman had foil
♦•-actions, and Pearson mast have s
~ who bad found
I- that constable wno na"
him „ whilst the going
-**fXZ would he go? Tru.
track for long, yet--Was
Sd where was Baynes?
more Higgms deade<
elall, and hoped t
■ 1 . _ -;.r(ilTr r~
v a similar re^



INVITATION 185
1 ties she still looked a
le his catechism. What
e Brownworth case—
I Poor little kid! It was
distress!
at you could not tell me
ted lying to you. You who
1 him.
:;ins indicated the great
v what was coming? Bobby
1 (and would probably be
:r with his secrets. Poor girl!
>wly wilting under the burden
science, and . . .
nust say to you, Higgy."
lothing to force any confession—he
hat might be said. He could feel his
e Criminal Investigation Department
t night when Mr. Brownworth—died."
refrained from verbal encouragement.
actly tell the truth."
humorous.
this: Daddy and Bobby had a terrible quar-
g after Bobby returned home."
w? How?
It was about me."
didn't like to think I might marry Mr. Brown-
's money."
t, too." Higgins the man, not the sleuth,
remark,
t in a huff."


CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH HIGGINS RECEIVES AN INVITATION
THE funeral over, Inspector Higgins presented him-
self once more at the Manor. Muriel Beaumeere,
looking pathetically frail, forlorn and friendless in her
mourning, received him with a tearful smile.
"I thought you had forgotten or forsaken me."
"I have been very busy."
A silence fell upon the pair, which neither seemed in-
clined to break. Higgins, for his part, felt self-conscious and
embarrassed, not so much because he was in the presence
of a girl for whom he was very fond, but because his mission
was so patently ill-timed. At last:
"Your brothers were not present."
"I know."
"Why?"
"They are not in—England."
"Are you sure?"
There was no reply. Higgins, hating himself, and as near
hating the Force as he was ever likely to become, continued,
placatingly:
"You know, my dear, that I would not worry you with
questions at this time were it not absolutely essential."
"Yet you have waited—ten years."
"We are patient—but implacable."
"Never mind"—wearily. "It won't be long now."
"Why?"
"Father is dead."
Inspector Higgins felt inexpressibly sorry for the girl:
184


HIGGINS RECEIVES AN INVITATION 185
yes, even though in her later twenties she still looked a
child: yet Duty forced him to continue his catechism. What
had her father's death to do with the Brownworth case—
or with the missing Bobby Baynes? Poor little kid! It was
a shame to take advantage of her distress!
"And you can tell me now what you could not tell me
before."
"I—I don't know. I—I've hated lying to you. You who
are so kind to me."
The inspector's courage failed him.
"My dear. I'll be going."
"But—but I want you to stay."
The frown of Inspector Higgins indicated the great
uneasiness of his mind. Now what was coming? Bobby
Baynes deserved to be kicked (and would probably be
hanged) for saddling his sister with his secrets. Poor girl!
For ten years she had been slowly wilting under the burden
of a more or less guilty conscience, and . . .
"There's s-something I must say to you, Higgy."
The inspector did nothing to force any confession—he
was too afraid of what might be said. He could feel his
resignation from the Criminal Investigation Department
slowly maturing!
"It's about that night when Mr. Brownworth—died."
Still Higgins refrained from verbal encouragement.
"I—I didn't exactly tell the truth."
"No?" quaintly humorous.
"It was like this: Daddy and Bobby had a terrible quar-
rel the morning after Bobby returned home."
"I know."
"You know? How? . . . It was about me."
"Yes."
"Bobby didn't like to think I might marry Mr. Brown-
worth for his money."
"Quite right, too." Higgins the man, not the sleuth,
prompted this remark.
"Bobby went in a huff."


186 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"H'm." Pretty mild sort of expression that!
"But I saw him again the following morning. In the
gunroom. He—he had a dagger in his hand."
"My dear—my dear!" Why didn't she leave off? This
would just about finish Bobby Baynes.
"It was—he cleaned it—and—" she shuddered invol-
untarily. "Then he went. He told me he would return by
way of the passage, but—it wasn't him."
"No. It was me, wasn't it? But, my dear—why tell me
all this now. Don't you realise that it's just what the police
need to complete their case? Bobby . . ." Higgins broke
off, unable to put his thoughts into words. Then:
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Bobby said I might—as soon as father was dead."
"Do you think he wished to spare his father from the
disgrace?"
"Disgrace?" Lady Muriel Beaumeere gave the inspector
such a bleak look that he wilted on the spot. "Disgrace?
We Beaumeeres don't stab in the back."
No. Not a very satisfactory interview. A distinct coldness
seemed to have crept into their friendship. If the little girl
stuck to her story Bobby Baynes was as good as hanged.
Provided of course that the police caught him. Yet where
on earth was he hiding? Not at the Hall, for the police, on
the inspector's instructions, had made a pretty thorough
search. Neither, seemingly, was he at the Manor, for care-
ful inquiries had been made without any result. . . . Yet
the Manor was a rambling old place: nevertheless, Muriel
Beaumeere could not possibly hide her brother there with-
out active collusion on the part of one or more servants.
And Higgins, in an impressive lecture below stairs, had
pointed out the advantages and disadvantages of loyalty—
and the meaning of accessory after the fact. . . .
Assuming, of course, that Bobby Baynes was her
brother. . . .


i88
I HAVE KILLED A MAN I
And he had left it all to his daughter, the Lady Muriel
Beaumeere.
The Manor,
My dear Higgy,
There is something about the atmosphere of this place
which frightens me. I hear things. Sometimes I see things
—and I am afraid. I have so few friends to whom I can
appeal that I wonder whether you could come and stay
here for a few days. I feel very bold asking you, but the
proprieties will be served by the presence, as housekeeper,
of my old nurse. There is a consistent rumour hereabouts
that my poor fattier died insolvent, and I am being dunned
by all the tradespeople. They don't realise that I must have
time to pay—tliat I don't get any of my father's money un-
til the will is proved. The bank manager is very kind—but
vague; I expect you know the attitude of mind.
I feel so friendless—and helpless.
Do come, if you can. What about next week?
Yours very sincerely,
Muriel Beaumeere.
Inspector Higgins, naturally, caught the next train.
The old nurse proved to be a most extraordinary person.
Short, stout, suspicious and—worst of all—stone deaf. An
unlovely creature: the last person on earth Inspector Hig-
gins would have gone to for solace or spiritual comfort.
Their first meeting was farcical. Higgins rang the bell
and waited. He rang again—and waited. A vague feeling
of uneasiness which had been stealing over him was ac-
centuated by a slight sound behind the door. He realised
that someone had been taking stock of his appearance
through the letter-box. He began to wish he had brought
his revolver along when the door opened just sufficiently
wide for a suspicious eye to peer through the crack. Hig-


HIGGINS RECEIVES AN INVITATION 189
gins tendered his card and nearly got his fingers jammed
in the door. The card was promptly thrust back at him
through the letter-box. Then ensued a comic-opera episode
with Higgins' basso-prof undo and the nurse's shrill
falsetto in an engaging duet. Yes. There wasn't much doubt
about it, she was deaf. The whole village, a mile or so away,
must have known of his arrival. . . .
"Do come in. I'm so sorry. Hannah, you're an idiot."
The little girl had come to his rescue, and the nurse re-
tired, discomfited—breathing hoarse maledictions against
the police in general and Higgins in particular.
"But, my dear—what frightens you? What is it you see
and hear?"
"Actually I have seen nothing—and what I think I have
heard may have been just my imagination, yet—the maids
before they left . . ."
"Do you mean to tell me you're alone—save for the—er
—lady who is a little hard of hearing?"
"Yes. I have no money to pay them, and outside of books,
no one is willing nowadays to work without payment."
"Can't exactly blame them for that"—quizzically from
the inspector. "But only you and the old lady. H'm. You
were saying something about the maids."
"They swore someone was stealing the food."
"Rats." A suggestion, not an ejaculation.
"Tinned food—I should have said."
"Why the blazes—ahem! Sorry!—why not tell the local
police—their super is a very nice chap?"
Muriel was silent. The inspector holed in one.
"Bobby!"
"I thought so too—but Bobby would have come to me."
Higgins was not too sure, but he let it pass. Had she not
thought it was the missing Bobby she would undoubtedly
have called in the police. A great rambling house like this
with but two lone women. ... A godsend to any fugitive.


igo I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Yet why ask him to come? Surely Muriel must know that,
if he found Bobby here, he would detain him. He would do
a great deal for her, but . . . He changed the subject.
"Have you ever heard of a fortune being buried either
here or in the Hall?"
"A fortune?" For the first time since their meeting the
Lady Muriel showed signs of interest. "What fortune?"
Inspector Higgins, without revealing its source, told her
of Rosenvaler's tale.
"Hidden treasure! How romantic! And what a blessing
if we found it." Her eyes sparkled in anticipation. Higgins,
who did not believe a word of the yarn, complimented him-
self in having kindled the spark of interest. "Perhaps that
is what our strange visitor is looking for?"
Gosh! That might be it! Rosenvaler was caged in the
cooler, Pearson on the run—but that other remained. There
must be something in the yarn else such an astute man as
Rosenvaler was not likely to have purchased the Hall (at
a rock bottom price it is true) without some very strong
reason.
"This house is very old. Perhaps it is some family heir-
looms hidden away from Henry the Eighth, or Charles the
Second or whoever it was used to do that sort of thing."
Her excitement was rising, until Higgins the sceptic, ap-
plied the damper.
"Then why is it that you know nothing about it?"
"I don't profess to know everything"—faintly petulant.
Higgins grinned: it was not for him to quash her enthusi-
asm. Besides, that sparkle in her eyes was most attractive
and . . .
"Tea, my lady." Without knocking, the old servant had
entered with a flourish, carrying a tray upon which were
cups, saucers and plates, together with some of the thick-
est slabs of bread and butter which Inspector Higgins had
seen outside the Yard canteen.
Lady Muriel smiled her thanks. To Hannah words were
almost superfluous.


HIGGINS RECEIVES AN INVITATION 191
Then a dull, muffled sound from the regions below.
The girl—white-faced—looked at Higgins, who slowly
rose to his feet, raising a finger to enjoin silence.
"What—was—that?" A frightened whisper from
Muriel.
Hannah looked from one to the other in amazement.
From the girl's tense expression to the inspector's frown
of concentration she deduced that something was up. They
were listening for something.
"I heard it, too," she announced, casually.
"Ooh! Hannah. How could you?"
The tension was broken.


CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS FEELS HUMBLE
"CTAY here. I'll look into this."
^ A command. From a man accustomed to command,
and used to being obeyed. Lady Muriel Beaumeere felt a
slight resentment at his tone, yet somehow she liked it.
How capable and strong he looked—and so utterly un-
afraid. She had never seen him quite in this mood before—
and thrilled at his obvious self-confidence. The firm lips,
grim and forbidding; the mighty shoulders, square and
resolute; but it was his eyes which attracted her most—
there was a smile in them, a smile of anticipation.
Yet it was entirely unconscious posing.
Inspector Higgins walked to the door, quietly opened it
—and was gone. Not a sound to indicate the direction he
had taken and Lady Muriel Beaumeere was alone, save for
her old nurse who lived in a world of her own, walled in by
her aural disability. She felt afraid.
"Higgy."
The inspector walked down the stairs quickly yet with
no semblance of hurry—with a complete lack of sound
remarkable in one so heavy. Only athletes can move both
quietly and quickly.
The noise had come from below, and instinctively he
moved towards the gunroom, the underground passage
uppermost in his thoughts.
An amateur intruder, obviously. An old professional
would not have thus betrayed his presence. Unless of
192


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
♦
down into the darkness—he could see no farther than the
thirteenth. Thirteen! H'm. Unlucky. A sudden thought that
framed in the doorway he must be a comfortable target to
anyone below, made him dodge to one side. He listened.
No sound. Yet the door had been unlocked: he must look
into this.
Twenty-six steps, man-made with great stone slabs. Then
the dank, noisome passage. Many footprints, mostly recent.
Someone was using this passage pretty frequently. Possibly
Rosenvaler had made them before Higgins had captured
him. Yet what on earth was the attraction of this evil-
smelling passage. Fortune-hunting me foot! There was
some deeper game than that in progress. Perhaps Bobby
Baynes and Pearson were hiding here. Even the optimistic
Higgins doubted his ability to tackle the pair of them.
Pearson had given him a pretty stiff time on that memor-
able occasion after the Columnar robbery, and Bobby—
well, Baynes was in a class by himself.
Bitterly the inspector regretted that he had not insisted
on police observation of the Hall. A thorough search had
been made at first, but seemingly this had been premature.
Neither Pearson nor Baynes had then reached the HalL
Perhaps nowjthey were both living there—on canned goods
stolen from the Manor. Stolen? Probably Bobby Baynes
was entitled to them presuming he was Muriel's brother.
Higgins followed the footprints until the other set of
steps was reached, but the door which led to the library of
the Manor was closed, and no amount of pushing would
budge it. Higgins had half a mind to batter the door down,
but he was hampered by the fact that it was at the top of
the twenty-four stone steps which precluded a running
charge at the door, even supposing that there was no addi-
tional weight of books behind it; neither did he fancy break-
ing down a door merely to be confronted by both Baynes
and Pearson, when he had done so.
There was nothing for it but to retrace his steps.


INSPECTOR HIGGINS FEELS HUMBLE 197
The man turned sharply, then grinned engagingly.
"Hallo, Meux."
"Bobby," she whispered. "W-what are you doing here?"
"Tying a door, me dear."
"But—but—Higgy"
"Higgy? T'ck! T'ck! T'ck! Such familiarity. And what
of Inspector Higgins?"
"He's in there."
"What? Do you mean to say it was Higgins made that
row ? I thought. . . . Dear me! Most unfortunate." Bobby
fell into a thoughtful silence. "H'm. That's different—very
different. Bally nuisance, in fact. T'ck! T'ck! T'ck! I think
perhaps that on the whole I'd better be going."
"But—but where are you hiding, Bobby?"
"Not so very far away, Meux, my love. And, by the way,
you'll have to get another tin-opener, a sailor's jack-knife
is not a real success. Bluggy, me dear, bluggy. And that last
lot of peaches was not up to scratch."
"Bobby dear, be serious."
"Very well." The man's face assumed a look of owl-like
gravity. "What is it?"
"Bobby. I've told Higgy—er—Inspector Higgins, about
that night."
"You have, eh?" No longer was the man's face humor-
ously serious, but a definite solemnity had settled upon it at
the girl's words.
"You—you told me I could."
"I know, I know. But things are not working out, Meux
darling. I—I may have made a mistake about the pater. I
—don't—think—so—but ... I can't go on hiding for
ever." An impatience had crept into the tone of his
voice.
"You—you didn't kill Mr. Brownworth, did you,
Bobby?"
"What do you think, Kid?" The man smiled his engag-
ing smile. Then:


198
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"This Inspector Higgins, darling—you like him?"
A short pause, then:
"Yes. He is so like you, you know."
"Poor devil. He'll grow out of that, but . . . Ssh! He's
coming back. Too late now to undo the reins. You'd better
wait until he tries the door, then scream or something, and
tell him you saw someone tying him in."
"But—but he'll guess someone is hiding here."
"Never mind—I'll dodge him. What the blazes is he try-
ing to do?" as a hearty thump resounded on the other side
of the door.
Bobby leaned over the girl and kissed her lightly. "If
you ever need me, darling, just holler. I won't be far
away." He smiled. "You'd better start practising right
away."
Lady Muriel Beaumeere screamed as if the devil were
at her heels.
"Thanks, darling. Most realistic. Au reservoir."
Inspector Higgins thumped on the door in an agony of
apprehension. The scream was not so much blood-curdling
as ear-piercing—the sort of noise an old aunt of his used
to make if she saw a mouse. The echo of it still in his ears,
his brain registered the that that it had not been fear-
driven. It must have been Hannah, he decided. Yet again,
it might not have been. . . .
The door of the gunroom slowly opened, and the in-
spector rushed into the room:
"My dear, my dear."
"It—it's all right, Higgy. I saw someone in here tying
up the door, and—and I shouted for help."
"What was he like?"
"A—big man. As big as you. I—I didn't see him prop-
erly." Lady Muriel was not a good liar. Inspector Higgins
was puzzled.
"As big as me?" A pause, whilst Higgins considered the
matter. It couldn't have been Bobby, for then she most cer-


INSPECTOR HIGGINS FEELS HUMBLE 199
tainly would not have screamed. "H'm. Must have been
Pearson."
"Oh, no. It wasn't Pearson."
"You know him then?" quietly.


HE GIVES SOME ADVICE 201
though I don't mind admitting I should have found it use-
ful when I was shut in the passage."
"To open the door, you mean?"
"Yes. Used as a crowbar one could force the lock."
"Perhaps that's what the man wanted it for."
"I don't know. It would only be useful if locked inside—
and he couldn't have been—could he?" innocently.
"I know!"—brightly—"He might have wanted it for a
spade."
"Good Lord! Whatever for?"
"To dig for our treasure."
Together they laughed, yet the inspector was conscious
that there might be some connection with the mysterious
visitor and the mythical fortune of Rosenvaler.
After a prolonged period of silence, Inspector Higgins
once more turned to the girl and prevailed upon her to re-
tire for the night.
"We need have no fear, my dear. I will be on guard out-
side your room."
She went, and when, at last, there was no sound of
movement within her room, Inspector Higgins stood up
from his chair—in which he had sat with great ostentation
when she had waved him "Good night" from her door—
and prepared to make a further search, unhampered with
her delectable presence.
He did not feel that he was breaking his word. He most
certainly would be on guard, but—from what had he to
guard her? If from Bobby Baynes then Higgins was con-
vinced that she needed no guard. If from anyone else—
then the danger lay in the underground passage, of that he
was certain. Yet why should she be in danger? It was most
unlikely that anyone would attack her merely for the sake
of attacking her. There must be considerably more behind
it than that. Unless someone were trying to frighten her
from the house. And if so, why?
Logically therefore, the Lady Muriel Beaumeere was in
no actual physical danger. Ergo—no guard was needed.


202
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Nevertheless any unauthorised intruder was in for a
warm welcome from Inspector Higgins.
And the point of attack, rather ludicrously, would be
the larder. Higgins grinned as he resumed his guard—out-
side the pantry door.
After two hours, which he had spent silently sucking an
empty pipe, the inspector felt he had very nearly had
enough of it. A glance at the luminous dial of his watch
(which, owing to such luminosity he did not wear on his
wrist) told him it was half-past two. Five more hours to
daylight. He stood up from his chair, yawned and stretched,
and determined once more to visit the gunroom.
It was on his return from that fruitless inspection that
he was conscious that there was movement within the
pantry. Instantly he was on the alert. Whoever was within
was a pretty cool and confident customer. A tuneless—al-
most soundless—whistling betrayed his presence.
The pantry was smaller than one would expect for so
large a house. The floors were stone, and there was a stone
shelf running round three of the walls upon which the
cream-pans used to be stacked in the days before the me-
chanical cream separator: and which shelves were now
used for more modern foods.
Higgins waited outside the door. Whoever was within
would have the deuce of a job getting out. There was the
sound of the scraping of a match and the intruder brazenly
lit an oil lantern which was suspended from a hook at-
tached to the ceiling.
It was Bobby Baynes.
Immediately the inspector prepared for trouble, but re-
mained silent, an interested spectator.
Bobby Baynes took a loaf of bread from the bread pan
and proceeded to cut himself a sandwich, whistling mourn-
fully the whiles. He picked up a plate of ham, sniffed it,
then sighed:


204 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Sister?" Bobby Baynes smiled provokingly.
"You told the Lady Muriel"—the inspector amended un-
hurriedly—"that she might inform the police, as soon as
your father—ahem!—as soon as the Earl de la Monte was
dead, of the happenings on that night ten years ago."
Bobby Baynes smiled. "Higgy, my boy. Even now you
seem none too sure of your facts."
"Bobby, you exasperate me. It's my duty to inform you
that anything you say et cetera, et cetera—you know the
refrain well enough—now come clean. I've tried hard to
save you from trouble, both for your own sake and that of
your—the Lady Muriel Beaumeere, but I have reached the
limit of my endurance. Say your little piece—and say it
quickly."
"I'm sorry, Higgins, I had no intention of—er—goad-
ing you." Said with a sincerity far removed from his usual
flippant manner.
"That's all right"—gruffly. "But you know, Bobby, you
don't have to talk: I honestly believe your best interests
would be served if you kept mum until you've seen a law-
yer."
"Reserve my defence, so to speak ? That's very decent of
you, Higgy. But I have no defence."
"What?"
"No. Circumstantially all the evidence is against me."
"Did you, or did you not, kill Brownworth?"
"Higgy, my lad, I—did—not."
For the second time since he had come across Bobby
Baynes in the pantry, the inspector wiped his brow in evi-
dent relief. This was the best news he had heard for months.
Strange as it may seem, he did not for one moment doubt
the other's word.
"Start from the beginning, Bobby."
"Right. In the first place, as you are doubtless aware, my
real name is Robert Beaumeere. Honourable by courtesy
if not by nature."
"We disagree there—but no matter."


HE GIVES SOME ADVICE
"After the War I returned home to find the family
poverty-stricken: my sister's necklace—an heirloom—sold
to keep the flag flying, and my sister herself sold to a man
called Brownworth. At least, the first instalment—a Rolls-
Royce car—had been put down by the purchaser." A wealth
of bitterness in the tone. "I—er—resented this."
"Quite right, too"—virtuously from Higgins.
Bobby grinned, and continued:
"My father and I had a few words on the subject and I
would have strode forth into the night—only it happened
to be early morning. However, I rather fancied a few words
with the blighter Brownworth would not be out of place,
and in due course I called upon him. It was there I first
met Rosenvaler."
"I know."
"You do? H'm. No wonder you've been after my blood.
But to—er—continue. ... I was not received with that
courtesy which is generally extended to the younger son of
an earl."
"In other words you got what you asked for," said Hig-
gins unsympathetically.
"More or less. But when Brownworth himself and two
beefy blighters with masks on joined in the fray I was—
er—rather outnumbered. In fact I had to submit meekly to
certain indignities. I was incarcerated in a beastly bed-
room with a hunk of bread and cheese. Bread and cheese,
mark you!—af ter five years in the Navy. A bit thick." A
grin of reminiscence.
"And you were locked in all night."
"All night."
"If you could only prove that."
"Don't you believe me?" An imperious frown.
"It's not what I believe, but what a jury will that counts."
"Sorry, but I'm feeling a bit quick in the temper. It
must be the tinned pears, upon which I have been existing
for days."
"Never mind. Let's have the next instalment."


208
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Bobby Baynes' head sagged to his chest: he looked the
picture of dejection. "And—now I suppose I must suf-
fer for his sins."
Never in his wildest moments had Inspector Higgins
thought that the late Earl de la Monte had been responsible
for the crime, and even now he found it very hard to be-
lieve. In fact, he frankly scouted the suggestion.
"How old were you then, Bobby?"
The extraordinary question seemed to rouse the other
from his stupor of dejection.
"Early twenties. Why?"
"Perhaps youth jeopardised your judgment?"
"Do you mean to suggest I've been spending ten years of
my life dodging from pillar to post under a mistaken im-
pression?"
"God knows. We seem to be as far from the truth as
ever."
"Ten years."
"Never mind. It's never too late to mend."
"It's too late for everything . . . but regrets."
"And contrition, my boy."


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
the door, and there, sticking upon it with a drawing pin was
a piece of paper which I had left there years before for
little Ivy Cumberleigh, with my whole boyish heart poured
out upon it."
"I know. 'I love you' in block letters, as my Sergeant
Mercier informed me at the Yard."
Bobby Baynes laughed. "You don't miss much, do you,
Higgins?" he said, admiringly. He continued:
"Well. I removed the paper and bolted down the passage
for all I was worth. I found the old key hanging up as be-
fore. I opened the door—and there, watching me with wide-
open eyes, was my sister."
"Poor kid."
"Gosh! It was the last straw. I don't know hardly what
I said or did. I know I wiped that infernal dagger, re-
placed it, told her I'd come back some day—and bolted.
And I've been on the run ever since."
Another silence.
"That's all. The end. Another fairy story by the same
author will appear in our next issue. . . . God!"
Bobby Baynes buried his face in his hands.
Inspector Higgins, like the gentleman he was, had spent
a tense ten minutes smoking in the passage outside the
pantry. At last, hearing the sound of tuneless whistling, he
returned with a welcoming grin.
"Here we are again, Bobby. And now for a few ques-
tions. I've been outside. I can—er—think better in the
dark, you know."
Bobby Baynes smiled.
"Thank you," he said, simply.
"How did you spend the five years before you came to
see me about that Columnar business."
"Building up a rep. in the underworld."
"Wonder you were never caught."
"A criminal with brains takes a lot of catching—if


THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS PACES 213
"Then leave me alone with him for a few minutes—I'll
soon whale the names out of him."
"No doubt. But to return to our muttons . . . those
fingerprints are not Pearson's nor yours. . . ."
"And how the deuce do you know that?"
"You once left a revolver in my care."
Bobby thought for a moment, then:
"Well, I'll be damned. And I had thought to be so clever
on that occasion."
"And seemingly we've only got to trace the real owner
and we'll be more than half-way to discovering Brown-
worth's murderer."
"You've asked me a lot of questions, Higgins, and now
it's my turn: If I ever get clear of this there is only one
matter upon which you can touch me—and that is the un-
warranted attack on five police officers whilst in the exe-
cution of their duties. Can that be squared?"
Higgins smiled. "If that's all, then you've nothing to
worry about! The whole episode was suppressed—in the—
er—ahem! interests of the state."
"Gosh! And I thought the police were keeping it up their
sleeve."
Bobby Baynes was perturbed when he learned that it
was not the inspector who had dropped the spear in the
gunroom. Naturally he had assumed that it must have
been Higgins when, from the passage outside, he had seen
the inspector make for the underground passage. Hig-
gins, too, had been under the impression that it had been
Bobby.
So there was someone else still prowling between the
two houses. Bobby was for waiting in the gunroom for
the intruder and cursed Higgins for wasting so much time
talking when someone might enter the house unawares.
Higgins, however, set his fears at rest by explaining a
booby-trap he had constructed against the passage door.
This consisted of about a dozen spears and assegais which
r


214
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
he had leaned against the woodwork so that, in the event
of someone opening the door (and, as both of them smil-
ingly admitted, the door opened on to the passage itself),
the whole avalanche would be precipitated down the
twenty-six stone steps, with an accompaniment of noise
reminiscent of a small Zulu skirmish.
Altogether a most effective watchdog, provided no one
with Hannah's affliction were the second line of defence!
Naturally, Inspector Higgins had realised why Muriel's
scream had sounded false to his sensitive ear, yet he found
it hard in his heart to forgive her even that small second
of apprehension whilst waiting imprisoned in the passage.
Her love for Bobby must be considered in excess of her
regard for him. Natural perhaps, but . . . Here, steady,
my lad! Don't forget she's the daughter of an earl and
the owner of this wonderful mansion. The former might
be no barrier, but the latter . . .
"Let's have a look at my booby-trap, Bobby."
"About time, too."
Together they walked the short distance from the pan-
try to the gunroom, the inspector leading the way with
his electric torch throwing a cone of light on the floor of
the corridor. Arrived at the gunroom Higgins opened the
door and entered.
"Golly!"
Bobby Baynes peered over his shoulder:
"H'm. Booby-trap is right! It's made a catch, too."
"I know, I know"—wearily. "It's me."
The door to the underground passage was still closed,
but the dozen or so spears and assegais which Higgins
had carefully stacked against the door were no longer in
evidence.
With an uplifted finger commanding silence from
Bobby Baynes the inspector crept on tip-toe towards the
passage door. He was relieved to find that it was still un-
locked. Releasing the button of his torch which left the


THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS PACES 215
room in complete darkness, he exerted a slight pres-
sure on the edge of the door. It gave an inch ... a foot
... at last it was completely open, and the pair stood at
the top of the steps staring down into the blackness below.
Higgins gripped Bobby's arm.
"I'm going down, Bobby," he whispered. "And . . ."
"So am I."
"But . . . supposing there's someone in the house."
"We must chance that—Muriel's all right."
"Come along then"—quietly.
The twenty-six steps were negotiated without a sound,
and without a light. Higgins was glad he had remembered
the number for thus he saved a few precious minutes which
might have been lost in feeling for each step in the dark-
ness.
It was not until they had almost reached the bottom
of the flight and their range of vision had cleared the
angle of the roof of the passage that they saw a dim light
half-way down the tunnel.
"Let me lead, Higgins, I know this better than you.
The light is just round that sharp bend, which I have
deep cause to remember."
"Carry on."
It was a nervy business creeping along in the dark
towards that spot of light with only the walls for guid-
ance. These were dank and slimy, and the inspector shud-
dered each time his fingers came into contact with a more
than usually revolting fungus. He was getting sensitive in
his old age!
And then, for no apparent reason, Bobby Baynes
pitched forward on his face, with a full-blooded oath.
Immediately the light ahead was extinguished: a pause
of probably ten seconds during which time Bobby had
arisen to his feet: then a shot rang out and a bullet whis-
tled over their heads, the note changing as the bullet rico-
chetted from wall to wall.


2l6
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Automatically, from their war training, both Higgins
and Bobby flung themselves to the ground. Another shot
rang out—another whine.
"I think discretion is indicated, Higgy." A cheerful
whisper from Bobby.
"If I had my gun I'd show 'em."
"No use iffing. Come on."
They jumped to their feet and ignominiously bolted
back the way they had come. Nightmarish! The slippery
walls—the darkness—two more shots in quick succes-
sion—at last the steps—Higgins leading, Bobby Baynes
a very good second—and—the welcome security of the
gunroom.
"I thought I could run, Higgy, but . . ."
Inspector Higgins was taking no notice of Bobby's
remark, as almost before they had reached harbour he
ran to the shelf, removed a box of shot cartridges and—
giving Bobby the torch to hold—soon had a shotgun
loaded.
"Here, Bobby, take this down the steps and fire it—it'll
give them something to think about even though it does no
damage. I'm going to telephone."
Bobby hurried to obey, and before he had obtained his
number the inspector heard a roar reverberating through
the tunnel as Bobby fired the gun.
"Hallo. Police? Higgins speaking. Full squad to raid
the Hall. Dangerous. Men armed. Half an hour? Too
long. Never mind, do your best." Higgins replaced the
receiver, to find Muriel staring at him with startled eyes.
"What is it, Higgy?"
"Nothing, me dear. Get back to bed."


CHAPTER XXII
IN WHICH A PLATE IS BROKEN
INSPECTOR HIGGINS found Bobby disconsolately
rubbing his shoulder, and cursing the weapon which he
had recently fired.
"Got the kick of a mule, and a discharge like a torpedo.
Damn the thing!"
"Come along, Bobby. We can't cut 'em off at the
Manor, as it'd take too long. Load that thing and we'll
get along the passage."
"I'll load it if you'll fire it."
"Don't fool. This is attempted murder, not a rifle
range."
A bit mixed, but it conveyed his meaning, and Bobby
Baynes hastened to accompany Higgins down the steps.
Their descent was scarcely less hurried than their ascent
but a few minutes before, and they soon became cognisant
that the light had not been re-lit.
Throwing caution to the winds they hurried along the
passage, an occasional flash of the lamp serving to illu-
minate their way. It was soon obvious that their assailants
had made off, and the pair wasted but a few seconds to
ascertain the cause of Bobby's fall when first essaying
the journey.
"Aha! So the spears made an effective booby-trap after
all," Bobby remarked, when it was discovered that a pair
of them had been used to stretch across the passage, a few
inches from the ground, the reins which Bobby had used
to hold the gunroom door to the saddle-hook.
Arrived at the bend, a little care was exercised before
it became apparent that the others had gone. Just around
217


218 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
the corner there was evidence of recent digging, but the
pair continued without further examination.
The door leading to the library of the Hall was locked.
Higgins discharged the gun at the lock, but, save that it
almost precipitated him down the steps, it had no more
effect than a discreet knock might have had. He could
only hope that the police would arrive before their as-
sailants escaped.
"Come on, Higgy. Surely the pair of us can burst in
this door."
They could—and did.
Five minutes after they had convinced themselves that
the Hall was empty, the police arrived by car from Hat-
field.
Inspector Higgins and Bobby Baynes were examining
the hole which had been dug just around the bend in the
underground passage. A heavy stone slab had been re-
moved from the floor of the tunnel, and, as a long piece of
iron piping had been used as a lever, the inspector had no
difficulty in guessing why someone had attempted to steal
a spear earlier in the evening.
"Wonder what they were burying—a body I guess,
from their murderous instincts."
A noise made them turn—prepared for trouble. It was
the Lady Muriel, a dressing-gown thrown hurriedly over
her shoulders.
"Bobby! Is it all right?" Furtively she turned to the
inspector, who nodded, grimly.
"Bobby is going to stay and look after you, my dear.
He's promised to stay within call until I want him—then
he's coming with me—to stand his trial."
"Trial?" frowningly.
"Yes." The inspector's voice was curt, but he was wor-
ried. If Bobby Baynes could not prove his tale, then
Bobby was in for a very bad time—and what would
Muriel think of him then?


A PLATE IS BROKEN
221
kept clear. He must be getting old now, and possibly
realised that the Brownworth gang were a bit above his
weight.
And further inquiry had brought to light the fact that
Johnson's brother had once been a servant of the old
Mr. Cumberleigh.
Yet how had Brownworth been murdered . . . and
why? A quarrel between the various members of the
gang? Perhaps they resented his blending of business and
pleasure.
And perhaps the bolstering up of his friendship with
the late Earl de la Monte had been Brownworth's scheme
for getting free access to the passage.
The biggest surprise of the lot was when Higgins
learned the true value of the Markhet jewels. One hundred
thousand pounds! He was astounded at such a fortune
until he realised that during the Boer War the patriotic
Markhet family had converted a large portion of its funds
into precious stones of easy mobility—in case! And had
paid the penalty when the ubiquitous Johnson had proved
how easy they were to handle in a hurry!
The purchase of the Hall must have been well worth
while with such a prize thrown in!
And now that Bobby Baynes was available for his
sister's protection, Inspector Higgins had no further ex-
cuse for accepting the girl's hospitality. He was sorry—
very sorry—yet he felt that, after the years of their more
or less clandestine meetings, they would be glad to con-
verse freely in their own home.
Not for one moment did he think that Bobby Baynes
would fail him when called upon to give himself up to the
police.
And the following morning the body of the ex-convict
Johnson was washed up by the Thames.


222 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Poor devil. Makes a mighty haul and never cashes it.
Spends half his life in clink—and then gets bumped off."
''And not only murdered, Higgins, but tortured be-
forehand."
It was Dr. Pape, the kindly police surgeon, speaking,
and there was a depth of feeling in his voice. A police
official for nearly three decades, yet each time he came
across death by violence he marvelled at the inhumanity
of mankind. But this was more than death—the poor fel-
low's chest, revealed through the sodden rags of his tat-
tered shirt, had been seared and burned—as with a
branding-iron. And the mark was new—very new. And
his clothing had not even been singed—the burning was
deliberate.
"I'd like to operate on the swine who did this, Higgins
—and without any anaesthetic." Dr. Pape for once had
lost his temper. A peppery little man as a rule, generally
irascible, but now he was coldly venomous. It was the
age as well as the injuries of the victim which touched his
heart.
The inspector, however, did not hear him. He was
thinking of an underground passage many miles away,
in which suddenly, after years of waiting and many
searchings, a fortune which this man had hidden had been
found by others.
It was no coincidence. The poor devil had been tor-
tured to reveal the hiding-place; that was self-evident. It
was not that the searchers had grown tired of searching,
but that the Hall was getting too hot to hold them. Tor-
turing this old man had been a short cut. And he was killed
afterwards. Possibly tossed into the Thames whilst still
unconscious, or . . .
And Pearson was one. Who was the other? Rosenvaler
must be made to speak.
But Rosenvaler, under threat of a writ of habeas
corpus, had been released the day before, and all trace of
him had been lost.


224
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
been traced, but whose fingerprints were at the Yard, and
who was so handy with a knife?
Perhaps Bobby Baynes could offer some suggestions.
A reasonable excuse to go and ask him—and incidentally
to see the Lady Muriel!
Yet, on the whole, Bobby Baynes was not so helpful
as he might have been. His great commandment in life
seemed to be "Thou shalt not sneak," and he lived up
to it.
Muriel, surprised to see the inspector back so soon,
nevertheless was very glad he had come. In her heart of
hearts she felt much more secure in his presence than in
her brother's, although not for one moment would she
have admitted this to either.
The old nurse, Hannah, surlily accepted him as an ad-
ditional burden, and laid the tea with a clatter out of all
proportion to the task concerned, and with an elaborate
disregard to the de la Monte crockery.
"So you don't think Pearson could have done it, eh?"
"Higgins, my lad, you must excuse me if I make no
comments. I'll say this much, however, that Pearson is
not the type of a cold-blooded murderer."
"You forget that he once went for me with a gun, and
finished up trying to brain me with a telephone."
"That's nothing. Forgive the apparent callousness—but
this is calculated murder. Why, that ex-convict, Johnson,
must have been seventy-five if a day, and Pearson a
massive great brute. No, Pearson never bumped Johnson
off."
"But . . ."
A low moan, a clatter of broken crockery, and Hannah
collapsed to the floor.


226 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"As I don't imagine that Hannah can be hiding any
guilty secret I'll tell you all I know of her."
"Good. She is an old nurse, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes. She assisted in bringing the estimable
Coomble into the world, and then got spliced or some-
thing, so that I had to do without her kindly help. How-
ever, she turned up when Meux was expected, and stayed
for years. When she left I think the guv'nor allowed her a
small pension. Meux knows more than I do."
Thus, when the Lady Muriel Beaumeere returned to
the room, the inspector resumed his questioning.
"Is she all right now?"
"I think so"—frowningly. "I don't like leaving the
poor soul, but I want to talk the matter over. What on
earth made her pop off like that?"
"She's getting old, you know. What's her real name?"
"Why, Hannah, of course."
"I meant her surname."
"Why—why ... Oh, dear, that must be it. . .
"Cut the cackle and come to the hosses, Meux. Can't
you see that the worthy inspector is simply bursting with
impatience."
"Her name is Hannah Johnson."
"Gosh! And when did she rejoin your service?"
"When the servants left. I wrote to her and she came."
"Had she altered much?"
"Older . . . much older . . . and deaf . . . She'd
gone stone deaf since she left us."
A little thought, a few judicious questions, and Han-
nah's tale was soon pieced together. As a servant of the
late Earl de la Monte, she had been very friendly with the
servants of Mr. Cumberleigh at the Hall, which had led
in the course of time, and probably at one of the servants'
balls which were a feature of the period, to her introduc-
tion to the brother of one of Cumberleigh's staff.
In due course she left the earl's service to get married


A TRAP IS BAITED
227
to this Johnson, which marriage could hardly have been
a success, for within a few years she had returned to the
Manor. A comparison of dates and it was evident that
Johnson's conviction of the Markhet robbery and Han-
nah's return to service coincided.
Had Hannah known where the proceeds of that robbery
were buried?
This seemed hardly likely, inasmuch as she had made
no attempt to recover them prior to the inspector's arrival
on the scene, yet even so the opportunity might have been
lacking.
And why feign deafness?
Naturally there was a lot to be gained by the pretence.
One gets into the habit of speaking openly of intimate
subjects in the presence of the deaf, and . . . What else
had Hannah heard? Higgins racked his brains, but could
think of little he might have said. For one thing his in-
nate courtesy kept him from discussing anything in the
presence of a deaf person, knowing the depth of their well
of loneliness.
Yes. Hannah Johnson must be looked into.
"How is it, my dear Higgy, that the newspapers to-day
have not been full of laudatory comment of your remark-
able sagacity, ingenuity and—er—luck in recovering that
priceless Markhet collection?"
Bobby Baynes asked the question quizzically, and the
inspector looked at him for a long moment before reply-
ing.
. "Strange, isn't it?"
"More than strange, for they don't even mention it."
"Perhaps they don't even know it."
"But—but—don't tell me you're going to stick to 'em?"
Bobby's smile took the sting out of his question, for it
was obvious he had no such real thought in his mind.
"I should like to, but I have such quaint ideas of meum
and tuum. However, as you've asked, I may as well tell


228
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
you that the knowledge of the recovery of the haul is
known to but a few. . . . My only regret is that Hannah
knows it."
"H'm. I'm dense. Why suppress it?"
"Ask yourself."
A short silence whilst Bobby Baynes, one finger to his
forehead and an exaggerated frown of concentration on
his brow, posed for the inspector's benefit.
"Aha! I see daylight. Bait."
Higgins grinned, then tossed over the local paper, of
which the superintendent's son, the reporter at the time of
Brownworth's murder, was now the sub-editor.
"Take a dekko at that paragraph—indicated with a
cross."
"Oh, ah!"
"STRANGE AFFAIR AT THE HALL
"The police were called at the Hall in the early hours of
yesterday morning to deal with a strange case of attempted
burglary. The constable on the adjacent beat reported sounds
as of firearms proceeding from the Hall, and at first thought it
might be poachers. When he investigated, however, he found
that, although there were no signs of shooting within the
actual building, someone had undoubtedly recently been in the
house.
"A search was made, but nothing further was discovered.
"The superintendent, in whose capable hands the matter
may be left with entire confidence,"
("An example of filial affection which you might well
copy, Bobby.")
"gives the theory that, the Hall being untenanted, a tramp
(possibly two) had been brazenly using the place as a dormi-
tory. Several police made a thorough inspection of the
grounds, but we understand that, finding nothing amiss, the
Hall is once more in its usual state of calm benignity. What
a great pity it is that the owner has to spend so much time


A TRAP IS BAITED
229
abroad. We call the matter an attempted burglary, but, if this
had been the tramps' objective, we feel that they must have
wasted a great deal of time.
"We suggested that an additional constable might be placed
on this beat, to prevent the repetition of this occurrence, but
the superintendent, in his wisdom"
("Nasty smack at his old man, there.")
"assures us that this was probably an isolated case, and that
such a measure is entirely unnecessary."
Bobby returned the paper with a smile.
"Presumably this account was inspired."
"Yes. I was the—er—inspiration."
"And the Hall is chock full of police, I suppose?"
"Oh, no. I'm not so crude as all that. . . . But I won't
say that there are not a number of police well within call."
"But, surely, whoever it was must wonder who fired
that shotgun at them. Surely it is reasonable to suppose
that Muriel would have reported such a matter to the
police. They must be aware that"
"My dear lad, think! They cannot know that it was me
who chased them away. They may or may not know it was
you. But at least they will try and find out two things:
whether the haul is still buried in the passage, and, if not,
what the residents here have done with it. Naturally they
will be suspicious, but they cannot tell how many people
besides Pearson have been told of that hiding-place. For
all they know we may be a rival gang."
"H'm. So the Manor here is a stalking-horse?"
"Bull's-eye. I'm leaving you now, but I return to-
night."
Inspector Higgins had a very busy time when he ar-
rived back at Scotland Yard late in the afternoon. He
particularly concentrated on the life of Hannah Johnson,
and by reason of his office was given every assistance at


230 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Somerset House after it had officially closed. The record
of Hannah's marriage to Johnson was soon discovered, •
from which it was ascertained that her maiden name was
Vorton, and, barring the fact that the existence of a
younger sister was brought to light, this represented the
sum total of the inspector's discoveries at Somerset House.
However, at Scotland Yard, Sergeant Mercier's amaz-
ing memory once more stood the police in good stead.
"Vorton, sir? Uncommon name. What's she been up to
now?"
"Eh?"
"It's Ma Boggs you're after, isn't it?"
"No—er . . ."
"Sorry, sir. But Vorton was her maiden name."


CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH HIGGINS SHUDDERS
INSPECTOR HIGGINS had ascertained from the bank
that the small pension allowed to Hannah Johnson by
the late earl had always been sent to an address at Kil-
burn. Higgins, before leaving the Manor, had telephoned
the Yard for inquiries to be made at this address, but, on
dismissing Mercier, he had learned that the old lady had
led a fairly comfortable existence in one room, which
was locked now, and had been since she had gone for her
holiday. She had no friends, but one ugly-looking sister
who occasionally came to see her.
Ma Boggs.
Before returning once more to the Manor, Higgins
gave instructions that Ma Boggs was to be tailed, in that
she might, in due course, lead them to the vanished Pear-
son.
For Higgins had a theory about Hannah Johnson. He
believed that she and Ma Boggs, the notorious under-
world character, had been talking of the Markhet robbery
at some time or other, and Hannah had let drop some
word or phrase which had set the other putting two and
two together. Possibly even then Pearson was aware that
the jewels had been hidden at the Manor; or perhaps it
may have been that Hannah alone knew. At all events,
Ma Boggs must have prevailed upon Hannah to return
to the Manor to see what information she could pick up.
In all probability Hannah might have thought that the
Markhet jewels were hers by right of marriage! Muriel's
invitation must have been a godsend.
231


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Higgins laughed as the thought struck him that the
intruders at the Hall must believe that it was Hannah
who had fired at them in the underground passage. Hannah
fighting for her own!
If anything, this made his trap at the Manor a shade
more likely!
It was close upon midnight when he once more returned
to the Manor. Bobby was waiting for him, and it was a
somewhat disgruntled Bobby at that.
"Do you propose to wait up all night?" he asked.
"I thought we might take turns."
"Well, anyhow, I don't like it. Frankly, my sympathies
are not on the side of the law. I detest the idea of giving
away Pearson, although if he killed Johnson he probably
deserves all he'll get, and I certainly have no quarrel with
the other—whoever he is."
"All right. I'll stay alone."
And the police were concentrating at the Manor, not
the Hall, because Higgins believed that an attempt would
be made to recover the Markhet jewels from the Manor.
Bobby's defection therefore did not worry him overmuch.
The police had instructions to apprehend anyone enter-
ing or leaving the place, whilst two constables were to stay
on duty in the library of the Hall. Higgins was determined
to leave nothing to chance, yet he had the smallest force
possible inasmuch as he did not wish to frighten his birds
away.
It was a weary wait, and great was Bobby Baynes'
glee the following morning when he found the inspector
fast asleep in a chair. He did not know that the local super-
intendent had left but a few minutes before.
An empty day followed, during which Inspector Higgins
received a report that Ma Boggs was carrying on much the
same as ever, and did not show any marked symptoms of


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Higgins winded whilst the other continued down the
stairs. A second figure followed. Higgins made an at-
tempt to stop it, but in his breathless condition was brushed
aside.
And the superintendent was getting on in years.
Higgins stopped at the bottom of the stairs merely to
see that the super had suffered no serious injury, then he
followed in the wake of the fugitives.
The stairs and corridors seemed endless, yet he could
not gain on the pair in front. He was surprised to hear
the superintendent behind him, and mentally complimented
the older man on his courage and recuperative powers.
It was not until the man behind switched on the electric
light in passing and illuminated the entire corridor that he
realised that it was not the superintendent, but Bobby.
And a different Bobby—his face grim and remorseless.
The inspector's heart contracted as he guessed at the
reason.
A shot rang out as one of the men in front turned for
a brief second, but Bobby did not falter in his stride.
Another flight of stairs, and the fugitives disappeared
within the gunroom. They were trapped.
The gunroom door leading to the underground passage
should have been locked, but Higgins and Bobby found it
wide open when they reached the room; and a clatter as
the men in front scrambled down the stone steps revealed
how near they were to their quarry. A second's pause
whilst Higgins pulled out his revolver, but Bobby Baynes,
in his relentless eagerness, was in the line of fire.
Then he remembered the two constables on duty at the
other end of the passage. He fired his revolver at the
ground as he ran along, and the noise reverberated along
the tunnel. Even if asleep, that should warn them.
One of the men in front turned as if to fire again, but
the other urged him on; a second later, when the light
from the gunroom no longer penerated the gloom of the
passage, they were lost to sight, and it was only the sound


HIGGINS SHUDDERS
235
of their running footsteps which gave the inspector the
comforting assurance that they had not stopped to make a
fight of it.
Then Bobby, with his intimate knowledge of the in-
tricacies of the tunnel, forged ahead, and the inspector
was left to lumber along behind. Yet even so he caught
up with Baynes after a few seconds.
"Stick it, Higgy. This floor's rough on bare feet."
A light at the Hall end of the passage revealed the bot-
tom steps with two dark figures in between. Mentally
Higgins cursed the constables for opening the door, and
himself for sending the warning shot. If they were both
waiting at the top of those steps what an easy mark they
would be for these two desperadoes in front!
The men ahead had reached the bottom of the flight of
stone steps, one slightly in front of the other. The leading
man ran up the first half a dozen steps, stopped and
turned. . . .
Then Inspector Higgins witnessed something the like
of which he had never seen before, and which he hoped
and prayed he would never see again. For sheer, cold,
calculated callousness it had no equal. . . .
The man had a revolver in his right hand, and Higgins
thanked the all-concealing darkness that he was not an easy
mark, albeit dimly wondering why the constables did not
take a hand in the game. Nevertheless, he dodged to one
side as if he were plainly visible and raised an arm to
shield his head.
The man took careful aim.
But it was not at his pursuer that the revolver was
pointed, but to his companion.
A single shot—a tumbling body. Then the slam of the
library door and utter darkness.
With trembling fingers Inspector Higgins fumbled for
his electric torch. His nerves, usually so steady, seemed
badly frayed. Bobby Baynes came panting up to his side,


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
and they could both hear further steps along the other
end of the passage as the police were bringing up in the
rear.
"Winged one of 'em, Higgy?" queried Bobby in a
pleased tone of voice. The inspector did not reply, but,
having at last succeeded in removing his torch from his
jacket pocket, tremblingly felt for the button.
Bobby Baynes gave a gasp.
"Golly, Higgins"—reproachfully, as he noticed the
scorch-marks on the face of the victim. "You didn't mean
to miss."
And a round hole in the forehead—and a trickle of
blood.
Pearson's day was over.


238 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
exceptionally big men. The library was in a state of great
confusion, comparable with that other time when Brown-
worth had been murdered, and it was evident that the two
constables had given a pretty good account of themselves
before bowing to superior weight. One had several teeth
broken as a result of being a fraction of a second too late
in an attempt to blow his whistle.
The superintendent, although chagrined that his men
had been worsted, nevertheless felt a pride in the way they
had battled before acknowledging defeat.
But the chase was far from being over.
Higgins and Bobby, together with two of the super-
intendent's men, had not waited to release the bound con-
stables, but had rushed from the library to the front door,
where they had a brief glimpse of a running figure just
passing through the gates at the end of the drive.
The inspector gave three piercing blasts on his whistle,
which were immediately answered from the direction of
the Manor gates. There was a sound of a whirring engine,
and Higgins arrived at the gates to see a dark shape dis-
appearing in the distance.
He blew his whistle again, and a few seconds later one
of the police cars, its headlights blazing a trail and its
klaxon making the night hideous with sound, drew up in
front of the inspector.
"Got room for another?"
"No, sir."
"One of you drop out, then. Who's in charge? Right."
A plain-clothes man alighted, and, although it was too
dark to see, Higgins could visualise the scowl on his face.
"Never mind, sonny. Ask the super to telephone ahead.
A car—that's all I can say. We may be able to cut him off.
Jump to it." Higgins turned. "And you, Bobby, must stay
behind and look after Muriel. You other two men scour
the grounds in case there's more of these blighters knock-
ing about."
A few seconds lost, but far from wasted.


THE INSPECTOR IS DISAPPOINTED 239
"Right away. Let her rip."
The car jumped forward and flung Higgins back into
his seat. Its powerful headlights served but to intensify
the surrounding darkness, yet they were an essential to
safety considering the amazing speed which was soon
reached. There was no sign of the car ahead, and, as it
was showing no lights, Higgins wondered how long it
could last at the pace it must be going before an accident
occurred. Then he realised that although no tail-light was
visible it might be that the fugitive was using a dim head-
light.
The car had travelled at least five miles before there was
the least sign of the car in front, and it was not until one
of the men had pointed it out that he could see a dim shape
two or three hundred yards ahead.
"Is this bus armour-plated?" The inspector shouted to
make himself heard above the roar of the powerful en-
gine.
The driver grinned and shook his head.
Slowly the space between the two cars lessened until
they could dimly see a figure crouching over the steering-
wheel. Inspector Higgins was half tempted to put a bullet
between the man's shoulder-blades, but refrained less from
sporting instincts as from the possible danger to the police
car if the one in front swerved. He might, however, put a
bullet in one of the tyres, but the same remark applied.
He realised, with a grim smile, that until the road widened
considerably they could do little to stop the man in front.
Of course, by now the police ahead had been warned, and
they might any minute run into a barrier across the road,
so that, after all, there was little urgency in catching the
man up, provided they did not lose him.
"Look out, sir. He's chucking a bomb!"
"Bomb, me foot!"
It was almost as effective. The sudden hiss of escaping
air, the squeal of tyres as the driver applied his brakes
and did his best to keep the car on a straight course, and a


240 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
hundred yards farther on the police car drew to a stand-
still.
The fugitive had merely tossed a quart bottle in his
wake, and had been lucky—that was all!
It was enough. Five minutes later the spare wheel had
been adjusted and the chase resumed. One man was left
behind to sweep up the pieces of glass and to warn any
police cars following that the car in front was a two-seater
sports model.
Five precious minutes. Ten miles farther on there was a
red light swinging to and fro in the middle of the road,
and once more the brakes were applied. Higgins groaned
in spirit—he guessed the reason.
It was a barrier erected by the local police, to whom
the superintendent had telephoned. No. Theirs was the
first car which had been stopped. The barrier had been
erected three minutes ago.
The main question now was whether the fugitive had
passed before the local police had placed the obstacle in the
roadway, or whether he had turned off one of the several
side turnings which the inspector had noted on the way.
"Damnation!"
The dilemma was partially solved when a second police
car arrived at the barrier five minutes later. Higgins de-
cided to go on, and instructed the second car to turn back.
It was a very disgruntled Inspector Higgins who walked
into Scotland Yard a few hours later in time for lunch,
and he was still more disgusted when he was informed,
immediately after lunch, that a two-seater sports model
had been found abandoned in Finsbury Square.
Of course, it had been stolen!
First Brownworth, then Johnson, and now Pearson had
been killed. Who remained of that infamous gang, save
Rosenvaler? Rosenvaler! And where was he hiding him-
self? Since his release he had vanished from his usual


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"No, sir. Too busy for one thing."
"Don't you think we might make it an all stations call
to bring him in? After all, we ought to return him his
property." Dryan grinned mischievously.
"I'd have done it myself, sir, but it seems too trivial
a job for that. I want to speak to him, it's true, but . . ."
It was a very frightened Rosenvaler who was ushered
into the inspector's presence the following morning. He
must have divined the Chief's intentions because, before
the all stations call had been put through, he turned up at
Scotland Yard, asking for protection.
"Against whom?"
"The Bull."
Inspector Higgins gave a start. He remembered on the
occasion of the robbery of Rosenvaler's safe the man had
let slip that the Bull might have done it.
"What have you done to the Bull?"
"Nossing. 'E ask for money I 'ave not got. 'E say 'e
kill me if I not pay."
"If he does you'd better lodge a complaint"—heavily
sarcastic. "But why does he want money? Blackmail?"
"No, 'e . . ."
But Rosenvaler was talking to the empty air. Inspector.
Higgins had rushed from his office, down the corridor,
till at last he paused breathlessly before his Chief.
"That all stations call for Rosenvaler, sir. Make it the
Bull."
Really, he had been very dense. The Bull was a big
man—very big. Rosenvaler, the time of the robbery, had
thought of the Bull—why? Because the Bull was after his
own; because the Bull intended to squeeze out of Rosen-
valer his share of the gang's money which Rosenvaler had
taken abroad ten years ago.
And that senseless attack on the inspector's person when
he had previously tried to return to Rosenvaler the deeds


A RAID IS PLANNED
247
with the avowed intention of finding the underground
passage, and subsequently the Markhet jewels. The first
thing, however, was to find the passage.
Suppose the Bull had found it first and had said nothing
to the others. Rosenvaler had already gone to Holland.
From Sergeant Freeman's evidence, Pearson, in his guise
as butler to Brownworth, had shown great surprise when
knocked up in the middle of the night, and considerable
agitation when the body of Brownworth was found in the
library. Common sense suggested that had Pearson been
the murderer he would never have stayed on the scene of
the crime. In any case, as soon as the crime was discovered
he had bolted whilst ostensibly going for a doctor. But
to resume his theory. The Bull finds the underground pas-
sage. He knows that somewhere in that passage is the
Markhet haul—his for the taking. Rosenvaler away; Pear-
son a nonentity; and Brownworth only in his way. A
certain motive; and a handy weapon found in the gun-
room of the Manor, which he must have visited. A gentle
cough interrupted the inspector's meditations. He had for-
gotten Hannah Johnson. Hurriedly he collected his
thoughts.
"So the Bull's name is Boggs, eh? H'm. Er—by the
way. Do you know what happened at the Manor the other
night?"
"I—I read in the train that one man was killed in the
passage. Mr. Robert didn't say anything about it."
"I meant before that man—died. Did you scream
or"
"It wasn't me, sir. It must have been Miss—er—Lady
Muriel."
"I see. Thank you."
And the inspector, under the pressure of his work, had
neither written nor telephoned, merely accepting Bobby
Baynes' assurance that his sister was all right. Whatever
would the Lady Muriel think of him?
It had happened the night before last. Yesterday had


250 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
had taken the precaution of having Hannah Johnson ac-
companied back to the station. A bit of a broken reed,
perhaps, but rather better than nothing.
"So Bobby's gone, eh, and you're all alone?"
"Yes, Higgy. I'm a little—nervous."
"Hannah will soon be back."
"Coming back? She told me she was going to see her
sister."
"Oh." A pause. "I'll come along and see you myself
to-day, if I possibly can. But don't worry. You'll be all
right. Er—good-bye, Muriel."
"Good-bye, Higgy—dear."
The superintendent at Hatfield was surprised at the
request telephoned from Scotland Yard, but he shrugged
his shoulders and proceeded placidly to carry it out. He
sincerely hoped that it was all right, and wondered what
on earth such a nice girl as Lady Muriel Beaumeere had
been up to. Anyhow, it was the Yard's funeral, and if
there were any kicks coming he'd see that the Yard got
'em. Three men to shadow the Lady Muriel indeed! Day
and night. And that damned underground passage to be
blocked up one end . . . without permission from the
absent owner of the Hall, too. Ah, well!
Inspector Higgins sat at his desk, a prey to many emo-
tions. The constable whom he had detailed to look after
Hannah Johnson had reported that the woman had shown
a strange reluctance to board the train at King's Cross,
and that it was only his insistence which had prevented her
from missing the train. However, he had seen her off,
and the train did not stop till Hatfield was reached. It was
fairly obvious that Hannah Johnson was trying the age-
old game of endeavouring to run with the hare and hunt
with the hounds, forgetting the biblical axiom that man
cannot serve two masters. And Muriel had stated that


252 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Why, at the "Pink Mouse," of course. And the police did
not want to raid the place for reasons which had hitherto
seemed sound.
Had not the time come when such reasons should be
overruled?
The "Pink Mouse" might be a useful place to find
wanted criminals, yet a wanted murderer was different. If
the Bull were hiding there then it was high time the place
were raided—to make sure. If he were not there, then the
place would be severely left alone by the underworld for a
time until the absence of a further raid would reassure
the old habitues and they would return. Yet would they
return? No. It was too big a responsibility. Inspector
Higgins would have to take higher advice.
"Very well, Higgins, we'll raid the place. We may find
one or two more people whom we are wanting hiding on
the premises. We can't always wait till they leave before
we arrest them. I think, with you, that the 'Pink Mouse'
has served its term of usefulness as a stalking-horse for
criminals. We'll make a clean sweep of the place. The
criminal fraternity must find another club."
"To-night, sir?"
"I think so. I'll get the necessary search warrant so that
everything will be open and—er—above board. You'll
take charge?"
"Yes, sir, but I'd like a pretty capable second in com-
mand in case I'm detained elsewhere." After all, he had
half promised to run down to the Manor, and . . .
"Brownall do you?"
"Quite. He's a good man."
"Righto!"
The arrangements had been carefully made. The raid
was not timed to start till midnight, when it was assumed
that most of the night-birds would be up and doing.
Sergeant Brownall was flattered at the distinction which


A RAID IS PLANNED
253
had been thrust upon him, and determined to carry out his
instructions to the letter. A dozen plain-clothes men were
unostentatiously to take up their positions round and about
the "Pink Mouse," there to wait and interfere with no one
save the Bull, should he be seen, until, at the sound of a
whistle, six of them should force an entrance. The only
alteration in the time should be in the event of one of the
habitues of the place gaining access after a quarter to
twelve, when the raid was to take place at the same time
as the entrance was effected, so as to save breaking down
the outer door.
Inspector Higgins was gazing meditatively out of his
window at Scotland Yard, wondering whether the plans
were foolproof, when his eye was attracted to a newspaper
placard on the opposite side of the road. From his position
it seemed to be something about the Earl de la Monte.
He sent out for a copy.
EARL DE LA MONTE TALKS TO THE
EVENING TIMES
The Earl de la Monte, who succeeded to the title on the
death of his-father a few weeks ago, spoke to the Evening
Times by inter-oceanic telephone this morning. News of his
father's death reached him but a few days ago, and he im-
mediately left his foreman in charge of his ranch, and decided
to return to the land of his birth forthwith.
He is now on the wonder-liner, Carpathic, and when the
Evening Times telephoned to him this morning . . .
And so on—and so forth.
The Carpathic was due to arrive in about forty-eight
hours' time. Inspector Higgins made a mental note to be
present.
He hoped that the present earl would not be an exact
replica of Bobby Baynes.


THE INSPECTOR IS SURPRISED 257
"Wait a moment, Constable. Wasn't that the place where
that Johnson fellow used to eat?"
"That chap who was drowned ? Yes, sir."
"H'm. Proceed."
"Was joined there by a man."
"Description, please."
"Very big, strapping sort o' cove, sir."
"The Bull?" queried Higgins, quickly.
"Bull, sir?"
"Surely to Godmanchester—town near Huntingdon!—
"It wasn't the Bull, sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, sir . . ."
"Never mind. Carry on."
"Rosenvaler left and I followed him to his bank. He's in
there now. I think he must be drawing a pretty sizeable
cheque, the time they're taking over the transaction. Hallo,
sir. He's just come out. Got a large brown-paper parcel
with him, sir. Perhaps I'd better be going, sir. Don't want
to lose him."
"'Phone the Yard when he settles. Be on the lookout
for me."
The bank informed him that Rosenvaler had just cashed
a cheque for five thousand pounds, which had almost closed
his account with them. Five thousand pounds! That meant
one of two things. Either that Rosenvaler had almost
closed his account with the bank preparatory to making a
bolt from the country, or—blackmail.
And blackmail pointed rather forcibly to the Bull.
It was useless waiting at the Yard till the constable
made a further report. To save time Inspector Higgins set
off at once for Rosenvaler's bank, there to await a message
to be relayed from the Yard. Not wishing to appear too
conspicuous, he donned an ancient cap and coat. Arrived at
the bank he was told by the manager (who secretly greatly


THE INSPECTOR IS SURPRISED 259
upward and, if the dust he dislodged was any criterion, it
must have been the first time it had been opened for years.
The proprietor himself attended to his wants.
"Who's in there?" queried the inspector mysteriously,
with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of Rosenvaler's
room. "Is he all right?"
The proprietor winked portentously. "Yerce. 'E's all
right. I'll see yer ain't disturbed. When's yer pals comin'?"
"Later. You'll know 'em all right. Now clear off."
The proprietor went, but Higgins was amazed at the
clarity of Rosenvaler's voice when he called out, " 'Enry."
"Yessir"—the proprietor's voice.
"My frien' 'ere yet?"
"No, sir."
Funny! The walls must be as thin as tissue paper. Per-
haps that was why the hiring of a private room had been
so easy! Perhaps in the room the other side of Rosenvaler
there was an eavesdropper waiting to pick up any news.
This rascally proprietor might be one of the Bull's satel-
lites. This might explain why the Bull had been able to
give the Yard so much information. And on the other hand
it might not. After all, there was nothing to connect the
Bull with this place, save the nearness of the "Pink Mouse,"
and the possibility that it was the Bull for whom Rosen-
valer was waiting. . . . And perhaps on the other side of
the inspector's room there was still another listener!
A voice in the next room:
"Well, Rosenvaler. Have you got the money?"
And the voice was that of Bobby Baynes!


CHAPTER XXVIII
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR IS EVEN MORE SURPRISED
BOBBY BAYNES! Gosh Almighty! What was Bobby
Baynes doing here? A sound of footsteps in that
other room and the hasty slamming of a window. Inspector
Higgins applied his ear to the wall, and could just hear
Baynes reviling Rosenvaler for leaving it open. This ex-
plained why his voice had sounded so clear before. The in-
spector's task was not made any easier by that sudden
damping of the sound of their voices.
"I must trust you, Rosenvaler, that this amount is cor-
rect. If it shouldn't be, then I may feel compelled to call
upon you and ask why a mistake has been made."
"The money's all right. I swear it."
"I'll take your word for it. I only hope for your sake
that you're speaking the truth—which'll be a change, won't
it?"
"And that other paper—you 'ave it?—yes?"
"I 'ave it—yes! Which must surprise you, Rosenvaler.
Do you realise how easy it would be for me to walk off
with both the five thousand pounds and this paper in which
you set such store."
"I 'ave a gun 'ere and I'll shoot you dead. Then I'll get
the paper without paying any money."
"Oh, no, you won't. For one thing, you haven't the
necessary courage; and for another, our old friend, In-
spector Higgins, is in the next room listening to every word
we say."
Inspector Higgins nearly collapsed. Either Baynes had
seen him enter the place, or he was clairvoyant, or . . .
260


264 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
at the other. "I'm only just beginning to realise why the
Bull and his friends attacked me on the night of your
—er—fire. And then he must have guessed that you had
lost this precious little document, and started demanding
money from you. H'm. And you had the colossal nerve
to come to Scotland Yard for assistance. Of all the un-
mitigated gall!"
And then the inspector suddenly remembered the pro-
jected raid on the "Pink Mouse" nearby. He glanced at
his watch. Six o'clock. The raid was not timed till mid-
night. Six hours. Any arrest in the immediate vicinity
might result in the frightening off of some of the smaller
fry whom he hoped to catch even though he missed the
Bull.
Awkward! Darned awkward!
And the constable who had tailed Rosenvaler here, if
he had carried out the inspector's subsequent instructions,
was even now following Bobby Baynes! Or (Higgins
smiled to himself) if Bobby was up to his usual form,
the constable was probably running round in circles try-
ing to pick up the lost trail. At any rate, he was not avail-
able for a circumspect arrest of Rosenvaler.
It would probably be safer to let Rosenvaler go, fol-
low him, and arrest him again, well away from the "Pink
Mouse."
"Sit down, Rosenvaler"—placatingly—a histrionic ef-
fort, considering how he loathed the man. "What—er
—what exactly is your freedom worth?"
Rosenvaler stared, amazed at the question.
"I—I will give you anysing—anysing—I—I—
but ..." A sullen look spread over his features as he
realised that his best course was to sit tight and say noth-
ing. After all, the integrity of Inspector Higgins was
more or less a byword, and . . . What guarantee had he
that this was not a subtle trap on the inspector's part,
merely to secure a damaging admission? He hadn't signed
that note on which the Bull had given a receipt, and the


THE INSPECTOR IS MORE SURPRISED 265
initials could be denied. Sir Thomas Thomason would
be the best man to defend, but his refresher was stated to
run well into four figures—possibly five. . . .
"Well?"—uncompromisingly from Higgins. "What
do you mean by anything? A thousand pounds?"
A mistake. The figure was much too low.
Rosenvaler stared for a moment unbelievingly, and
then a strange thing happened. Higgins watched him al-
most fascinated. Rosenvaler rose to his feet and began
to back slowly away, his eyes fixed on the inspector with
a terrible, vacant stare.
Gosh! The man's brain had turned!
But the inspector's own brain was not working with its
usual clarity. A full second had passed before he realised
that Rosenvaler's stare was not at him, but at something
behind him. The moment his brain had registered the fact
he acted, but was too late.
He had no more than half turned to face this hidden
adversary when something hard and heavy crashed on his
skull. A blaze of light in his vision; then he pitched for-
ward on his face.
Oblivion. A short period of semi-consciousness, dur-
ing which he seemed to be propelled through an under-
ground passage. ... A thought that it was that tunnel
between the Hall and the Manor. . . . Funny! . . .
Then again complete oblivion.
Cramp! An excruciating feeling of numbness. What
the blazes had happened now? Inspector Higgins tried
to move his arms—his feet. Gosh! He was paralysed!
Only in paralysis there was supposed to be absolutely no
feeling—and his arms ached . . . and his legs . . .
Great Pontius Pilate! He was bound! He! Inspector
Higgins, the most respected man at the Yard! Bound!
And gagged! That was not nice.
Then suddenly he remembered. Rosenvaler. . . .


266
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Rosenvaler had got away with it. Yet the man himself
had seemed desperately afraid. He had backed against
the wall, and . . . No. It was certainly not a pal of
Rosenvaler's who had come so opportunely to his aid.
Who then?
That rascally proprietor? No wonder the booking of a
private room had been so easy!
Inspector Higgins opened his eyes, then hastily shut
them as the light of an electric globe almost blinded him
with its intensity.
"So you're awake, eh?"
A squeaky, high-pitched voice.
Inspector Higgins had at last found the Bull!


THE BULL WAITS 271
mister. I'll give you an hour or so to think it over,
then . . ."
He opened the door—and Higgins was left alone.
He had gained his object. . . . Time . . .
But the Bull had made a thorough job of tying him up.
His struggles were little better than futile, and after an
hour's solid work, all he had for reward was a slight
diminution in the tightness with which his hands were
bound.
Then the door opened and the Bull entered. Without
a sound he deposited a tin of petrol on the floor and with-
drew. Three more journeys he made and brought back
a tin each time. . . It was not a pantomimic prelude to
intimidation—the Bull was in dour earnest. Then he
brought in a sack of shavings, still without any word for
the inspector.
Higgins felt a contraction of his throat muscles. His
collar felt sizes too small. A small bead of perspiration
gathered on his brow and trickled down his cheek. He
thought at first it was a gigantic bluff—but remembered
the branded Johnson and shuddered.
A mad bull was preferable to its human namesake.
Something had happened in the meantime. Suddenly
Higgins guessed what it was. The Bull had become cog-
nisant somehow of the projected raid, or had realised
that the "Pink Mouse" was under police surveillance.
One of the prospective raiders had been careless. Even
now they must be concentrating on the spot. And with
this secret exit they would find an empty trap.
The Bull, after his last journey, locked the door be-
hind him. Inspector Higgins' lips curled. The Bull was to
bolt alone.
Well. There was nothing for it—he'd have to yell for


CHAPTER XXX
IN WHICH BOBBY BAYNES IS SOMEWHAT ANNOYED
BOBBY sniffed superciliously.
"Someone's been filling their automatic-lighter it
would seem."
The Bull, a maniacal glare in his eye, backed away from
the open fireplace. Bobby Baynes slowly advanced.
"Oh, I see. A bonfire. But to-day's the tenth, not the
fifth of November. You've made a mistake. And what a
horrible guy! Oh! Sorry! It's Inspector Higgins, is it
not?"
Despite his banter, Bobby Baynes kept a wary eye upon
the Bull as he walked to the switch and turned it. The
fireplace swung back into position.
"Now then, Bull. You and I are to have a little reckon-
ing. Gosh! What a row is going on outside—one can
hardly hear oneself talk! A few nights ago you laid your
dirty paws on my sister . . . and now I'm going to lay
my—er—lily-white hands on you. Drop that gun or I'll
blow you to blazes. . . . That's better. Now, you can
take your choice. I won't release our dear inspector until
I've finished with you—or vice versa. I wouldn't wilfully
give you away, Bull, but now I stand 'twixt you and free-
dom." Quizzically Bobby Baynes stared at the Bull. "And
I—er—rather think we both know what that might
mean."
Still the Bull did not rush to attack, and the inspector,
the silent and unwilling spectator, marvelled. The Bull
seemed to tower above Bobby Baynes, despite that youth's
mighty frame, yet Bobby's supreme self-confidence seemed
to frighten the other.
273


BAYNES IS SOMEWHAT ANNOYED 275
Before he could take any advantage of this, Bobby
Baynes was upon him.
Then began a slogging match, which the inspector was
to remember all his life. Bobby Baynes stood upon his
toes—and let the Bull have it.
Smash! Smash! Smash! With piston-like regularity.
And Bobby could take punishment as well as give it.
Not that he deliberately left openings merely for the
satisfaction of landing a blow (with such a powerful ad-
versary as the Bull this would have been fatal), but he
was not always as quick parrying a blow as he might
have been. To Higgins, the boxer, it was apparent that
the Bull had a lot to learn, whilst Bobby Baynes was a
past-master of the art. Yet what the Bull lacked in skill,
he made up in strength.
This was obvious when the Bull at last succeeded in
getting his mighty arms wrapped round Bobby Baynes in
a bear-like hug.
The pair swayed from side to side.
Inspector Higgins was amazed that Bobby's ribs did
not crack under the strain, yet had they done so, it is
doubtful whether he could have heard, with the pande-
monium outside.
Higgins hoped the police would be quick about smash-
ing down the door. What on earth was Sergeant Brown-
all thinking, not to have brought an axe!
Bobby had his arms imprisoned by the Bull, yet neither
could do anything, for Bobby had the Bull's torso in a
powerful embrace, and his slowly-expanding arms were
gradually breaking the Bull's grip.
Inexorably the Bull's frame began to bend backward,
until Higgins could see Bobby's face above the Bull's
shoulder, with his chin pressing in the other's neck.
Then Bobby closed one eye in an impudent wink at the
inspector: he had the Bull's measure.
A sudden breaking of the strain, and the Bull stag-


276 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
gered backwards and sprawled to the floor almost at the
inspector's feet. His hand closed upon the gun which
Bobby had so carelessly thrown there a few moments be-
fore.
Higgins almost choked himself in an effort to warn
the youth, but Bobby had seen the action and merely
smiled. It was Bobby's gun, and the inspector had had
experience that the youth never loaded his weapons.
The Bull, too, soon found it out, when the pulled trig-
ger simply resulted in a derisive click. He jumped up,
seized one of the chairs and hurled it at his tormentor's
direction. Bobby ducked—just in time.
Then the sound of an axe upon the door.
Had Higgins but known it, this scene was almost an
exact replica of that classic fight between Bobby and
the Bull five years before.
Again the Bull rushed in a frenzy of despair—this time
to the open fireplace. Bobby almost let him reach it—then
hit him with all the force of his powerful body. The Bull
stood up blankly, his arms dropping weakly to his sides
as Bobby hit him the second time.
He staggered, then pitched forward into the heap of
shavings.
"I don't think you'll lay hands on my sister again,"
Bobby Baynes apostrophised the fallen man. "Call your-
self a Bull! You're more like a sick calf!" Then he turned
on his heel and walked towards the inspector.
"Higgy, I'm off. Keep my name out of this, if you
can. I'll be at the Manor if you want me. I won't set you
free now in case the Bull revives. I should hate to be the
direct means of putting him in quod. I gave him his chance
and he failed. I don't think he'll recover before these
chaps break in—if he does, well . . ." He shrugged his
shoulders. "I'll remove his matches in case he has—er—
thoughts." He nodded cheerily. "So long."
As Bobby left by the fireplace, Sergeant Brownall
rushed in at the door.


BAYNES IS SOMEWHAT ANNOYED 277
"Feeling better now, sir?"
"Yes, thank you, Brownall. Have much trouble out-
side?"
"A little. We had to smash down one or two doors
with an axe. Yours was the last unfortunately—else we
might have caught the chap who escaped through there,"
indicating the open fireplace.
"Never mind about him. We've got the Bull, which
is the main thing. You haven't sent for the police van,
I suppose?"
"Not yet, sir. We picked up a couple of small fry out-
side, and took the names and addresses of the others."
"Which will all be fictitious," the inspector grinned.
"Oh, doubtless, sir." Brownall shrugged his shoulders.
"But what are we to do? Can't very well gaol the lot."
"Turn 'em all loose—apologise for the trouble—and
tell 'em we were after the Bull, who unfortunately got
away. We'll raid the place again to-morrow, and may
catch a lot of chaps who have turned up under the mis-
taken impression that lightning doesn't strike the same
place twice."
"Why on earth didn't the Bull bolt while he had the
chance?"
"I think I know. By the time he was ready to go the
police were already concentrating on the place. He knew
as well as I do that his chance of escape was pretty small;
yet it would be infinitely greater were he to wait as he
did until the actual moment of the raid. At least half
the force at your disposal was then attacking the front
door—the other half was in the street close by—his
chance was therefore doubled. The—er—business of the
fire would be the last effort. Those in the street would be
startled by the outbreak—crowds would immediately col-
lect—exit the Bull."
"And yet a man stopped him."
"Yes. And we will forget him for that reason. Get the
Bull away from here—an ambulance would not only be


278 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
convenient, but also necessary—keep the news from the
papers. We can't possibly bring him in front of the magis-
trate to-day—to-morrow will do—as it's almost day-
light already. The newspaper chaps will nose it out quickly
enough, I don't doubt, but I'll see to them."
Dr. Pape, the police surgeon, reported to Higgins after
his examination of the Bull:
"Badly knocked about, but almost as good as new.
Breathing blood and slaughter against a certain Bobby
Baynes." Then, wistfully: "I'd have given quids to have
seen the scrap."
And the Bull's fingerprints were identical with those
which Bobby Baynes had found in that underground pas-
sage.
And Inspector Higgins was surprised to find that he
had not turned grey during the night.
"Wanted on the 'phone, sir."
"Who is it?"
"A constable, sir."
A click within the receiver as the extension to the in-
spector's room was connected by the operator.
"Hallo. Higgins this end."
"I'm sorry, sir, but that big man you told me to fol-
low last night at Jones' eating house"
"You—er—lost him, I suppose."
"I'm awfully sorry, sir. . . . Yes."
"You're late reporting, constable."
"Yessir. But I got on to the track of Rosenvaler again,
and I followed him here. I thought that as you had him
in hand, I must run into you somewhere and I could then
report personally. But I didn't."
Inspector Higgins frowned. Was there the merest sug-
gestion of—well—reproach, in the other's tone? And the


BAYNES IS SOMEWHAT ANNOYED 279
worst of it was, that, in the excitement of the night, he
really had forgotten Rosenvaler's existence.
"Where are you, constable?"
"Southampton, sir. And Rosenvaler's been trying to
buy a passage in one of the boats here."
"Eh ? Then run him in. I won't forget this, constable."


CHAPTER XXXI
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR DINES OUT
AMIGHTY conclave, a surging mass in front of the
Mansion House.
Inspector Higgins, half an hour earlier, had left Scot-
land Yard in order, on this day of days, to render homage
to the fallen, outside the City of London's premier resi-
dence.
It was a yearly pilgrimage, and one which he invariably
attended unless extreme pressure of his business prevented
him. In the City of London he had no official status, be-
ing merely one of the teeming throng which gathered
opposite the Bank of England. It helped to give him a
true perspective of his own insignificance. Outside the
City his subordinates at Scotland Yard ran to do his
bidding. Within the City boundaries he was a nonentity
except by courtesy of the City Police. And on such a day
as this he preferred it so.
The Eleventh of November.
Armistice Day by popular nomenclature. And it was
the custom on this day of days to honour that mighty
multitude, which had died during the War, by preserving
two minutes of complete silence at the stroke of eleven.
At eleven o'clock, on the morning of the eleventh of
November in the Year of Our Lord one thousand nine
hundred and eighteen, the armistice had been signed.
Every subsequent year the solemn moment was observed.
It was now 10.45. The balcony outside the Mansion
House, bedecked with bunting and a red cloth, was packed
with celebrities.
280


THE INSPECTOR DINES OUT
281
The Lord Mayor of London, in his robes, was a
prominent figure, whilst other members of the City Cor-
poration gave a mediaeval touch of pageantry. A com-
pany of the Honourable Artillery Company stood rigidly
to attention in the middle of the road.
All traffic had been temporarily diverted. A band
played martial airs.
A bishop of the Church of England, in his robes of
office, moved to the front of the balustrade. The band
stopped playing for a few moments, to start again with a
well-known hymn tune, in which all joined.
The explosion of a maroon served as a signal. Heads
were bared; the milling crowd stood still.
An eerie silence, broken only by the chiming of the
hour from St. Paul's Cathedral, half a mile away.
A mighty city was stilled. It was an awe-inspiring mo-
ment. The absolute quietude was uncanny. A city as of
the dead.
Inspector Higgins closed his eyes. . . .
Another maroon—and the spell was broken. The crowd
once more surged, and began to break up into its com-
ponent parts. The end of the service outside the Mansion
House was ruthlessly ignored by the busy throng. . . .
And there, in front of Inspector Higgins, and equally
conspicuous by his size, stood Bobby Baynes.
Higgins touched him upon the shoulder and, with a
start, he brought his thoughts back to the present.
"Hallo, Bobby."
"Hallo, Higgy." There was a suspicious moisture in
his eyes, and his welcoming smile was a little wistful.
"You, too, eh?" A short pause as he pushed his way
through the crowd with the inspector by his side. "When
I think of the ones who went before, Higgy, and the
bums who were left behind, I . . ." He shook his head
sadly from side to side. Then he looked up, and once
more his usual roguish smile was on his face. "Er—pres-
ent company excepted, of course."


282
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
Higgins grinned.
"What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?" queried
Bobby.
"Same old job, Bobby—only we called it espionage
then. More dignified, you know."
"And possibly more dangerous, I expect."
The crowd had thinned to its usual proportions, al-
though to a country visitor these must have seemed pretty
stupendous.
"I thought you were going back to the Manor, Bobby."
"So I was, but I remembered in time that my brother
arrives to-morrow morning on the Carpathic. Muriel and
I are going to meet him."
"Muriel's coming to town, eh?"
"Yes. We're going to an Armistice Ball to-night. Care
to join us?"
"It's kind of you . . ." began the inspector, doubtfully.
"Oh, come along. I've got a spare ticket—and I'm sure
Meux will be glad to see you."
"Of course. At the Palatial."
Bobby Baynes did the thing in style. He took his sister,
the Lady Muriel Beaumeere, and Inspector Higgins to the
Palatial in his car. There, the inspector found it was not
strictly a ball, but was officially labelled "Revels." There
was an air of gaiety about the place, in vivid contrast to
the morning's solemnity.
Dinner was a very happy affair. Paper hats were served
out by the management, and by a strange coincidence Hig-
gins was given a policeman's helmet.
"Higgy, you look positively comic." Muriel bubbled
with mirth at his lugubrious countenance, as his conscience
struggled at the seeming slight on the force. Then he
grinned. What did it matter anyway?
Bobby had a jewelled turban, generally supposed to be
worn by Indian princes or Arab sheiks. Many were the


284
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Who's that squirt?"
"Higgy! That's Sir Henry Rudolf."
"Oh!" A pause. "I'm going to get a drink. Shan't be
long."
Inspector Higgins threaded his way through the danc-
ing couples until he found the exit. Of course it would have
been much easier to have ordered his drink from one of
the waiters, but he felt he needed some exercise. Sir Henry
Rudolf indeed. Nearly old enough to be her father.
Well ? Wasn't he in an almost similar position? Higgins
cursed and made for the bar. A baronet, he supposed, with
oodles of cash!
Such was his mental preoccupation that he almost col-
lided with a man going in the opposite direction. It was
that shifty Scott fellow—well, Bobby would have to cut
him out of his life.
"Anything doing?" queried the man.
"Go to hell"—savagely, as he shook him off and con-
tinued his way.
Inspector Higgins had one drink. Then he smiled, Lord!
What an ass he was! Now he'd have to apologise for
his churlish behaviour. He was getting too old for
such childish conduct. His good humour recovered, he
hurried back to his table. Bobby was there, but Muriel
was not.
"Where is she?"
"Gone."
"Eh?"
"She said she was tired." With an accent on the "said."
"Rudolf is seeing her home in his car—to her hotel, I
mean. Higgins, you're the world's worst. Why the blazes
don't you ask her to marry you? She'd do it like a shot."
"What—me?" A short laugh. "And what about Sir
Henry What's-his-name?"
Bobby Baynes smiled maliciously.
"We've known him for donkey's years. Why, he's her


THE INSPECTOR DINES OUT 285
godfather or something. Married. Three kids. . . ."
"Come on, Bobby."
"Where?"
"Home, John. Though why the hell you didn't tell me
that before, I don't know."
"Serves you right, you great, big goop."
Bobby Baynes had little difficulty in getting his car,
and the two set off together. Higgins, with plenty on his
mind, decided to talk about the case. Bobby looked as if
at any moment he would make some mischievous remark
anent Muriel, and the inspector had had just about as
much as he could manage.
"You'll have to give evidence against the Bull, Bobby."
"Oh, dear me, no. I certainly shan't."
"We may not obtain a conviction otherwise."
"Sorry, but I make it a practice never to give evidence.
In fact, I would go to great lengths not to do so. My
reputation, you know."
"Ah, well." Higgins decided not to press the point.
When the time came Bobby would have to change his mind.
There were ways and means.
"I've seen no official announcement of Pearson's name
yet, Higgy. Why haven't the Press been told?"
"They will now. It often pays to hold back informa-
tion. For instance, our old friend the Bull might have
sent us a communication, saying: Pearson's murderer is
so and so. Not that at that time I had any suspicion of him
at all, but ... By the way, I just ran into that other part-
ner of yours."
"Who do you mean?" innocently.
"Why, Scott, of course. Snooping around as usual. See
anything of him?"
"Oh, yes. For a second only."
There was a long pause.
"What's up, Bobby?"
"Nothing. . . . Care to stay with me in my flat? You


286
I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
know, the one in which we had that—er—interview."
"Muriel won't be there, I suppose."
"Oh, no. She's staying at a hotel as I told you. But I
know the telephone number ... I know the number of
her room . . . there's a telephone at my flat as you are
well aware . . . and"—with a mild inflexion of triumph
in his voice—"I told her you would be ringing up later."
"Gosh!"
"And she promised to wait up."
"Bobby!—You—blithering—blighter! Step on the gas."
Higgins beamed. "It's well past midnight—no one's about
—and if you do get fined for speeding, I'll pay it."
A few minutes later the car pulled up at the kerb out-
side Bobby's flat. Inspector Higgins alighted.
"—Er—Bobby. Do you think—perhaps—er—"
"Here's my key, Higgy. You know where the telephone
is—I hadn't the slightest intention of coming in with you
—er—yet. I'll wait outside. . . . No, no! Don't apologise.
I quite understand. The conversation is to be—er—priv-
ate." A pontifical wave of the hand. "Bye-bye for the pres-
ent, you big, burly brute. Bobby's blessin' and the best o*
luck. . . . Coomble's the head of the family—I'll deal with
him in the morning. . . . We Beaumeeres are good stock.
. . . You've got the telephone number all right . . .?"
But Bobby Baynes was addressing the empty air. In-
spector Higgins was already mounting the steps in huge
strides.
"Mayfair 89754. Urgent. Hallo! Hallo! I want the
Lady Muriel Beaumeere, please. Room 435. She'll be
awake. Hallo! Hallo! Oh, is that you, Muriel ?—er—Hig-
gins speaking—er—can I come and see you now? Oh, I
know it's late and all that? Well—dear—it's like this,
you see—er—I can't over the telephone. . . . Oh, hell.
. . . Sorry! . . . Muriel, dear, this is awful. . . ." In-
spector Higgins pulled out his handkerchief and mopped
the beads of perspiration from his anguished brow. "Oh,


CHAPTER XXXII
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS THINKS
""DOBBY! Bobby! So you couldn't trust me after
-D all!"
The inspector stared down at the still form and shud-
dered. Was this what he had meant when he said he
would go to great lengths to avoid giving evidence against
the Bull? No. It could not have been. Suicide! A coward's
way out—yet Bobby Baynes was no coward. Why then
had he done it?
Gently the inspector removed the revolver from the
dead man's grasp. Dead? There wasn't a doubt about it
.
Bobby had died as Pearson had died—shot through the
head.
Higgins broke open the breach of the revolver. One car-
tridge fired.
Abstractedly he gazed into space. Bobby dead! That
cheerful, impudent, capable Bobby! How could he break
it to Muriel? Poor kid! What would she think of him?
Higgins had not the moral courage to return to the flat and
telephone to her again.
And to think that this little weapon had ended such a
monument of vitality. This little gun! Yet—yet—was
not there something incongruous about the thing? Some-
thing—wrong—somewhere.
Should there not be an overpowering smell of burned
powder? And—and . . . Inspector Higgins sniffed the
end of the blunt barrel. The merest suggestion of the
scent he had expected. He inserted the tip of his little
finger into the end. . . .
288


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
red cross on the peak of the hood turned the corner, with
half a dozen men hanging on the steps. The ambulance
man had obviously given a lift to the officers from the
station.
Silently and reverently the mortal remains of Bobby
Baynes were placed on a stretcher and lifted gently into
the ambulance car.
"Scotland Yard, I understand, sir."
"No. I've changed my mind. Drive straight to Dr.
Pape's house—it's close by—then to the mortuary."
The plain-clothes men from the station had already
started on their tour of interrogation, a sergeant in charge
of operations. Higgins himself, with a suppressed shud-
der, entered Bobby's car and directed the ambulance to Dr.
Pape's house.
He was consumed with a burning hatred, which he knew
he must curb if his brain were to function properly. Al-
ready he had evidence of what this state of mind could do
—his instructions to take Bobby's body to Scotland Yard
and to ask Dr. Pape to go there, too. That would have
wasted the better part of an hour—and time was the es-
sence of success. Who could have done this thing?
Dr. Pape's house at last, and the lights on. Already he
must have received his telephonic instructions. The police
surgeon answered the inspector's knock himself.
"Hallo, Higgins. Trouble I hear."
"Yes. Outside. Come along."
The doctor entered the ambulance from the rear, and
Higgins stood in the roadway outside. The police surgeon
nodded his head grimly.
"Dead right enough." Callously and casually uttered, yet
with no intentional disrespect. Familiarity with death in
all its phases, and mostly of a violent nature, had hard-
ened the little doctor's heart, but turning to make the re-
mark he saw the evident distress in the inspector's face.
"Pal o' yours, Higgy? Gosh! I'm sorry."
"His right hand, doctor."


294 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
fired." Mercier frowned, and gazed wonderingly at the
inspector.
"Never mind that."
"Number 108-1987521. Gosh, sir! But this is damned
funny."
"What is?"
"The Paddington Police have just telephoned about its
brother. Here you are, sir. Number 108-1987522. And
that had one chamber discharged, too."


CHAPTER XXXIII
AND ACTS
THE constable on his beat which included parts of
the Regent's Canal, had heard something drop with
a plop into the water, but had not seen who had thrown
it. (It was not discovered until afterwards that this had
been due to the fact that he had been having a quiet smoke
well out of sight.) He had become alarmed and, the water
in no part of the canal being of any great depth, he had
aroused the lock-keeper who had provided a net and a
drag, and half an hour's search in the darkness—almost
against reason—had been rewarded.
The manager of Jenwell's Arms and Munitions Fac-
tory was none too pleased to receive a call from the police
at such an ungodly hour; and in turn, the proprietor of
•Roberts' Gun and Cartridge Store was equally unhappy.
Inspector Higgins had a very thick skin.
"Purchased five years ago by Mr. John Jones of High
Street, China."
Perfectly hopeless! If only Bobby had lived for a few
seconds he could have told the police who had done it.
Grimly Higgins admitted to himself that, even on his
deathbed, Bobby would not betray.
Inspector Higgins was up against a stone wall. Bobby
Baynes, from the life he had been leading, could have had
no friends. Such acquaintances as he might have had
295


296 I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
were hardly like to give the police any information what-
ever. In fact, it was more than possible that it was one of
these acquaintances who had committed the crime. In fact
it must be. Unless it were the act of a hpmicidal maniac.
Yet the pair of revolvers must have belonged to some-
one.
And the crime had every appearance of being not only
premeditated, but both meticulously and carefully carried
out.
If Pearson had been alive he might have been able to
give the police some assistance as to Bobby's enemies.
But Pearson was dead. Killed in an identical manner.
Still, there remained that Scott fellow.
Scott must be dragged out of bed to give his views on
the matter.
Scott! Wait a moment—it was Scott who had can-
noned into him at the Palatial—and Bobby Baynes had
admitted seeing him. Yet Scott was a reporter—possibly
there gathering gossip pars. Or getting local colour for
his novels. Anyhow, it would do no harm to call on him.
Inspector Higgins nearly pulled the bell out of its
socket when eventually he arrived at Scott's lodgings. To
his astonishment the door was opened almost immediately
by Scott himself.
He had been prepared for a weary wait whilst someone
within the house donned a dressing-gown or similar gar-
ment preparatory to answering his summons. Yet here
was Scott—fully dressed—and still wearing the clothes
he had worn at the Palatial Hotel.
"Oh, it's Inspector Higgins, is it not?"
"That's right"—gruffly. "I want a little talk with you."
"With pleasure. Come along in."
Inspector Higgins removed his hat, wiped his boots
and entered—warily. There was something oppressive in
the very atmosphere of the place.


AND ACTS
297
"Up late, aren't you?" he queried.
"Yes. That's nothing. I often stay late if I have a sud-
den inspiration for a yarn. My landlady has complained
before about me using the typewriter during the night.
She'll have a lot to say on the subject to-morrow, I ex-
pect."
Now why had the man taken the trouble to expound an
alibi? Was it merely making conversation or was there
something ulterior in the statement? It behoved Higgins
to be careful. This Scott had been up to something, that
was evident. But what?
"Writing?"
"Yes." A wave of the hand to a pile of typescript lying
face downwards on the table. Of course, this was not
real evidence that the man had actually been typing these
sheets, yet . . . Why this atmosphere of antagonism—
suspicion?
"Take a seat, Inspector."
"Thanks."
A pause, during which Inspector Higgins surveyed the
other with sombre eyes. Scott returned his gaze unper-
turbed.
"Well, Inspector. Bit late for a social call, what?"
"Mr. Scott. I have some bad news for you."
"Oh, dear." The man's face fell. "What is it?"
"I'm sorry to tell you that your partner has met with
sudden death."
"My partner? Partner? Good Lord! You're talking of
Pearson, I suppose. I haven't seen him for a week. Can't
be Bobby Baynes—I saw him after I ran into you this
evening."
Inspector Higgins stared at his shoes.
"Yes. Pearson is dead."
A strange look passed over the other's face.
"Pearson—dead? Impossible." Another pause. "What
happened?"


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
"Murdered."
Slowly Mr. Scott stood to his feet, his eyes protruding
in wonderment, his mouth slightly opened.
"Pearson murdered?"
"Yes."
"Who—who did it?"
"Doesn't matter. We've got him, anyhow. But that's
not all. Bobby Baynes is dead, too."
"Bobby—too." Weakly Scott subsided once more into
his chair, then he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his
nose ostentatiously. "Poor old Bobby. . . . Suicide?"
"Suicide? What on earth made you think that?"
The other started. "Association of ideas, Inspector.
You—you tell me that Pearson has been murdered—and
that Bobby Baynes is—dead. I—er—I supposed that
Bobby killed Pearson and then—er—killed himself. It
seemed a natural corollary of events—that's all."
"Well"—dryly. "You happen to be wrong."
"Then—then it was not suicide?" An attitude of sus-
pense waiting for the inspector's answer. Scott seemed
suddenly on the defensive. "Not suicide, eh? An—er—
accident perhaps."
"And neither, Mr. Scott, was it an accident. As a matter
of actual fact, it was a case of plain, unvarnished, vin-
dictive, lustful murder."
The inspector could not keep the venom out of his
voice. Somehow this case had gripped him more than any
other. He felt an urge within him to do some bodily
violence—and he wanted someone on whom to wreak it.
This Scott person, for instance, might have shown a little
more sympathy to the memory of Bobby Baynes, a better
man than he was ever likely to be. Yet he must control
his feelings.
"What—what—was it—then? . . . Do you mean
murder?" unbelievingly, a look of complete astonishment
on his face.
Inspector Higgins nodded grimly.


AND ACTS
299
Scott rose to his feet.
"Inspector Higgins," he said, impressively. "Bobby
Baynes was my friend as well as my partner. You know
my profession, although you may in your heart of hearts,
thoroughly disapprove. I'm a private detective, as well as
a novelist. I can help. I'll chuck up all my jobs and render
you all the assistance I possibly can. Murder! Why, if
between us we can't find out who shot—er—er—you said
he was shot, didn't you—er"
Inspector Higgins was upon his feet, one mighty hand
holding Scott's wrists in an unbreakable grip, a blood-
red mist of blinding passion before his eyes, his whole
being consumed with the knowledge of his enormous
strength and the other's comparative weakness. This—
this puny swine had killed Bobby Baynes—his Bobby!
The Lady Muriel's brother. . . .
The last thought cleared his brain—he blinked rapidly
—a grim satanic smile—sardonic and merciless:
"Scott—when you're hanged ..." A short mirthless
laugh. "When you're hanged, I'll get permission to come
and see it." With a mighty effort the inspector restrained
himself from smashing his fist into the other's face. "It—
it'll be damned funny!"
"Funny? You're right. It is funny, isn't it?" A vac-
uous grin, a titter of amusement, then a chortle of unre-
strained mirth.
The terrible cachinnations chilled the inspector's blood.
His raised hand dropped weakly to his side as a globule of
saliva trickled from Scott's lip and hung quivering at the
point of his chin.
Higgins' savage hate turned to pity. He stared, fas-
cinated at Scott's protruding tongue. . . .
The man was mad.
An empty revolver case—a bullet buried in a mattress
—a scorched pillow—and a signature on a dotted line.


I HAVE KILLED A MAN!
The Earl de la Monte was quite satisfied with Bobby's
five thousand pounds!
And on the morning that the Bull was hanged, Inspector
Higgins went to church. . . .