Room 13
Then: “Who shot this fellow?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to pull Johnny for it.”
They were in the hall, and Peter Kane spun round, open-mouthed, terror
in his eyes.
“You’re going to pull Johnny?” he said. “Do you know what you’re
saying, Craig? You’re mad! Johnny didn’t do it. Johnny was nowhere
near----”
“Johnny was there. And, what is more, Johnny was in the room, either
at the moment of the shooting or immediately after. The elevator boy
has spoken what’s in his mind, which isn’t much, but enough to convict
Johnny if this fellow dies.”
“Johnny there!” Peter’s voice did not rise above a whisper.
“I tell you frankly, Peter, I thought it was you.”
Craig was facing him squarely, his keen eyes searching the man’s
pallid face. “When I heard you were around, and that you had got to
know that this fellow was a fake. Why were you waiting?”
“I can’t tell you that--not now,” said the other, after turning the
matter over in his mind. “I should have seen Johnny if he was there. I
saw this girl, Lila, and I was afraid she’d recognise me. I think she
did, too. I went straight on into Shaftesbury Avenue, to a bar I know.
I was feeling queer over this--this discovery of mine. I can prove I
was there from a quarter to ten till ten, if you want any proof. Oh,
Johnny, Johnny!”
All this went on in the hall. Then came a quick patter of footsteps,
and Marney appeared in the doorway.
“Who is it--Johnny? Oh, it is you, Mr. Craig? Has anything happened?”
She looked in alarm from face to face. “Nothing has happened to
Johnny?”
“No, nothing has happened to Johnny,” said Craig soothingly. He
glanced at Peter. “You ought to know this, Marney,” he said. “I can
call you Marney--I’ve known you since you were five. Jeff Legge has
been shot.”
He thought she was going to faint, and sprang to catch her, but with
an effort of will she recovered.
“Jeff shot?” she asked shakily. “Who shot him?”
“I don’t know. That’s just what we are trying to discover. Perhaps you
can help us. Why did you leave the hotel. Was Johnny with you?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t seen Johnny,” she said, “but I owe him--everything. There
was a woman in the hotel.” She glanced timidly at her father. “I think
she was an hotel thief or something of the sort. She was there to--to
steal. A big Welsh woman.”
“A Welshwoman?” said Craig quickly. “What is her name?”
“Mrs. Gwenda Jones. Johnny knew about her, and telephoned her to tell
her to take care of me until he could get to me. She got me out of the
hotel, and then we walked down the Duke of York steps into the Mall.
And then a curious thing happened--I was just telling daddy when you
came. Mrs. Jones--she’s such a big woman----”
“I know the lady,” said Craig.
“Well, she disappeared. She wasn’t exactly swallowed up by the earth,”
she said with a faint smile, “and she didn’t go without warning.
Suddenly she said to me: ‘I must leave you now, my dear. I don’t want
that man to see me.’ I looked round to find who it was that she was so
terribly afraid of, and there seemed to be the most harmless lot of
people about. When I turned, Mrs. Jones was running up the steps. I
didn’t wish to call her back, I felt so ridiculous. And then a man
came up to me, a middle-aged man with the saddest face you could
imagine. I told you that, daddy?”
He nodded.
“He took his hat off--his hair was almost white--and asked me if my
name was Kane. I didn’t tell him the other name,” she said with a
shiver. “‘May I take you to a place of safety, Miss Kane?’ he said. ‘I
don’t think you ought to be seen with that raw-boned female.’ I didn’t
know what to do, I was so frightened, and I was glad of the company
and protection of any man, and, when he called a cab, I got in without
the slightest hesitation. He was such a gentle soul, Mr. Craig. He
talked of nothing but the weather and chickens! I think we talked
about chickens all the way to Lewisham.”
“Are you sure it was Lewisham?”
“It was somewhere in that neighbourhood. What other places are there
there?”
“New Cross, Brockley----” began Craig.
“That’s the place--Brockley. It was the Brockley Road. I saw it
printed on the corner of the street. He took me into his house. There
was a nice, motherly old woman whom he introduced to me as his
housekeeper.”
“And what did he talk about?” asked the fascinated Craig.
“Chickens,” she said solemnly. “Do you know what chickens lay the best
eggs? I’m sure you don’t. Do you know the best breed for England and
the best for America? Do you know the most economical chickens to
keep? I do! I wondered what he was going to do with me. I tried to ask
him, but he invariably turned me back to the question of incubators
and patent feeds, and the cubic space that a sitting hen requires as
compared with an ordinary hen. It was the quaintest, most fantastic
experience. It seems now almost like one of Alice’s dreams! Then, at
ten o’clock, I found a motor-car had come for me. ‘I’m sending you
home, young lady,’ he said.”
“Were you with him all the time, by the way?” asked Craig.
She shook her head.
“No, some part of the time I was with his housekeeper, who didn’t even
talk about chickens, but knitted large and shapeless jumpers, and
sniffed. That was when he was telephoning; I knew he was telephoning
because I could hear the drone of his voice.”
“He didn’t bring you back?”
“No, he just put me into the car and told me that I should be
perfectly safe. I arrived just a few minutes ahead of daddy.”
The detective scratched his chin, irritated and baffled.
“That’s certainly got me,” he said. “The raw-boned lady I know, but
the chicken gentleman is mysterious. You didn’t hear his name, by any
chance?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know the number of the house?”
“Yes,” she said frankly, “but he particularly asked me to forget it,
and I’ve forgotten it.” Then, in a more serious tone: “Is my--my----”
“Your nothing,” interrupted Peter. “The blackguard was
married--married to Lila. I think I must have gone daft, but I didn’t
realise this woman was planted in my house for a purpose. That type of
girl wouldn’t come at the wages if she had been genuine. Barney was
always suspicious of her, by the way.”
“Have you seen Johnny?” the girl asked Craig.
“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Craig carefully. “I thought of calling
on him pretty soon.”
Then it came to her in a flash, and she gasped.
“You don’t think Johnny shot this man? You can’t think that?”
“Of course he didn’t shoot him,” said Peter loudly. “It is a
ridiculous idea. But you’ll understand that Mr. Craig has to make
inquiries in all sorts of unlikely quarters. You haven’t been able to
get hold of Johnny to-night?”
A glance passed between them, and Peter groaned.
“What a fool! What a fool!” he said. “Oh, my God, what a fool!”
“Father, Johnny hasn’t done this? It isn’t true, Mr. Craig. Johnny
wouldn’t shoot a man. Did anybody see him? How was he shot?”
“He was shot in the back.”
“Then it wasn’t Johnny,” she said. “He couldn’t shoot a man in the
back!”
“I think, young lady,” said Craig with a little smile, “that you’d
better go to bed and dream about butterflies. You’ve had a perfect
hell of a day, if you’ll excuse my language. Say the firm word to her,
Peter. Who’s that?” He turned his head, listening.
“Barney,” said Peter. “He has a distressing habit of wearing slippers.
You can hear him miles away. He’s opening the door to somebody--one of
your people, perhaps. Or he’s taking your chauffeur a drink. Barney
has an enormous admiration for chauffeurs. They represent mechanical
genius to him.”
The girl was calmer now.
“I have too much to thank God for to-day, for this terrible thing to
be true,” she said in a low voice. “Mr. Craig, there is a mistake, I’m
sure. Johnny couldn’t have committed such a crime. It was somebody
else--one of Jeffrey Legge’s associates, somebody who hated him. He
told me once that lots of people hated him, and I thought he was
joking; he seemed so nice, so considerate. Daddy, I was mad to go
through that, even to make you happy.”
Peter Kane nodded.
“If you were mad, I was criminal, girlie,” he said. “There was only
one man in the world for you----”
The door opened slowly, and Barney sidled in.
“Johnny to see you folks,” he said, and pulled the door wider.
John Gray was standing in the passage, and his eyes fell upon Craig
with a look of quiet amusement.
CHAPTER XVII
In another second the girl was in his arms, clinging to him, weeping
convulsively on his shoulder, her face against his, her clasped hands
about his neck.
Craig could only look, wondering and fearing. Johnny would not have
walked into the net unwarned. Barney would have told him that he was
there. What amazed Craig, as the fact slowly dawned upon him, was that
Johnny was still in evening dress. He took a step toward him, and
gently Johnny disengaged the girl from his arms.
“I’d like to see the right cuff of your shirt, Johnny,” said Craig.
Without a word, Gray held up his arm, and the inspector scrutinised
the spotless linen, for spotless it was. No sign of a stain was
visible.
“Either somebody’s doing some tall lying, or you’re being
extraordinarily clever, Johnny. I’ll see that other cuff if I may.”
The second scrutiny produced no tangible result.
“Didn’t you go home and change to-night?”
“No, I haven’t been near my flat,” he said.
Craig was staggered.
“But your man said that you came in, changed, took a suit-case and
went away.”
“Then Parker has been drinking,” was the calm reply. “I have been
enjoying the unusual experience of dining with the detective officer
who was responsible for my holiday in Devonshire.”
Craig took a step back.
“With Inspector Flaherty?” he asked.
Johnny nodded.
“With the good Inspector Flaherty. We have been exchanging confidences
about our mutual acquaintances.”
“But who was it went to your flat?” asked the bewildered Craig.
“My double. I’ve always contended that I have a double,” said Johnny
serenely.
He stood in the centre of the astounded group. Into Marney’s heart had
crept a wild hope.
“Johnny,” she said, “was it this man who committed the crime for which
you were punished?”
To her disappointment he shook his head.
“No, I am the gentleman who was arrested and sent to Dartmoor--my
double stops short of these unpleasant experiences, and I can’t say
that I blame him.”
“But do you mean to say that he deceived your servant?”
“Apparently,” said Johnny, turning again to the detective who had
asked the question.
“I take your word, of course, Johnny, as an individual.”
Johnny chuckled.
“I like the pretty distinction. As an official, you want
corroboration. Very well, that is not hard to get. If you take me back
to Flaherty, he will support all I have told you.”
Peter and the detective had the good taste to allow him to take leave
of the girl without the embarrassment of their presence.
“It beats me--utterly beats me. Have you ever heard of this before,
Peter?”
“That Johnny had a double? No, I can’t say that I have.”
“He may have invented the story for the sake of the girl. But there is
the fact: he’s in evening dress, whilst his servant distinctly
described him as wearing a grey tweed suit. There is no mark of blood
on his cuff, and I’m perfectly certain that Stevens wouldn’t have
tried to get Johnny in bad. He is very fond of the boy. Of course, he
may be spinning this yarn for the sake of Marney, but it’ll be easy
enough to corroborate. I’ll use your phone, Peter,” he said suddenly.
“I’ve got Flaherty’s number in my book.”
The biggest surprise of the evening came when a sleepy voice,
undeniably Flaherty’s, answered him.
“Craig’s speaking. Who have you been dining with to-night, Flaherty?”