Copyright

Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by The Crime Club by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1921

Copyright © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1921

Introduction © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1946

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1921, 2016

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008190521

Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008190538

Version: 2016-08-09

Dedication

TO

DR ADAM A. C. MATHERS,

IN APPRECIATION OF HIS KINDLY

CRITICISM AND HELP

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction

Part I: London

Chapter I: A STRANGE CONSIGNMENT

Chapter II: Inspector Burnley on the Track

Chapter III: The Watcher on the Wall

Chapter IV: A Midnight Interview

Chapter V: Felix Tells a Story

Chapter VI: The Art of Detection

Chapter VII: The Cask at Last

Chapter VIII: The Opening of the Cask

Part II: Paris

Chapter IX: M. le Chef de la Sûreté

Chapter X: Who Wrote the Letter?

Chapter XI: Mm. Dupierre et Cie

Chapter XII: At the Gare St Lazare

Chapter XIII: The Owner of the Dress

Chapter XIV: M. Boirac Makes a Statement

Chapter XV: The House in the Avenue de l’Alma

Chapter XVI: Inspector Burnley Up Against It

Chapter XVII: A Council of War

Chapter XVIII: Lefarge Hunts Alone

Chapter XIX: The Testing of an Alibi

Chapter XX: Some Damning Evidence

Part III: London and Paris

Chapter XXI: A New Point of View

Chapter XXII: Felix Tells a Second Story

Chapter XXIII: Clifford Gets to Work

Chapter XXIV: Mr Georges La Touche

Chapter XXV: Disappointment

Chapter XXVI: A Clue at Last

Chapter XXVII: La Touche’s Dilemma

Chapter XXVIII: The Unravelling of the Web

Chapter XXIX: A Dramatic Dénouement

Chapter XXX: Conclusion

About the Book

The Detective Story Club

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

MESSRS COLLINS have done many things which have delighted me—notably their acceptance of the MS of The Cask in the first instance—but few have given me greater pleasure than their decision to include this book in their Pocket Classics Series. It is a great honour to confer on a detective story.

They have asked me to write a foreword, describing briefly how the book came into being, and this is it.

Well, unhappily for the foreword, nothing could have been more prosaic and uninteresting. I did not retire from the world, and with a plentiful supply of wet towels for my head and strong coffee at two-hourly intervals, cover the floor of my room with sheet after sheet of closely-written manuscript. Instead, I got ill and had a period of convalescence. During this period I became so bored that I didn’t know what to do, and to try to fill the time I asked for a pencil and a few sheets of notepaper. I began to write down what seemed the most absurd and improbable things I could think of. Before I knew what was happening, a whole morning was gone.

This was eminently satisfactory, and I was even more pleased when the second morning passed equally quickly. At last a chapter was finished. As a sort of joke I read it to my wife. She expressed delight (unhappily, mingled with amazement). I remember so well finishing up: ‘Harkness and the cask were gone!’ and her enthusiastic approval. However, her praise made me persevere, and I continued writing till I was well enough to take up again my normal job of railway engineering.

The manuscript was put away and almost forgotten, but some time later I re-read it. Rather to my surprise it seemed as if something might be made of it and I began to revise and re-write. In this a kindly neighbour (to whom I dedicated the book) gave me immense help. I read each chapter to him as it was finished, and he would stop me and say: ‘I don’t like that. No one but a complete idiot would have done any such thing. You’ll have to alter it.’ Most salutary: it made the book a deal better than it would otherwise have been.

At last it was finished, and in fear and trembling, yet with a thrill, I sent it to Messrs A. P. Watt, the literary agents. Then ensued a breathless period of waiting. Eventually there came a letter—one of the kindest I have ever received—from Mr J. D. Beresford, the distinguished novelist and critic, who had read the story on behalf of Messrs Collins. He said that he and Messrs Collins liked Parts I and II, but they didn’t think that Part III was so satisfactory. Would I consider rewriting this last part on a different basis?

I should have explained that the original Part III was the account of the actual trial for murder. The truth was reached by the breaking down of the real criminal in the witness box, with his subsequent confession and suicide. Having recently re-read that old Part III, I can see how completely justified Mr Beresford was. I don’t know a great deal about murder trials now, but I have learnt enough to appreciate that no trial like that I described has ever taken place, either in this or any other country.

Needless to say, I jumped at the idea of doing a new Part III, and I suppose there was no more amazed and delighted person in existence, when some time later Mr Watt wrote that Messrs Collins had accepted the book and were going to publish it immediately.

With Dickens in my mind I had called the great work A Mystery of Two Cities. My publishers didn’t care much for this title, and with their help, The Cask was eventually evolved.

The whole episode represented such a thrill that, as may be imagined, it was not long before I was at work on a second book, The Ponson Case. This also ‘went,’ and from then the die was cast. I would continue writing books, even if I had to give up railway work to do it—as eventually I had. And here I am glad of the opportunity of trying to express my great debt to my publishers, Collins, for their unfailing kindness and encouragement.

I’m afraid I cannot claim for The Cask any scientific construction whatever. Nowadays I begin a new book by working out the plot in fairly complete detail, noting (a) the method of the murder, (b) what steps the criminal takes to avoid suspicion, and (c) how the detectives eventually detect him—usually the most difficult of the three. Also, I prepare a list of the main incidents, details and histories of the necessary characters, and a chronology giving the order of the happenings. All this really amounts to a detailed synopsis, and it is pretty complete before I begin to write a word. But The Cask was built up, as it were, from hand to mouth. Each new ‘good notion’ was incorporated as it occurred to me, with the not infrequent result that it came out again next day, being found to conflict hopelessly with something else. The book must have been written at least five times before the final draft was reached. A truly intelligent way of getting to work! And another fatal mistake. The Cask runs to something like 120,000 words. I have since discovered that the same royalties are obtainable for 80,000. Bitterly have I regretted those 40,000 wasted words!

Were I writing The Cask today, it would probably turn out a very different book. All the stuff about the journeyings of the cask through London is irrelevant padding, and really ought to come out. On the other hand a much greater attempt should be made to interest the reader in the actors through their characters. Would this spoil it? I really don’t know. Fortunately, my publishers haven’t asked me to try the experiment. I’m sure, however, we can both agree in hoping the old unaltered Cask will again ‘go’ as a result of the new lease of life it is now getting.

FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS

1946

PART I

CHAPTER I
A STRANGE CONSIGNMENT

MR AVERY, managing director of the Insular and Continental Steam Navigation Company, had just arrived at his office. He glanced at his inward letters, ran his eye over his list of engagements for the day, and inspected the return of the movements of his Company’s steamers. Then, after spending a few moments in thought, he called his chief clerk, Wilcox.

‘I see the Bullfinch is in this morning from Rouen,’ he said. ‘I take it she’ll have that consignment of wines for Norton and Banks?’

‘She has,’ replied the chief clerk, ‘I’ve just rung up the dock office to inquire.’

‘I think we ought to have it specially checked from here. You remember all the trouble they gave us about the last lot. Will you send some reliable man down? Whom can you spare?’

‘Broughton could go. He has done it before.’

‘Well, see to it, will you, and then send in Miss Johnson, and I shall go through the mail.’

The office was the headquarters of the Insular and Continental Steam Navigation Company, colloquially known as the I. and C., and occupied the second floor of a large block of buildings at the western end of Fenchurch Street. The Company was an important concern, and owned a fleet of some thirty steamers ranging from 300 to 1000 tons burden, which traded between London and the smaller Continental ports. Low freights was their speciality, but they did not drive their boats, and no attempt was made to compete with the more expensive routes in the matter of speed. Under these circumstances they did a large trade in all kinds of goods other than perishables.

Mr Wilcox picked up some papers and stepped over to the desk at which Tom Broughton was working.

‘Broughton,’ he said, ‘Mr Avery wants you to go down at once to the docks and check a consignment of wines for Norton and Banks. It came in last night from Rouen in the Bullfinch. These people gave us a lot of trouble about their last lot, disputing our figures, so you will have to be very careful. Here are the invoices, and don’t take the men’s figures but see each cask yourself.’

‘Right, sir,’ replied Broughton, a young fellow of three-and-twenty, with a frank, boyish face and an alert manner. Nothing loath to exchange the monotony of the office for the life and bustle of the quays, he put away his books, stowed the invoices carefully in his pocket, took his hat and went quickly down the stairs and out into Fenchurch Street.

It was a brilliant morning in early April. After a spell of cold, showery weather, there was at last a foretaste of summer in the air, and the contrast made it seem good to be alive. The sun shone with that clear freshness seen only after rain. Broughton’s spirits rose as he hurried through the busy streets, and watched the ceaseless flow of traffic pouring along the arteries leading to the shipping.

His goal was St Katherine’s Docks, where the Bullfinch was berthed, and, passing across Tower Hill and round two sides of the grim old fortress, he pushed on till he reached the basin in which the steamer was lying. She was a long and rather low vessel of some 800 tons burden, with engines amidships, and a single black funnel ornamented with the two green bands that marked the Company’s boats. Recently out from her annual overhaul, she looked trim and clean in her new coat of black paint. Unloading was in progress, and Broughton hurried on board, anxious to be present before any of the consignment of wine was set ashore.

He was just in time, for the hatches of the lower forehold, in which the casks were stowed, had been cleared and were being lifted off as he arrived. As he stood on the bridge deck waiting for the work to be completed he looked around.

Several steamers were lying in the basin. Immediately behind, with her high bluff bows showing over the Bullfinch’s counter, was the Thrush, his Company’s largest vessel, due to sail that afternoon for Corunna and Vigo. In the berth in front lay a Clyde Shipping Company’s boat bound for Belfast and Glasgow and also due out that afternoon, the smoke from her black funnel circling lazily up into the clear sky. Opposite was the Arcturus, belonging to the I. and C.’s rivals, Messrs Babcock and Millman, and commanded by ‘Black Mac’, so called to distinguish him from the Captain McTavish of differently coloured hair, ‘Red Mac’, who was master of the same Company’s Sirius. To Broughton these boats represented links with the mysterious, far-off world of romance, and he never saw one put to sea without longing to go with her to Copenhagen, Bordeaux, Lisbon, Spezzia, or to whatever other delightful-sounding place she was bound.

The fore-hatch being open, Broughton climbed down into the hold armed with his notebook, and the unloading of the casks began. They were swung out in lots of four fastened together by rope slings. As each lot was dealt with, the clerk noted the contents in his book, from which he would afterwards check the invoices.

The work progressed rapidly, the men straining and pushing to get the heavy barrels in place for the slings. Gradually the space under and around the hatch was cleared, the casks then having to be rolled forward from the farther parts of the hold.

A quartet of casks had just been hoisted and Broughton was turning to examine the next lot when he heard a sudden shout of ‘Look out, there! Look out!’ and felt himself seized roughly and pulled backwards. He swung round and was in time to see the four casks turning over out of the sling and falling heavily to the floor of the hold. Fortunately they had only been lifted some four or five feet, but they were heavy things and came down solidly. The two under were damaged slightly and the wine began to ooze out between the staves. The others had had their fall broken and neither seemed the worse. The men had all jumped clear and no one was hurt.

‘Upend those casks, boys,’ called the foreman, when the damage had been briefly examined, ‘and let’s save the wine.’

The leaking casks were turned damaged end up and lifted aside for temporary repairs. The third barrel was found to be uninjured, but when they came to the fourth it was seen that it had not entirely escaped.

This fourth cask was different in appearance from the rest, and Broughton had noted it as not belonging to Messrs Norton and Banks’ consignment. It was more strongly made and better finished, and was stained a light oak colour and varnished. Evidently, also, it did not contain wine, for what had called their attention to its injury was a little heap of sawdust which had escaped from a crack at the end of one of the staves.

‘Strange looking cask this. Did you ever see one like it before?’ said Broughton to the I. and C. foreman who had pulled him back, a man named Harkness. He was a tall, strongly built man with prominent cheekbones, a square chin and a sandy moustache. Broughton had known him for some time and had a high opinion of his intelligence and ability.

‘Never saw nothin’ like it,’ returned Harkness. ‘I tell you, sir, that there cask ’as been made to stand some knocking about.’

‘Looks like it. Let’s get it rolled back out of the way and turned up, so as to see the damage.’

Harkness seized the cask and with some difficulty rolled it close to the ship’s side out of the way of the unloading, but when he tried to upend it he found it too heavy to lift.

‘There’s something more than sawdust in there,’ he said. ‘It’s the ’eaviest cask ever I struck. I guess it was its weight shifted the other casks in the sling and spilled the lot.’

He called over another man and they turned the cask damaged end up. Broughton stepped over to the charge hand and asked him to check the tally for a few seconds while he examined the injury.

As he was returning across the half-dozen yards to join the foreman, his eye fell on the little heap of sawdust that had fallen out of the crack, and the glitter of some bright object showing through it caught his attention. He stooped and picked it up. His amazement as he looked at it may be imagined, for it was a sovereign!

He glanced quickly round. Only Harkness of all the men present had seen it.

‘Turn the ’eap over, sir,’ said the foreman, evidently as surprised as the younger man, ‘see if there are any more.’

Broughton sifted the sawdust through his fingers, and his astonishment was not lessened when he discovered two others hidden in the little pile.

He gazed at the three gold coins lying in his palm. As he did so Harkness gave a smothered exclamation and, stooping rapidly, picked something out from between two of the boards of the hold’s bottom.

‘Another, by gum!’ cried the foreman in low tones, ‘and another!’ He bent down again and lifted a second object from behind where the cask was standing. ‘Blest if it ain’t a blooming gold mine we’ve struck.’

Broughton put the five sovereigns in his pocket, as he and Harkness unostentatiously scrutinised the deck. They searched carefully, but found no other coins.

‘Did you drop them when I dragged you back?’ asked Harkness.

‘I? No, I wish I had, but I had no gold about me.’

‘Some of the other chaps must ’ave then. Maybe Peters or Wilson. Both jumped just at this place.’

‘Well, don’t say anything for a moment. I believe they came out of the cask.’

‘Out o’ the cask? Why, sir, ’oo would send sovereigns in a cask?’

‘No one, I should have said; but how would they get among the sawdust if they didn’t come out through the crack with it?’

‘That’s so,’ said Harkness thoughtfully, continuing, ‘I tell you, Mr Broughton, you say the word and I’ll open that crack a bit more and we’ll ’ave a look into the cask.’

The clerk recognised that this would be irregular, but his curiosity was keenly aroused and he hesitated.

‘I’ll do it without leaving any mark that won’t be put down to the fall,’ continued the tempter, and Broughton fell.

‘I think we should know,’ he replied. ‘This gold may have been stolen and inquiries should be made.’

The foreman smiled and disappeared, returning with a hammer and cold chisel. The broken piece at the end of the stave was entirely separated from the remainder by the crack, but was held in position by one of the iron rings. This piece Harkness with some difficulty drove upwards, thus widening the crack. As he did so, a little shower of sawdust fell out and the astonishment of the two men was not lessened when with it came a number of sovereigns, which went rolling here and there over the planks.

It happened that at the same moment the attention of the other men was concentrated on a quartet of casks which was being slung up through the hatches, the nervousness caused by the slip not having yet subsided. None of them therefore saw what had taken place, and Broughton and Harkness had picked up the coins before any of them turned round. Six sovereigns had come out, and the clerk added them to the five he already had, while he and his companion unostentatiously searched for others. Not finding any, they turned back to the cask deeply mystified.

‘Open that crack a bit more,’ said Broughton. ‘What do you think about it?’

‘Blest if I know what to think,’ replied the foreman. ‘We’re on to something mighty queer anyway. ’Old my cap under the crack till I prize out that there bit of wood altogether.’

With some difficulty the loose piece of the stave was hammered up, leaving a hole in the side of the barrel some six inches deep by nearly four wide. Half a capful of sawdust fell out, and the clerk added to it by clearing the broken edge of the wood. Then he placed the cap on the top of the cask and they eagerly felt through the sawdust.

‘By Jehoshaphat!’ whispered Harkness excitedly, ‘it’s just full of gold!’

It seemed to be so, indeed, for in it were no fewer than seven sovereigns.

‘That’s eighteen in all,’ said Broughton, in an awed tone, as he slipped them into his pocket. ‘If the whole cask’s full of them it must be worth thousands and thousands of pounds.’

They stood gazing at the prosaic looking barrel, outwardly remarkable only in its strong design and good finish, marvelling if beneath that commonplace exterior there was indeed hidden what to them seemed a fortune. Then Harkness crouched down and looked into the cask through the hole he had made. Hardly had he done so when he sprang back with a sudden oath.

‘Look in there, Mr Broughton!’ he cried in a suppressed tone. ‘Look in there!’

Broughton stooped in turn and peered in. Then he also recoiled, for there, sticking up out of the sawdust, were the fingers of a hand.

‘This is terrible,’ he whispered, convinced at last they were in the presence of tragedy, and then he could have kicked himself for being such a fool.

‘Why, it’s only a statue,’ he cried.

‘Statue?’ replied Harkness sharply. ‘Statue? That ain’t no statue. That’s part of a dead body, that is. And don’t you make no mistake.’

‘It’s too dark to see properly. Get a light, will you, till we make sure.’

When the foreman had procured a hand-lamp Broughton looked in again and speedily saw that his first impression was correct. The fingers were undoubtedly those of a woman’s hand, small, pointed, delicate, and bearing rings which glinted in the light.

‘Clear away some more of the sawdust, Harkness,’ said the young man as he stood up again. ‘We must find out all we can now.’

He held the cap as before, and the foreman carefully picked out with the cold chisel the sawdust surrounding the fingers. As its level lowered, the remainder of the hand and the wrist gradually became revealed. The sight of the whole only accentuated the first impression of dainty beauty and elegance.

Broughton emptied the cap on to the top of the cask. Three more sovereigns were found hidden in it, and these he pocketed with the others. Then he turned to re-examine the cask.

It was rather larger than the wine barrels, being some three feet six high by nearly two feet six in diameter. As already mentioned, it was of unusually strong construction, the sides, as shown by the broken stave, being quite two inches thick. Owing possibly to the difficulty of bending such heavy stuff, it was more cylindrical than barrel shaped, the result being that the ends were unusually large, and this no doubt partly accounted for Harkness’s difficulty in upending it. In place of the usual thin metal bands, heavy iron rings clamped it together.

On one side was a card label, tacked round the edges and addressed in a foreign handwriting: ‘M. Léon Felix, 141 West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road, London, W., via Rouen and long sea,’ with the words ‘Statuary only’ printed with a rubber stamp. The label bore also the sender’s name : ‘Dupierre et Cie., Fabricants de la Sculpture Monumentale, Rue Provence, Rue de la Convention, Grenelle, Paris.’ Stencilled in black letters on the woodwork was ‘Return to’ in French, English, and German, and the name of the same firm. Broughton examined the label with care, in the half-unconscious hope of discovering something from the handwriting. In this he was disappointed, but, as he held the hand-lamp close, he saw something else which interested him.

The label was divided into two parts, an ornamental border containing the sender’s advertisement and a central portion for the address. These two were separated by a thick black line. What had caught Broughton’s eye was an unevenness along this line, and closer examination showed that the central portion had been cut out, and a piece of paper pasted on the back of the card to cover the hole. Felix’s address was therefore written on this paper, and not on the original label. The alteration had been neatly done, and was almost unnoticeable. Broughton was puzzled at first, then it occurred to him that the firm must have run out of labels and made an old one do duty a second time.

‘A cask containing money and a human hand—probably a body,’ he mused. ‘It’s a queer business and something has got to be done about it.’ He stood looking at the cask while he thought out his course of action.

That a serious crime had been committed he felt sure, and that it was his duty to report his discovery immediately he was no less certain. But there was the question of the consignment of wines. He had been sent specially to the docks to check it, and he wondered if he would be right to leave the work undone. He thought so. The matter was serious enough to justify him. And it was not as if the wine would not be checked. The ordinary tallyman was there, and Broughton knew him to be careful and accurate. Besides, he could probably get a clerk from the dock office to help. His mind was made up. He would go straight to Fenchurch Street and report to Mr Avery, the managing director.

‘Harkness,’ he said, ‘I’m going up to the head office to report this. You’d better close up that hole as best you can and then stay here and watch the cask. Don’t let it out of your sight on any pretext until you get instructions from Mr Avery.’

‘Right, Mr Broughton,’ replied the foreman, ‘I think you’re doing the proper thing.’

They replaced as much of the sawdust as they could, and Harkness fitted the broken piece of stave into the space and drove it home, nailing it fast.

‘Well, I’m off,’ said Broughton, but as he turned to go a gentleman stepped down into the hold and spoke to him. He was a man of medium height, foreign looking, with a dark complexion and a black pointed beard, and dressed in a well-cut suit of blue clothes, with white spats and a Homburg hat. He bowed and smiled.

‘Pardon me, but you are, I presume, an I. and C. official?’ he asked, speaking perfect English, but with a foreign accent.

‘I am a clerk in the head office, sir,’ replied Broughton.

‘Ah, quite so. Perhaps then you can oblige me with some information? I am expecting from Paris by this boat a cask containing a group of statuary from Messrs Dupierre of that city. Can you tell me if it has arrived? This is my name.’ He handed Broughton a card on which was printed: ‘M. Léon Felix, 141 West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road, W.’

Though the clerk saw at a glance the name was the same as that on the label on the cask, he pretended to read it with care while considering his reply. This man clearly was the consignee, and if he were told the cask was there he would doubtless claim immediate possession. Broughton could think of no excuse for refusing him, but he was determined all the same not to let it go. He had just decided to reply that it had not yet come to light, but that they would keep a look out for it, when another point struck him.

The damaged cask had been moved to the side of the hold next the dock, and it occurred to the clerk that any one standing on the wharf beside the hatch could see it. For all he knew to the contrary, this man Felix might have watched their whole proceedings, including the making of the hole in the cask and the taking out of the sovereigns. If he had recognised his property, as was possible, a couple of steps from where he was standing would enable him to put his finger on the label and so convict Broughton of a falsehood. The clerk decided that in this case honesty would be the best policy.

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, ‘your cask has arrived. By a curious coincidence it is this one beside us. We had just separated it out from the wine-barrels owing to its being differently consigned.’

Mr Felix looked at the young man suspiciously, but he only said: ‘Thank you. I am a collector of objets d’art, and am anxious to see the statue. I have a cart here and I presume I can get it away at once?’

This was what Broughton had expected, but he thought he saw his way.

‘Well, sir,’ he responded civilly, ‘that is outside my job and I fear I cannot help you. But I am sure you can get it now if you will come over to the office on the quay and go through the usual formalities. I am going there now and will be pleased to show you the way.’

‘Oh, thank you. Certainly,’ agreed the stranger.

As they walked off, a doubt arose in Broughton’s mind that Harkness might misunderstand his replies to Felix, and if the latter returned with a plausible story might let the cask go. He therefore called out:

‘You understand then, Harkness, you are to do nothing till you hear from Mr Avery,’ to which the foreman replied by a wave of the hand.

The problem the young clerk had to solve was three-fold. First, he had to go to Fenchurch Street to report the matter to his managing director. Next, he must ensure that the cask was kept in the Company’s possession until that gentleman had decided his course of action, and lastly, he wished to accomplish both of these things without raising the suspicions either of Felix or the clerks in the quay office. It was not an easy matter, and at first Broughton was somewhat at a loss. But as they entered the office a plan occurred to him which he at once decided on. He turned to his companion.

‘If you will wait here a moment, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll find the clerk who deals with your business and send him to you.’

‘I thank you.’

He passed through the door in the screen dividing the outer and inner offices and, crossing to the manager’s room, spoke in a low tone to that official.

‘Mr Huston, there’s a man outside named Felix for whom a cask has come from Paris on the Bullfinch and he wants possession now. The cask is there, but Mr Avery suspects there is something not quite right about it, and he sent me to tell you to please delay delivery until you hear further from him. He said to make any excuse, but under no circumstances to give the thing up. He will ring you up in an hour or so when he has made some further inquiries.’

Mr Huston looked queerly at the young man, but he only said, ‘That will be all right,’ and the latter took him out and introduced him to Mr Felix.

Broughton delayed a few moments in the inner office to arrange with one of the clerks to take up his work on the Bullfinch during his absence. As he passed out by the counter at which the manager and Mr Felix were talking, he heard the latter say in an angry tone:

‘Very well, I will go now and see your Mr Avery, and I feel sure he will make it up to me for this obstruction and annoyance.’

‘It’s up to me to be there first,’ thought Broughton, as he hurried out of the dock gates in search of a taxi. None was in sight and he stopped and considered the situation. If Felix had a car waiting he would get to Fenchurch Street while he, Broughton, was looking round. Something else must be done.

Stepping into the Little Tower Hill Post Office, he rang up the head office, getting through to Mr Avery’s private room. In a few words he explained that he had accidentally come on evidence which pointed to the commission of a serious crime, that a man named Felix appeared to know something about it, and that this man was about to call on Mr Avery, continuing:

‘Now, sir, if you’ll let me make a suggestion, it is that you don’t see this Mr Felix immediately he calls, but that you let me into your private office by the landing door, so that I don’t need to pass through the outer office. Then you can hear my story in detail and decide what to do.’

‘It all sounds rather vague and mysterious,’ replied the distant voice, ‘can you not tell me what you found?’

‘Not from here, sir, if you please. If you’ll trust me this time, I think you’ll be satisfied that I am right when you hear my story.’

‘All right. Come along.’

Broughton left the post office and, now when it no longer mattered, found an empty taxi. Jumping in, he drove to Fenchurch Street and, passing up the staircase, knocked at his chief’s private door.

‘Well, Broughton,’ said Mr Avery, ‘sit down there.’ Going to the door leading to the outer office he spoke to Wilcox.

‘I’ve just had a telephone call and I want to send some other messages. I’ll be engaged for half an hour.’ Then he closed the door and slipped the bolt.

‘You see I have done as you asked and I shall now hear your story. I trust you haven’t put me to all this inconvenience without a good cause.’

‘I think not, sir, and I thank you for the way you have met me. What happened was this,’ and Broughton related in detail his visit to the docks, the mishap to the casks, the discovery of the sovereigns and the woman’s hand, the coming of Mr Felix and the interview in the quay office, ending up by placing the twenty-one sovereigns in a little pile on the chief’s desk.

When he ceased speaking there was silence for several minutes, while Mr Avery thought over what he had heard. The tale was a strange one, but both from his knowledge of Broughton’s character as well as from the young man’s manner he implicitly believed every word he had heard. He considered the firm’s position in the matter. In one way it did not concern them if a sealed casket, delivered to them for conveyance, contained marble, gold, or road metal, so long as the freight was paid. Their contract was to carry what was handed over to them from one point to another and give it up in the condition they received it. If anyone chose to send sovereigns under the guise of statuary, any objection that might be raised concerned the Customs Department, not them.

On the other hand, if evidence pointing to a serious crime came to the firm’s notice, it would be the duty of the firm to acquaint the police. The woman’s hand in the cask might or might not indicate a murder, but the suspicion was too strong to justify them in hiding the matter. He came to a decision.

‘Broughton,’ he said, ‘I think you have acted very wisely all through. We will go now to Scotland Yard, and you may repeat your tale to the authorities. After that I think we will be clear of it. Will you go out the way you came in, get a taxi, and wait for me in Fenchurch Street at the end of Mark Lane.’

Mr Avery locked the private door after the young man, put on his coat and hat, and went into the outer office.

‘I am going out for a couple of hours, Wilcox,’ he said.

The head clerk approached with a letter in his hand.

‘Very good, sir. A gentleman named Mr Felix called about 11.30 to see you. When I said you were engaged, he would not wait, but asked for a sheet of paper and an envelope to write you a note. This is it.’

The managing director took the note and turned back into his private office to read it. He was puzzled. He had said at 11.15 he would be engaged for half an hour. Therefore Mr Felix would only have had fifteen minutes to wait. As he opened the envelope he wondered why that gentleman could not have spared this moderate time, after coming all the way from the docks to see him. And then he was puzzled again, for the envelope was empty!

He stood in thought. Had something occurred to startle Mr Felix when writing his note, so that in his agitation he omitted to enclose it? Or had he simply made a mistake? Or was there some deep-laid plot? Well, he would see what Scotland Yard thought.

He put the envelope away in his pocket-book and, going down to the street, joined Broughton in the taxi. They rattled along the crowded thoroughfares while Mr Avery told the clerk about the envelope.

‘I say, sir,’ said the latter, ‘but that’s a strange business. When I saw him, Mr Felix was not at all agitated. He seemed to me a very cool, clear-headed man.’

It happened that about a year previously the shipping company had been the victim of a series of cleverly-planned robberies, and, in following up the matter, Mr Avery had become rather well acquainted with two or three of the Yard Inspectors. One of these in particular he had found a shrewd and capable officer, as well as a kindly and pleasant man to work with. On arrival at the Yard he therefore asked for this man, and was pleased to find he was not engaged.

‘Good-morning, Mr Avery,’ said the Inspector, as they entered his office, ‘what good wind blows you our way today?’

‘Good-morning, Inspector. This is Mr Broughton, one of my clerks, and he has got a rather singular story that I think will interest you to hear.’

Inspector Burnley shook hands, closed the door, and drew up a couple of chairs.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am always interested in a good story.’

‘Now, Broughton, repeat your adventures over again to Inspector Burnley.’

Broughton started off and, for the second time, told of his visit to the docks, the damage to the heavily-built cask, the finding of the sovereigns and the woman’s hand, and the interview with Mr Felix. The Inspector listened gravely and took a note or two, but did not speak till the clerk had finished, when he said:

‘Let me congratulate you, Mr Broughton, on your very clear statement.’

‘To which I might add a word,’ said Mr Avery, and he told of the visit of Mr Felix to the office and handed over the envelope he had left.

‘That envelope was written at 11.30,’ said the Inspector, ‘and it is now nearly 12.30. I am afraid this is a serious matter, Mr Avery. Can you come to the docks at once?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, don’t let us lose any time.’ He threw a London directory down before Broughton. ‘Just look up this Felix, will you, while I make some arrangements.’

Broughton looked for West Jubb Street, but there was no such near Tottenham Court Road.

‘I thought as much,’ said Inspector Burnley, who had been telephoning. ‘Let us proceed.’

As they reached the courtyard a taxi drew up, containing two plain clothes men as well as the driver. Burnley threw open the door, they all got in, and the vehicle slid quickly out into the street.

Burnley turned to Broughton. ‘Describe the man Felix as minutely as you can.’

‘He was a man of about middle height, rather slightly and elegantly built. He was foreign-looking, French, I should say, or even Spanish, with dark eyes and complexion, and black hair. He wore a short, pointed beard. He was dressed in blue clothes of good quality, with a dark green or brown Homburg hat, and black shoes with light spats. I did not observe his collar and tie specially, but he gave me the impression of being well dressed in such matters of detail. He wore a ring with some kind of stone on the little finger of his left hand.’

The two plain clothes men had listened attentively to the description, and they and the Inspector conversed in low tones for a few moments, when silence fell on the party.

They stopped opposite the Bullfinch’s berth and Broughton led the way down.

‘There she is,’ he pointed, ‘if we go to that gangway we can get down direct to the forehold.’

The two plain-clothes men had also alighted and the five walked in the direction indicated. They crossed the gangway and, approaching the hatchway, looked down into the hold.

‘There’s where it is,’ began Broughton, pointing down, and then suddenly stopped.

The others stepped forward and looked down. The hold was empty. Harkness and the cask were gone!

CHAPTER II
INSPECTOR BURNLEY ON THE TRACK

THE immediate suggestion was, of course, that Harkness had had the cask moved to some other place for safety, and this they set themselves to find out.

‘Get hold of the gang that were unloading this hold,’ said the Inspector.

Broughton darted off and brought up a stevedore’s foreman, from whom they learned that the forehold had been emptied some ten minutes earlier, the men having waited to complete it and then gone for dinner.

‘Where do they get their dinner? Can we get hold of them now?’ asked Mr Avery.

‘Some of them, sir, I think. Most of them go out into the city, but some use the night watchman’s room where there is a fire.’

‘Let’s go and see,’ said the Inspector, and headed by the foreman they walked some hundred yards along the quay to a small brick building set apart from the warehouses, inside and in front of which sat a number of men, some eating from steaming cans, others smoking short pipes.

‘Any o’ you boys on the Bullfinch’s lower forehold?’ asked the foreman, ‘if so, boss wants you ’alf a sec.’

Three of the men got up slowly and came forward.

‘We want to know, men,’ said the managing director, ‘if you can tell us anything about Harkness and a damaged cask. He was to wait with it till we got down.’

‘Well, he’s gone with it,’ said one of the men, ‘less’n ’alf an hour ago.’

‘Gone with it?’

‘Yes. Some toff in blue clothes an’ a black beard came up an’ give ’im a paper, an’ when ’e’d read it ’e calls out an’ sez, sez ’e, “’Elp me swing out this ’ere cask,” ’e says. We ’elps ’im, an’ ’e puts it on a ’orse dray—a four-wheeler. An’ then they all goes off, ’im an’ the cove in the blue togs walkin’ together after the dray.’

‘Any name on the dray?’ asked Mr Avery.

‘There was,’ replied the spokesman, ‘but I’m blessed if I knows what it was. ’Ere Bill, you was talking about that there name. Where was it?’

Another man spoke.

‘It was Tottenham Court Road, it was. But I didn’t know the street, and I thought that a strange thing, for I’ve lived off the Tottenham Court Road all my life.’

‘Was it East John Street?’ asked Inspector Burnley.

‘Ay, it was something like that. East or West. West, I think. An’ it was something like John. Not John, but something like it.’

‘What colour was the dray?’

‘Blue, very fresh and clean.’

‘Any one notice the colour of the horse?’

But this was beyond them. The horse was out of their line. Its colour had not been observed.

‘Well,’ said Mr Avery, as the Inspector signed that was all he wanted, ‘we are much obliged to you. Here’s something for you.’

Inspector Burnley beckoned to Broughton.

‘You might describe this man Harkness.’

‘He was a tall chap with a sandy moustache, very high cheekbones, and a big jaw. He was dressed in brown dungarees and a cloth cap.’

‘You hear that,’ said the Inspector, turning to the plain-clothes men. ‘They have half an hour’s start. Try to get on their track. Try north and east first, as it is unlikely they’d go west for fear of meeting us. Report to headquarters.’

The men hurried away.

‘Now, a telephone,’ continued the Inspector. ‘Perhaps you’d let me use your quay office one.’

They walked to the office, and Mr Avery arranged for him to get the private instrument in the manager’s room. He rejoined the others in a few minutes.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s all we can do in the meantime. A description of the men and cart will be wired round to all the stations immediately, and every constable in London will be on the look-out for them before very much longer.’

‘Very good that,’ said the managing director.

The Inspector looked surprised.

‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘that’s the merest routine. But now I’m here I would like to make some other inquiries. Perhaps you would tell your people that I’m acting with your approval, as it might make them give their information more willingly.’

Mr Avery called over Huston, the manager.

‘Huston, this is Inspector Burnley of Scotland Yard. He is making some inquiries about that cask you already heard of. I’ll be glad if you see that he is given every facility.’ He turned to the Inspector. ‘I suppose there’s nothing further I can do to help you? I should be glad to get back to the City again, if possible.’

‘Thank you, Mr Avery, there’s nothing more. I’ll cruise round here a bit. I’ll let you know how things develop.’

‘Right. Good-bye then, in the meantime.’

The Inspector, left to his own devices, called Broughton and, going on board the Bullfinch, had the clerk’s story repeated in great detail, the actual place where each incident happened being pointed out. He made a search for any object that might have been dropped, but without success, visited the wharf and other points from which the work at the cask might have been overlooked, and generally made himself thoroughly familiar with the circumstances. By the time this was done the other men who had been unloading the forehold had returned from dinner, and he interviewed them, questioning each individually. No additional information was received.

The Inspector then returned to the quay office.

‘I want you,’ he asked Mr Huston, ‘to be so good as to show me all the papers you have referring to that cask, waybills, forward notes, everything.’

Mr Huston disappeared, returning in a few seconds with some papers which he handed to Burnley. The latter examined them and then said:

‘These seem to show that the cask was handed over to the French State Railway at their Rue Cardinet Goods Station, near the Gare St Lazare, in Paris, by MM. Dupierre et Cie., carriage being paid forward. They ran it by rail to Rouen, where it was loaded on to your Bullfinch.’

‘That is so.’

‘I suppose you cannot say whether the Paris collection was made by a railway vehicle?’

‘No, but I should think not, as otherwise the cartage charges would probably show.’

‘I think I am right in saying that these papers are complete and correct in every detail?’

‘Oh yes, they are perfectly in order.’

‘How do you account for the cask being passed through by the Customs officials without examination?’

‘There was nothing suspicious about it. It bore the label of a well-known and reputable firm, and was invoiced as well as stencilled, “Statuary only.” It was a receptacle obviously suitable for transporting such goods, and its weight was also in accordance. Unless in the event of some suspicious circumstance, cases of this kind are seldom opened.’

‘Thank you, Mr Huston, that is all I want at present. Now, can I see the captain of the Bullfinch?’

‘Certainly. Come over and I’ll introduce you.’

Captain M’Nabb was a big, rawboned Ulsterman, with a hooked nose and sandy hair. He was engaged in writing up some notes in his cabin.

‘Come in, sir, come in,’ he said, as Huston made the Inspector known. ‘What can I do for you?’

Burnley explained his business. He had only a couple of questions to ask.

‘How is the trans-shipment done from the railway to your boat at Rouen?’

‘The wagons come down on the wharf right alongside. The Rouen stevedores load them, either with the harbour travelling crane or our own winches.’

‘Would it be at all possible for a barrel to be tampered with after it was once aboard?’

‘How do you mean tampered with? A barrel of wine might be tapped, but that’s all could be done.’

‘Could a barrel be changed, or completely emptied and filled with something else?’

‘It could not. The thing’s altogether impossible.’

‘I’m much obliged to you, captain. Good-day.’

Inspector Burnley was nothing if not thorough. He questioned in turn the winch drivers, the engineers, even the cook, and before six o’clock had interviewed every man that had sailed on the Bullfinch from Rouen. The results were unfortunately entirely negative. No information about the cask was forthcoming. No question had been raised about it. Nothing had happened to call attention to it, or that was in any way out of the common.

Puzzled but not disheartened, Inspector Burnley drove back to Scotland Yard, his mind full of the mysterious happenings, and his pocket-book stored with all kinds of facts about the Bullfinch, her cargo, and crew.

Two messages were waiting for him. The first was from Ralston, the plain-clothes man that he had sent from the docks in a northerly direction. It read:

‘Traced parties as far as north end of Leman Street. Trail lost there.’

The second was from a police station in Upper Head Street:

‘Parties seen turning from Great Eastern Street into Curtain Road about 1.20 p.m.’

‘H’m, going north-west, are they?’ mused the Inspector, taking down a large scale map of the district. ‘Let’s see. Here’s Leman Street. That is, say, due north from St Katherine’s Docks, and half a mile or more away. Now, what’s the other one?’—he referred to the wire—‘Curtain Road should be somewhere here. Yes, here it is. Just a continuation of the same line, only more west, say, a mile and a half from the docks. So they’re going straight, are they, and using the main streets. H’m. H’m. Now I wonder where they’re heading to. Let’s see.’

The Inspector pondered. ‘Ah, well,’ he murmured at last, ‘we must wait till tomorrow,’ and, sending instructions recalling his two plain-clothes assistants, he went home.

But his day’s work was not done. Hardly had he finished his meal and lit one of the strong, black cigars he favoured, when he was summoned back to Scotland Yard. There waiting for him was Broughton, and with him the tall, heavy-jawed foreman, Harkness.

The Inspector pulled forward two chairs.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said, when the clerk had introduced his companion, ‘and let me hear your story.’

‘You’ll be surprised to see me so soon again, Mr Burnley,’ answered Broughton, ‘but, after leaving you, I went back to the office to see if there were any instructions for me, and found our friend here had just turned up. He was asking for the chief, Mr Avery, but he had gone home. Then he told me his adventures, and as I felt sure Mr Avery would have sent him to you, I thought my best plan was to bring him along without delay.’

‘And right you were, Mr Broughton. Now, Mr Harkness, I would be obliged if you would tell me what happened to you.’

The foreman settled himself comfortably in his chair.

‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘I think you’re listening to the biggest fool between this and St Paul’s. I ’ave been done this afternoon, fairly diddled, an’ not once only, but two separate times. ’Owever, I’d better tell you from the beginning.

‘When Mr Broughton an’ Felix left, I stayed an’ kept an eye on the cask. I got some bits of ’oop iron by way o’ mending it, so that none o’ the boys would wonder why I was ’anging around. I waited the best part of an hour, an’ then Felix came back.

‘“Mr ’Arkness, I believe?” ’e said.

‘“That’s my name, sir,” I answered.

‘“I ’ave a letter for you from Mr Avery. P’raps you would kindly read it now,” ’e said.

‘It was a note from the ’ead office, signed by Mr Avery, an’ it said that ’e ’ad seen Mr Broughton an’ that it was all right about the cask, an’ for me to give it up to Felix at once. It said too that we ’ad to deliver the cask at the address that was on it, an’ for me to go there along with it and Felix, an’ to report if it was safely delivered.

‘“That’s all right, sir,” said I, an’ I called to some o’ the boys, an’ we got the cask swung ashore an’ on to a four-wheeled dray Felix ’ad waiting. ’E ’ad two men with it, a big, strong fellow with red ’air an’ a smaller dark chap that drove. We turned east at the dock gates, an’ then went up Leman Street an’ on into a part o’ the city I didn’t know.

‘When we ’ad gone a mile or more, the red-’aired man said ’e could do with a drink. Felix wanted ’im to carry on at first, but ’e gave in after a bit an’ we stopped in front o’ a bar. The small man’s name was Watty, an’ Felix asked ’im could ’e leave the ’orse, but Watty said “No,” an’ then Felix told ’im to mind it while the rest of us went in, an’ ’e would come out soon an’ look after it, so’s Watty could go in an’ get ’is drink. So Felix an’ I an’ Ginger went in, an’ Felix ordered four bottles o’ beer an’ paid for them. Felix drank ’is off, an’ then ’e told us to wait till ’e would send Watty in for ’is, an’ went out. As soon as ’e ’ad gone Ginger leant over an’ whispered to me, “Say, mate, wot’s ’is game with the blooming cask? I lay you five to one ’e ’as something crooked on.”

‘“Why,” said I, “I don’t know about that.” You see, sir, I ’ad thought the same myself, but then Mr Avery wouldn’t ’ave written wot it was all right if it wasn’t.

‘“Well, see ’ere,” said Ginger, “maybe if you an’ I was to keep our eyes skinned, it might put a few quid in our pockets.”

‘“’Ow’s that?” said I.

‘“’Ow’s it yourself?” said ’e. “If ’e ’as some game on wi’ the cask ’e’ll not be wanting for to let any outsiders in. If you an’ me was to offer for to let them in for ’im, ’e’d maybe think we was worth something.”

‘Well, gentlemen, I thought over that, an’ first I wondered if this chap knew there was a body in the cask, an’ I was going to see if I couldn’t find out without giving myself away. Then I thought maybe ’e was on the same lay, an’ was pumping me. So I thought I would pass it off a while, an’ I said:

‘“Would Watty come in?”

‘Ginger said “No,” that three was too many for a job o’ that kind, an’ we talked on a while. Then I ’appened to look at Watty’s beer standing there, an’ I wondered ’e ’adn’t been in for it.

‘“That beer won’t keep,” I said. “If that blighter wants it ’e’d better come an’ get it.”

‘Ginger sat up when ’e ’eard that.

‘“Wot’s wrong with ’im?” ’e said. “I’ll drop out an’ see.”

‘I don’t know why, gentlemen, but I got a kind o’ notion there was something in the air, an’ I followed ’im out. The dray was gone. We looked up an’ down the street, but there wasn’t a sign of it nor Felix nor Watty.

‘“Blow me, if they ’aven’t given us the slip,” shouted Ginger. “Get a move on. You go that way an’ I’ll go this, an’ one of us is bound to see them at the corner.”

‘I guessed I was on to the game then. These three were wrong ’uns, an’ they were out to get rid o’ the body, an’ they didn’t want me around to see the grave. All that about the drinks was a plant to get me away from the dray, an’ Ginger’s talk was only to keep me quiet till the others got clear. Well, two o’ them ’ad got quit o’ me right enough, but I was blessed if the third would.

‘“No, you don’t, ol’ pal,” I said. “I guess you an’ me’ll stay together.” I took ’is arm an’ ’urried ’im on the way ’e ’ad wanted to go ’imself. But when we got to the corner there wasn’t a sign o’ the dray. They ’ad given us the slip about proper.

‘Ginger cursed an’ raved, an’ wanted to know ’oo was going to pay ’im for ’is day. I tried to get out of ’im ’oo ’e was an’ ’oo ’ad ’ired ’im, but ’e wasn’t giving anything away. I kept close beside ’im, for I knew ’e’d ’ave to go ’ome some time, an’ I thought if I saw where ’e lived it would be easy to find out where ’e worked, an’ so likely get ’old o’ Felix. ’E tried different times to juke away from me, an’ ’e got real mad when ’e found ’e couldn’t.

‘We walked about for more than three hours till it was near five o’clock, an’ then we ’ad some more beer, an’ when we came out o’ the bar we stood at the corner o’ two streets an’ thought wot we’d do next. An’ then suddenly Ginger lurched up against me, an’ I drove fair into an old woman that was passing, an’ nearly knocked ’er over. I caught ’er to keep ’er from falling—I couldn’t do no less—but when I looked round, I’m blessed if Ginger wasn’t gone. I ran down one street first, an’ then down the other, an’ then I went back into the bar, but never a sight of ’im did I get. I cursed myself for every kind of a fool, an’ then I thought I’d better go back an’ tell Mr Avery anyway. So I went to Fenchurch Street, an’ Mr Broughton brought me along ’ere.’

There was silence when the foreman ceased speaking, while Inspector Burnley, in his painstaking way, considered the statement he had heard, as well as that made by Broughton earlier in the day. He reviewed the chain of events in detail, endeavouring to separate out the undoubted facts from what might be only the narrator’s opinions. If the two men were to be believed, and Burnley had no reason for doubting either, the facts about the discovery and removal of the cask were clear, with one exception. There seemed to be no adequate proof that the cask really did contain a corpse.

‘Mr Broughton tells me he thought there was a body in the cask. Do you agree with that, Mr Harkness?’

‘Yes, sir, there’s no doubt of it. We both saw a woman’s hand.’

‘But might it not have been a statue? The cask was labelled “Statuary,” I understand.’

‘No, sir, it wasn’t no statue. Mr Broughton thought that at first, but when ’e looked at it again ’e gave in I was right. It was a body, sure enough.’

Further questions showed that both men were convinced the hand was real, though neither could advance any grounds for their belief other than that he ‘knew from the look of it.’ The Inspector was not satisfied that their opinion was correct, though he thought it probable. He also noted the possibility of the cask containing a hand only or perhaps an arm, and it passed through his mind that such a thing might be packed by a medical student as a somewhat gruesome practical joke. Then he turned to Harkness again.

‘Have you the letter Felix gave you on the Bullfinch?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the foreman, handing it over.

It was written in what looked like a junior clerk’s handwriting on a small-sized sheet of business letter paper. It bore the I. and C.’s ordinary printed heading, and read:

‘5th April, 1912.

‘MR HARKNESS,

on s.s. Bullfinch,

St Katherine’s Docks.

‘Re Mr Broughton’s conversation with you about cask for Mr Felix.

‘I have seen Mr Broughton and Mr Felix on this matter, and am satisfied the cask is for Mr Felix and should be delivered immediately.

‘On receipt of this letter please hand it over to Mr Felix without further delay.

‘As the Company is liable for its delivery at the address it bears, please accompany it as the representative of the Company, and report to me of its safe arrival in due course.

‘For the I. and C. S. N. Co., Ltd.,

‘X. AVERY,

‘per X. X.,

‘Managing Director.’

The initials shown ‘X’ were undecipherable and were apparently written by a person in authority, though curiously the word ‘Avery’ in the same hand was quite clear.

‘It’s written on your Company’s paper anyway,’ said the Inspector to Broughton. ‘I suppose that heading is yours and not a fake?’

‘It’s ours right enough,’ returned the clerk, ‘but I’m certain the letter’s a forgery for all that.’

‘I should imagine so, but just how do you know?’

‘For several reasons, sir. Firstly, we do not use that quality of paper for writing our own servants; we have a cheaper form of memorandum for that. Secondly, all our stuff is typewritten; and thirdly, that is not the signature of any of our clerks.’

‘Pretty conclusive. It is evident that the forger did not know either your managing director’s or your clerks’ initials. His knowledge was confined to the name Avery, and from your statement we can conceive Felix having just that amount of information.’

‘But how on earth did he get our paper?’

Burnley smiled.

‘Oh, well, that’s not so difficult. Didn’t your head clerk give it to him?’

‘By Jove! sir, I see it now. He got a sheet of paper and an envelope to write to Mr Avery. He left the envelope and vanished with the sheet.’

‘Of course. It occurred to me when Mr Avery told me of the empty envelope. I guessed what he was going to do, and therefore I hurried to the docks in the hope of being before him. And now about that label on the cask. You might describe it again as fully as you can.’

‘It was a card about six inches long by four high, fastened on by tacks all round the edge. Along the top was Dupierre’s name and advertisement, and in the bottom right-hand corner was a space about three inches by two for the address. There was a thick, black line round this space, and the card had been cut along this line so as to remove the enclosed portion and leave a hole three inches by two. The hole had been filled by pasting a sheet of paper or card behind the label. Felix’s address was therefore written on this paper, and not on the original card.’

‘A curious arrangement. How do you explain it?’

‘I thought perhaps Dupierre’s people had temporarily run out of labels and were making an old one do again.’

Burnley replied absently, as he turned the matter over in his mind. The clerk’s suggestion was of course possible, in fact, if the cask really contained a statue, it was the likely one. On the other hand, if it held a body, he imagined the reason was further to seek. In this case he thought it improbable that the cask had come from Dupierre’s at all and, if not, what had happened? A possible explanation occurred to him. Suppose some unknown person had received a statue from Dupierre’s in the cask and, before returning the latter, had committed a murder. Suppose he wanted to get rid of the body by sending it somewhere in the cask. What would he do with the label? Why, what had been done. He would wish to retain Dupierre’s printed matter in order to facilitate the passage of the cask through the Customs, but he would have to change the written address. The Inspector could think of no better way of doing this than by the alteration that had been made. He turned again to his visitors.

‘Well, gentlemen, I’m greatly obliged to you for your prompt call and information, and if you will give me your addresses, I think that is all we can do tonight.’

Inspector Burnley again made his way home. But it was not his lucky night. About half-past nine he was again sent for from the Yard. Some one wanted to speak to him urgently on the telephone.

CHAPTER III
THE WATCHER ON THE WALL

AT the same time that Inspector Burnley was interviewing Broughton and Harkness in his office, another series of events centring round the cask was in progress in a different part of London.

Police Constable Z 76, John Walker in private life, was a newly-joined member of the force. A young man of ideas and of promise, he took himself and his work seriously. He had ambitions, the chief of which was to become a detective officer, and he dreamed of the day when he would have climbed to the giddy eminence of an Inspector of the Yard. He had read Conan Doyle, Austin Freeman, and other masters of detective fiction, and their tales had stimulated his imagination. His efforts to emulate their heroes added to the interest of life and, if they did not do him very much good, at least did him no harm.

About half-past six that evening, Constable Walker, attired in plain clothes, was strolling slowly along the Holloway Road. He had come off duty shortly before, had had his tea, and was now killing time until he could go to see the second instalment of that thrilling drama, ‘Lured by Love,’ at the Islington Picture House. Though on pleasure bent, as he walked he kept on practising observation and deduction. He had made a habit of noting the appearance of the people he saw and trying to deduce their histories and, if he did not succeed in this so well as Sherlock Holmes, he hoped he would some day.

He looked at the people on the pathway beside him, but none of them seemed a good subject for study. But as his gaze swept over the vehicles in the roadway it fell on one which held his attention.

Coming along the street to meet him was a four-wheeled dray drawn by a light brown horse. On the dray, upended, was a large cask. Two men sat in front. One, a thin-faced, wiry fellow was driving. The other, a rather small-sized man, was leaning as if wearied out against the cask. This man had a black beard.

Constable Walker’s heart beat fast. He had always made it a point to memorise thoroughly the descriptions of wanted men, and only that afternoon he had seen a wire from Headquarters containing the description of just such an equipage. It was wanted, and wanted badly. Had he found it? Constable Walker’s excitement grew as he wondered.

Unostentatiously he turned and strolled in the direction in which the dray was going, while he laboured to recall in its every detail the description he had read. A four-wheeled dray—that was right; a single horse—right also. A heavily made, iron-clamped cask with one stave broken at the end and roughly repaired by nailing. He glanced at the vehicle which had now drawn level with him. Yes, the cask was well and heavily made and iron clamped, but whether it had a broken stave he could not tell. The dray was painted a brilliant blue and had a Tottenham Court Road address. Here Constable Walker had a blow. This dray was a muddy brown colour and bore the name, John Lyons and Son, 127 Maddox Street, Lower Beechwood Road. He suffered a keen disappointment. He had been getting so sure, and yet— It certainly looked very like what was wanted except for the colour.

Constable Walker took another look at the reddish brown paint. Curiously patchy it looked. Some parts were fresh and more or less glossy, others dull and drab. And then his excitement rose again to fever heat. He knew what that meant.

As a boy he had had the run of the small painting establishment in the village in which he had been brought up, and he had learnt a thing or two about paint. He knew that if you want paint to dry very quickly you flat it—you use turpentine or some other flatting instead of oil. Paint so made will dry in an hour, but it will have a dull, flat surface instead of a glossy one. But if you paint over with flat colour a surface recently painted in oil it will not dry so quickly, and when it does it dries in patches, the dry parts being dull, the wetter ones glossy. It was clear to Constable Walker that the dray had been recently painted with flat brown, and that it was only partly dry.

A thought struck him and he looked keenly at the mottled side. Yes, he was not mistaken. He could see dimly under the flat coat, faint traces of white lettering showing out lighter than the old blue ground. And then his heart leaped for he was sure! There was no possible chance of error!

He let the vehicle draw ahead, keeping his eye carefully on it while he thought of his great luck. And then he recollected that there should have been four men with it. There was a tall man with a sandy moustache, prominent cheekbones, and a strong chin; a small, lightly made, foreign looking man with a black beard and two others whose descriptions had not been given. The man with the beard was on the dray, but the tall, red-haired man was not to be seen. Presumably the driver was one of the undescribed men.

It occurred to Constable Walker that perhaps the other two were walking. He therefore let the vehicle draw still farther ahead, and devoted himself to a careful examination of all the male foot-passengers going in the same direction. He crossed and recrossed the road, but nowhere could he see any one answering to the red-haired man’s description.

The quarry led steadily on in a north-westerly direction, Constable Walker following at a considerable distance behind. At the end of the Holloway Road it passed through Highgate, and continued out along the Great North Road. By this time it was growing dusk, and the constable drew slightly closer so as not to miss it if it made a sudden turn.

For nearly four miles the chase continued. It was now nearly eight, and Constable Walker reflected with a transient feeling of regret that ‘Lured by Love’ would then be in full swing. All immediate indications of the city had been left behind. The country was now suburban, the road being lined by detached and semi-detached villas, with an occasional field bearing a ‘Building Ground to Let’ notice. The night was warm and very quiet. There was still light in the west, but an occasional star was appearing eastwards. Soon it would be quite dark.

Suddenly the dray stopped and a man got down and opened the gate of a drive on the right-hand side of the road. The constable melted into the hedge some fifty yards behind and remained motionless. Soon he heard the dray move off again and the hard, rattling noise of the road gave place to the softer, slightly grating sound of gravel. As the constable crept up along the hedge he could see the light of the dray moving towards the right.

A narrow lane branched off in the same direction immediately before reaching the property into which the dray had gone. The drive, in fact, was only some thirty feet beyond the lane and, so far as the constable could see, both lane and drive turned at right angles to the road and ran parallel, one outside and the other inside the property. The constable slipped down the lane, thus leaving the thick boundary hedge between himself and the others.

It was nearly though not quite dark, and the constable could make out the rather low outline of the house, showing black against the sky. The door was in the end gable facing the lane and was open, though the house was entirely in darkness. Behind the house, from the end of the gable and parallel to the lane, ran a wall about eight feet high, evidently the yard wall, in which was a gate. The drive passed the hall door and gable and led up to this gate. The buildings were close to the lane, not more than forty feet from where the constable crouched. Immediately inside the hedge was a row of small trees.

Standing in front of the yard gate was the dray, with one man at the horse’s head. As the constable crept closer he heard sounds of unbarring, and the gate swung open. In silence the man outside led the dray within and the gate swung to.

The spirit of adventure had risen high in Constable Walker, and he felt impelled to get still closer to see what was going on. Opposite the hall door he had noticed a little gate in the hedge, and he retraced his steps to this and with infinite care opened it and passed silently through. Keeping well in the shadow of the hedge and under the trees, he crept down again opposite the yard door and reconnoitred.

Beyond the gate, that is on the side away from the house, the yard wall ran on for some fifty feet, at the end of which a cross hedge ran between it and the one under which he was standing. The constable moved warily along to this cross hedge, which he followed until he stood beside the wall.

In the corner between the hedge and the wall, unobserved till he reached it in the growing darkness, stood a small, openwork, rustic summer-house. As the constable looked at it an idea occurred to him.

With the utmost care he began to climb the side of the summer-house, testing every foothold before trusting his weight on it. Slowly he worked his way up until, cautiously raising his head, he was able to peep over the wall.

The yard was of fair length, stretching from where he crouched to the house, a distance of seventy or eighty feet, but was not more than about thirty feet wide. Along the opposite side it was bounded by a row of out-offices. The large double doors of one of these, apparently a coach-house, were open, and a light shone out from the interior. In front of the doorway and with its back to it stood the dray.

The coach-house being near the far end of the yard, Constable Walker was unable to see what was taking place within. He therefore raised himself upon the wall and slowly and silently crawled along the coping in the direction of the house. He was aware his strategic position was bad, but he reflected that, being on the south-east side of the yard, he had dark sky behind him, while the row of trees would still further blacken his background. He felt safe from observation, and continued till he was nearly opposite the coach-house. Then he stretched himself flat on the coping, hid his face, which he feared might show white if the lantern shone on it, behind the dark sleeve of his reddish brown coat, and waited.

He could now see into the coach-house. It was an empty room of fair size with whitewashed walls and a cement floor. On a peg in the wall hung a hurricane lamp, and by its light he saw the bearded man descending a pair of steps which was placed in the centre of the floor. The wiry man stood close by.

‘That hook’s all right,’ said the bearded man, ‘I have it over the tie beam. Now for the differential.’

He disappeared into an adjoining room, returning in a moment with a small set of chain blocks. Taking the end of this up the steps, he made it fast to something above. The steps were then removed, and Constable Walker could just see below the lintel of the door, the hook of the block with a thin chain sling hanging over it.

‘Now back in,’ said the bearded man.

The dray was backed in until the cask stood beneath the blocks. Both men with some apparent difficulty got the sling fixed, and then pulling on the chain loop, slowly raised the cask.

‘That’ll do,’ said the bearded man when it was some six inches up. ‘Draw out now.’

The wiry man came to the horse’s head and brought the dray out of the building, stopping in front of the yard gate. Taking the lantern from its hook and leaving the cask swinging in mid-air, the bearded man followed. He closed the coach-house doors and secured them with a running bolt and padlock, then crossed to the yard gates and began unfastening them. Both men were now within fifteen feet of Constable Walker, and he lay scarcely daring to breathe.

The wiry man spoke for the first time.

‘’Arf a mo,’ mister,’ he said, ‘what abaht that there money?’

‘Well,’ said the other, ‘I’ll give you yours now, and the other fellow can have his any time he comes for it.’

‘I don’t think,’ the wiry man replied aggressively. ‘I’ll take my pal’s now along o’ my own. When would ’e ’ave time to come around ’ere looking for it?’

‘If I give it to you, what guarantee have I that he won’t deny getting it and come and ask for more?’

‘You’ll ’ave no guarantee at all abaht it, only that I just tells yer. Come on, mister, ’and it over an’ let me get away. And don’t yer go for to think two quid’s goin’ for to settle it up. This ain’t the job wot we expected when we was ’ired, this ain’t. If you want us for to carry your little game through on the strict q.t., why, you’ll ’ave to pay for it, that’s wot.’

‘Confound your impertinence! What the devil do you mean?’

The other leered.

‘There ain’t no cause for you to swear at a poor workin’ man. Come now, mister, you an’ me understands other well enough. You don’t want no questions asked. Ten quid apiece an’ me an’ my pal we don’t know nothin’ abaht it.’

‘My good man, you’ve gone out of your senses. I have nothing to keep quiet. This business is quite correct.’

The wiry man winked deliberately.

‘That’s orl right, mister, I know it’s quite c’rrect. And ten quid apiece’ll keep it that way.’

There was silence for a moment, and the bearded man spoke:

‘You suspect there is something wrong about the cask? Well, you’re wrong, for there isn’t. But I admit that if you talk before Thursday next I’ll lose my bet. See here, I’ll give you five pounds apiece and you may have your mate’s.’ He counted out some coins, chinking them in his hands. ‘You may take it or leave it. You won’t get any more, for then it would be cheaper for me to lose the bet.’

The wiry man paused, eyeing the gold greedily. He opened his mouth to reply, then a sudden thought seemed to strike him. Irresolutely he stood, glancing questioningly at the other. Constable Walker could see his face clearly in the light of the lantern, with an evil, sardonic smile curling his lips. Then, like a man who, after weighing a problem, comes to a decision, he took the money and turned to the horse’s head.

‘Well, mister,’ he said, as he put his vehicle in motion, ‘that’s straight enough. I’ll stand by it.’

The bearded man closed and bolted the yard gates and disappeared with his lantern into the house. In a few seconds the sounds of the receding wheels on the gravel ceased and everything was still.

After waiting a few minutes motionless, Constable Walker slipped off the coping of the wall and dropped noiselessly to the ground. Tiptoeing across to the hedge, he passed silently out of the little gate and regained the lane.

CHAPTER IV
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW

THE constable paused in the lane and considered. Up to the present he felt lie, had done splendidly, and he congratulated himself on his luck. But his next step he did not see clearly at all. Should he find the nearest police station and advise the head constable, or should he telephone, or even go to Scotland Yard? Or more difficult still, should he remain where he was and look out for fresh developments?

He paused irresolutely for some fifteen minutes pondering the situation, and had almost made up his mind to telephone for instructions to his own station, when he heard a footstep slowly approaching along the lane. Anxious to remain unseen, he rapidly regained the small gate in the hedge, passed inside, and took up a position behind the trunk of one of the small trees. The sounds drew gradually nearer. Whoever was approaching was doing so exceedingly slowly, and seemed to be coming on tiptoe. The steps passed the place where the constable waited, and he could make out dimly the form of what seemed to be a man of medium height. In a few seconds they stopped, and then returned slowly past the constable, finally coming to a stand close by the little gate. It was intensely still, and the constable could hear the unknown yawning and softly clearing his throat.

The last trace of light had gone from the sky and the stars were showing brightly. There was no wind but a sharpness began to creep into the air. At intervals came the disconnected sounds of night, the bark of a dog, the rustle of some small animal in the grass, the rush of a motor passing on the high road.

The constable’s problem was settled for him for the moment. He could not move while the other watcher remained. He gave a gentle little shiver and settled down to wait.

He began reckoning the time. It must, he thought, be about half-past eight o’clock. It was about eight when the dray had turned into the drive and he was sure half an hour at least must have passed since then. He had leave until ten and he did not want to be late without authority, though surely, under the circumstances, an excuse would be made for him. He began to picture the scene if he were late, the cold anger of the sergeant, the threat to report him, then his explanation, the sudden change of manner …

A faint click of what seemed to be the entrance gate of the drive recalled him with a start to his present position. Footsteps sounded on the gravel, firm, heavy footsteps, walking quickly. A man was approaching the house.

Constable Walker edged round the tree trunk so as to get it between himself and any light that might come from the hall door. The man reached the door and rang.

In a few seconds a light appeared through the fanlight, and the door was opened by the bearded man. A big, broad-shouldered man in a dark overcoat and soft hat stood on the steps.

‘Hallo, Felix!’ cried the newcomer heartily. ‘Glad to see you’re at home. When did you get back?’

‘That you, Martin? Come in. I got back on Sunday night.’

‘I’ll not go in, thanks, but I want you to come round and make up a four at bridge. Tom Brice is with us, and he has brought along a friend of his, a young solicitor from Liverpool. You’ll come, won’t you?’

The man addressed as Felix hesitated a moment before replying.

‘Thanks, yes. I’ll go, certainly. But I’m all alone and I haven’t changed. Come in a minute till I do so.’

‘And, if it’s a fair question, where did you get your dinner if you’re all alone?’

‘In town. I’m only just home.’

They went in and the door was closed. Some few minutes later they emerged again and, pulling the door behind them, disappeared down the drive, the distant click of the gate signifying their arrival at the road. As soon as this sounded, the watcher in the lane moved rapidly, though silently, after them, and Constable Walker was left in undisputed possession.

On the coast becoming clear he slipped out on to the lane, walked down it to the road and turned back in the direction of London. As he did so a clock struck nine.

Entering the first inn he came to, he called for a glass of ale and, getting into conversation with the landlord, learnt that he was near the hamlet of Brent, on the Great North Road, and that Mr Felix’s house was named St Malo. He also inquired his way to the nearest public telephone, which, fortunately, was close by.

A few minutes later he was speaking to Scotland Yard. He had to wait for a little time while Inspector Burnley, who had gone home, was being fetched, but in fifteen minutes he had made his report and was awaiting instructions.

The Inspector questioned him closely about the position of the house, finally instructing him to return to his post behind the tree and await developments.

‘I will go out with some men now, and will look for you by the little gate in the hedge.’

Constable Walker walked rapidly back, and as he did so the same clock struck ten. He had been gone exactly an hour. In the meantime, Inspector Burnley got a taxi and, after a careful examination of his route and the district on a large-scale map, started for St Malo with three other men. He called on his way at Walpole Terrace, Queen Mary Road, where Tom Broughton lived, and delighted that young man by inviting him to join the party. On the way, he explained in detail the lie of the house and grounds, where he wanted each man to stand, and what was to be done in various eventualities. The streets were full of people and motoring was slow, but it was still considerably before eleven when they entered the Great North Road.

They ran on till the Inspector judged they were not far from the house, when the car was run up a side road and the engine stopped. The five men then walked on in silence.

‘Wait here,’ whispered Burnley, when they had gone some distance, and slipped away into the dark. He found the lane, walked softly down it until he came to the little gate, slipped inside and came up to Constable Walker standing behind his tree.

‘I’m Inspector Burnley,’ he whispered. ‘Has any one come in or out yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, wait here until I post my men.’

He returned to the others and, speaking in a whisper, gave his directions.

‘You men take up the positions I explained to you. Listen out for a whistle to close in. Mr Broughton, you come with me and keep silent.’

The Inspector and his young acquaintance walked down the lane, stopping outside the little gate. The other three men posted themselves at various points in the grounds. And then they waited.

It seemed to Broughton that several hours must have passed when a clock in the distance struck twelve. He and the Inspector were standing beside each other concealed under the hedge. Once or twice he had attempted whispered remarks, but Burnley was not responsive. It was rather cold and the stars were bright. A light breeze had risen and it rustled gently through the hedge and stirred the branches of the trees. An insistent dog was barking somewhere away to the right. A cart passed on the road, the wheels knocking on their axles annoyingly. It took ages to get out of earshot, the sounds coming in rotation through nearly a quarter of the compass. Then a car followed with a swift rush, the glare of the headlights glancing along through the trees. And still nothing happened.

After further ages the clock struck again—one. A second dog began barking. The breeze freshened, and Broughton wished he had brought a heavier coat. He longed to stamp up and down and ease his cramped limbs. And then the latch of the road gate clicked and footsteps sounded on the gravel.

They waited motionless as the steps came nearer. Soon a black shadow came into view and moved to the hall door. There was a jingling of keys, the rattling of a lock, the outline of the door became still darker, the shadow disappeared within and the door was closed.

Immediately Burnley whispered to Broughton:

‘I am going now to ring at the door, and when he opens it I will flash my light in his face. Take a good look at him and if you are sure—absolutely positive—it is Felix, say “yes”, just the one word “yes”. Do you understand?’

They went in through the small gate, no longer taking any precautions against noise, walked to the door, and Burnley knocked loudly.

‘Now, remember, don’t speak unless you are sure,’ he whispered.

A light flickered through the fanlight and the door was opened. A beam from the Inspector’s dark lantern flashed on the face of the man within, revealing the same dark complexion and black beard that had attracted Constable Walker’s attention. The word ‘Yes’ came from Broughton and the Inspector said:

‘Mr Léon Felix, I am Inspector Burnley from Scotland Yard. I have called on rather urgent business, and would be glad of a few minutes’ conversation.’

The black-bearded man started.

‘Oh, certainly,’ he said, after a momentary pause, ‘though I don’t know that it is quite the hour I would have suggested for a chat. Will you come in?’

‘Thanks. I’m sorry it’s late, but I have been waiting for you for a considerable time. Perhaps my man might sit in the hall out of the cold?’

Burnley called over one of his men who had been stationed near the summer-house.

‘Wait here till I speak to Mr Felix, Hastings,’ he said, giving him a sign to be ready if called on. Then, leaving Broughton outside with Constable Walker and the other men, he followed Felix into a room on the left of the hall.

It was fitted up comfortably though not luxuriously as a study. In the middle of the room stood a flat-topped desk of modern design. Two deep, leather-covered arm-chairs were drawn up on each side of the fireplace, in which the embers still glowed. A tantalus stood on a small side table with a box of cigars. The walls were lined with bookshelves with here and there a good print. Felix lighted a reading-lamp which stood on the desk. He turned to Burnley.

‘Is it a sitting down matter?’ he said, indicating one of the arm-chairs. The Inspector took it while Felix dropped into the other.

‘I want, Mr Felix,’ began the detective, ‘to make some inquiries about a cask which you got from the steamer Bullfinch this morning—or rather yesterday, for this is really Tuesday—and which I have reason to believe is still in your possession.’

‘Yes?’

‘The steamboat people think that a mistake has been made and that the cask that you received was not the one consigned to you, and which you expected.’

‘The cask I received is my own property. It was invoiced to me and the freight was paid. What more do the shipping company want?’

‘But the cask you received was not addressed to you. It was invoiced to a Mr Felix of West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road.’

‘The cask was addressed to me. I admit the friend who sent it made a mistake in the address, but it was for me all the same.’

‘But if we bring the other Mr Felix—the West Jubb Street Mr Felix—here, and he also claims it, you will not then, I take it, persist in your claim?’

The black-bearded man moved uneasily. He opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated. The Inspector felt sure he had seen the little pitfall only just in time.

‘If you produce such a man,’ he said at last, ‘I am sure I can easily convince him that the cask was really sent to me and not to him.’

‘Well, we shall see about that later. Meantime, another question. What was in the cask you were expecting?’

‘Statuary.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘Why, of course I’m sure. Really, Mr Inspector, I’d like to know by what right I am being subjected to this examination.’

‘I shall tell you, Mr Felix. Scotland Yard has reason to believe there is something wrong about that cask, and an investigation has been ordered. You were naturally the first person to approach, but since the cask turns out not to be yours, we shall—’

‘Not to be mine? What do you mean? Who says it is not mine?’

‘Pardon me, you yourself said so. You have just told me the cask you expected contained statuary. We know the one you received does not contain statuary. Therefore you have got the wrong one.’

Felix paled suddenly, and a look of alarm crept into his eyes. Burnley leant forward and touched him on the knee.

‘You will see for yourself, Mr Felix, that if this matter is to blow over we must have an explanation of these discrepancies. I am not suggesting you can’t give one. I am sure you can. But if you refuse to do so you will undoubtedly arouse unpleasant suspicions.’

Felix remained silent, and the Inspector did not interrupt his train of thought.

‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I have really nothing to hide, only one does not like being bluffed. I will tell you, if I can, what you want to know. Satisfy me that you are from Scotland Yard.’

Burnley showed his credentials, and the other said:

‘Very good. Then I may admit I misled you about the contents of the cask, though I told you the literal and absolute truth. The cask is full of plaques—plaques of kings and queens. Isn’t that statuary? And if the plaques should be small and made of gold and called sovereigns, aren’t they still statuary? That is what the cask contains, Mr Inspector. Sovereigns. £988 in gold.’

‘What else?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘Oh, come now, Mr Felix. We knew there was money in the cask. We also know there is something else. Think again.’

‘Oh, well, there will be packing, of course. I haven’t opened it and I don’t know. But £988 in gold would go a small way towards filling it. There will be sand or perhaps alabaster or some other packing.’

‘I don’t mean packing. Do you distinctly tell me no other special object was included?’

‘Certainly, but I suppose I’d better explain the whole thing.’

He stirred the embers of the fire together, threw on a couple of logs and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

CHAPTER V
FELIX TELLS A STORY

‘I AM a Frenchman, as you know,’ began Felix, ‘but I have lived in London for some years, and I run over to Paris frequently on both business and pleasure. About three weeks ago on one of these visits I dropped into the Café Toisson d’Or in the rue Royale, where I joined a group of acquaintances. The conversation turned on the French Government lotteries, and one of the men, a M. Le Gautier, who had been defending the system, said to me, “Why not join in a little flutter?” I refused at first, but afterwards changed my mind and said I would sport 500 francs if he did the same. He agreed, and I gave him £20 odd as my share. He was to carry the business through in his name, letting me know the result and halving the profits, if any. I thought no more about the matter till last Friday, when, on my return home in the evening, I found a letter from Le Gautier, which surprised, pleased, and annoyed me in equal measure.’

Mr Felix drew a letter from a drawer of his writing-table and passed it to the Inspector. It was in French, and though the latter had a fair knowledge of the language, he was not quite equal to the task, and Mr Felix translated. The letter ran as follows:

‘Rue de Vallorbes, 997,

‘Avenue Friedland,

‘Paris.

‘Thursday, 1st April, 1912.

‘MY DEAR FELIX,—I have just had the most wonderful news! We have won! The lottery has drawn trumps and our 1000 francs has become 50,000–25,000 francs each! I shake both your hands!

‘The money I have already received, and I am sending your share at once. And now, old chap, do not be very annoyed when I tell you I am playing a little trick on you. I apologise.

‘You remember Dumarchez? Well, he and I had an argument about you last week. We were discussing the ingenuity and resource of criminals in evading the police. Your name happened to be mentioned, and I remarked what a splendid criminal a man of your inventive talents would make. He said “No,” that you were too transparently honest to deceive the police. We got hot about it and finally arranged a little test. I have packed your money in a cask, in English sovereigns—there are 988 of them—and am booking it to you, carriage paid, by the Insular and Continental Steam Navigation Company’s boat from Rouen, due in London about Monday, 5th April. But I am addressing it to “M. Léon Felix, 141 West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road, London, W.,” and labelling it “Statuary only,” from Dupierre et Cie., the monumental sculptors of Grenelle. It will take some ingenuity to get a falsely addressed and falsely described cask away from the steamer officials without being suspected of theft. That is the test. I have bet Dumarchez an even 5000 francs that you will do it. He says you will certainly be caught.

‘I send you my best congratulations on the greatness of your coup, of which the visible evidence goes to you in the cask, and my only regret is that I shall be unable to be present to see you open it.

‘With profound apologies,

‘Yours very truly,

‘ALPHONSE LE GAUTIER.

‘PS.—Please excuse the typewriter, but I have hurt my hand.’

‘I don’t know whether pleasure at the unexpected windfall of nearly £1000, or annoyance at Le Gautier’s test with the cask was my strongest emotion. The more I thought of this part of it, the more angry I became. It was one thing that my friends should amuse themselves by backing their silly theories, it was quite another that I should be the victim and scapegoat of their nonsense. Two things obviously might lead to complications. If it came out that a cask labelled “Statuary” contained gold, suspicion would be aroused, and the same thing would happen if any one discovered the address to be false. The contents of the cask might be questioned owing to the weight—that I did not know; the false address might come to light if an advice note of the cask’s arrival was sent out, while there was always the fear of unforeseen accidents. I was highly incensed, and I determined to wire early next morning to Le Gautier asking him not to send the cask, and saying I would go over and get the money. But to my further annoyance I had a card by the first post which said that the cask had already been despatched.

‘It was clear to me then that I must make arrangements to get it away as soon as possible after the boat came in, and before inquiries began to be made. I accordingly made my plans and, as I did so, my annoyance passed away and I got interested in the sporting side of the affair. First, I had a few cards of the false address printed. Then I found an obscure carting contractor, from whom I hired a four-wheeled dray and two men, together with the use of an empty shed for three days.

‘I had found out that the Steam Navigation boat would be due on the following Monday, and on the preceding Saturday I brought the men and the dray to the shed and prepared them for what I wanted done. To enlist their help and prevent them becoming suspicious, I gave the former a qualified version of Le Gautier’s story. I told them I had made a bet and said I wanted their help to pull it off. A certain cask was coming in by the Rouen boat, addressed to a friend of mine, and he had bet me a large sum that I could not get this cask from the steamer people and take it to my house, while I held that I could. The point was to test the effectiveness of the ordinary business precautions. In order, I told the men, that no real trouble should arise and that I should not, in the event of failure, be charged with theft, my friend had given me a written authorisation to take the cask. This I had written out previously and I showed it to them. Finally, I promised them two pounds each if we succeeded.

‘I had got a couple of pots of quick-drying blue and white paint, and I altered the lettering on the dray to that of the address my Paris friend had put on the cask. I am skilful at this kind of work and I did it myself.

‘On Monday morning we drove to the docks, and I found the Bullfinch had just come in with the Paris goods aboard. She was discharging casks from the forehold, and I strolled along the wharf and had a look at the work. The casks coming ashore were wine-casks, but I noticed one at the side of the hold, over which one of the dockers and a young man who looked like a clerk were bending. They seemed very engrossed, and of course I wondered, “Is this my cask, and have they discovered the gold?” I spoke to the young man, found that the cask was mine, and asked him if I could get it away at once.

‘He was quite polite, but would not help me, referring me to the quay office and offering to take me there and find a clerk to attend to me. As we were leaving he called out to the man at the cask, “You understand, Harkness, to do nothing till you hear from Mr Avery.”

‘At the wharf office the young man left me in the outer office while he went, as he said, to get the proper clerk for my work. But he returned with a man that was evidently the manager, and I knew at once that something was wrong. This opinion was confirmed when the manager began raising objection after objection to letting the cask go.

‘Some judicious questions elicited the fact that “Mr Avery” was the managing director in the head office in Fenchurch Street. I left the wharf office, sat down on some boxes, and thought out the situation.

‘It was clear that something had aroused the suspicions of the clerk and the docker, Harkness, and the former’s remark to the latter to do nothing without instructions from Mr Avery seemed to mean that the matter was to be laid before that gentleman. To “do nothing” evidently meant to hold on to the cask. If I were to get my property it was clear I must see to the supplying of those instructions myself.

‘I went to Fenchurch Street and asked for Mr Avery. Fortunately for me he was engaged. I said I could not wait, and asked for a sheet of paper and envelope on which to write him a note. By the simple expedient of sealing and addressing the empty envelope, I thus provided myself with a sheet of paper bearing the firm’s heading.

‘I dropped into a bar and, ordering some ale, borrowed a pen and ink. Then I composed a letter from Mr Avery to Harkness, instructing him to hand over the cask at once to me.

‘While I was writing this it occurred to me that if this man’s suspicions were really seriously aroused, he would probably follow the cask and thus trace me to my house. I lost another quarter of an hour pondering this problem. Then an idea occurred to me, and I added a paragraph saying that as the Navigation Company had contracted to deliver the cask at an address in the city, he, Harkness, was to accompany it and see that it reached its destination safely.

‘I wrote the letter in the round hand of a junior clerk, signing it “The I. and C. S. N. Co., Ltd., per” in the same hand, and “Avery” with an undecipherable initial in another kind of writing, with another “per,” and then two not very clear initials. I hoped in this way to mislead Harkness, if he happened to know the genuine signature.

‘It was my design to get Harkness away from the ship with the cask and my own men, when I hoped to find some way of giving him the slip. This I eventually did by instructing one of the men to clamour for a drink, and the other, a man named Watty, to refuse to leave the horse when I invited the party to a bar for some beer. On the plea of relieving Watty, I left Harkness and the other man drinking in the bar, and slipped away with Watty and the dray. Then he and I went back to the shed and I ran a coat of paint over the dray, restoring it to its original brown and painting out the fictitious name. In the evening we brought the dray home, timing ourselves to arrive here after dark, and unloaded the cask in one of the out-houses, where it now is.’

When Felix ceased speaking, the two men sat in silence for several minutes while Burnley turned the statement over in his mind. The sequence of events was unusual, but the story hung together, and, as he went over it in detail, he could see no reason why it should not, from Felix’s point of view, be true. If Felix believed his friend’s letter, as he appeared to, his actions were accounted for, and if the cask really contained a statue, the letter might explain the whole thing. On the other hand, if it held a corpse, the letter was a fraud, to which Felix might or might not be party.

Gradually, as he pondered, the matter shaped itself into three main considerations.

First, there was Felix’s general bearing and manner. The Inspector had a long and varied experience of men who told the truth and of men who lied, and all his instincts led him to believe this man. He was aware that such instincts are liable to error—he had himself erred on more than one occasion in the past—yet he could not overlook the fact that Felix’s bearing, as far as his impression went, was that of a sincere and honest man. Such a consideration would not be a decisive factor in his conclusion, but it would undoubtedly weigh.

Secondly, there was Felix’s account of his actions in London. Of the truth of this the Inspector had already received considerable independent testimony. He reviewed the chain of events and was surprised to find how few statements of Felix were unsupported. His first visit to the Bullfinch had been described in almost similar terms by Broughton and by Huston in the wharf office. His call at the Fenchurch Street office and the ruse by which he obtained the shipping company’s headed notepaper had been testified to by Mr Avery and his chief clerk, Wilcox. His description of the letter he had written to Harkness was certainly accurate from the Inspector’s own knowledge. His account of the removal of the cask and the shaking off of Harkness was in agreement with the statement of the latter and finally, Felix’s description of the removal of the cask to its present resting place was fully corroborated by Constable Walker.

There was practically no part of the statement unsupported by outside evidence. In fact, Inspector Burnley could not recall any case where so much confirmation of a suspect’s story was forthcoming. Weighing the matter point by point, he came to the deliberate conclusion that he must unreservedly believe it.

So much for Felix’s actions in London. But there was a third point—his actions in Paris, culminating in the letter of his friend. The letter. That was the kernel of the nut. Was it really written under the circumstances described? Had Le Gautier written it? Was there even such a man as Le Gautier? All this, he thought, it should not be difficult to find out. He would get some more information from Felix and if necessary slip across to Paris and put the statements to the test. He broke the silence.

‘Who is M. Le Gautier?’

‘Junior partner in the firm of Le Gautier, Fils, wine merchants, in the rue Henri Quatre.’

‘And M. Dumarchez?’

‘A stockbroker.’

‘Can you give me his address?’

‘I don’t know his home address. His office is, I think, in the Boulevard Poissonière. But I could get you the address from M. Le Gautier.’

‘Please give me an account of your relations with these gentlemen.’

‘Well, I have known them both for years and we are good friends, but I cannot recall ever having had any money transactions with either until this matter of the lottery.’

‘The details of that mentioned in the letter are correct?’

‘Oh, perfectly.’

‘Can you remember where precisely the conversation about the lottery took place?’

‘It was in the ground floor room of the café, at the window to the right of the entrance, looking inwards.’

‘You say other gentlemen were present?’

‘Yes, a group of us were there and the conversation was general.’

‘Was your arrangement to enter the lottery heard by the group?’

‘Yes, we had quite a lot of good-natured chaff about it.’

‘And can you remember who were present?’

Mr Felix hesitated.

‘I’m not sure that I can,’ he said at last. ‘The group was quite a casual one and I only joined it for a few moments. Le Gautier was there, of course, and a man called Daubigny, and Henri Boisson, and, I think, Jaques Rôget, but of him I’m not sure. There were a number of others also.’

Felix answered the questions readily and the Inspector noted his replies. He felt inclined to believe the lottery business was genuine. At all events inquiries in Paris would speedily establish the point. But even if it was all true, that did not prove that Le Gautier had written the letter. A number of people had heard the conversation, and any one could have written it, even Felix himself. Ah, that was an idea! Could Felix be the writer? Was there any way of finding that out? The Inspector considered and then spoke again.

‘Have you the envelope this letter came in?’

‘Eh?’ said Felix, ‘the envelope? Why, no, I’m sure I haven’t. I never keep them.’

‘Or the card?’

Felix turned over the papers on his desk and rummaged in the drawers.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘I can’t find it. I must have destroyed it too.’

There was then no proof that these communications had been received by Felix. On the other hand there was no reason to doubt it. The Inspector kept an open mind as he turned again to the letter.

It was typewritten on rather thin, matt surfaced paper and, though Burnley was not an expert, he believed the type was foreign. Some signs of wear were present which he thought might identify the typewriter. The n’s and the r’s were leaning slightly to the right, the t’s and the e’s were below alignment, and the l’s had lost the horizontal bar at the top of the downstroke. He held the paper up to the light. The watermark was somewhat obscured by the type, but after a time he made it out. It was undoubtedly French paper. This, of course, would not weigh much, as Felix by his own statement, was frequently in Paris, but still it did weigh.

The Inspector read the letter again. It was divided into four paragraphs and he pondered each in turn. The first was about the lottery. He did not know much about French lotteries, but the statements made could at least be verified. With the help of the French police it would be easy to find out if any drawings and payments had recently been made, and he could surely get a list of the winners. A winner of 50,000 francs, living in or near Paris, should be easily traced.

The second and third paragraphs were about the bet and the sending of the cask. Burnley turned the details over in his mind. Was the whole story a likely one? It certainly did not strike him as such. Even if such an unusual bet had been made, the test was an extremely poor one. He could hardly believe that a man who could invent the plan of the cask would not have done better. And yet it was undoubtedly possible.

Another idea entered the Inspector’s mind. He had, perhaps, been thinking too much of the £988, and too little of the woman’s hand. Suppose there really was a corpse in the cask. What then?

Such an assumption made all the circumstances more serious and explained partly the sending of the cask, but it did not, so far as the Inspector could see, throw light on the method of doing so. But when he came to the fourth paragraph he saw that it might easily bear two meanings. He read it again:

‘I send you my best congratulations on the greatness of your coup, of which the visible evidence goes to you in the cask, and my only regret is that I shall be unable to be present to see you open it.’

This seemed at first sight obviously to mean congratulations on winning the lottery, the ‘visible evidence’ of which, namely £988 in gold, was in the cask. But did it really mean this? Did a more sinister interpretation not also offer itself? Suppose the body was the ‘visible evidence’? Suppose the death was the result, possibly indirect, of something that Felix had done? If money only was being sent, why should Le Gautier experience regret that he could not see the cask opened? But if a corpse was unexpectedly hidden there, would not that statement be clarified? It certainly looked so. One thing at least seemed clear. If a corpse had been sent to Felix, he must know something of the circumstances leading up to it. The Inspector spoke again:

‘I am obliged for your statement, Mr Felix, which, I may be allowed to say, I fully accept so far as it goes. But I fear you have not told me everything?’

‘I have told you everything material.’

‘Then I am afraid we are not in agreement as to what is material. At all events, it all goes back to my original question, “What is in the cask?”’

‘Do you not accept my statement that it is money?’

‘I accept your statement that you believe it to be money. I do not necessarily accept your authority for that belief.’

‘Well,’ said Felix, jumping up, ‘the cask’s in the coach-house and I see there is nothing for it but to go and open it now. I did not want to do so tonight, as I did not want to have all that gold lying loose about the house, but it’s clear nothing else will satisfy you.’

‘Thank you, Mr Felix, I wanted you to make the suggestion. It is, as you say, the only way to settle the matter. I’ll call Sergeant Hastings here as a witness and we’ll go now.’

In silence, Felix got a lantern and led the way. They passed through a back-door into the yard and paused at the coach-house door.

‘Hold the light, will you, while I get the keys.’ Burnley threw a beam on the long running bolt that closed the two halves of the door. A padlock held the handle down on the staple. Felix inserted a key, but at his first touch the lock fell open.

‘Why, the thing’s not fastened!’ he cried, ‘and I locked it myself a few hours ago!’

He removed the padlock and withdrew the running bolt, swinging the large door open. Burnley flashed in the lantern.

‘Is the cask here?’ he said.

‘Yes, swinging there from the ceiling,’ answered Felix, as he came over from fastening back the door. Then his jaw dropped and he stared fixedly.

‘My heavens!’ he gasped, in a strangled tone, ‘it’s gone! The cask’s gone!’

CHAPTER VI
THE ART OF DETECTION

ASTONISHED as Burnley was himself at this unexpected development, he did not forget to keep a keen watch on Felix. That the latter was genuinely amazed and dumbfounded he could not doubt. Not only was his surprise too obviously real to be questioned, but his anger and annoyance at losing his money were clearly heartfelt.

‘I locked it myself. I locked it myself,’ he kept on repeating. ‘It was there at eight o’clock, and who could get at it since then? Why, no one but myself knew about it. How could any one else have known?’

‘That’s what we have to find out,’ returned the Inspector. ‘Come back to the house, Mr Felix, and let us talk it over. We cannot do anything outside until it gets light.

‘You may not know,’ he continued, ‘that you were followed here with your cask by one of our men, who watched you unloading it in the coach-house. He waited till you left with your friend Martin, a few minutes before nine. He then had to leave to advise me of the matter, but he was back at the house by ten. From ten till after eleven he watched alone, but since then the house has been surrounded by my men, as I rather expected to find a gang instead of a single man. Whoever took the cask must therefore have done so between nine and ten.’

Felix stared at his companion open-mouthed.

‘By Jove!’ he said. ‘You amaze me. How in thunder did you get on my track?’

Burnley smiled.

‘It is our business to know these things,’ he answered. ‘I knew all about how you got the cask away from the docks also.’

‘Well, thank Heaven! I told you the truth.’

‘It was the wise thing, Mr Felix. I was able to check your statements as you went along, and I may say I felt really glad when I heard you were going to be straight. At the same time, sir, you will realise that my orders prevent me being satisfied until I have seen the contents of the cask.’

‘You cannot be more anxious to recover it than I am, for I want my money.’

‘Naturally,’ said Burnley, ‘but before we discuss the matter excuse me a moment. I want to give my fellows some instructions.’

He went out and called the men together. Sergeant Hastings and Constable Walker he retained, the rest he sent home in the car with instructions to return at eight o’clock in the morning. To Broughton he bade ‘Good-night,’ thanking him for his presence and help.

When he re-entered the study Felix made up the fire and drew forward the whisky and cigars.

‘Thank you, I don’t mind if I do,’ said the detective, sinking back into his chair. ‘Now, Mr Felix, let us go over every one that knew about the cask being there.’

‘No one but myself and the carter, I assure you.’

‘Yourself, the carter, myself, and my man Walker—four to start with.’

Felix smiled.

‘As far as I am concerned,’ he said, ‘I left here, as you appear to know, almost immediately after the arrival of the cask and did not return till after one o’clock. All of that time I was in the company of Dr William Martin and a number of mutual friends. So I can prove an alibi.’

Burnley smiled also.

‘For me,’ he said, ‘I am afraid you will have to take my word. The house was watched by Walker from ten o’clock, and we may take it as quite impossible that anything could have been done after that hour.’

‘There remains therefore the carter.’

‘There remains therefore the carter, and, as we must neglect no possibilities, I will ask you to give me the address of the cartage firm and any information about the man that you may have.’

‘John Lyons and Son, 127 Maddox Street, Lower Beechwood Road, was the contractor. The carter’s name, beyond Watty, I don’t know. He was a rather short, wiry chap, with a dark complexion and small black moustache.’

‘And now, Mr Felix, can you not think of any others who may have known about the cask?’

‘There was no one,’ replied the other with decision.

‘I’m afraid we can’t assume that. We certainly can’t be sure.’

‘Who could there be?’

‘Well, your French friend. How do you know he didn’t write to others beside you?’

Felix sat up as if he had been shot.

‘By Jove!’ he cried, ‘it never entered my head. But it’s most unlikely—most unlikely.’

‘The whole thing’s most unlikely as far as that goes. Perhaps you are not aware that someone else was watching the house last evening?’

‘Good God, Inspector! What do you mean?’

‘Someone came to the lane shortly after your arrival with the cask. He waited and heard your conversation with your friend Martin. When you and your friend left, he followed you.’

Felix passed his hand over his forehead. His face was pale.

‘This business is too much for me,’ he said. ‘I wish to heaven I was out of it.’

‘Then help me to get you out of it. Think. Is there any one your friend knows that he might have written to?’

Felix remained silent for some moments.

‘There is only one man,’ he said at length in a hesitating voice, ‘that I know he is friendly with—a Mr Percy Murgatroyd, a mining engineer who has an office in Westminster. But I don’t for one moment believe he had anything to say to it.’

‘Let me have his name and address, anyway.’

‘4 St John’s Mansions, Victoria Street,’ said Felix, on referring to an address book.

‘You might write it down, if you please, and sign it.’

Felix looked up with a smile.

‘You generally write notes yourself, I should have thought?’

Burnley laughed.

‘You’re very quick, Mr Felix. Of course it’s your handwriting I want also. But I assure you it’s only routine. Now please, think. Is there any one else?’

‘Not a living soul that I know of.’

‘Very well, Mr Felix. I want to ask just one other question. Where did you stay in Paris?’

‘At the Hotel Continental.’

‘Thanks, that’s everything. And now, if you will allow me, I will take a few winks here in the chair till it gets light, and if you take my advice you will turn in.’

Felix looked at his watch.

‘Quarter-past three. Well, perhaps I shall. I’m only sorry I cannot offer you a bed as the house is absolutely empty, but if you will take a shakedown in the spare room—?’

‘No, no, thanks very much, I shall be all right here.’

‘As you wish. Good-night.’

When Felix had left, the Inspector sat on in his chair smoking his strong black cigars and thinking. He did not sleep, though he remained almost motionless, only at long intervals rousing up to light another cigar, and it was not until five had struck that he got up and looked out of the window.

‘Light at last,’ he muttered, as he let himself quietly out of the back door into the yard.

His first care was to make a thorough search in the yard and all the out-houses to ensure that the cask was really gone and not merely hidden in some other room. He was speedily satisfied on this point.

Since it was gone it was obvious that it must have been removed on a vehicle. His next point was to see how that vehicle got in, and if it had left any traces. And first as to the coach-house door.

He picked up the padlock and examined it carefully. It was an ordinary old-fashioned four-inch one. The ring had been forced open while locked, the hole in the opening end through which the bolt passes being torn away. Marks showed that this had been done by inserting some kind of lever between the body of the lock and the staple on the door, through which the ring had been passed. The Inspector looked round for the lever, but could not find it. He therefore made a note to search for such a tool, as if it bore marks which would fit those on the door, its evidence might be important.

There was next the question of the yard gate. This opened inwards in two halves, and was fastened by a wooden beam hinged through the centre to the edge of one of the half gates. When it was turned vertically the gates were free, but when horizontally it engaged with brackets, one on each half gate, thus holding them closed. It could be fastened by a padlock, but none was fitted. The gate now stood closed and with the beam lying in the brackets.

The Inspector took another note to find out if Mr Felix had locked the beam, and then stood considering. It was clear the gate must have been closed from the inside after the vehicle had gone out. It must have been opened similarly on the latter’s arrival. Who had done this? Was Felix lying, and was there some one else in the house?

At first it seemed likely, and then the Inspector thought of another way. Constable Walker had climbed the wall. Why should not the person who opened and shut the gate have also done so? The Inspector moved slowly along the wall scrutinising it and the ground alongside it.

At first he saw nothing out of the common, but on retracing his steps he noticed, about three yards from the gate, two faint marks of mud or dust on the plaster. These were some six feet from the ground and about fifteen inches apart. On the soft soil which had filled in between the cobble stones in this disused part of the yard, about a foot from the wall and immediately under these marks, were two sharp-edged depressions, about two inches long by half an inch wide, arranged with their longer dimensions in line. Someone had clearly used a short ladder.

Inspector Burnley stood gazing at the marks. It struck him they were very far apart for a ladder. He measured the distance between them and found it was fifteen inches. Ladders, he knew, are about twelve.

Opening the gate he went to the outside of the wall. A grass plot ran alongside it here and the Inspector, stooping down, searched for corresponding marks. He was not disappointed. Two much deeper depressions showed where the ends of the ladder-like apparatus had sunk into the softer ground. These were not narrow like those in the yard, but rectangular and of heavier stuff, three inches by two, he estimated. He looked at the plaster on the wall above, but it was not till he examined it through his lens that he was satisfied it bore two faint scratches, corresponding in position to the muddy marks on the opposite side.

A further thought struck him. Scooping up a little soil from the grass, he went again into the yard and compared with his lens the soil and the dry mud of the marks on the plaster. As he had anticipated, they were identical.

He could now dimly reconstruct what had happened. Some one had placed a peculiar kind of ladder against the outside of the wall and presumably crossed it and opened the gate. The ladder had then been carried round and placed against the inside of the wall, but, probably by accident, opposite end up. The outside plaster was therefore clean but scraped, while that on the inside bore traces of the soil from the ends that had stood on the grass. In going out after barring the gate, he imagined the thief had pulled the ladder after him with a cord and passed it over the wall.

The Inspector returned to the grass and made a further search. Here he found confirmation of his theory in a single impression of one of the legs of the ladder some two feet six out from the wall. That, he decided, had been caused by the climber throwing down the ladder when leaving the yard. He also found three footmarks, but, unfortunately, they were so blurred as to be valueless.

He took out his notebook and made a sketch with accurate dimensions showing what he had learnt of the ladder—its length, width, and the shape of the legs at each end. Then bringing out the steps Felix had used to hang the chain blocks, he got on the wall. He examined the cement coping carefully, but without finding any further traces.

The yard being paved, no wheel or foot marks were visible, but Burnley spent quite a long time crossing and recrossing it, examining every foot of ground in the hope of finding some object that had been dropped. Once before, in just such another case, he had had the luck to discover a trouser button concealed under some leaves, a find which had led to penal servitude for two men. On this occasion he was disappointed, his search being entirely unsuccessful.

He went out on the drive. Here were plenty of marks, but try as he would he could make nothing of them. The surface was covered thickly with fine gravel and only showed vague disturbances with no clear outlines. He began methodically to search the drive as he had done the yard. Every foot was examined in turn, Burnley gradually working down towards the gate. After he left the immediate neighbourhood of the house the gravel became much thinner, but the surface below was hard and bore no marks. He continued perseveringly until he got near the gate, and then he had some luck.

In the lawn between the house and the road some work was in progress. It seemed to Burnley that a tennis or croquet ground was being made. From the corner of this ground a recently filled in cut ran across the drive and out to the hedge adjoining the lane. Evidently a drain had just been laid.

Where this drain passed under the drive the newly filled ground had slightly sunk. The hollow had been made up in the middle with gravel, but it happened that a small space on the lane side which had not gone down much was almost uncovered, the clay showing through. On this space were two clearly defined footmarks, pointing in the direction of the house.

I have said two, but that is not strictly correct. One, that of a workman’s right boot with heavy hobnails, was complete in every detail, the clay holding the impression like plaster of Paris. The other, some distance in front and to the left and apparently the next step forward, was on the edge of the clay patch and showed the heel only, the sole having borne on the hard.

Inspector Burnley’s eyes brightened. Never had he seen better impressions. Here was something tangible at last. He bent down to examine them more closely, then suddenly sprang to his feet with a gesture of annoyance.

‘Fool that I am,’ he growled, ‘that’s only Watty bringing up the cask.’

All the same he made a careful sketch of the marks, showing the distance between them and the size of the clay patch. Watty, he felt sure, would be easy to find through the carting establishment, when he could ascertain if the footsteps were his. If it should chance they were not, he had probably found a useful clue to the thief. For the convenience of the reader I reproduce the sketch.

Burnley turned to go on, but his habit of thinking things out reasserted itself, and he stood gazing at the marks and slowly pondering. He was puzzled that the steps were so close together. He took out his rule and re-measured the distance between them. Nineteen inches from heel to heel. That was surely very close. A man of Watty’s size would normally take a step of at least thirty inches, and carters were generally long-stepping men. If he had put it at thirty-two or thirty-three inches he would probably be nearer the thing. Why, then, this short step?

He looked and pondered. Then suddenly a new excitement came into his eyes and he bent swiftly down again.

‘Jove!’ he murmured. ‘Jove! I nearly missed that! It makes it more like Watty and, if so, it is conclusive! Absolutely conclusive!’ His cheek was flushed and his eyes shone.

‘That probably settles that hash,’ said the evidently delighted Inspector. He, nevertheless, continued his methodical search down the remainder of the drive and out on to the road, but without further result.

He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.

‘Two more points and I’m through,’ he said to himself in a satisfied tone.

He turned into the lane and walked slowly down it, scrutinising the roadway as he had done the drive. Three separate times he stopped to examine and measure footmarks, the third occasion being close by the little gate in the hedge.

‘Number one point done. Now for number two,’ he muttered, and returning to the entrance gate stood for a moment looking up and down the road. Choosing the direction of London he walked for a quarter of a mile examining the gateways at either side, particularly those that led into fields. Apparently he did not find what he was in search of, for he retraced his steps to where a cross road led off to the left and continued his investigations along it. No better luck rewarding him, he tried a second cross road with the same result. There being no other cross roads, he returned to the lane and set out again, this time with his back to London. At the third gateway, one leading into a field on the left-hand side of the road, he stopped.

It was an ordinary iron farm gate set in the rather high and thick hedge that bounded the road. The field was in grass and bore the usual building ground notice. Immediately inside the gate was a patch of low and swampy looking ground, and it was a number of fresh wheel marks crossing this patch that had caught the Inspector’s attention.

The gate was not padlocked, and Burnley slipped the bolt back and entered the field. He examined the wheel marks with great care. They turned sharply at right angles on passing through the gate and led for a short distance along the side of the fence, stopping beside a tree which grew in the hedge. The hoof marks of a horse and the prints of a man’s hobnailed boots leading over the same ground also came in for a close scrutiny.

It was a contented looking Burnley that turned out of the field and walked back to St Malo. He was well satisfied with his night’s work. He had firstly succeeded in getting a lot of information out of Felix, and had further turned the latter into a friend anxious to help in the clearing up of the mystery. And though an unexpected check had arisen in the disappearance of the cask, he felt that with the information he had gained in the last three hours it would not be long before he had his hands on it again.

As he approached the door Felix hailed him.

‘I saw you coming up,’ he said. ‘What luck?’

‘Oh, not so bad, not so bad,’ returned the other. ‘I’m just going back to the city.’

‘But the cask? What about it?’

‘I’ll start some inquiries that may lead to something.’

‘Oh, come now, Inspector, don’t be so infernally close. You might tell me what you’ve got in your mind, for I can see you have something.’

Burnley laughed.

‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind. I’ll tell you what I found; you see what you make of it.

‘First, I found your coach-house padlock had been forced with a lever. There was nothing of the kind lying about, therefore whatever theory we adopt must account for this lever’s production and disposal. It may quite likely bear marks corresponding to those on the padlock, which evidence might be valuable.

‘I then found that your visitor had arrived at the yard gate with a vehicle and had climbed the wall with the aid of a very peculiar ladder. He had, presumably, opened the gate and, after loading up the cask and drawing his vehicle out on to the drive, had closed the gate, leaving by the same means. There is evidence to show that he lifted the ladder over after him, probably pulling it up by a cord.

‘I have said the ladder was a peculiar one. Here is a sketch of its shape so far as I could learn it. You will see that it is short and wide with the ends shaped differently.

‘I may remind you, in passing, how easy it would have been to load up the cask in spite of its weight. All that was necessary was to back the vehicle under it and lower out the differential pulley, a thing a man could do with one hand.

‘I examined the drive, but could find nothing except at one place where there was a most interesting pair of footmarks. You must really see these for yourself, and if you will stroll down now I will point them out. There is reason to believe they were made by Watty when he was approaching the house with the dray, but I cannot be positive as yet.

‘I then examined the lane and I found in three places other footmarks by the same man. Finally, about 200 yards along the main road to the north, I found wheel marks leading into a grass field beside which he had walked.

‘Now, Mr Felix, put all these things together. You will find them suggestive, but the footmarks on the drive are very nearly conclusive.’

They had by this time reached the marks.

‘Here we are,’ said Burnley. ‘What do you think of these?’

‘I don’t see anything very remarkable about them.’

‘Look again.’

Felix shook his head.

‘See here, Mr Felix. Stand out here on the gravel and put your right foot in line with this first print. Right. Now take a step forward as if you were walking to the house. Right. Does anything occur to you now?’

‘I can’t say that it does, unless it is that I have taken a very much longer step.’

‘But your step was of normal length.’

‘Well then, conversely, the unknown must have taken a short one.’

‘But did he? Assume it was Watty, as I think it must have been. You were with him and you saw him walking.’

‘Oh, come now, Inspector. How could I tell that? He didn’t normally take very short steps or I should have noticed it, but I couldn’t possibly say that he never took one.’

‘The point is not essential except that it calls attention to a peculiarity in the steps. But you must admit that while possible, it is quite unlikely he would take a step of that length—nineteen inches as against a probable thirty-three—without stumbling or making a false step.’

‘But how do you know he didn’t stumble?’

‘The impression, my dear sir, the impression. A false step or a stumble would have made a blurred mark or shown heavier on one side than the other. This print shows no slip and is evenly marked all over. It was clearly made quite normally.’

‘That seems reasonable, but I don’t see how it matters.’

‘To me it seems exceedingly suggestive though, I agree, not conclusive. But there is a nearly conclusive point, Mr Felix. Look at those prints again.’

‘They convey nothing to me.’

‘Compare them.’

‘Well, I can only compare the heels and there is not much difference between them, just as you would expect between the heels of a pair of boots.’ Felix hesitated. ‘By Jove! Inspector,’ he went on, ‘I’ve got you at last. They’re the same marks. They were both made by the same foot.’

‘I think so, Mr Felix; you have it now. Look here.’ The Inspector stooped. ‘The fourth nail on the left hand side is gone. That alone might be a coincidence, but if you compare the wear of the other nails and of the leather you will see they are the same beyond doubt.’

He pointed to several little inequalities and inaccuracies in the outline, each of which appeared in both the marks.

‘But even if they are the same, I don’t know that I see what you get from that.’

‘Don’t you? Well, look here. How could Watty, if it was he, have produced them? Surely only in one of two ways. Firstly, he could have hopped on one foot. But there are three reasons why it is unlikely he did that. One is that he could hardly have done it without your noticing it. Another, that he could never have left so clear an impression in that way. The third, why should he hop? He simply wouldn’t do it. Therefore they were made in the second way. What was that, Mr Felix?’

Felix started.

‘I see what you’re after at last,’ he said. ‘He walked up the drive twice.’

‘Of course he did. He walked up first with you to leave the cask. He walked up the second time with the empty dray to get it. If the impressions were really made by Watty that seems quite certain.’

‘But what on earth would Watty want with the cask? He could not know there was money in it.’

‘Probably not, but he must have guessed it held something valuable.’

‘Inspector, you overwhelm me with delight. If he took the cask it will surely be easy to trace it.’

‘It may or it may not. Question is, are we sure he was acting for himself.’

‘Who else?’

‘What about your French friend? You don’t know whom he may have written to. You don’t know that all your actions with the cask may not have been watched.’

‘Oh, don’t make things worse than they are. Trace this Watty, won’t you?’

‘Of course we will, but it may not be so easy as you seem to think. At the same time there are two other points, both of which seem to show he was at least alone.’

‘Yes?’

‘The first is the watcher in the lane. That was almost certainly the man who walked twice up your drive. I told you I found his footmarks at three points along it. One was near your little gate, close beside and pointing to the hedge, showing he was standing there. That was at the very point my man saw the watcher.

‘The second point concerns the horse and dray, and this is what leads me to believe the watcher was really Watty. If Watty was listening up the lane where were these? If he had a companion the latter would doubtless have walked them up and down the road. But if he was alone they must have been hidden somewhere while he made his investigations. I’ve been over most of the roads immediately surrounding, and on my fourth shot—towards the north, as I already told you—I found the place. It is fairly clear what took place. On leaving the cask he had evidently driven along the road until he found a gate that did not lead to a house. It was, as I said, that of a field. The marks there are unmistakable. He led the dray in behind the hedge and tied the horse to a tree. Then he came back to reconnoitre and heard you going out. He must have immediately returned and brought the dray, got the cask, and cleared out, and I imagine he was not many minutes gone before my man Walker returned. What do you think of that for a working theory?’

‘I think it’s conclusive. Absolutely conclusive. And that explains the queer-shaped ladder.’

‘Eh, what? What’s that you say?’

‘It must have been the gangway business for loading barrels on the dray. I saw one hooked on below the deck.’

Burnley smote his thigh a mighty slap.

‘One for you, Mr Felix,’ he cried, ‘one for you, sir. I never thought of it. That points to Watty again.’

‘Inspector, let me congratulate you. You have got evidence that makes the thing a practical certainty.’

‘I think it’s a true bill. And now, sir, I must be getting back to the Yard.’ Burnley hesitated and then went on: ‘I am extremely sorry and I’m afraid you won’t like it, but I shall be straight with you and tell you I cannot—I simply dare not—leave you without some kind of police supervision until this cask business is cleared up. But I give you my word you shall not be annoyed.’

Felix smiled.

‘That’s all right. You do your duty. The only thing I ask you is to let me know how you get on.’

‘I hope we’ll have some news for you later in the day.’

It was now shortly after eight, and the car had arrived with the two men sent back the previous evening. Burnley gave them instructions about keeping a watch on Felix, then with Sergeant Hastings and Constable Walker he entered the car and was driven rapidly towards London.

CHAPTER VII
THE CASK AT LAST

INSPECTOR BURNLEY reached Scotland Yard, after dropping Constable Walker at his station with remarks which made the heart of that observer glow with triumph and conjured up pictures of the day when he, Inspector Walker, would be one of the Yard’s most skilled and trusted officers. During the run citywards Burnley had thought out his plan of campaign, and he began operations by taking Sergeant Hastings to his office and getting down the large scale map.

‘Look here, Hastings,’ he said, when he had explained his theories and found what he wanted. ‘Here’s John Lyons and Sons’, the carriers where Watty is employed, and from where the dray was hired. You see it’s quite a small place. Here close by is Goole Street, and here is the Goole Street Post Office. Got the lie of those? Very well. I want you, when you’ve had your breakfast, to go out there and get on the track of Watty. Find out first his full name and address, and wire or phone it at once. Then shadow him. I expect he has the cask, either at his own house or hidden somewhere, and he’ll lead you to it if you’re there to follow. Probably he won’t be able to do anything till night, but of that we can’t be certain. Don’t interfere or let him see you if possible, but of course don’t let him open the cask if he has not already done so, and under no circumstances allow him to take anything out of it. I will follow you out and we can settle further details. The Goole Street Post Office will be our headquarters, and you can advise me there at, say, the even hours of your whereabouts. Make yourself up as you think best and get to work as quickly as you can.’

The sergeant saluted and withdrew.

‘That’s everything in the meantime, I think,’ said Burnley to himself, as with a yawn he went home to breakfast.

When some time later Inspector Burnley emerged from his house, a change had come over his appearance. He seemed to have dropped his individuality as an alert and efficient representative of Scotland Yard and taken on that of a small shopkeeper or contractor in a small way of business. He was dressed in a rather shabby suit of checks, with baggy knees and draggled coat. His tie was woefully behind the fashion, his hat required brushing, and his boots were soiled and down at heel. A slight stoop and a slouching walk added to his almost slovenly appearance.

He returned to the Yard and asked for messages. Already a telephone had come through from Sergeant Hastings: ‘Party’s name, Walter Palmer, 71 Fennell Street, Lower Beechwood Road.’ Having had a warrant made out for the ‘party’s’ arrest, he got a police motor with plain-clothes driver, and left for the scene of operations.

It was another glorious day. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky of clearest blue. The air had the delightful freshness of early spring. Even the Inspector, with his mind full of casks and corpses, could not remain insensible of its charm. With a half sigh he thought of that garden in the country which it was one of his dearest dreams some day to achieve. The daffodils would now be in fine show and the primroses would be on, and such a lot of fascinating work would be waiting to be done among the later plants …

The car drew up as he had arranged at the end of Goole Street and the Inspector proceeded on foot. After a short walk he reached his objective, an archway at the end of a block of buildings, above which was a faded signboard bearing the legend, ‘John Lyons and Son, Carriers.’ Passing under the arch and following a short lane, he emerged in a yard with an open-fronted shed along one side and a stable big enough for eight or nine horses on the other. Four or five carts of different kinds were ranged under the shed roof. In the middle of the open space, with a horse yoked in, was a dray with brown sides, and Burnley, walking close to it, saw that under the paint the faint outline of white letters could be traced. A youngish man stood by the stable door and watched Burnley curiously, but without speaking.

‘Boss about?’ shouted Burnley.

The youngish man pointed to the entrance.

‘In the office,’ he replied.

The Inspector turned and entered a small wooden building immediately inside the gate. A stout, elderly man with a grey beard, who was posting entries in a ledger, got up and came forward as he did so.

‘Morning,’ said Burnley, ‘have you a dray for hire?’

‘Why, yes,’ answered the stout man. ‘When do you want it and for how long?’

‘It’s this way,’ returned Burnley. ‘I’m a painter, and I have always stuff to get to and from jobs. My own dray has broken down and I want one while it’s being repaired. I’ve asked a friend for the loan of his, but he may not be able to supply. It will take about four days to put it right.’

‘Then you wouldn’t want a horse and man?’

‘No, I should use my own.’

‘In that case, sir, I couldn’t agree, I fear. I never let my vehicles out without a man in charge.’

‘You’re right in that, of course, but I don’t want the man. I’ll tell you. If you let me have it I’ll make you a deposit of its full value. That will guarantee its safe return.’

The stout man rubbed his cheek.

‘I might do that,’ he said. ‘I’ve never done anything like it before, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t.’

‘Let’s have a look at it, anyway,’ said Burnley.

They went into the yard and approached the dray, Burnley going through the form of examining it thoroughly.

‘I have a lot of small kegs to handle,’ he said, ‘as well as drums of paint. I should like to have that barrel loader fixed till I see if it’s narrow enough to carry them.’

The stout man unhooked the loader and fixed it in position.

‘Too wide, I’m afraid,’ said the Inspector, producing his rule. ‘I’ll just measure it.’

It was fifteen inches wide and six feet six long. The sides were of six by two material, with iron-shod ends. One pair of ends, that resting on the ground, was chisel-pointed, the other carried the irons for hooking it on to the cart. The ends of these irons made rectangles about three inches by two. Burnley looked at the rectangles. Both were marked with soil. He was satisfied. The loader was what Watty had used to cross the wall.

‘That’ll do all right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see, do you carry a box for hay or tools?’ He opened it and rapidly scanned its contents. There was a halter, a nosebag, a small coil of rope, a cranked spanner, and some other small objects. He picked up the spanner.

‘This, I suppose, is for the axle caps?’ he said, bending down and trying it. ‘I see it fits the nuts.’ As he replaced it in the box he took a quick look at the handle. It bore two sets of scratches on opposite sides, and the Inspector felt positive these would fit the marks on the padlock and staple of the coach-house door, had he been able to try them.

The stout man was regarding him with some displeasure.

‘You weren’t thinking of buying it?’ he said.

‘No, thanks, but if you want a deposit before you let me take it, I want to be sure it won’t sit down with me.’

They returned to the office, discussing rates. Finally these were arranged, and it was settled that when Burnley had seen his friend he was to telephone the result.

The Inspector left the yard well pleased. He had now complete proof that his theories were correct and that Watty with that dray had really stolen the cask.

Returning to Goole Street he called at the Post Office. It was ten minutes to twelve, and there being no message for him he stood waiting at the door. Five minutes had not elapsed before a street arab appeared, looked him up and down several times, and then said:

‘Name o’ Burnley?’

‘That’s me,’ returned the Inspector. ‘Got a note for me?’

‘The other cove said as ’ow you’ld give me a tanner.’

‘Here you are, sonny,’ said Burnley, and the sixpence and the note changed owners. The latter read:

‘Party just about to go home for dinner. Am waiting on road south of carrier’s yard.’

Burnley walked to where he had left the motor and getting in, was driven to the place mentioned. At a sign from him the driver drew the car to the side of the road, stopping his engine at the same time. Jumping down, he opened the bonnet and bent over the engine. Any one looking on would have seen that a small breakdown had taken place.

A tall, untidy looking man, in threadbare clothes and smoking a short clay, lounged up to the car with his hands in his pockets. Burnley spoke softly without looking round:

‘I want to arrest him, Hastings. Point him out when you see him.’

‘He’ll pass this way going for his dinner in less than five minutes.’

‘Right.’

The loafer moved forward and idly watched the repairs to the engine. Suddenly he stepped back.

‘That’s him,’ he whispered.

Burnley looked out through the back window of the car and saw a rather short, wiry man coming down the street, dressed in blue dungarees and wearing a grey woollen muffler. As he reached the car, the Inspector stepped quickly out and touched him on the shoulder, while the loafer and the driver closed round.

‘Walter Palmer, I am an inspector from Scotland Yard. I arrest you on a charge of stealing a cask. I warn you anything you say may be used against you. Better come quietly, you see there are three of us.’

Before the dumbfounded man could realise what was happening, a pair of handcuffs had snapped on his wrists and he was being pushed in the direction of the car.

‘All right, boss, I’ll come,’ he said as he got in, followed by Burnley and Hastings. The driver started his engine and the car slipped quietly down the road. The whole affair had not occupied twenty seconds and hardly one of the passers-by had realised what was taking place.

‘I’m afraid, Palmer, this is a serious matter,’ began Burnley. ‘Stealing the cask is one thing, but breaking into a man’s yard at night is another. That’s burglary and it will mean seven years at least.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking abaht, boss,’ answered the prisoner hoarsely, licking his dry lips, ‘I don’t know of no cask.’

‘Now, man, don’t make things worse by lying. We know the whole thing. Your only chance is to make a clean breast of it.’

Palmer’s face grew paler but he did not reply.

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