Chapter XXX

IN WHICH ARTHUR KEEPS HIS WORD UNDER DIFFICULTIES, AND THE
SUPERINTENDENT HAS A SUDDEN IDEA

Lord Ealing's indisposition lasted but a moment after the departure of the Superintendent. "It's all right, Pardoe, I'm better now," he said to the footman, rising to his feet. "Get me a brandy and soda, will you, and order the car at once." He moved swiftly to the telephone, and rang up Arthur Wharton's flat.

Arthur was putting together a few things in readiness for his departure to Paramé when his telephone bell rang. "Is that you, Arthur?" came the voice. "This is your uncle speaking. I must see you at once. It's very urgent. I'm coming round now in my car." Arthur was replying angrily that he had no desire to meet his uncle, when he realised that Lord Ealing had rung off.

He had half a mind to go out, or to refuse to see his uncle. On the other hand, he had better know what Lord Ealing wanted. He was still irresolute when there came a ring at his front door bell. He was alone in the flat, so he went to the door himself, and admitted Superintendent Wilson. Arthur looked at him with evident alarm.

"May I come in? I want a word with you," said Wilson, who was fully alive to the fact that he had no time to lose, as Lord Ealing might follow at any minute. "Your uncle, whom I have just left, informs me that you have something to tell me about Mr. Pasquett."

Arthur looked at the Superintendent with an air of consternation. "My uncle told you," he exclaimed incredulously. "No, I have nothing to say," he added, lamely.

"Nothing to say, Mr. Wharton? Your uncle told me positively that you had discovered that the man who calls himself Pasquett is an impostor."

"Lord Ealing said that? It is not true," said Arthur, quite determined now to fight his friend's battle against all odds, even if his uncle, for some inconceivable reason, had let the cat out of the bag.

"Do you mean you did not tell Lord Ealing that Pasquett is not what he pretends to be?"

"Certainly, I did not."

"Just what did you tell Lord Ealing, Mr. Wharton?"

"I told him nothing--nothing that concerns the police," said Arthur, with a somewhat unsuccessful assumption of dignity.

"Come, come, Mr. Wharton. This won't do. You must be frank with me. I am investigating a criminal matter, and----"

"I have absolutely nothing to say. That is my last word."

There came another ring at the bell. "One moment," said Arthur, "I must go to the door." Wilson guessed whom he would find there. It was annoying to be interrupted so; but it was also a little amusing. He stole to the door and opened it an inch or so. He could hear plainly what was said. He heard Lord Ealing greet his nephew and ask to come in. "Superintendent Wilson's here," whispered Arthur in reply. "Damn!" whispered Lord Ealing. "Come out here where he can't hear us." They moved out on to the landing, out of Wilson's hearing. Lord Ealing continued. "For God's sake don't tell him anything."

"But he says you told him and sent him to see me."

"It's all a mistake, Arthur. I mustn't come in if he's here. I half gave it away. You mustn't say anything. But he knows something, too. Find out what he knows. Only keep your own mouth shut."

"I will, but not for your sake. Go away," said Arthur, and shut the front door in his uncle's face. Wilson softly closed his door, and returned to his seat as he heard the front door bang.

"Only a tradesman," said Arthur, coming back into the room.

Wilson said nothing. He waited for Arthur. There was a long pause. At length Arthur spoke. "What are you waiting for? I told you I had nothing to say."

"I am waiting for you to change your mind, Mr. Wharton. After all, I know already. Lord Ealing has--let the cat out of the bag. I only want your confirmation."

"Then you won't get it," said Arthur.

"Mr. Wharton, I will be quite frank with you. I went to Lord Ealing to-day intending to give him certain very important information about Mr. Pasquett. Before I could tell him, your uncle jumped to the conclusion that I had seen you, and that you had told me what you are now refusing to tell. From what he let slip, I gathered quite clearly that you believed yourself to have clear proofs that the man calling himself John Pasquett is not John Pasquett at all, but an impostor who has assumed his name."

"That's not true," said Arthur. "I mean, I have no such proofs."

"That is as may be, Mr. Wharton. Now I am going to tell you what I meant to tell Lord Ealing this afternoon, and then you can decide whether you still refuse to give me your information."

"I don't want to hear," said Arthur.

"I have clear proofs," Wilson went on unperturbed, "first, that Hugh Radlett was not murdered by the man Rosenbaum; secondly, that Pasquett was in London on the night of the murder when he pretended he was in France; and, thirdly, that it was Pasquett who masqueraded as Rosenbaum at Sugden's Hotel."

Arthur sat very gloomily, saying nothing. When Wilson made his second and third points, he tightened his grip on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and his face went very white; but he made no other sign.

"I believe," Wilson went on, "that you are a friend of Pasquett's, and I want to tell you frankly that it is with the very greatest reluctance that I have come to suspect him of--murder. I have ascertained positively that he fled from London to France on the day when the crime was discovered. Shall I give you my proofs, and tell you the full story?"

Arthur still made no answer. Wilson therefore recounted, as shortly as he could, the gist of the discoveries he had made. "Now, Mr. Wharton," he concluded, "you must know that it is your duty to aid the ends of justice. Will you not tell me what it is you have found out?"

"No," said Arthur miserably. "I'm sorry, but I won't."

"You will have to, later. It is all bound to come out. Why not tell me now?"

"Sorry, Superintendent. It's no use. I won't. I've nothing to tell you."

Wilson rose. "Very well, Mr. Wharton. If you won't, you won't. But you are making quite unwarrantable difficulties. May I use your telephone?"

Without waiting for permission, Wilson lifted the receiver and called Scotland Yard. "I want you to send a man round here at once," he said, giving the address of Arthur's flat. "He is not to lose sight of Mr. Arthur Wharton, who lives here. Do you get that?" He hung up the receiver. "You see what you bring on yourself," he said. "I am bound to have you watched. Why not tell me?"

"No," said Arthur.

"When did you come back from Siberia, Mr. Wharton? I thought you were still there, till Lord Ealing told me."

"I only arrived back to-day," said Arthur.

"I suppose Mr. Pasquett did not come with you? Is he still in Siberia?" asked Wilson.

"No--I mean, he's not with me. He's still out of England--in Siberia," said Arthur. "He's in charge of everything there, you know."

"Well, if you won't tell me what you know, I suppose you won't," said Wilson. "Good-bye, Mr. Wharton." He held out his hand.

"Good-bye," said Arthur miserably, without taking it. Wilson found his own way out of the flat, and went back at once to Scotland Yard.

There he found more news awaiting him. On his desk lay a copy of the telegram sent by Norah Culpepper to Arthur Wharton. "Will wait. Come at once. Proofs ready," it ran. There was no signature, but it had come from Paramé. Wilson looked at the wire with a good deal of perplexity. "What proofs?" he asked himself. "And who 'will wait'? And why is young Wharton to go to Paramé? Upon my word, this case gets more complicated every time one looks at it."

Wilson sat and thought. Surely this telegram must be an answer to one sent by Wharton himself. He rang up the telegraph authorities, and asked them to make search for such a message. They promised to look, and inform him at once of the result. Then, having received word of the fact that Culpepper had been lost sight of, and having said a few hard things to the man who had let him go, and instructed him to pursue his search if he valued his job, Wilson put the case temporarily out of his mind, and ran through a pile of correspondence that had lain on the table awaiting him.

He was still deep in this, when a message came through from the Central Telegraph Office. "We've found that telegram you wanted," came a voice over the 'phone. "It was sent by Wharton to N. Culpepper, Paramé. It runs like this, 'If Jack there tell him not come London yet. Am coming Paramé immediately. Await my arrival. Wharton.'"

Wilson started with surprise as he heard these words. Rapidly thanking his informant, he replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. The message could only mean one thing. Pasquett had come back from Siberia with Arthur Wharton: he was in Paramé at that very moment. There was not a minute to be lost. But the time! It was too late even to start for Paramé till the next morning. He must wire to Blaikie, telling him to arrest Pasquett and Miss Culpepper at once. But Blaikie had no warrant for Pasquett's arrest. Never mind. The French police would agree to detain him till Wilson could arrive with the warrant on the following day. Hastily, Wilson wrote a wire and sent it off. "Pasquett at Paramé," he dictated, over the telephone. "Arrest him and Miss Culpepper at once. Am following with warrant early to-morrow. Wilson."

Then, late as it was, Wilson made up his mind to try to get his case complete before leaving for Paramé. He rang up Sugden's Hotel, and asked where Thomas, the attendant attached to Radlett's suite at the time of the tragedy, was to be found. The man, it appeared, was ill in bed at the hotel. "I'm coming round," said Wilson to the manager, "and I want you to keep that boy for me--the one who came to Scotland Yard this morning. I shall need him."

The Superintendent drove to the hotel, and interviewed Thomas in the garret where he lay ill. "I have only one question to ask you," he said. "You remember the man Rosenbaum. Did you notice anything peculiar about his ears?"

"Just a minute, sir," said Thomas, closing his eyes, "I can see it in my memory better that way," he explained. "Yes, sir," he replied confidently. "Rosenbaum had a malformation of the left ear."

Wilson's heart leapt. It was the left ear, then.

"What sort of a malformation?" he asked.

"The top part was sort of crumpled up. I noticed it when I saw him at the writing-table."

Wilson thanked the man, hoped he would soon be well again, and left him. It was Pasquett's left ear that he had described. Descending the stairs, he sought the manager. "About that boy," he said. "I want to borrow him for a day or two. To identify the murderer."

Mr. Mounteagle protested that it was most inconvenient, but at length he gave way, and sent for the boy, who appeared, wondering what he had done wrong.

"Now, my lad," said Wilson, "you remember the man with the crumpled ear."

"I should think I did," said the boy. "'Im as did the other gent in."

"I want you to come with me and identify him."

The boy looked at the manager, who nodded.

"What do you say to a little trip to France?" said Wilson.

The boy first looked at him incredulously, and then, seeing that he was serious, forgot all discipline and executed a sort of war dance round the room. "Hip, hip, hooray," he said. "What price me now. _Parlay voo frongsay?_ Beggin' your pardon, sir," he added, seeing the horrified face of the manager.

"Boy," said Mr. Mounteagle, in a voice of mingled anger and torment, "think where you are. This is _Sugden's Hotel_."

Wilson arranged that the boy should meet him at Hendon in the morning, as he meant to fly over to France. This added further to his delight. It was a very happy youth who was hurried off to bed in preparation for the great adventure of the morrow.

* * * * *

Before leaving Sugden's Hotel, Superintendent Wilson 'phoned to the aerodrome to make sure of an early passage. When he mentioned his destination, the man at the other end laughed. "How many more of you?" he asked. "There's five special planes gone off to St. Malo to-day already."

"This is Scotland Yard speaking," said Wilson. "Please tell me who the passengers were."

The man went away to consult a book. "The first was one of your men," he said, "Inspector Blaikie. The second was a Mr. Wharton, then came another of your men, Detective-Sergeant Slocombe. The fourth was Lord Ealing. He left half an hour ago, with Sergeant Merrilees close behind him."

Wilson thanked the man for his information. "We shall indeed meet at Philippi," he said to himself.

* * * * *

His day's work, however, was not yet done. As he walked away from Sugden's Hotel towards Scotland Yard, where he meant to pass the night on the folding bed he kept at his office, he was thinking hard about the case. Although by this time its main outlines seemed fairly clear, he was not yet satisfied. Logically, his proofs seemed nearly complete. He could prove positively that Pasquett was the "Rosenbaum" of the hotel, and that would assure him of a verdict. But what on earth was this story of Pasquett not being Pasquett, but some one quite different? That meant forgery as well as murder. It was quite possible. Not one of them had known Pasquett, or what he looked like, till he turned up some days after the crime. And, if Pasquett was not Pasquett, that would explain how he had been able to palm himself off on Radlett as Rosenbaum. Or, at least, it would help to explain. It was still a mystery how Radlett, having parted from one Rosenbaum at the customs office, had turned up with a quite different Rosenbaum at the hotel.

But stay. It was not true that no one had known Pasquett till he turned up after the crime. The Culpeppers had known him. But, of course, they were in the plot.

It was at this point in his thinking that Wilson suddenly stood still in the street, and said, quite unconscious that he was speaking aloud, "My God, what a fool I've been! I never thought of that." A passer-by, who had stopped under the impression he was being addressed, said, "I beg your pardon," and looked at Wilson oddly when he said it was nothing.

He thought of that a great deal more during the rest of his walk and after his arrival at Scotland Yard. And it caused him to do quite a number of things. In the first place, he sent for the trunk which he had found at the house in Grosvenor Walk, and made a minute examination of the inside, sweeping it out carefully and studying the sweepings through a microscope. Then he sent for a car, and drove straight to Grosvenor Walk itself. The house was now occupied, and Wilson, stating his vocation, asked to be allowed to examine the garden. He was admitted, and what he did was to walk about with an electric torch, which he switched particularly on to the pleasant rockery which the previous tenant had stocked with rare Alpine plants. What he found there apparently pleased him; for he returned in a few minutes with something heavy wrapped up in his evening paper. He then went back to Scotland Yard, and locked his find carefully away in his safe.

Next he sent for all the papers found in Radlett's room after the crime, and sat up half the night studying them. He paid particular attention to Radlett's story of his life, printed earlier in this narrative, and again the result of his researches seemed to please him vastly. It was past one o'clock when, having filed the papers carefully away, he lay down on his bed to get a few hours' sleep. The last thing his eyes lighted on as he switched off the electric current was the trunk. He chuckled softly, as he turned over and composed himself to sleep.