Chapter XIX: In Which Another Discovery Is Made

The man Snow held up before our eyes a cabinet photograph which he had found in the drawer of an old-fashioned oak bureau.

No second glance was required by either Whitlock or myself to recognise it as a portrait of a person we had both seen.

It was the picture of a beautiful girl in a slightly _dêcolleté_ dinner bodice--the unknown girl who had been so brutally murdered at Barnes!

Whitlock took it and examined it intently. Gazing upon it, I saw that it had been taken by a well-known photographer in Bond Street--a sepia print mounted upon a large grey card. There was a number pencilled upon the back which would, no doubt, result in the name of the unknown girl being discovered.

Had the object of the sender of that forged Press message been to direct our attention to that portrait?

The face was one with merry, laughing eyes, quite charming, but, alas! different, indeed, to the cold, grey, expressionless countenance I had seen when the attendant of the mortuary-chamber had reverently displaced the white shroud that covered it.

"You recognise her?" asked Whitlock, looking at me curiously.

"Of course," I said. "To mistake is impossible."

"We shall now discover something," he said in a tone of confidence. "At least we shall know her name--which will be something towards the solution of the problem."

"Yes; but does it not strike you as curious that our identification of the victim is predicted in the mysterious Press message?" I remarked.

"That message was sent with an ulterior motive, depend upon it," my friend replied. "Remember that there was an imputation against yourself. By whom?"

"Ah! that's a point we have yet to clear up," I said. "As far as I know, I have no enemy capable of placing upon me suspicion of having murdered a woman."

"And an uncommonly pretty woman into the bargain," Whitlock added, his eyes still upon the photograph. "We must lose no time in making inquiries of the photographer."

"I suppose she could not have been Mrs Elkington?" I suggested. "Remember, husband and wife only left this house quite a short time ago."

"About a fortnight, I think," said Snow. "Nobody seems to know exactly when they went."

"I don't think that," Whitlock remarked. "She hadn't any wedding-ring when found. She may be a friend of these Elkingtons. If so, they probably know something about the affair. At anyrate, we'll see." Then, turning to Snow, he added: "You'd better turn out the whole of that bureau. There may be something further there."

The man continued his work of investigation quietly and methodically, while we both stood aside watching.

"The whole thing is utterly amazing," Whitlock declared. "One would almost think that it is the murderer himself who, putting us upon the right scent, is at the same time cleverly implicating persons who've had nothing to do with the matter."

"Well, my dear fellow," I exclaimed, "I hope you don't think that I've had anything to do with it!"

"Of course not," he replied frankly. "But what I can't discern is the motive why you should be condemned. There are points which are conclusive against yourself, you know."

"Which points? You mean what was stated in the message last night?"

"That--and others."

"What others?"

"Well--we needn't go into them, need we, Keene?" he said. "You have an enemy--a bitter enemy--that's very certain."

"Yes; and, what's more, he's a secret enemy," I declared angrily. "If I knew who it was I could fight him with his own weapons. As it is, I'm in the dark--completely in the dark!"

"You won't always be so," he said encouragingly. "This photograph will shed some light upon the affair, without a doubt."

Whitlock was in ignorance of my love for Daisy--the woman we had watched on the previous night. Surely she could not be my secret enemy.

Day by day the mystery was now increasing. From the first moment I had gone down to Barnes to investigate, until the present, not a glimmer of light had been shed upon the astounding affair. We certainly had made several very curious discoveries, but where had they led us? Into a _cul-de-sac_ always! Whoever had engineered those two Press messages had done so with great tact and cleverness. Besides, he was aware of much more of the truth than we were. We were groping in a maze of mystery, and he, secure in his anonymity, seemed to hold us in the hollow of his unscrupulous hand.

For over an hour we searched that house high and low, rummaging in all likely corners where any papers might be concealed, but found nothing. The mention of papers in that mysterious Press message had evidently been made in order to induce us to search and find the portrait of the victim.

That the recent tenants of that house were well-off was patent on every hand. Some of the correspondence we found was couched in a language that, no doubt, had a double meaning, but whether it concerned some great plot or not we could not determine.

Snow hunted about like a fox-terrier. Some of the things he had brought to light were of interest and also puzzling, but there was nothing save the portrait which really led us further towards a solution of the problem.

"I wonder why the Elkingtons have suddenly left?" I queried.

"We shall perhaps discover that later on," Whitlock said, after giving some directions to Snow. "The chief point which puzzles me at the moment is the reason why the little old hunchback comes here in secret. There is some object in it. But what? He certainly does not come here to see anyone."

"To see after the place, I suppose," was my remark.

"But isn't it a rather unusual hour to come?" my companion queried. "It seems as though he has no wish that the neighbours should be aware of his visits, so he comes when all is quiet and goes away before people are awake."

"One bed has been recently slept in, sir," Snow said. "Second-floor back."

"Not by our deformed friend, I think," answered his superior.

Upon the mantelshelf between two bronzes was one of those clocks which, beneath glass shades, go for a year with once winding. Its pendulum was still revolving, and its face showed that it was near eleven. I was in time to catch the first edition of the _Evening Herald_.

"Look here, Whitlock," I said, a moment later. "I'd very much like to publish the fact that the photograph has been found."

"You can if you like, Keene," he surprised me by replying. "Only no word must be said of how or where it has been discovered. You can merely say that exclusive information reaching the _Herald_ makes it plain that the police are in possession of a photograph of the dead woman which will lead to her identification."

"And may I not add that the portrait came into the hands of the police in a mysterious manner? Such a statement adds a flavour to the information, you know," I laughed. "The _Herald_ public love a spice of mystery."

"I know they do," he said, also smiling. "Well, if you like, say what you suggest. Only, no more, remember--not a word more without first consulting me. Perhaps the publication of this bare fact will induce our unknown friend who telegraphs news to the west of England to let out a little more."

"Right!" I exclaimed. "There's a telephone, I noticed, in the study. Excuse me a moment."

From the study table I took up the receiver, and in a few moments was talking with "Joyful Jimmy."

"Where are you, Keene? I've been ringing up your chambers for an hour and got no answer. I want you to go down to Beckton Gasworks at once--a strike on there," he snapped in his querulous voice.

"I can't. I'm on the Barnes mystery," was my reply.

"Oh, hang the Barnes mystery! What's the use of pottering about it any further? It's quite dead now."

"No, it isn't. I've got some good stuff this morning. Will you take it down?"

"Hold the line. I'll get one of the subs."

"But I can't go to Beckton. You really must send somebody else," I protested.

The response was a grunt of dissatisfaction. The Marvin grunt was well known in the office of the _Evening Herald_. Then a moment later the voice of one of the sub-editors was heard, and to him I dictated what was to appear in the next edition of the paper--a message very similar to the one Whitlock had suggested.

"There seems something very extraordinary about that case," remarked the sub-editor, after I had finished. "The P.A. have just sent out a warning on their tape not to accept any of their messages regarding the affair without first making inquiry. It seems that somebody has been forging Press messages into the country. At least, that's what we hear."

"Yes," I said, "I know all about it. Somebody sent a sensational yarn down to Plymouth and signed it 'P.A.'"

"A joke--eh?"

"Yes, I suppose so," was my careless answer. "Good-bye."

And I rang off.

Half an hour later we all three left the house quietly, without attracting attention. Snow turned sharply to the left, having orders to continue to keep watch upon the place while I walked with Whitlock into Russell Square.

At the corner by the railings stood an old newsman with a bundle of _Evening Heralds_ under his arm; while attached to the railings themselves was a contents-bill, bearing in big letters, "Barnes Mystery: Extraordinary Discovery!"

"They haven't been long about it," my friend remarked, as he passed. "But there--you people down at the _Herald_ are the greatest hustlers in London. We believe in smartness of action at Scotland Yard, but I must confess we can't hold a candle to you."

"Not when the Press report things before they've actually happened," I remarked, laughing.

"No; you're right. Those telegrams are really most weird and extraordinary. I confess I can't make them out at all."

"Nor anybody else," I said. "If we could only publish that in the _Herald_ we should create a first-class sensation."

"Ah! you journalists are for ever looking out for opportunities to give the public spasms," he laughed. "But our object is always to do things as quietly and unobtrusively as ever we can. We don't believe in sensation, Keene."

"But we do. The _Evening Herald_ wouldn't have any circulation at all if it were not that it gave the day's stories picturesquely."

"With embroidery," he added.

"Well--sometimes," I admitted.

"Ah!" he said, "we can't afford to deal in fictions, as you can. A contradiction next day does you no harm. With us a contradiction might mean an action against us for damages for false arrest. Let's take that cab down to the photographer and hear what he has to say."