The Herapath Property

CHAPTER XXXIV
DAVIDGE’S TRUMP CARD

Burchill paused for a moment, to give full effect to this dramatic announcement, which, to tell truth, certainly impressed every member of his audience but one. That one skilfully concealed his real feelings under a show of feigned interest.

“You never say!” exclaimed Davidge, dropping into a favourite colloquialism of his native county. “Dear me, today! A man that you knew, Mr. Burchill, and that for the present you’ll call Mr. X. You knew him well, then?”

“Better than I know you,” replied Burchill. He was beginning to be suspicious of Davidge’s tone, and his resentment of it showed in his answer. “Well enough to know him and not to mistake him, anyhow! And mind you, there was nothing surprising in his being there at that time of night—that’s a point that you should bear in mind, Davidge—it’s in your line, that. I knew so much of Jacob Herapath’s methods and doings that it was quite a reasonable thing for this man to be coming out of the estate offices just before midnight.”

“Exactly, sir—I follow you,” said Davidge. “Ah!—and what might this Mr. X. do then, Mr. Burchill?”

Burchill, who had addressed his remarks chiefly to the listeners on the other side of the table, and notably to Cox-Raythwaite, turned away from the detective and went on.

“This man—Mr. X,” he said, “came quickly out of the door, turned down the side-street a little, then turned back, passed the carriage-entrance, and went away up the street in the opposite direction. He turned on his own tracks so quickly that I was certain he had seen somebody coming whom he did not wish to meet. He–”

“Excuse me a moment,” broke in Cox-Raythwaite. “How was it X. didn’t see you?”

“Because I was on the opposite side of the street, in deep shadow,” replied Burchill. “Besides that, the instant I caught sight of him I quietly slipped back into a doorway. I remained there while he turned and hurried up the street, for I was sure he had seen somebody coming, and I wanted to find out who it was. And in another minute Barthorpe Herapath came along, walking quickly. Then I understood—X. had seen him in the distance, and didn’t want to meet him.”

“Just so, just so,” murmured Davidge. “To be sure.”

“Barthorpe Herapath turned into the carriageway and went into the office,” continued Burchill. “Now, as I’ve already said, I knew Jacob Herapath’s methods; I hadn’t served him for nothing. He was the sort of man who makes no distinction between day and night—it was quite a common thing for him to fix up business appointments with people at midnight. I’ve been present at such appointments many a time. So, I dare say, has Mr. Selwood; any one who acted as secretary to Jacob Herapath knows well that he’d think nothing of transacting business at three o’clock in the morning. So I knew, of course, that Barthorpe had gone there to keep some such appointment. I also knew that it would probably last some time. Now I wanted to see Jacob Herapath alone. And as there didn’t seem to be any chance of it just then, I went home to my flat in Maida Vale.”

“Walked in?” asked Davidge.

“If you’re particular as to the means, I took a taxi-cab at the Gardens end of the High Street,” replied Burchill, half-contemptuously. He turned his attention to Selwood and the Professor again. “Now, I’m going to tell you the plain truth about what happened afterwards,” he continued. “This part of the story is for the particular benefit of you two gentlemen, though it has its proper connection with all the rest of the narrative. I sat up rather late when I got home that night, and I lay in bed next day until afternoon—in fact, I’d only just risen when Barthorpe Herapath called on me at three o’clock. Now, as I don’t have papers delivered, but go out to buy what I want, it’s the fact that I never heard of Jacob Herapath’s murder until Barthorpe told me of it, then! That’s the truth. And I’ll at once anticipate the question that you’ll naturally want to ask. Why didn’t I at once tell Barthorpe of what I’d seen the night before?—of the presence of the man whom we’re calling Mr. X.?”

“Just so!” murmured Davidge. “Ah, yes, why not?”

“I’ll tell you,” continued Burchill. “Because Barthorpe immediately sprang upon me the matter of the will. And I just as immediately recognized—I think I may count myself as a quick thinker—that the really important matter just then was not the murder of Jacob Herapath, but the ultimate disposal of Jacob Herapath’s immense wealth.”

“Clever!” sighed Davidge. “Uncommonly clever!”

“Now, Professor Cox-Raythwaite, and you, Mr. Selwood,” Burchill went on, adding new earnestness to his tone. “I want you to fully understand that I’m giving you the exact truth. I firmly believed at that moment, and I continued to believe until the eventful conference at Mr. Halfpenny’s office, that the gentleman whom I had known as Mr. Tertius was in reality Arthur John Wynne, forger and ex-convict. I say I firmly believed it, and I’ll tell you why. During my secretaryship to Jacob Herapath, he one day asked me to clear out a box full of old papers and documents. In doing so I came across an old North-country newspaper which contained a full account of the trial at Lancaster Assizes of Arthur John Wynne on various charges of forgery. Jacob Herapath’s name, of course, cropped up in it, as a relative. The similarity of the names of Jacob Herapath’s ward, Miss Wynne, and that of the forger, roused my suspicions, and I not only put two and two together, but I made some inquiries privately, and I formed the definite conclusion that Tertius and Wynne were identical, and that the semi-mystery of Tertius’s residence in Jacob Herapath’s house was then fully accounted for. So when Barthorpe told me what he did, and explained his anxiety about the will, I saw my way to upsetting that will, for his benefit and for my own. If I swore that I’d never signed that will, and could prove that Tertius was Wynne, the forger, why then, of course, the will would be upset, for it seemed to me that any jury would believe that Tertius, or Wynne, had forged the will for his daughter’s benefit. And so Barthorpe and I fixed that up. Reprehensible, no doubt, gentlemen, but we all have to live, and besides, Barthorpe promised me that he’d treat Miss Wynne most handsomely. Well, that procedure was settled—with the result that we’re all aware of. And now I’d like to ask Mr. Davidge there a question—as I’m about to tell him who the real murderer of Jacob Herapath was, perhaps he’ll answer it. I take it, Davidge, that the only evidence you had against me in regard to the murder was the document which you found at my flat, by which Barthorpe Herapath promised to pay me ten per cent. on the value of the Herapath estate? That and the fact that Barthorpe and I were in league about the will? Come now—as all’s being cleared up, isn’t that so?”

Davidge rubbed his chin with affected indifference.

“Oh, well, you can put it down at something like that, if you like, Mr. Burchill,” he answered. “You’re a very clever young fellow, and I dare say you’re as well aware of what the law about accessories is as I am. ’Tisn’t necessary for a party to a murder to be actually present at the execution of the crime, sir—no! And there’s such a thing as being accessory after the crime—of course. Leave it at that, Mr. Burchill, leave it at that!”

Cox-Raythwaite, who had been eyeing Burchill with ill-concealed disgust, spoke sharply.

“And—the rest?” he asked.

“I’m going along in order,” answered Burchill coolly. “Well, I come to the time when Davidge there arrested Barthorpe and myself at Halfpenny and Farthing’s, and when I escaped. There’s no need to tell you what I did with myself,” he went on, with an obvious sneer in the detective’s direction. “But I can tell you that I didn’t particularly restrict my movements. And eventually—a few days ago—I come into touch with Dimambro, who had returned to England. As I said before, we had met during the time I was secretary to Jacob Herapath. Dimambro, when I met him—accidentally—was on his way to the police, to tell them what he knew. I stopped him—he told his story to me instead. I told him mine. And the result of our deliberations was that we got an interview—at least I did—with Mrs. Engledew here, with respect to the diamonds which she had entrusted to Jacob Herapath. And–”

“I should like to ask you a question, Mrs. Engledew,” said Cox-Raythwaite, interrupting Burchill without ceremony. “Why did you not inform the police about your diamonds as soon as you heard of the murder?”

Mrs. Engledew betrayed slight signs of confusion, and Davidge gave the questioner a look.

“I think if I were you, I shouldn’t go into that matter just now, Professor,” he said apologetically. “Ladies, you know, have their reasons for these little—what shall we call ’em?—peculiarities. No, I wouldn’t press that point, sir. We’re having a nice, straight story—quite like a printed one!—from Mr. Burchill there, and I think we’d better let him come to what we may term the last chapter in his own way—what?”

“I’m at the last chapter,” said Burchill. “And it’s a short one. I saw Mrs. Engledew and made certain arrangements with her. And just after they were made—yesterday in fact—Dimambro and I got a new piece of evidence. When Dimambro was collecting those pearls for Jacob Herapath he bought some from a well-known dealer in Amsterdam, a specialist in pearls. Yesterday, Dimambro got a letter from this man telling him that a small parcel of those very pearls had been sent to him from London, for sale. He gave Dimambro the name and address of the sender, who, of course, was the Mr. X. of whom I have spoken. So then Dimambro and I resolved to act, through Mrs. Engledew–”

“For a slight consideration, I think,” suggested Davidge dryly. “A matter of a little cheque, I believe, Mr. Burchill.”

“We’ve quite as much right to be paid for our detective services, amateur though they are, as you have for yours, Davidge,” retorted Burchill. “However, I’ve come to an end, and it only remains for me to tell you who Mr. X. really is. He hasn’t the slightest notion that he’s suspected, and if you and your men, Davidge, go round to his house, which isn’t half a mile away, you’ll probably find him eating his Sunday evening supper in peace and quietness. The man is–”

Davidge suddenly rose from his chair, nudging Triffitt as he moved. He laughed—and the laugh made Burchill start to his feet.

“You needn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Burchill!” said Davidge. “Much obliged to you for your talk, there’s nothing like letting some folks wag their tongues till they’re tired. I know who murdered Jacob Herapath as well as you do, and who your Mr. X. is. Jacob Herapath, gentlemen,” he added, turning to his astonished listeners, “was shot dead and robbed by his office manager, James Frankton, and if James Frankton’s eating his Sunday supper in peace and quietness, it’s in one of our cells, for I arrested him at seven o’clock this very evening—and with no help from you, Mr. Burchill! I’m not quite such a fool as I may look, my lad, and if I made one mistake when I let you slip I didn’t make another when I got on the track of the real man. And now, ma’am,” he concluded, with an old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Engledew, “there’s no more to be said—by me, at all events, and I’ve the honour to wish you a good night. Mr. Triffitt—we’ll depart.”

Outside, Davidge took the reporter’s arm in a firm grip, and chuckled as he led him towards the elevator.

“That’s surprise one!” he whispered. “Wait till we get downstairs and into the street, and you’ll have another, and it’ll be of a bit livelier nature!”

CHAPTER XXXV
THE SECOND WARRANT

Davidge preserved a strict silence as he and Triffitt went down in the elevator, but when they had reached the ground floor he took the reporter’s arm again, and as they crossed the entrance hall gave it a significant squeeze.

“You’ll see two or three rather heavy swells, some of ’em in evening dress, hanging about the door,” he murmured. “Look like residents, coming in or going out, puffing their cigars and their cigarettes, eh? They’re my men—all of ’em! Take no notice—there’ll be your friend Carver outside—I gave him a hint. Join him, and hang about—you’ll have something to do a bit of newspaper copy about presently.”

Triffitt, greatly mystified, joined Carver at the edge of the pavement outside the wide entrance door. Glancing around him he saw several men lounging about—two, of eminently military appearance, with evening dress under their overcoats, stood chatting on the lower steps; two or three others, all very prosperous looking, were talking close by. There was nothing in their outward show to arouse suspicion—at any other time, and under any other circumstances Triffitt would certainly have taken them for residents of the Herapath Flats. Carver, however, winked at him.

“Detectives,” he said. “They’ve gathered here while you were upstairs. What’s up now, Triffitt? Heard anything?”

“Piles!” answered Triffitt. “Heaps! But I don’t know what this is all about. Some new departure. Hullo!—here’s the secretary and the Professor.”

Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood just then appeared at the entrance door and began to descend the steps. Davidge, who had stopped on the steps to speak to a man, hailed and drew them aside.

“What has gone on up there?” asked Carver. “Anything really–”

Triffitt suddenly grasped his companion’s shoulder, twisting him round towards the door. His lips emitted a warning to silence; his eyes signalled Carver to look.

Burchill came out of the doors, closely followed by Dimambro. Jauntily swinging his walking-cane he began to descend, affecting utter unconsciousness of the presence of Cox-Raythwaite, Selwood, and Davidge. He passed close by the men in evening dress, brushing the sleeve of one. And the man thus brushed turned quickly, and his companion turned too—and then something happened that made the two reporters exclaim joyfully and run up the steps.

“Gad!—that was quick—quick!” exclaimed Triffitt, with the delight of a schoolboy. “Never saw the bracelets put on more neatly. Bully for you, Davidge, old man!—got him this time, anyhow!”

Burchill, taken aback by the sudden onslaught of Davidge’s satellites, drew himself up indignantly and looked down at his bands, around the wrists of which his captors had snapped a pair of handcuffs. He lifted a face white with rage and passion and glanced at Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood.

“Liars!” he hissed between his teeth. “You gave me safe conduct! It was understood that I was to come and go without interference, you hounds!”

“Not with me, nor I should think with anybody, my lad,” exclaimed Davidge, bustling forward. “Not likely! You forget that you’re under arrest for the old charge yet, and though you’ll get off for that, you won’t go scot-free, my friend! I’ve got a second warrant for you, and the charge’ll be read to you when you get to the station. You’ll clear yourself of the charge of murder, but not of t’other charge, I’m thinking!”

“Second warrant! Another charge!” growled Burchill. “What charge?”

“I should think you know as well as I do,” replied Davidge quietly. “You’re a bigger fool than I take you for if you don’t. Conspiracy, of course! It’s a good thing to have two strings to one’s bow, Mr. Frank Burchill, in dealing with birds like you. This is my second string. Take him off,” he added, motioning to his men, “and get him searched, and put everything carefully aside for me—especially a cheque for ten thousand pounds which you’ll find in one of his pockets.”

When the detectives had hurried Burchill into a taxi-cab which suddenly sprang into useful proximity to the excited group, Davidge spat on the ground and made a face. He motioned Cox-Raythwaite, Selwood, and the two reporters to go down the street; he himself turned to Dimambro. What he said to that highly-excited gentleman they did not hear, but the Italian presently walked off looking very crestfallen, while Davidge, joining them, looked highly pleased with himself.

“Of course, you’ll stop payment of that cheque at the bank first thing tomorrow, gentlemen,” he said. “Though that’ll only be for form’s sake, because I shall take charge of it when I go round to the police-station presently—they’ll have got Burchill searched when I get there. Of course, I wasn’t going to say anything up there, but Mrs. Engledew has been in with us at this, and she took Burchill and Dimambro in as beautifully as ever I saw it done in my life! Clever woman, that! We knew about her diamonds, gentlemen, within a few hours of the discovery of the murder, and of course, I thought Barthorpe had got them; I did, mistaken though I was! I didn’t want anybody to know about those diamonds, though, and I kept it all dark until these fellows came on the scene. And, anyway, we didn’t get the real culprit through the diamonds, either!”

“That’s what we want to know,” said Selwood. “Have you got the real culprit? Are you certain? And how on earth did you get him—a man that none of us ever suspected!”

“Just so!” answered Davidge with a grim laugh. “As nice and quiet-mannered a man as ever I entered as a candidate for the gallows! It’s very often the case, gentlemen. Oh, yes—it’s true enough! He’s confessed—crumpled up like a bit of tissue paper when we took him—confessed everything to me just before I came along here. Of course we didn’t get him through anything we’ve heard tonight; quite different line altogether, and a simple one.”

“We should like to know about it,” said Cox-Raythwaite. “Can’t you give us a mere outline?”

“I was going to,” answered Davidge. “No secret about it. I may as well tell you that after hearing what Barthorpe Herapath insisted on saying before the magistrate, I began to feel that he was very likely telling the truth, and that somebody’d murdered and robbed his uncle just before he got to the offices. But, of course, there was nothing to connect the murder and robbery with any person that I knew of. Well, now then, this is how we got on the track. Only two or three days ago a little, quiet man, who turned out to be a bit of a property-owner down at Fulham, came to me and said that ever since Mr. Jacob Herapath’s murder he’d been what he called studying over it, and he thought he ought to tell me something. He said he was a very slow thinker, and it had taken him a long time to think all this out. Then he told me his tale. He said that for some time Jacob Herapath had been waiting to buy a certain bit of land which he had to sell. On November 12th last he called to see Jacob at these offices, and they agreed on the matter, price to be £5,000. Jacob told him to come in at ten o’clock next morning, and in accordance with his usual way of doing business, he’d hand him the money in cash—notes, of course. Well, the chap called next morning, only to hear of what had happened, and so his business had fallen through. And it wasn’t until some time later—he’s a bit of a slow-witted fellow, dullish of brain, you understand,” continued Davidge indulgently, “that he remembered a certain conversation, or rather a remark which Jacob Herapath made during that deal. This man, James Frankton, the manager, was present when the deal was being effected, and when they’d concluded terms, Jacob said, turning to Frankton. ‘I’ll get the money in notes from the bank this afternoon, Frankton, and if I don’t give it to you in the meantime, you’ll find the notes in the top left-hand drawer of my desk tomorrow morning.’ Well, that was what the man told me; said he’d been bothering his brains in wondering if Jacob did draw that money, and so on—Frankton, of course, had told him that he knew nothing about it, and that as Jacob was dead, no more could be done in the matter. Now on that, I at once began some inquiries. I found out a thing or two—never mind what—one was to trace a hundred pound note which Frankton had cashed recently. I found, only yesterday morning, that that note was one of fifty similar notes paid to Jacob Herapath by his bankers in exchange for his own cheque on the afternoon of November 12th. And, on that, I had Frankton watched all yesterday, last night, and today, and as I said, I arrested him tonight—and, in all my experience I never saw a man more surprised, and never knew one who so lost his nerve.”

“And his confession?” asked Selwood.

“Oh! ordinary,” answered Davidge. “Jacob had made an appointment with him for half-past eleven or so. Got there a bit late, found his master sitting at his desk with a wad of bank notes on the blotting-pad, a paper of pearls on one side of him, a lot of diamond ornaments at the other—big temptation to a chap, who, as it turns out, was hard up, and had got into the hands of money-lenders. And, oh, just the ordinary thing in such cases, happened to have on him a revolver that he’d bought abroad, yielded to temptation, shot his man, took money and valuables, went home, and turned up at the office next day to lift his hands in horror at the dreadful news. You see what truth is, gentlemen, when you get at it—just a common, vulgar murder, for the sake of robbery. And he’ll swing!”

“‘Just a common, vulgar murder, and he’ll swing!’” softly repeated Cox-Raythwaite, as he and Selwood walked up the steps of the house in Portman Square half an hour later. “Well, that’s solved, anyway. As for the other two–”

“I suppose there’s no doubt of their guilt with respect to their conspiring to upset the will?” said Selwood. “And that’s a serious offence, isn’t it?”

“In this eminently commercial country, very,” answered Cox-Raythwaite, sententiously. “Barthorpe and Burchill will inevitably retire to the shelter of a convict establishment for awhile. Um! Well, my boy, good night!”

“Not coming in?” asked Selwood, as he put a key in the latch.

The Professor gave his companion’s shoulder a pressure of his big hand.

“I think,” he said, turning down the steps with a shy laugh, “I think Peggie will prefer to receive you—alone.”

the end