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XX. —
A Wire From Brian
'The Knightsbridge
Shooting Affray' occupied the contents bills of most
of the London evening newspapers the next day. There was damning
evidence against the dead man in the shape of a
pistol found in his pocket, and obviously discharged recently. Brian's evidence at
the inquest did not help to dissipate the belief
that Caggley was the culprit. The punter enjoyed a little unenviable
notoriety
during the days that followed. He was held for trial, though it was
certain
that the jury would return a verdict of justifiable homicide. He was released from
custody on a heavy bail, and returned to
Knightsbridge after the police-court proceedings, to find Mr Callander
and
Gladys awaiting him. As he came into the
room, dispirited, out of conceit with himself, she
came toward him, both hands outstretched. There and then, in the
presence of
her father, he took her into his arms, and found comfort in her
nearness and
fragrance. Mr Callander accepted the surprising happening with
admirable
self-restraint, turning discreetly to watch the stream of motor traffic
which
flowed through the park. "My dear," she
whispered, "I have told father
everything." He stooped, and
kissed her gently, smiling into her troubled eyes. Mr Callander turned
as she slipped from his arms. "Brian," he
said, clearing his throat, "Gladys has given me to understand that you
are
— that she is — in fact, that you are not indifferent to one another." "That is true," said
Brian quietly. "I love her very
dearly." "Hum!" said Mr
Callander, as he coughed again, "of
course — at present — under a cloud — very embarrassing for me — but
you may be
sure — " He held out his hand. Brian was touched by the emotion of the
old
man and wrung the proffered hand. "I want a word with
you," said Mr Callander. They stepped up to
the window. "Horace has told
me," Mr Callander went on, dropping his
voice, "everything." His voice shook, and
he raised his hand to his trembling lip. This
uninteresting son of his was the apple of his eye. "I cannot expect you
to believe," he said, "that he knew
nothing of the infamous plot: yet I am convinced — " "No more convinced
than I am," said Brian heartily; "in
fact, I have absolute proof that Horace knew nothing whatever about the
matter." The old man nodded.
He opened his pocketbook and took out a cheque for
two thousand pounds. "You were good
enough to lend this to my son," he said.
"I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your goodness; it has placed
you
in an entirely new light. I am an old man, Brian, a prejudiced and
narrow old
man, I fear, and not over-generous. I have set myself up as a critic —
neglecting
to rectify faults in my own life which have been worthy of criticism,
but I — I
— " He blew his nose
with some energy. It was some time
before they sat down to a calm discussion of the
position. "I am perfectly
assured," said Brian, "that it was
Pinlow who fired the shot at me, and fired the shot which killed
Caggley. My
hands are tied for the present because any accusation against him must
bring up
the whole of the other business — that would involve Horace." He did not say that
it might drag the name of Gladys into the case,
and, incidentally, that of Mr Callander. He saw, by the gratitude in
the old
man's eyes, that his reticence was approved. "I believe that
Caggley was sent here with a cock-and-bull story
about the Manchester races in order to throw the guilt on him for my
murder.
Pinlow intended shooting him to ensure his silence." "Has the ownership
of the revolver been established?" asked
Mr Callander. Brian shook his head. "It is next to
impossible. The pistol is of Belgian make — obviously
purchased abroad." The two stayed to
lunch, which was half-way through when the servant
brought in a card. Brian read it. "Chief Inspector
Valance, C.I.D., Scotland Yard." On the back was
scribbled, "I have some good news for you." "Show him in," said
Brian; "good news is for all
hearing." The Inspector was a
pleasant-faced, grey-haired man of fifty. He
greeted the party with a little bow. "Sit down,
Inspector," said Brian, with a smile. "Well,
what are the glad tidings? — this is my uncle, and this is my cousin,"
he
introduced. "The best news for
you, Mr Pallard," he said. "The Crown
does not intend proceeding with the case. There was a little flaw in
the
evidence at the inquest; the Home Office expert has proved beyond doubt
that
the bullet which killed Caggley was fired from a pistol of a larger
calibre
than yours." "I am glad," said
the girl impulsively, holding out her
hands, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "On that fact," the
Inspector proceeded, "there can be
no question of a prosecution. Now, Mr Pallard, just as soon as your
release is
granted, I want you to help me to find the man that did it." "I am afraid — "
began Brian, when interruption came from an
unexpected quarter. It was from Mr
Callander. "Mr Pallard believes
that the murderer was Lord Pinlow," he
said; "he can also supply you with information regarding the killing of
a
horse at Goodwood — " "Mr Callander,"
began Brian, but the old man silenced him
with a little dignified wave of his hand. "My son, Horace
Callander," he went on, "was an
unwitting assistant to Lord Pinlow in that crime. In order to keep our
name out
of the matter, Mr Pallard has chivalrously declined to prosecute." The Inspector nodded. "Mr Pallard does not
give us credit for knowing anything about
that matter," he said, "and it will be news to him that a warrant has
already been issued for Lord Pinlow's arrest in that connection." This was news indeed. "How on earth did
you know?" asked Brian in surprise. The Inspector smiled
cryptically. "These things leak
out. We knew something was wrong, and we knew
that you suspected the truth — so, as we couldn't place the culprit, we
put men
on to shadow you, knowing that sooner or later you would put us on the
right
track. We struck the trail after we had traced you to the house of Dr
Jellis." Brian smiled
ruefully. "And all the time I
thought I was the only person who knew,"
he said. The Inspector took
his leave soon after. "We will try to do
the thing quietly," he said, "but if
Lord Pinlow is arrested by to-morrow we shall be obliged to give
publicity to
the fact." That night the
little club in Summers Town, of which Mr Augustus Fanks
was so excellent a patron, was raided by the police. It was an
unfortunate circumstance
that Mr Fanks was present. He had come to find Tinker Smith, who did
odd jobs
for him. Mr Fanks, being a man of boundless indebtedness, and being,
moreover,
in the habit of sailing close to the law, had often need of an expert
who was
willing and able to secure documents of a character compromising Mr
Augustus
Fanks. For there had been
times in his exciting career when Mr Fanks had
written letters, so much like blackmailing letters, that only one
expert in the
world could detect the difference. And that expert was Mr Fanks. It happened that
such a letter, addressed to a man whose help Fanks
required, and of whose lurid youth he had the fullest details, had been
sent by
the desperate correspondent to his lawyer, and Mr Augustus Fanks was
most anxious
to recover that letter before it reached the depository of the Director
of
Public Prosecutions. But the man he
sought was absent, and Fanks had hardly ascertained the
fact when the door was burst open and the police swarmed into the room. If the truth be
told, the primary object of that raid was the same that
animated Mr Fanks — they very greatly desired to lay their hands on
Tinker
Smith. Though Augustus Fanks protested, produced his card, and swore by
all the
gods that he was an innocent visitor attracted by curiosity, they
marched him
off to the nearest police-station. But they did not find Tinker Smith. What they did find
was a letter signed 'P.', which ran: "I am laying low
with S. Pallard swears I have had something to do
with the shooting at Knightsbridge. He shall pay in many ways. If I do
not see
you again, take charge of my flat, and bum all my letters. I advise
this as
much in your interest as in mine. Au revoir." The police had saved
Mr Fanks the trouble, for the flat was already in
their hands. But the letter was
interesting, if for no other reason than because it
had been posted in London on that day, and an 'A.S.' message — which
means 'All
stations' — was flashed from one end of London to the other, to the
effect that
the wanted man was in London. Gladys Callander,
returning home the next evening with the happy
assurance that her lover was saved the humiliation of an appearance at
Old
Bailey, was startled by a contents bill. KNIGHTSBRIDGE She sought the paper
to find, for the first time, Pinlow's name
mentioned with the affair. There it was, in the
boldest type, the story of the killing of
Greenpol, the arrest of Fanks in that connection, and as much of the
letter
found in his possession as an ingenious reporter could extract from the
police. She breathed a deep
sigh of relief. At last the truth was out. She
bought all the papers she could buy at the station. They told her
little more
than the first. One contained a little interview with Brian, which, in
the
main, consisted of a record of his unwillingness to talk on the
subject. She
reached home to find that neither Horace nor her father had arrived.
She went
straight to her room to change her dress, and came down to receive a
telegram
from the hand of her maid. "must see you, am
sending car. — brian," it ran. There was something
of frantic urgency about the wire that alarmed her.
What could have happened? She wished her father was there. Even Horace
would
have served. She scribbled a reply, but then it occurred to her that he
would
not receive the message. He was to have gone to Wickham that day to
escape the
persistent interviewer. She laid the telegram down, then on second
thoughts she
decided to send it. He had wired that he was sending the car — he would
not be
coming himself. Again she wondered what had kept him. She despatched a
maid to the village to send the wire. The girl had not
returned when a large car came gliding up the walk. The chauffeur
touched his
hat to the girl. "Are you from Mr
Pallard?" she asked. "Yes, miss," replied
the man. "Has anything
happened?" "I don't know, miss,
only he told me I was to hurry back." She ran into the
house and snatched up a coat. She was hardly seated in
the car before the driver started it with a jerk. Then she remembered
that she
had left no note to explain her hurried departure. She trusted that the
servant
would tell her father. They tore through the village and turned
abruptly to the
right. Now the road to
London ran in the opposite direction, and Gladys,
thinking the man might have made a mistake, leant out of the window. "You have taken the
wrong road," she said. "The other road's
up," said the man abruptly. There was a hint of
brusqueness in his tone which annoyed her. She sank
back on the padded seat wondering how Brian came to employ such a boor.
Then
she remembered that Brian had only one car, and that this was not it.
Neither
was the chauffeur the man who had driven her before in London. It was growing dusk.
She could not read the signposts. Only the glow of
the setting sun was behind her. They were going due east. A cold fear
gripped
her heart. She knocked on the window in front, but there was no
response. She
put her head out of the window, and screamed at the man to stop. He sat stolidly,
taking no notice. The car was proceeding at a great
pace. She noticed that they passed few cars, and that the road was not
of the
even surface which she was accustomed to. They had been journeying an
hour. The
man had evidently made several detours to avoid towns, and now they
were going
due south, along a stretch of main road. Her hopes rose, only to sink
again, as
the car turned abruptly to the right, driving down a narrow road. For a
mile it
ran thus, then turned again to the right — this time along a private
road,
where the car bumped and jolted in the ruts of a farm track. It turned again,
this time through a broken gate, and came to a stop
before the door of a dilapidated old farm. She fumbled at the
door, her hands trembling, when a man slipped from
the doorway and opened the door. Though he had altered and his heavy
moustache
had been shaven off, she recognized him. "Lord Pinlow!" she gasped. |