Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“The butler went to the station, made this statement, they arrested Pendlebury and the butler and policeman have identified him. The doctor who was called in says that death took place somewhere between nine thirty and nine forty-five. We, however, who know, can narrow it down considerably further. We know he was alive at a quarter to ten.

“Ergo, he was killed within a few minutes of Hugh’s leaving the house by some one who locked the door after he did it. The butler was the only man in the house. The other servants were all out.”

“If the police knew what we know,” murmured Daphne in the little pause that followed, “they’d arrest the butler.”

“I know, dear,” replied Everest, “but unfortunately they don’t, and what’s more, we don’t want to tell ’em unless we’re forced to. Pendlebury had a very obvious motive — from their point of view.”

“The revolver, of course, is missing?”

“It is, and the money. Their theory, of course, is — and so it very naturally would be — that Pendlebury went for those letters, paid for them, got them, shot Wollstein, and repocketed the money. And I don’t mind telling you that if I was running the case for the crown I’d lay twenty to one on getting a conviction.”

Sudden alarm showed in Daphne’s eyes. “You mean — they will — hang Pendlebury?”

“They mustn’t hang Pendlebury, my dear,” replied the barrister with quiet emphasis. “The Adjusters have got him into this and the Adjusters must get him out.”

“Yes,” said Daphne very slowly, “even if we — have to go smash to do it.”

“Still,” encouragingly, “we won’t think of that just yet. He can’t appear at the Assizes for at least a fortnight. In the meantime I’ll see that he says nothing at all — just reserves his defense.

“And remember always that we’re in a much stronger position than the police are. They’re convinced that Pendlebury murdered Wollstein, but we know he didn’t. Furthermore, we’ve got a very shrewd idea who did.”

“You mean the butler?” said Daphne quickly.

“I most certainly do. The butler has gone out of his way to lie in order to get Pendlebury arrested. Why? Obviously because he committed the murder himself or is shielding some one who did. Now what we’ve got to do during the next few weeks is to concentrate on the butler. Let’s discuss what can be done.”

III

Sir Geoffrey Pender, commissioner of police, got up from his table as Daphne Wrayne was shown into his room.

“Well, Miss Wrayne, this is an unusual pleasure. Probably unusual, too, in other ways. The few visits we get from you are generally exciting. What is it this time?”

Daphne Wrayne, smiling, dropped into the chair he drew up for her and pulled out her cigarette case.

“Commonplace this time, I’m afraid, Sir Geoffrey,” she replied. “I merely want you to inconvenience yourself for an hour to gratify my curiosity.”

“Well, Miss Wrayne, the Yard is not usually ungrateful. How can we help you?”

Daphne’s eyes were innocence itself as they regarded the chief commissioner.

“This Drayton Square murder. I’m rather intrigued.”

“It’s rather ordinary, isn’t it?” he answered. “You’re surely not connected with it in any way?”

“Oh, dear no,” airily; “but... well, crime of any sort fascinates me, and I’ve got an overpowering desire to see the room in which the murder was committed. Like to take me up there?” with a pretty appeal of her brown eyes.

“I’m frightfully busy, Miss Wrayne” — hesitating — “but would one of my men do instead? What about Montarthar?”

Daphne’s eyes twinkled merrily.

“I’d love it to death. We’re the greatest of pals. I always remind him of the first time you sent him up to Conduit Street! He looked on me as a sort of mixture of Cleopatra, Circe, and the Worst Woman in London rolled into one.”

Sir Geoffrey laughed heartily, then he rang his bell.

“Well, he shall take you right up now. But I’m afraid there’s nothing to interest you, Miss Wrayne. The case against Pendlebury is overwhelming. Even Martin Everest can’t help him.”

The girl knitted her brows.

“The Yankees say,” she murmured thoughtfully, “that when there ain’t no risk they double the insurance.”

Half an hour later, sitting in the library of No. 9 Drayton Square, she studied the room with obvious interest. Inspector Montarthar, big, burly, but respectfully quiet, watched her with eyes in which a certain perplexity struggled with admiration. For he was remembering the assistance she and her unknown colleagues had already rendered the Yard.

Yet now he was firmly convinced that nothing could possibly come of this visit of hers. As he watched her eyes going slowly round the room, seeming to absorb every tiny detail, he wondered what was going on in her brain.

Then suddenly he saw her eyes come to rest on a big picture that hung almost opposite her — saw her forehead wrinkle. Abstractedly she picked up her cigarette case, took out a cigarette and lighted it — but her eyes were still riveted on the picture.