MAX CARRADOS MYSTERIES - Complete Series in One Volume. Bramah Ernest
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it with the other.
“You use a very faint and characteristic scent, I notice, Mrs Straithwaite,” he observed.
“Yes; it is rather sweet, isn’t it? I don’t know the name because it is in Russian. A friend in the Embassy sent me some bottles from Petersburg.”
“But on Tuesday you supplemented it with something stronger,” he continued, raising the gloves delicately one after the other to his face.
“Oh, eucalyptus; rather,” she admitted. “I simply drenched my handkerchief with it.”
“You have other gloves of the same pattern?”
“Have I? Now let me think! Did you give them to me, Teddy?”
“No,” replied Straithwaite from the other end of the room. He had lounged across to the window and his attitude detached him from the discussion. “Didn’t Whitstable?” he added shortly.
“Of course. Then there are three pairs, Mr Carrados, because I never let Bimbi lose more than that to me at once, poor boy.”
“I think you are rather tiring yourself out, Stephanie,” warned her husband.
Carrados’s attention seemed to leap to the voice; then he turned courteously to his hostess.
“I appreciate that you have had a trying time lately, Mrs Straithwaite,” he said. “Every moment I have been hoping to let you out of the witness-box——”
“Perhaps to-morrow——” began Straithwaite, recrossing the room.
“Impossible; I leave town to-night,” replied Carrados firmly. “You have three pairs of these gloves, Mrs Straithwaite. Here is one. The other two——?”
“One pair I have not worn yet. The other—good gracious, I haven’t been out since Tuesday! I suppose it is in my glove-box.”
“I must see it, please.”
Straithwaite opened his mouth, but as his wife obediently rose to her feet to comply he turned sharply away with the word unspoken.
“These are they,” she said, returning.
“Mr Carrados and I will finish our investigation in my room,” interposed Straithwaite, with quiet assertiveness. “I should advise you to lie down for half-an-hour, Stephanie, if you don’t want to be a nervous wreck to-morrow.”
“You must allow the culprit to endorse that good advice, Mrs Straithwaite,” added Carrados. He had been examining the second pair of gloves as they spoke and he now handed them back again. “They are undoubtedly of the same set,” he admitted, with extinguished interest, “and so our clue runs out.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” apologized Straithwaite, as he led his guest to his own smoking-room. “Stephanie,” he confided, becoming more cordial as two doors separated them from the lady, “is a creature of nerves and indiscretions. She forgets. To-night she will not sleep. To-morrow she will suffer.” Carrados divined the grin. “So shall I!”
“On the contrary, pray accept my regrets,” said the visitor. “Besides,” he continued, “there is nothing more for me to do here, I suppose….”
“It is a mystery,” admitted Straithwaite, with polite agreement. “Will you try a cigarette?”
“Thanks. Can you see if my car is below?” They exchanged cigarettes and stood at the window lighting them.
“There is one point, by the way, that may have some significance.” Carrados had begun to recross the room and stopped to pick up the two fictitious messages. “You will have noticed that this is the outside sheet of a programme. It is not the most suitable for the purpose; the first inner sheet is more convenient to write on, but there the date appears. You see the inference? The programme was obtained before——”
“Perhaps. Well——?” for Carrados had broken off abruptly and was listening.
“You hear someone coming up the steps?”
“It is the general stairway.”
“Mr Straithwaite, I don’t know how far this has gone in other quarters. We may only have a few seconds before we are interrupted.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the man who is now on the stairs is a policeman or has worn the uniform. If he stops at your door——”
The heavy tread ceased. Then came the authoritative knock.
“Wait,” muttered Carrados, laying his hand impressively on Straithwaite’s tremulous arm. “I may recognize the voice.”
They heard the servant pass along the hall and the door unlatched; then caught the jumble of a gruff inquiry.
“Inspector Beedel of Scotland Yard!” The servant repassed their door on her way to the drawing-room. “It is no good disguising the fact from you, Mr Straithwaite, that you may no longer be at liberty. But I am. Is there anything you wish done?”
There was no time for deliberation. Straithwaite was indeed between the unenviable alternatives of the familiar proverb, but, to do him justice, his voice had lost scarcely a ripple of its usual sang-froid.
“Thanks,” he replied, taking a small stamped and addressed parcel from his pocket, “you might drop this into some obscure pillar-box, if you will.”
“The Markham necklace?”
“Exactly. I was going out to post it when you came.”
“I am sure you were.”
“And if you could spare five minutes later—if I am here——”
Carrados slid his cigarette-case under some papers on the desk.
“I will call for that,” he assented. “Let us say about half-past eight.”
* * *
“I am still at large, you see, Mr Carrados; though after reflecting on the studied formality of the inspector’s business here, I imagine that you will scarcely be surprised.”
“I have made it a habit,” admitted Carrados, “never to be surprised.”
“However, I still want to cut a rather different figure in your eyes. You regard me, Mr Carrados, either as a detected rogue or a repentant ass?”
“Another excellent rule is never to form deductions from uncertainties.”
Straithwaite made a gesture of mild impatience.
“You only give me ten minutes. If I am to put my case before you, Mr Carrados, we cannot fence with phrases…. To-day you have had an exceptional opportunity of penetrating into our mode of life. You will, I do not doubt, have summed up our perpetual indebtedness and the easy credit that our connexion procures; Stephanie’s social ambitions and expensive popularity; her utterly extravagant incapacity to see any other possible existence; and my tacit acquiescence. You will, I know, have correctly gauged her irresponsible, neurotic temperament, and judged the result of it in conflict with my own. What possibly has escaped you, for in society one has to disguise these things, is that I still love my wife.
“When you dare not trust the soundness of your reins you do not try to pull up a bolting horse. For three years I have endeavoured to guide Stephanie round awkward comers with as little visible restraint as possible. When we differ over any project upon which she has set her heart Stephanie has one strong argument.”
“That you no longer love her?”
“Well, perhaps; but more forcibly expressed. She rushes to the top of the building—there are six floors, Mr Carrados, and we are on the second—and climbing on to the banister she announces her intention of throwing herself down into the basement. In the meanwhile I have followed