Anthony Trent, Master Criminal. Martyn Wyndham
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he mentioned were all of them prominently known in the fashionable world of sport.
“We had more champagne than was good for us and when the dinner was over we all went to Reggie Camplyn’s rooms where he invented the Saint Beau cocktail. I give you my word, inspector, the thing has a thoro’bred kick to it. It’s one of those damned insidious cocktails wrapped up in cream to make you think it’s innocent. After I’d had a few I said to Camplyn, ‘You’ve made me what I am to-night; I insist on sleeping here.”
“But you didn’t!” cried McWalsh.
“Until four in the morning. The Saint Beau cocktail made me so ill at four that I got up and walked down to my house.”
“What time did you get there?”
“Exactly at five. I felt the need of the cool air, so I took a long walk first.”
“Then at half past twelve you were at – ”
“Voisin’s as a score of people can prove. I had a table in the balcony and saw all the people I ever knew it seemed to me.”
“But this morning you told the officers who made an investigation of the robbery a totally different story. You corroborated your butler’s evidence that you were at home at half past twelve and told him to go to bed because you didn’t want anything else. How do you account for that?”
The inspector was troubled. His only consolation was that he would have another session soon with the supercilious Austin. He licked his lips at the thought. But he did not wish to involve the horseman in any difficulties if he could avoid it.
Conington Warren laughed easily.
“You know how it is, inspector. You can understand that sometimes a man suddenly waked out of heavy sleep can forget what happened the night before for the time being. That’s what happened with me. I clean forgot the dinner, Camplyn’s Saint Beau cocktail, everything. I only knew I had the devil of a head. I always rely on Austin.”
“When did you remember?” McWalsh demanded.
“When Camplyn came in to see me and ask for the ingredients of the cocktail which he claims I invented. Then I recollected everything and telephoned to you.”
“I knew that damned fellow was lying,” McWalsh cried. “He thought he was clever. He’ll find out just how smart he is! Tell me, Mr. Warren, what did he want to put up that fiction for?”
Warren put a hot hand to a head which still ached.
“I can’t imagine,” he answered. “I’ve never found him out in a lie yet. He’s too damn conceited to descend to one. I don’t think you should suspect Austin.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Warren, but I’ve got to. He lied to you and he lied to me and – ten thousand dollars’ worth of stuff was stolen. He’s in the outer room now. I’ll have him brought in.”
Austin entered with his precise and measured tread and bowed with respectful affection to his employer. He liked Conington Warren better than any American with whom he had taken service. The hearty, horse-loving type was one which appealed to Austin. He had several times been obliged to throw up lucrative jobs because employers persisted in treating him as an equal.
“This is a bad mix-up,” his master began. “The inspector seems to think you have been deceiving him.”
“He has and he knows it,” cried McWalsh.
“He’s inclined to be hasty, sir,” said Austin tolerantly.
“See here,” snapped the inspector, “you say you found Mr. Warren in his library at half past twelve. Did you hear him enter the house?”
“No,” the butler returned, “he has his key.”
“The thing we want to clear up,” interrupted Mr. Warren in a kindly tone, “is simply this. What did I say to you when you spoke to me?”
Austin looked uncomfortable.
“It was a gesture, sir, rather than a word. You waved your arm and I knew what you meant.”
“You are one prize liar!” roared the inspector. “You said something quite different when I asked you.”
“I don’t see that it matters much,” Austin returned acidly. “On Monday night Mr. Warren may have said for me to go to bed. On Tuesday he may have waved his hand impatient like. On Wednesday he may have asked for cigars or the evening papers. I remember only that on this occasion I was not asked for anything.” He turned to his employer, “I should like to remind you, sir, that we are giving a dinner party to-night and I ought to be seeing after it now. Can I go, sir?”
“You cannot,” cried Inspector McWalsh, “you’re under arrest!”
“I told you he was hasty, sir,” said Austin without emotion. “What for may I ask?”
“Let me answer him please, inspector,” begged Conington Warren. “You told the police that you saw me sitting in my library. Are you prepared to swear to that, Austin?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the man. “You were in the big turkish rocker, smoking one of the cigars you are smoking now and reading the Sporting Times.”
“I’d give a thousand dollars to know who that was!” Warren commented. “It wasn’t I at all. I was dining at Voisin’s at that hour.”
For the first time Austin was acutely disturbed.
“I don’t understand,” he stammered. “It looked like you, sir, it did indeed.”
“And if you’d only gone up like a man and looked in his face you’d have seen the burglar,” McWalsh said scowling.
Austin looked at the speaker coldly.
“It is not my business to suspect my employer of being a crook. If it’s crime to be deceived then I’m guilty. I admit I didn’t look very closely. I was sleepy and wanting to get to bed, but I did notice that whoever it was wore a claret colored velvet smoking jacket.”
“I’ve a list here,” said McWalsh, “given my men by the footman of the people who called at Mr. Warren’s house yesterday. Look it over and see if you can supplement it.”
“There was one other visitor,” Austin said slowly, “an intimate friend of Mr. Warren’s, but I don’t know his name. I didn’t admit him.”
“That’s curious,” said his employer. “I thought you knew every one who was intimate enough to come to my home. What was he like?”
“I didn’t see him full face,” the other admitted, “but he was tall, about your height, but dark in coloring with a rather large nose. It struck me he was a trifle in liquor if I may say so.”
“I don’t remember any one like that,” Warren asserted.
“The gentleman,” said Austin anxious to establish his point, “who bet you ten thousand dollars that his filly could beat your Saint Beau at five furlongs.”
“This is all damned nonsense,” returned Conington Warren a little crossly, “I’m in possession of my full senses now at all events. I made no such wager.”
“I told you he was a crook, Mr. Warren,” cried McWalsh gleefully. “See what he’s trying to put over on you now!”
“Surely, sir,” said the butler anxiously, “you remember asking a gentleman to come into your dressing room?”
“You’re crazy,” his master declared, “I asked nobody. Why should I?”
“He was standing just inside the room as I passed by. He was very merry. He was calling you ‘Connie’ like only your very intimate friends do.”
“And what was I saying?” Warren returned, impressed with the earnestness of one in whom he believed.
“I didn’t listen, sir,” the butler answered. “I was just passing along the hall.”
“Did you hear Mr. Warren’s voice?” McWalsh