The Middle Temple Murder. Nigel Moss
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closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to mutter to himself.
‘Good God!’ he says. ‘Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one of the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much observation. Ah!—and why should Mr Stephen Aylmore be recognised as Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort? Now, who is Mr Stephen Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?’
Spargo’s fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud:
‘AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, St Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South American enterprise.’
‘Um!’ muttered Spargo, putting the book away. ‘That’s not very illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now we’ll make another.’
Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of Mr Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone.
Mrs Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the hall; she recognised him at once and motioned him into her parlour.
‘I remember you,’ said Mrs, Walters; ‘you came with the detective—Mr Rathbury.’
‘Have you seen him, since?’ asked Spargo.
‘Not since,’ replied Mrs Walters. ‘No—and I was wondering if he’d be coming round, because—’ She paused there and looked at Spargo with particular enquiry—‘You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘I suppose you know as much as he does—about this?’
‘He and I,’ replied Spargo, with easy confidence, ‘are working this case together. You can tell me anything you’d tell him.’
The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an inner compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in tissue paper.
‘Well,’ she said, unwrapping the paper, ‘we found this in Number 20 this morning—it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl that found it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but Walters, he says as how he shouldn’t be surprised if it’s a diamond. And since we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after Mr Marbury came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he went into the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of things like this. So there?’
Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone.
‘That’s a diamond—right enough,’ he said. ‘Put it away, Mrs Walters—I shall see Rathbury presently, and I’ll tell him about it. Now, that other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you recognise him—I mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?’
Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs Walters’ face that she had no more doubt than Webster had.
‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘That’s the gentleman who came in with Mr Marbury—I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would recognise him from that—perhaps you’d let our hall-porter and the waiter I mentioned just now look at it?’
‘I’ll see them separately and see if they’ve ever seen a man who resembles this,’ replied Spargo.
The two men recognised the photograph at once, without any prompting, and Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the Atlantic and Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the steps. He made no reference to his recent doings, and together they went into the house and asked for Mr Aylmore.
Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently came to them in the visitors’ room. He was already familiar with Mr Aylmore’s photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and unobtrusively, doing yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest of the party whips, without forcing themselves into the limelight or seizing every opportunity to air their opinions. Now that Spargo met him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what the journalist had expected—a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, who looked as if he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and taught not to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid interests in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation—purposely shortened—of his object in calling upon him.
‘Yes,’ he said indifferently. ‘Yes, it is quite true that I met Marbury and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant spoke of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for—I really don’t know how many years.’
He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or not to say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And presently Mr Aylmore went on.
‘I read your account in the Watchman this morning,’ he said. ‘I was wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with you or with the police. The fact is—I suppose you want this for your paper, eh?’ he continued after a sudden breaking off.
‘I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print,’ answered Spargo. ‘If you care to give me any information—’
‘Oh, well!’ said Mr Aylmore. ‘I don’t mind. The fact is, I knew next to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some—well, business relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty years—perhaps more—since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me in the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to recall him. He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, and as there was little doing in the House that night, and as he had once been—almost a friend—I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. He told me that he had only landed from Australia that morning, and what he wanted my advice about, principally, was—diamonds. Australian diamonds.’
‘I was unaware,’ remarked Spargo, ‘that diamonds were ever found in Australia.’
Mr Aylmore smiled—a little cynically.
‘Perhaps so,’ he said. ‘But diamonds have been found in Australia from time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and in the opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed them to me at his hotel—a number of them. We examined them in his room.’
‘What did he do with them—afterwards?’ asked Spargo.
‘He put them in his waistcoat pocket—in a very small wash-leather bag, from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty stones—not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some expert—I mentioned Streeter’s to him. Now, I can tell you how he got hold of Mr Breton’s address.’
The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened his hold on the pencil with which he was making notes.
‘He got it from me,’ continued Mr Aylmore. ‘The handwriting on the scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As I knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr Breton, Mr Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp solicitor. I wrote down Mr Breton’s address for him, on a scrap of paper which he tore off a letter that he took from his pocket. By the by, I observe that when his body was found there was nothing on it in the shape of papers or money. I am quite sure that when I left him he had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a breast-pocket full of letters.’
‘Where did you leave him, sir?’ asked Spargo. ‘You left the hotel together, I believe?’
‘Yes.