The Square Emerald · Chapter 10 (2/2)

Coldwell’s gimlet eyes searched her unwholesome face.

“You told me you had never seen the pistol before. Who sent it?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen the man before in my life, if I never move⁠—”

“You’ll move!” said Coldwell grimly. “And darned quick, if you don’t tell me the truth!”

But to her story she stuck, swearing by numerous gods, some of whom were unfamiliar to Leslie, that she knew nothing whatever of the pistol except that it had been brought there by a perfect stranger who she thought was a friend of Peter Dawlish.

To Leslie Maughan’s astonishment, the inspector appeared to accept this story, and to find nothing venal in the act of concealment.

“You did a very foolish thing, Mrs. Inglethorne. The next time a perfect stranger comes and asks you to conceal firearms in your lodger’s room, you had better notify the police.”

He slipped the pistol into his pocket, and looked round for Elizabeth, but she had vanished.

“That lets you out, Dawlish,” he said. “At least, it does for the moment. If I were you, I would make an inspection of the room and see if there are other likely hiding-places where stuff could be planted.”

He had a consultation with the local inspector, and then he and Leslie walked back to their cab.

“You’ve let her down rather lightly, haven’t you, Mr. Coldwell?”

He gave her a quick sidelong glance.

“Minnow fishing never did appeal to me,” he drawled. “Especially while one of the big pikes are hovering around, and it’s the pike I’m after. And if this minnow doesn’t lead me to him, I’ll be astonished.”

“You accept Peter Dawlish’s story?”

He nodded, as he handed her into the cab. When he had followed and had slammed the rackety door and the machine was in motion, he explained.

“The detective who searched the house last night found that loose board and the hole underneath. He might have missed the diamond rings, but he couldn’t have missed the gun. Therefore, I knew it had been planted since. Peter might have put it there, of course, but the odds were all against that theory. The true story was the one told by the child. The little yellow-faced gentleman was probably one of the three who attacked Dawlish last night.”

For the first time she learnt of that surprising outrage which had been committed in Severall Street the night Peter had visited her.

He admitted a little irritably that the case had gone outside his own experience.

“Here’s a woman who has been masquerading as a man for the past fifteen years, found dead, with an emerald in her hand, worth, at a rough guess, a thousand pounds. She was shot at close quarters with the pistol I have in my pocket⁠—”

She gasped.

“You don’t mean that?”

He nodded.

“I do mean it. I’d like to bet a month’s pay that I’m right. You think a murderer would be crazy to put the very weapon in the hands of the police, knowing that the pistol has a number and its purchase can be traced⁠—unless it was bought in Belgium, which is extremely likely. You haven’t seen Druze since she was found, have you? Well, I’m not advising you to⁠—all the details about her can be passed on. There’s a big black-powder burn at the base of her right thumb⁠—that is to say, on the back of her hand. First thing I noticed when I examined the body was that powder burn.”

“How did that come there?” asked Leslie.

“She fired an automatic⁠—five or six shots in rapid succession⁠—and got the backfire. One shot wouldn’t have burnt her; it must have been at least five. Look!” He showed his own hand, and a raw red mark, faintly tinged with black. “I was firing an automatic this morning to see what would happen, and I’ve got exactly the same mark as she has. I’m only making a guess, Leslie, but my guess is that Miss or Mrs. Druze was killed in self-defence; that she started the gunplay and got the worst of it.”

Leslie caught her breath.

“Then where is the other body?” she asked quickly.

He stared at her open-mouthed.

“Other body?”

“She killed somebody first,” said Leslie quickly. “Killed or desperately wounded. Such a woman as Druze would not carry a pistol unless she knew how to use it. If she knew how to use it and fired first, then somebody was badly hurt.”

The old man took off his hat and scratched his head.

“That’s the natural conclusion to reach,” he said; “and I didn’t reach it. And why I didn’t reach it I don’t know. Just let me think this out, will ye?”

The silence was unbroken until they reached Scotland Yard.

“I’m still thinking it out,” he said dismally as he stepped out of the cab behind her and paid the taximan.

There was a bearded man in the hall, doctor written in every line of him. He was talking to the officer at the desk and evidently Coldwell was being pointed out to him, for he walked to the door to meet the inspector as he entered.

“You’re Mr. Coldwell? My name is Simmson. I am Dr. Simmson, of Marylebone Road.”

“Yes, doctor?” said Coldwell, politely attentive.

“A friend of mine has suggested that I should go to Scotland Yard and report rather a curious circumstance,” he said awkwardly. “I have never done such a thing before, and I’m a little at sea as to how I should begin. But I have a patient who is suffering from a gunshot wound, and I am not quite satisfied as to how she received her injury, which is a slight one”⁠—Coldwell was all attention now⁠—“through the calf; no artery has been injured. And really, I feel I’m being terribly disloyal to a patient⁠—”

“What is her name?” asked Coldwell.

“Mrs. Greta Gurden,” was the reply.