no trouble coming to you. I just want to ask you a few questions."
"You fellows have been asking questions day and night since—since that happened," growled Sam.
Nevertheless, he permitted himself to be mollified and led to a seat in the Park.
"Now, I'm putting it to you straight, Sam," said the policeman. "We've got nothing against you at the Yard, but we think you might be able to help us. You knew Mr. Lyne; he was very decent to you."
"Here, shut up," said Sam savagely. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it! D'ye hear? He was the grandest fellow that ever was, was Mr. Lyne, God bless him! Oh, my God! My God!" he wailed, and to the detective's surprise this hardened criminal buried his face in his hands.
"That's all right, Sam. I know he was a nice fellow. Had he any enemies—he might have talked to a chap like you where he wouldn't have talked to his friends."
Sam, red-eyed, looked up suspiciously.
"Am I going to get into any trouble for talking?" he said.
"None at all, Sam," said the policeman quickly. "Now, you be a good lad and do all you can to help us, and maybe, if you ever get into trouble, we'll put one in for you. Do you see? Did anybody hate him?"
Sam nodded.
"Was it a woman?" asked the detective with studied indifference.
"It was," replied the other with an oath. "Damn her, it was! He treated her well, did Mr. Lyne. She was broke, half-starving; he took her out of the gutter and put her into a good place, and she went about making accusations against him!"
He poured forth a stream of the foulest abuse which the policeman had ever heard.
"That's the kind of girl she was, Slade," he went on, addressing the detective, as criminals will, familiarly by their surnames. "She ain't fit to walk the earth–"
His voice broke.
"Might I ask her name?" demanded Slade.
Again Sam looked suspiciously around.
"Look here," he said, "leave me to deal with her. I'll settle with her, and don't you worry!"
"That would only get you into trouble, Sam," mused Slade. "Just give us her name. Did it begin with an 'R'?"
"How do I know?" growled the criminal. "I can't spell. Her name was Odette."
"Rider?" said the other eagerly.
"That's her. She used to be cashier in Lyne's Store."
"Now, just quieten yourself down and tell me all Lyne told you about her, will you, my lad?"
Sam Stay stared at him, and then a slow look of cunning passed over his face.
"If it was her!" he breathed. "If I could only put her away for it!"
Nothing better illustrated the mentality of this man than the fact that the thought of "shopping" the girl had not occurred to him before. That was the idea, a splendid idea! Again his lips curled back, and he eyed the detective with a queer little smile.
"All right, sir," he said. "I'll tell the head-split. I'm not going to tell you."
"That's as it ought to be, Sam," said the detective genially. "You can tell Mr. Tarling or Mr. Whiteside and they'll make it worth your while."
The detective called a cab and together they drove, not to Scotland Yard, but to Tarling's little office in Bond Street. It was here that the man from Shanghai had established his detective agency, and here he waited with the phlegmatic Whiteside for the return of the detective he had sent to withdraw Sam Stay from his shadower.
The man shuffled into the room, looked resentfully from one to the other, nodded to both, and declined the chair which was pushed forward for him. His head was throbbing in an unaccountable way, as it had never throbbed before. There were curious buzzes and noises in his ears. It was strange that he had not noticed this until he came into the quiet room, to meet the grave eyes of a hard-faced man, whom he did not remember having seen before.
"Now, Stay," said Whiteside, whom at least the criminal recognised, "we want to hear what you know about this murder."
Stay pressed his lips together and made no reply.
"Sit down," said Tarling, and this time the man obeyed. "Now, my lad," Tarling went on—and when he was in a persuasive mood his voice was silky—"they tell me that you were a friend of Mr. Lyne's."
Sam nodded.
"He was good to you, was he not?"
"Good?" The man drew a deep breath. "I'd have given my heart and soul to save him from a minute's pain, I would, sir! I'm telling you straight, and may I be struck dead if I'm lying! He was an angel on earth—my God, if ever I lay me hands on that woman, I'll strangle her. I'll put her out! I'll not leave her till she's torn to rags!"
His voice rose, specks of foam stood on his lips his whole face seemed transfigured in an ecstasy of hate.
"She's been robbing him and robbing him for years," he shouted. "He looked after her and protected her, and she went and told lies about him, she did. She trapped him!"
His voice rose to a scream, and he made a move forward towards the desk, both fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Tarling sprang up, for he recognised the signs. Before another word could be spoken, the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, and lay like one dead.
Tarling was round the table in an instant, turned the unconscious man on his back, and, lifting one eyelid, examined the pupil.
"Epilepsy or something worse," he said. "This thing has been preying on the poor devil's mind—'phone an ambulance, Whiteside, will you?"
"Shall I give him some water?"
Tarling shook his head.
"He won't recover for hours, if he recovers at all," he said. "If Sam Stay knows anything to the detriment of Odette Rider, he is likely to carry his knowledge to the grave."
And in his heart of hearts J. O. Tarling felt a little sense of satisfaction that the mouth of this man was closed.
CHAPTER IX
WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM
Where was Odette Rider? That was a problem which had to be solved. She had disappeared as though the earth had opened and swallowed her up. Every police station in the country had been warned; all outgoing ships were being watched; tactful inquiries had been made in every direction where it was likely she might be found; and the house at Hertford was under observation day and night.
Tarling had procured an adjournment of the inquest; for, whatever might be his sentiments towards Odette Rider, he was, it seemed, more anxious to perform his duty to the State, and it was very necessary that no prurient-minded coroner should investigate too deeply into the cause and the circumstances leading up to Thornton Lyne's death, lest the suspected criminal be warned.
Accompanied by Inspector Whiteside, he reexamined the flat to which the bloodstained carpet pointed unmistakably as being the scene of the murder. The red thumb prints on the bureau had been photographed and were awaiting comparison with the girl's the moment she was apprehended.
Carrymore Mansions, where Odette Rider lived, were, as has been described, a block of good-class flats, the ground floor being given over to shops. The entrance to the flats was between two of these, and a flight of stairs led down to the basement. Here were six sets of apartments, with windows giving out to the narrow areas which ran parallel to the side streets on either side of the block.
The centre of the basement consisted of a large concrete store-room, about which were set little cubicles or cellars in which the tenants stored such of their baggage, furniture, etc., as they did not need. It was possible, he discovered, to pass from the corridor of the basement flat, into the store room, and out through a door at the back of the building into a small courtyard. Access to the street was secured through a fairly large door, placed there for the convenience of tenants who wished to get their coal and heavy stores delivered. In the street behind the block of flats was a mews, consisting of about a dozen shut-up