with Chinese characters, intending to leave the Hong in a conspicuous place, that somebody else might be blamed for his infamy.
Milburgh had been in the flat for another purpose. The two men had met; there had been a quarrel; and Milburgh had fired the fatal shot. That part of the story solved the mystery of Thornton Lyne’s list slippers and his Chinese characters; his very presence there was cleared up. He thought of Sam Stay’s offer.
It came in a flash to Tarling that the man who had thrown the bottle of vitriol at him, who had said he had kept it for years — was Sam Stay. Stay, with his scheme for blasting the woman who, he believed, had humiliated his beloved patron.
And now for Milburgh, the last link in the chain.
Tarling had arranged for the superintendent in charge of the Cannon Row Police Station to notify him if any news came through. The inspector’s message did not arrive, and Tarling went down through Whitehall to hear the latest intelligence at first hand. That was to be precious little. As he was talking there arrived on the scene an agitated driver, the proprietor of a taxicab which had been lost. An ordinary case such as come the way of the London police almost every day. The cabman had taken a man and a woman to one of the West End theatres, and had been engaged to wait during the evening and pick them up when the performance was through. After setting down his fares, he had gone to a small eating-house for a bit of supper. When he came out the cab had disappeared.
“I know who done it,” he said vehemently, “and if I had him here, I’d…”
“How do you know?”
“He looked in at the coffee-shop while I was eating my bit of food.”
“What did he look like?” asked the station inspector.
“He was a man with a white face,” said the victim, “I could pick him out of a thousand. And what’s more, he had a brand-new pair of boots on.”
Tarling had strolled away from the officer’s desk whilst this conversation was in progress, but now he returned.
“Did he speak at all?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the cabman. “I happened to ask him if he was looking for anybody, and he said no, and then went on to talk a lot of rubbish about a man who had been the best friend any poor chap could have had. My seat happened to be nearest the door, that’s how I got into conversation with him. I thought he was off his nut.”
“Yes, yes, go on,” said Tarling impatiently. “What happened then?”
“Well, he went out,” said the cabman, “and presently I heard a cab being cranked up. I thought it was one of the other drivers — there were several cabs outside. The eating-house is a place which cabmen use, and I didn’t take very much notice until I came out and found my cab gone and the old devil I’d left in charge in a public-house drinking beer with the money this fellow had given him.”
“Sounds like your man, sir,” said the inspector, looking at Tarling.
“That’s Sam Stay all right,” he said, “but it’s news to me that he could drive a taxi.”
The inspector nodded.
“Oh, I know Sam Stay all right, sir. We’ve had him in here two or three times. He used to be a taxidriver — didn’t you know that?”
Tarling did not know that. He had intended looking up Sam’s record that day, but something had occurred to put the matter out of his mind.
“Well, he can’t go far,” he said. “You’ll circulate the description of the cab, I suppose? He may be easier to find. He can’t hide the cab as well as he can hide himself, and if he imagines that the possession of a car is going to help him to escape he’s making a mistake.”
Tarling was going back to Hertford that night, and had informed Ling Chu of his intention. He left Cannon Row Police Station, walked across the road to Scotland Yard, to confer with Whiteside, who had promised to meet him. He was pursuing independent inquiries and collecting details of evidence regarding the Hertford crime.
Whiteside was not in when Tarling called, and the sergeant on duty in the little office by the main door hurried forward.
“This came for you two hours ago, sir,” he said “We thought you were in Hertford.”
“This” was a letter addressed in pencil, and Mr. Milburgh had made no attempt to disguise his handwriting. Tarling tore open the envelope and read the contents:
“Dear Mr. Tarling,” it began. “I have just read in the Evening Press, with the deepest sorrow and despair, the news that my dearly Beloved wife, Catherine Rider, has been foully murdered. How terrible to think that a few hours ago I was conversing with her assassin, as I believe Sam Stay to be, and had inadvertently given him information as to where Miss Rider was to be found! I beg of you that you will lose no time in saving her from the hands of this cruel madman, who seems to have only one idea, and that to avenge the death of the late Mr. Thornton Lyne. When this reaches you I shall be beyond the power of human vengeance, for I have determined to end a life which has held so much sorrow and disappointment. — M.”
He was satisfied that Mr. Milburgh would not commit suicide, and the information was superfluous that Sam Stay had murdered Mrs. Rider. It was the knowledge that this vengeful lunatic knew where Odette Rider was staying which made Tarling sweat.
“Where is Mr. Whiteside?” he asked.
“He has gone to Cambours Restaurant to meet somebody, sir,” said the sergeant.
The somebody was one of Milburgh’s satellites at Lyne’s Store. Tarling must see him without delay. The inspector had control of all the official arrangements connected with the case, and it would be necessary to consult him before he could place detectives to watch the nursing home in Cavendish Place.
He found a cab and drove to Cambours, which was in Soho, and was fortunate enough to discover Whiteside in the act of leaving.
“I didn’t get much from that fellow,” Whiteside began, when Tarling handed him the letter.
The Scotland Yard man read it through without comment and handed it back.
“Of course he hasn’t committed suicide. It’s the last thing in the world that men of the Milburgh type ever think about seriously. He is a coldblooded villain. Imagine him sitting down to write calmly about his wife’s murderer!”
“What do you think of the other matter — the threat against Odette?”
Whiteside nodded.
“There may be something in it,” he said. “Certainly we cannot take risks. Has anything been heard of Stay?”
Tarling told the story of the stolen taxicab.
“We’ll have him,” said Whiteside confidently. “He’ll have no pals, and without pals in the motor business it is practically impossible to get a car away.”
He got into Tarling’s cab, and a few minutes later they were at the nursing home.
The matron came to them, a sedate, motherly lady.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour of the night,” said Tarling, sensing her disapproval. “But information has come to me this evening which renders it necessary that Miss Rider should be guarded.”
“Guarded?” said the matron in surprise. “I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Tarling. I had come down to give you rather a blowing up about Miss Rider. You know she is absolutely unfit to go out. I thought I made that clear to you when you were here this morning?”
“Go out?” said the puzzled Tarling. “What do you mean? She is not going out.”
It was the matron’s turn to be surprised.
“But you sent for her half an hour ago,” she said.
“I