“I didn’t expect visitors at this hour of the night.”
He went into the house, took a good look round his room, and then reappeared, taking the key from the pocket of his dressing-gown. It had been there all the time, if the truth be told, but Mr. Milburgh was a cautious man and took few risks.
Tarling was accompanied by Inspector Whiteside and another man, whom Milburgh rightly supposed was a detective. Only Tarling and the Inspector accepted his invitation to step inside, the third man remaining on guard at the gate.
Milburgh led the way to his cosy sittingroom.
“I have been in bed some hours, and I’m sorry to have kept you so long.”
“Your radiator is still warm,” said Tarling quietly, stooping to feel the little stove.
Mr. Milburgh chuckled.
“Isn’t that clever of you to discover that?” he said admiringly. “The fact is, I was so sleepy when I went to bed, several hours ago, that I forgot to turn the radiator off, and it was only when I came down to answer the bell that I discovered I had left it switched on.”
Tarling stooped and picked the butt end of a cigar out of the hearth. It was still alight.
“You’ve been smoking in your sleep, Mr. Milburgh,” he said dryly.
“No, no,” said the airy Mr. Milburgh. “I was smoking that when I came downstairs to let you in. I instinctively put a cigar in my mouth the moment I wake up in the morning. It is a disgraceful habit, and really is one of my few vices,” he admitted. “I threw it down when I turned out the radiator.”
Tarling smiled.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Milburgh, seating himself in the least comfortable of the chairs. “You see,” his smile was apologetic as he waved his hand to the table, “the work is frightfully heavy now that poor Mr. Lyne is dead. I am obliged to bring it home, and I can assure you, Mr. Tarling, that there are some nights when I work till daylight, getting things ready for the auditor.”
“Do you ever take exercise?” asked Tarling innocently. “Little night walks in the fog for the benefit of your health?”
A puzzled frown gathered on Milburgh’s face.
“Exercise, Mr. Tarling?” he said with an air of mystification. “I don’t quite understand you. Naturally I shouldn’t walk out on a night like this. What an extraordinary fog for this time of the year!”
“Do you know Paddington at all?”
“No,” said Mr. Milburgh, “except that there is a station there which I sometimes use. But perhaps you will explain to me the meaning of this visit?”
“The meaning is,” said Tarling shortly, “that I have been attacked tonight by a man of your build and height, who fired twice at me at close quarters. I have a warrant—” Mr. Milburgh’s eyes narrowed— “I have a warrant to search this house.”
“For what?” demanded Milburgh boldly.
“For a revolver or an automatic pistol and anything else I can find.”
Milburgh rose.
“You’re at liberty to search the house from end to end,” he said. “Happily, it is a small one, as my salary does not allow of an expensive establishment.”
“Do you live here alone?” asked Tarling.
“Quite,” replied Milburgh. “A woman comes in at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to cook my breakfast and make the place tidy, but I sleep here by myself. I am very much hurt,” he was going on.
“You will be hurt much worse,” said Tarling dryly and proceeded to the search.
It proved to be a disappointing one, for there was no trace of any weapon, and certainly no trace of the little red slips which he had expected to find in Milburgh’s possession. For he was not searching for the man who had assailed him, but for the man who had killed Thornton Lyne.
He came back to the little sittingroom where Milburgh had been left with the Inspector and apparently he was unruffled by his failure.
“Now, Mr. Milburgh,” he said brusquely, “I want to ask you: Have you ever seen a piece of paper like this before?”
He took a slip from his pocket and spread it on the table. Milburgh looked hard at the Chinese characters on the crimson square, and then nodded.
“You have?” said Tarling in surprise.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Milburgh complacently. “I should be telling an untruth if I said I had not. Nothing is more repugnant to me than to deceive anybody.”
“That I can imagine,” said Tarling.
“I am sorry you are sarcastic, Mr. Tarling,” said the reproachful Milburgh, “but I assure you that I hate and loathe an untruth.”
“Where have you seen these papers?”
“On Mr. Lyne’s desk,” was the surprising answer
“On Lyne’s desk?”
Milburgh nodded.
“The late Mr. Thornton Lyne,” he said, “came back from the East with a great number of curios, and amongst them were a number of slips of paper covered with Chinese characters similar to this. I do not understand Chinese,” he said, “because I have never had occasion to go to China. The characters may have been different one from the other, but to my unsophisticated eye they all look alike.”
“You’ve seen these slips on Lyne’s desk?” said Tarling. “Then why did you not tell the police before? You know that the police attach a great deal of importance to the discovery of one of these things in the dead man’s pocket?”
Mr. Milburgh nodded.
“It is perfectly true that I did not mention the fact to the police,” he said, “but you understand Mr. Tarling that I was very much upset by the sad occurrence, which drove everything else out of my mind. It would have been quite possible that you would have found one or two of these strange inscriptions in this very house.” He smiled in the detective’s face. “Mr. Lyne was very fond of distributing the curios he brought from the East to his friends,” he went on. “He gave me that dagger you see hanging on the wall, which he bought at some outlandish place in his travels. He may have given me a sample of these slips. I remember his telling me a story about them, which I cannot for the moment recall.”
He would have continued retailing reminiscences of his late employer, but Tarling cut him short, and with a curt good night withdrew. Milburgh accompanied him to the front gate and locked the door upon the three men before he went back to his sittingroom smiling quietly to himself.
“I am certain that the man was Milburgh,” said Tarling. “I am as certain as that I am standing here.”
“Have you any idea why he should want to out you?” asked Whiteside.
“None in the world,” replied Tarling. “Evidently my assailant was a man who had watched my movements and had probably followed the girl and myself to the hotel in a cab. When I disappeared inside he dismissed his own and then took the course of dismissing my cab, which he could easily do by paying the man his fare and sending him off. A cabman would accept that dismissal without suspicion. He then waited for me in the fog and followed me until he got me into a quiet part of the road, where he first attempted to sandbag and then to shoot me.”
“But why?” asked Whiteside again. “Suppose Milburgh knew something about this murder — which is very doubtful — what benefit would it be to him to have you put out of the way?”
“If I could answer that question,” replied Tarling grimly, “I could tell you who killed Thornton Lyne.”
XV.