 CHAPTER XI For a time neither spoke. Tarling walked slowly forward, pulled a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down. For once taking his eyes off the girl. Oh, dead writer! The woman for whom the police of England were searching against whom a warrant had been issued on a charge of willful murder, and here, in a little country hospital. For a moment and a moment only, Tarling was in doubt. Had he been standing outside the case and watching it as a disinterested spectator, or had this girl never come so closely into his life, bringing a new and a disturbing influence so that the very balance of his judgment was upset, he would have said that she was in hiding, and had chosen this hospital for a safe retreat. The very name under which she was passing was fictitious, a suspicious circumstance in itself. The girl's eyes did not leave his. He read in their clear depths a hint of terror, and his heart fell. He had not realized before that the chief incentive he found in this case was not to discover the murderer of Thornton Line, but to prove that the girl was innocent. Mr. Tarling, she said with a queer little break in her voice, I did not expect to see you. It was a lame opening, and it seemed all the more feeble to her, since she had so carefully rehearsed the statement she had intended making. For her waking moment since the accident had been filled with thoughts of this hard-faced man, what he would think, what he would say, and what, in certain eventualities he would do. I suppose not. Mr. Tarling gently. I am sorry to hear you have had rather a shaking, Miss Ryder. She nodded, and a faint smile played about the corners of her mouth. It was nothing very much, she said. Of course it was very harried at first, and what do you want? The last words were blurted out. She could not keep up the face of a polite conversation. There was a moment's silence, and then Tarling spoke. I wanted to find you, he said, speaking slowly, and again he read her fear. Well, she hesitated, and then said desperately, and just a little defiantly, you have found me. Tarling nodded. And now that you have found me, she went on speaking rapidly. What do you want? She was resting on her elbow, her strained face turned towards him, her eyes slightly narrowed, watching him with an intensity of gaze which betrayed her agitation. I want to ask you a few questions, said Tarling, and slipped a little notebook from his pocket, balancing it upon his knee. To his dismay the girl shook her head. I don't know that I am prepared to answer your questions, she said more calmly, but there is no reason why you should not ask them. Here was an attitude wholly unexpected, and Odette Ryder panicked stricken he could understand. If she had burst into a fit of weeping, if she had grown incoherent in her terror, if she had been indignant or shame-faced, any of these displays would have fitted in with his conception of her innocence or apprehension of her guilt. In the first place, he asked bluntly, why are you here under the name of Miss Stevens? She thought a moment, then shook her head. That is a question I am not prepared to answer, she said quietly. I won't press it for a moment, said Tarling, because I realize that it is bound up in certain other extraordinary actions of yours, Miss Ryder. The girl flushed and dropped her eyes, and Tarling went on. Why did you leave London secretly, without giving your friends or your mother any inkling of your plans? She looked up sharply. Have you seen mother? She asked quietly, and again her eyes were troubled. I have seen your mother, said Tarling. I have also seen the telegram you sent to her. Come, Miss Ryder, won't you let me help you? Believe me, a great deal more depends upon your answers than the satisfaction of my curiosity. You must realize how very serious your position is. He saw her lips closed tidally, and she shook her head. I have nothing to say, she said with a cat of her breath, if—if you think I have—she stopped dead. Finish your sentence, said Tarling sternly, if I think you have committed this crime. She nodded. He put away his notebook before he spoke again, and leaning over the bed took her hand. Miss Ryder, I want to help you, he said earnestly, and I can help you best if you are frank with me. I tell you I do not believe that you committed this act. I tell you now that, though all the circumstances point to your guilt, I have absolute confidence that you can produce an answer to the charge. For a moment her eyes filled with tears, but she bit her lip and smiled bravely into his face. That is good and sweet of you, Mr. Tarling, and I do appreciate your kindness, but I can't tell you anything. I can't. I can't." She gripped his wrist in her vehemence, and he thought she was going to break down, but again, with an extraordinary effort of will which excited his secret admiration, she controlled herself. You're going to think very badly of me, she said, and I hate the thought. Mr. Tarling, you don't know how I hate it. I want you to think that I am innocent, but I am going to make no effort to prove that I was not guilty. You're mad, he interrupted her roughly. Stark raving mad, you must do something, do you hear? You've got to do something. She shook her head, and the little hand which rested on he is closed gently about two of his fingers. I can't, she said simply. I just can't. Tarling pushed back the chair from the bed. He could have grown at the hopelessness of the girl's case, if she had only given him one thread that would lead him to another glue, if she only protested her innocence. His heart sank within him, and he could only shake his head helplessly. Suppose, he said huskily, that you are charged with this crime. Do you mean to tell me that you will not produce evidence that could prove your innocence, that you will make no attempt to defend yourself? She nodded. I mean that, she said. My God, you don't know what you're saying, he cried, starting up. You're mad, Odette, start mad. She only smiled for the fraction of a second, and that at the unconscious employment of her Christian name. I'm not at all mad, she said. I'm very sane. She looked at him thoughtfully, and then of a sudden seemed to shrink back, and her face went wider. You, you have a warrant for me. She whispered. He nodded. And you're going to arrest me. He shook his head. No, he said briefly. I am leaving that to somebody else. I have sickened of the case, and I am going out of it. He sent you here, she said slowly. He? Yes, I remember you were working with him, or he wanted you to work with him. Of whom are you speaking? Asked, Tarling quickly. Thornton line, said the girl. Tarling leapt to his feet and stared down at her. Thornton line, he repeated, don't you know? Know what? Asked the girl with a frown. That Thornton line is dead, said Tarling, and that it is for his murder that a warrant has been issued for your arrest. She looked at him for a moment with wide, staring eyes. Dead, she gasped. Dead! Thornton line dead. You don't mean that. You don't mean that. She clutched Tarling's arm. Tell me that isn't true. He did not do it. He dare not do it. She swayed forward, and Tarling, dropping on his knees beside the bed, caught her in his arms as she fainted. End of Chapter XI Thornton line is dead. Chapter XII of the daffodil mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter XII The Hospital Book. While the nurse was attending to the girl, Tarling sought an interview with a medical officer in charge of the hospital. I don't think there's a great deal to matter with her, said the doctor. In fact, she was fit for discharge from hospital two or three days ago, and it was only at her request that we let her stay. Do I understand that she is wanted in connection with the daffodil murder? As a witness, said Tarling Glibley, he realized that he was saying a ridiculous thing, because of the fact that a warrant was out for a debt rider must have been generally known to the local authorities. Her description had been carefully circulated, and that description must have come to the heads of hospitals and public institutions. The next words of the doctor confirmed his knowledge. As a witness, eh? He said dryly. Well, I don't want to pry into your secrets or rather into the secrets of Scotland Yard, but she is fit to travel just as soon as you like. There was a knock on the door and the matron came into the doctor's office. Miss Ryder wishes to see you, sir. She said, addressing Tarling, and the detective, taking up his hat, went back to the little ward. He found the girl more composed, but still deathly white. She was out of bed, sitting in a big armchair wrapped in a dressing-gown, and she motioned Tarling to pull up a chair to her side. She waited until after the door had closed behind the nurse, then she spoke. It was very silly of me to faint, Mr. Tarling, but the news was so horrible and so unexpected. Won't you tell me all about it? You see, I have not read a newspaper since I have been in the hospital. I heard one of the nurses talk about the daffodil murder. That is not the— She hesitated, and Tarling nodded. He was lighter of heart now, almost cheerful. He had no doubt in his mind that the girl was innocent, and life had taken on a rosier aspect. Thornton Lynn, he began, was murdered on the night of the fourteenth. He was last seen alive by his valet about half past nine in the evening. Early next morning his body was found in Hyde Park. He had been shot dead, and an effort had been made to staunch the wound in his breast, by binding a woman's silk nitress round and round his body. On his breast somebody had laid a bunch of daffodils. Daffodils, repeated the girl wonderingly, but how? His car was discovered a hundred yards from the place, Tarling continued, and it was clear that he had been murdered elsewhere, brought to the park in his car, and left on the sidewalk. At the time he was discovered he had on neither coat nor vest, and on his feet wore a pair of list slippers. But I don't understand, said the bewildered girl. What does it mean? Who had? She stopped suddenly, and the detective saw her lips tightened together as though to restrain her speech. Then suddenly she covered her face with her hands. Oh, it's terrible, terrible! She whispered, I never thought, I never dreamed, oh, it is terrible! Tarling laid his hand gently on her shoulder. Miss Ryder, he said, you suspect somebody of this crime, won't you tell me? She shook her head without looking up. I can say nothing, she said. But don't you see that suspicion would all attach to you? Urged Tarling, a telegram was discovered amongst his belongings, asking him to call at your flat that evening. She looked up quickly. A telegram from me, she said, I sent no telegram. Thank God for that, cried Tarling fervently. Thank God for that. But I don't understand, Mr. Tarling. A telegram was sent to Mr. Lin, asking him to come to my flat. Did he go to my flat? Tarling nodded. I have reason to believe he did, he said gravely. The murder was committed in your flat. My God! She whispered, you don't mean that. Oh no, no, it is impossible. Briefly he recited all his discoveries. He knew that he was acting in a manner which, from the point of view of police ethics, was wholly wrong and disloyal. He was placing her in possession of all the clues and giving her an opportunity to meet and refute the evidence which had been collected against her. He told her of the bloodstains on the floor and described the nightdress which had been found around Thornton Lin's body. That was my nightdress, she said simply and without hesitation. Go on, Mr. Tarling. He told her of the bloody thumb-prints upon the door of the bureau. On your bed, he went on, I found your dressing-case half-packed. She swayed forward and threw out her hands, groping blindly. Oh, how wicked, how wicked! She wailed. He did it! He did it! Who? demanded, Tarling. He took the girl by the shoulder and shook her. Who was the man? You must tell me. Your own life depends upon it. Don't you see, Odette? I want to help you. I want to clear your name with its terrible charge. You suspect somebody. I must have his name. She shook her head and turned her pathetic face to his. I can't tell you. She said in a low voice, I can say no more. I know nothing of the murder until you told me. I had no idea, no thought. I hated Thornton Lynn. I hated him, but I would not have hurt him. It is dreadful, dreadful. Presently she grew calmer. I must go to London at once, she said. Will you please take me back? She saw his embarrassment and was quick to understand its cause. You, you have a warrant, haven't you? He nodded. On the charge of murder? He nodded again. She looked at him in silence for some moments. I shall be ready in half an hour, she said, and without a word the detective left the room. He made his way back to the doctor's sanctum and found that gentleman awaiting him impatiently. I say, said the doctor, that's all boncombe about this girl being wanted as a witness. I had my doubts, and I looked up the Scotland Yard warning which I received a couple of days ago. She is Odette Ryder, and she is wanted on a charge of murder. I had it first time, said Tarling, dropping wearily into a chair. Do you mind if I smoke? Not a bit, said the doctor cheerfully. I suppose you're taking her with you. Tarling nodded. I can't imagine a girl like that committing a crime, said Doctor Saunders. She doesn't seem to possess the physique necessary to have carried out all the exeteros of the crime. I read the particulars in the Morning Globe. The person, who murdered Thornton Lyon, must have carried him from his car and laid him on the grass, or wherever he was found. And that girl couldn't lift a large-sized baby. Tarling jerked his head in agreement. Besides, Doctor Saunders went on. She hasn't the face of a murderer. I don't mean to say that, because she's pretty. She couldn't commit a crime, but there are certain types of prettiness which have their origin in spiritual beauty. And Miss Stevens, or rioters I suppose I should call her, is one of that type. I'm one with you there, said Tarling. I am satisfied in my own mind that she did not commit the crime, but the circumstances are all against her. The telephone bell jingled and the Doctor took up the receiver and spoke a few words. A trunk call, he said, explaining the delay in receiving acknowledgement from the other end of the wire. He spoke again into the receiver and then handed the instrument across the table to Tarling. It's for you, he said. I think it is Scotland Yard. Scotland put the receiver to his ear. It is what side, said a voice. Is that you, Mr. Tarling? We found the revolver. Where? asked Tarling quickly. In the girl's flat came the reply. Tarling's face fell, but after all, that was nothing unexpected. He had no doubt in his mind at all that the murder had been committed. In Odette rioters flat, and if that theory were accepted, the details were unimportant, as there was no reason in the world why the pistol should not be also found near the scene of the crime. In fact, it would have been remarkable if the weapon had not been discovered on those premises. Where was it? he asked. In the lady's work-basket, said Whiteside, pushed to the bottom and covered with a lot of wool and odds and ends of tape. What sort of revolver is it? asked Tarling after a pause. A cult automatic was the reply. There were six live cartridges in the magazine and one in the breach. The pistol had evidently been fired, for the barrel was foul. I've also found the spent bullet in the fireplace. Have you found your Miss Stevens? Yes, said Tarling quietly. Miss Stevens is Odette Ryder. He heard the other's whistle of surprise. Have you arrested her? Not yet, said Tarling. Will you meet the next train in from Ashford? I shall be leaving here in half an hour. He hung up the receiver and turned to the doctor. I gathered they've found the weapon, so they interested, medical. Yes, replied Tarling, they have found the weapon. Hmm! said the doctor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, a pretty bad business. He looked at the other curiously. What sort of a man was Thornton Lynn? He asked. Tarling shot his shoulders. Not the best of men, I'm afraid, he said, but even the worst of men are protected by the law, and the punishment which will fall to the murderer. Or murderess, smiled the doctor. Murderer! said Tarling shortly. The punishment will not be affected by the character of the dead man. Dr. Saunders puffed steadily at his pipe. It's rumour like that being mixed up in a case of this description, he said, most extraordinary. There was a little tap at the door and the matron appeared. Miss Stevens is ready, she said, and Tarling rose. Dr. Saunders rose with him and, going to his shelf, took down a large ledger and placing it on his table, opened it and took up a pen. I shall have, to mark her discharge. He said, turning over the leaves and running his finger down the page, here she is, Miss Stevens, concussion in shock. He looked at the writing under his hand and lifted his eyes to the detective. When was this murder committed? He asked. On the night of the fourteenth. On the night of the fourteenth. Repeated the doctor thoughtfully. At what time? The hour is uncertain, said Tarling, impatient and anxious to finish his conversation with his gossiping surgeon. Some time after eleven. Some time after eleven. Repeated the doctor. It couldn't have been committed before. When was the man last seen alive? At half-past nine, said Tarling with a little smile, you're not going in for criminal investigation, are you, doctor? Not exactly, smiled Saunders, though I am naturally pleased to be in a position to prove the girl's innocence. Prove her innocence? What do you mean? Demanded Tarling quickly. The murder could not have been committed before eleven o'clock. The dead man was last seen alive at half-past nine. Well, said Tarling, well, repeated doctor Saunders. At nine o'clock the boat train left Charing Cross, and at half-past ten Miss Ryder was admitted to this hospital suffering from shock and concussion. For a moment Tarling said nothing, and did nothing. He stood as though turned to stone, staring at the doctor with open mouth. Then he lurched forward, gripped the astonished medical man by the hand, and rung it. That's the best bit of news I have had in my life, he said huskily. End of chapter twelve. The hospital book. Chapter thirteen of the daftle mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The daftle mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter thirteen. Two shots in the night. The journey back to London was one, the details of which were registered, with photographic realism in Tarling's mind for the rest of his life. The girl spoke little, and he himself was content to meditate and turn over in his mind puzzling circumstances which had surrounded Odette Ryder's flight. In the very silences which occurred between the interchanges of conversation was a comradeship and a sympathetic understanding which both the man and the girl would have found it difficult to define. Was he in love with her? He was shocked at the possibility of such a catastrophe overtaking him. Love had never come into his life. It was a hypothetical condition which he had never even considered. He had known men to fall in love just as he had known men to suffer from malaria or yellow fever without considering the same experience might overtake him. A shy, reticent man, behind that dark mask, was a diffidence unsuspected by his closest friends. So that the possibility of being in love with Odette Ryder disturbed his mind because he lacked sufficient conceit to believe that such a passion could be anything but hopeless. That any woman could love him he could not conceive, and now her very presence, the fragrant nearness of her, at once soothed and alarmed him. Here was a detective virtually in charge of a woman suspected of murder, and he was frightened of her. He knew the warrant in his pocket would never be executed, and that Scotland Yard would not proceed with the prosecution, because, though Scotland Yard makes some big errors, it does not like to have its errors made public. The journey was all too short, and it was not until the train was running slowly through a thin fog which had descended on London that he returned to the subject of the murder, and only then with an effort. I am going to take you to an hotel for the night, he said, and in the morning I will ask you to come with me to Scotland Yard to talk to the chief. Then I am not arrested. She smiled. No, I don't think you are arrested. He smiled responsively, but I am afraid that you are going to be asked a number of questions which may be distressing to you. You seem as rider, your actions have been very suspicious. You leave for the Continent under an assumed name, and undoubtedly the murder was committed in your flat. She shivered. Please, please, don't talk about that. She said in a low voice. He felt a brute, but he knew that she must undergo an examination at the hands of men who had less regard for her feelings. I do wish you would be frank with me. He pleaded, I am sure it could get you out of all your troubles without any difficulty. Mr. Lin hated me, she said. I think I touched him on his tenderest spot, poor man. His vanity. You yourself know how he sent that criminal to my flat in order to create evidence against me. He nodded. Did you ever meet Stay before? He asked. She shook her head. I think I have heard of him, she said. I know that Mr. Lin was interested in a criminal and that this criminal worshipped him. This Mr. Lin brought him to the stores and wanted to give him a job, but the man would not accept it. Mr. Lin once told me that Sam Stay would do anything in the world for him. Stay thinks you committed the murder, said Tarling bluntly. Lin has evidently told stories about you and your hatred for him, and I really think that Stay would have been more dangerous to you than the police. Only fortunately the little crook has gone off his head. She looked at him in astonishment. Mad? She asked. Poor fellow. Has this awful thing driven him? Tarling nodded. He was taken to the county asylum this morning. He had a fit in my office, and when he recovered he seemed to have lost his mind completely. Now, Miss Ryder, you are going to be frank with me, aren't you? She looked at him again and smiled sadly. I'm afraid I shan't be any more frank than I have been, Mr. Tarling. She said. If you want me to tell you why I assumed the name of Stevens or why I ran away from London, I cannot tell you. I had a good reason. She paused, and I may yet have a better reason for running away. She nearly said again, but checked the word. He laid his hand on hers. When I told you of this murder, he said earnestly, I knew by your surprise and agitation that you were innocent. Later the doctor was able to prove an alibi which cannot be shaken. But, Miss Ryder, when I surprised you, you spoke as though you knew who committed the crime. You spoke of a man, and it is that man's name I want. He shook her head. That I shall never tell you, she said simply. But don't you realize that you may be charged with being an accessory before or after the act? He urged. Don't you see what it means to you and to your mother? Her eyes closed at the mention of her mother's name as though to shut out the vision of some unpleasant possibility. Don't talk about it, don't talk about it. She murmured, Please, Mr. Tarling, do as you wish. Let the police arrest me or try me or hang me, but do not ask me to say any more, because I will not. I will not. Tarling sank back amongst the cushions, baffled and bewildered, and no more was said. White Side was waiting for the train, and with him were two men who were unmistakably branded Scotland Yard. Tarling drew him aside and explained the situation in a few words. Under the circumstances, he said, I shall not execute the warrant. White Side agreed. It is quite impossible that she could have committed the murder. He said, I suppose the doctor's evidence is unshakable. Absolutely, said Tarling, and it is confirmed by the station master at Ashford who has the time of the accident logged in his diary, and himself assisted to lift the girl from the train. Why did she call herself Miss Stevens, asked White Side, and what induced her to live London so hurriedly? Tarling gave a despairing gesture. That is one of the things I should like to know, he said, and the very matter upon which Miss Ryder refuses to enlighten me. I am taking her to an hotel, he went on. Tomorrow I will bring her down to the yard, but I doubt if the chief can say anything that will induce her to talk. Was she surprised when you told her of the murder? She mentioned anybody's name, asked White Side. Tarling hesitated and then for one of the few times in his life he lied. No, he said she was just upset. She mentioned nobody. He took the girl by taxi to the quiet little hotel he had chosen, a journey not without its thrills, for the fog was now thick, and saw her comfortably fixed. I can't be sufficiently grateful to you, Mr. Tarling, for your kindness, she said at parting, and if I could make your task any easier I would. He saw a spasm of pain pass across her face. I don't understand it yet, it seems like a bad dream. She said half to herself, I don't want to understand it somehow, I want to forget, I want to forget. What do you want to forget? Asked Tarling. She shook her head. Don't ask me, she said, please, please don't ask me. He walked down the big stairway, greatly worried a man. He had left the taxi at the door. To his surprise he found the cabin gone and turned to the porter. What happened to my taxi? He said I didn't pay him off. Your taxi, sir? Said the head porter, I didn't see it go. I'll ask one of the boys. His assistant porter, who had been in the street, told a surprising tale. A gentleman had come up out of the murk, had paid off the taxi, which had disappeared. The witness to this proceeding had not seen the gentleman's face. All he knew was that this mysterious benefactor had walked away in an opposite direction to that which the cabin had gone and had vanished into the night. Tarling frowned. That's curious, he said, get me another taxi. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult, sir. The hotel porter shook his head. You see how the fog is. We always get them thick about here. It's rather late in the year for fogs. Tarling cut short his lecture on meteorology, buttoned up his coat, and turned out of the hotel in the direction of the nearest underground station. The hotel to which he had taken the girl was situated in a quiet residential street, and at this hour of the night the street was deserted and the fog added something to its normal loneliness. Tarling was not particularly well acquainted with London, but he had a rough idea of direction. The fog was thick, but he could see the blurred nimbus of his street lamp and was midway between two of these, when he heard a soft step behind him. It was the faintest shuffle of a sound, and he turned quickly. Instinctively he threw up his hands and stepped aside. Something whist past his head and struck the pavement with a thud. Sandbag, he noted mentally and leapt at his assailant. As quickly his unknown attacker jumped back. There was a deafening report. His feet were scorched with burning cordite, and momentarily he released his grip of his enemy's throat which he had seized. He sensed rather than saw the pistol raised again and made one of those lightning falls which he had learned in far-off days from Japanese instructors of Jujitsu. Head over heels he went as the pistol exploded for the second time. It was a clever trick, designed to bring the full force of his foot against his opponent's knee, but the mysterious stranger was too quick for him, and when Tarling leapt to his feet he was alone. But he had seen the face, big and white and vengeful. It was a glimpse and guesswork, but he was satisfied that he knew his men. He ran in the direction. He thought the would-be assassin must have taken, but the fog was patchy and he misjudged. He heard the sound of hurrying footsteps and ran towards them, only to find that it was a policeman attracted by the sound of shots. The officer had met nobody. He must have gone the other way, said Tarling and raced off in pursuit, without however coming up with his attacker. Slowly he retraced his steps to where he had left the policeman searching the pavement for some clue which would identify the assailant of the night. The constable was using a small electric lamp which he had taken from his pocket. Nothing here, sir, he said, only this bit of red paper. Tarling took the small square of paper from the man's hand and examined it under the light of the lamp, a red square on which were written forwards in Chinese. He brought this trouble upon himself. It was the same inscription as had been found neatly folded in the waistcoat pocket of Thornton Lynn that morning he was discovered lying starkly dead. CHAPTER XIV THE SEARCH OF MILBER'S COTTAGE Mr. Milber had a little house in one of the industrial streets of Camden Town. It was a street made up for the most part of blank walls, pierced at intervals with great gates, through which one could procure at times a view of gaunt factories and smoky-looking chimney stacks. Mr. Milber's house was the only residence in the road, if one accepted the quarters of caretakers and managers, and it was agreed by all who saw his tiny domain that Mr. Milber had a good landlord. The house was a detached cottage in about half an acre of ground, a one-story building monopolizing the space which might have been occupied by factory extension. Both the factory to the right and the left had made generous offers to acquire the ground, but Mr. Milber's landlord had been adamant. There were people who suggested that Mr. Milber's landlord was Mr. Milber himself. But how could that be? Mr. Milber's salary was something under £400 a year, and the cottage side was worth at least £4,000. Canvey Cottage, as it was called, stood back from the road behind a lawn innocent of flowers, and the lawn itself was protected from intrusion by high iron railings, which Mr. Milber's landlord had erected at considerable cost. To reach the house it was necessary to pass through an iron gate and traverse a stone-flagged path through the door of the cottage. On the night when tarling of Scotland Yard was the victim of a murderous assault, Mr. Milber unlocked the gate and passed through, locking and double-locking the gate behind him. He was alone, and as was his want, he was whistling a sad little refrain which had neither beginning nor end. He walked slowly up the stone pathway, unlocked the door to his cottage, and stood only a moment on the doorstep to survey the growing sickness of the night before he closed and bolted the door, and switched on the electric light. He was in a tiny hallway, plainly but nicely furnished. The note of luxury was struck by the lawn etchings which hung on the wall, and which Mr. Milber stopped to regard approvingly. He hung up his coat and hat, slipped off the gloss as he was wearing, for it was wet underfoot, and passing through a door which opened from the passage came to his living-room. The same simple note of furniture and decoration was observable here. The furniture was good, the carpet under his feet thick and luxurious. He snicked down another switch, and an electric radiator glowed in the fireplace. Then he sat down at the big table, which was the most conspicuous article of furniture in the room. It was practically covered with orderly little piles of paper, most of them encircled with rubber bands. He did not attempt to touch or read them, but set looking moodily at his blotting-pad, preoccupied and absent. The heroes with a little grunt, and crossing the room, unlocked a very common place in old-fashioned cupboard, the top of which served as a side-board. From the cupboard he took a dozen little books, and carried them to the table. They were of uniform size, and each bore the figures of a year. They appeared to be, and indeed were, diaries, but they were not Mr. Milber's diaries. One day he chanced to go into Thornton Lion's room at the stores, and had seen these books arrayed on a steel shelf of lion's private safe. The proprietor's room overlooked the ground floor of the stores, and Thornton Lion at the time was visible to his manager, and could not under any circumstances surprise him. So Mr. Milber had taken out one volume, and read, with more than ordinary interest, somewhat frank and expansive diary, which Thornton Lion had kept. He had only read a few pages on that occasion, but later he had an opportunity of perusing the whole year's record, and had absorbed a great deal of information which might have been useful to him in the future, had not Thornton Lion met his untimely end at the hands of an unknown murderer. On the day when Thornton Lion's body was discovered in Hyde Park, with a woman's nightdress wrapped around the wound in his breast, Mr. Milber had, for reasons of expediency, and assisted by a duplicate key of lion's safe, removed those diaries to a safer place. They contained a great deal that was unpleasant for Mr. Milber, particularly the current diary, for Thornton Lion had set down not only his experiences, but his daily happenings, his thoughts, poetical and otherwise, and had stated very exactly, and in libelous terms, his suspicions of his manager. The diary provided Mr. Milber with a great deal of very interesting reading-matter, and now he turned to the page where he had left off the night before, and continued his study. It was a page easy to find, because he had thrust between the leaves a thin envelope of foreign make, containing certain slips of paper, and as he took out his improvised bookmark a sword seemed to strike him, and he felt carefully in his pocket. He did not discover the thing for which he was searching, and with a smile he laid the envelope carefully on the table, and went on at the point where his studies had been interrupted. Launched at the London Hotel, and dozed away the afternoon, the weather fearfully hot, had arranged to make a call upon a distant cousin, a man named Tarling, who was in the police force at Shanghai, but too much of a fag. Spent evening at Chu Han's Dancing-Hall. Got very friendly with a pretty little Chinese girl who spoke Pigeon English. I'm seeing her to-morrow at Ling Fu's. She is called the Little Narcissus. I called her My Little Daffodil. Mr. Milber stopped in his reading. Little Daffodil, he repeated, then looked at the ceiling and pinched his thick lips. Little Daffodil, he said again, and a big smile dawned on his face. He was still engaged in reading when a bell shrilled in the hall. He rose to his feet and stood listening, and the bell rang again. He switched off the light, pulled aside the thick curtain which hid the window, and peered out through the fog. He could just distinguish in the light of the street-lamp two or three men standing at the gate. He replaced the curtain, turned up the light again, took the books in his arm, and disappeared with him into the corridor. The room at the back was his bedroom, and into this he went, making no response to the repeated jingle of the bell for fully five minutes. At the end of that time he reappeared, but now he was in his pajamas, over which he wore a heavy dressing-gown. He unlocked the door, and shuffled in the slippers down the stone pathway to the gate. "'Who's that?' he asked. "'Tarling. You know me,' said a voice. "'Mr. Tarling,' said Milbur, in surprise, "'really, this is an unexpected pleasure. Come in! Come in, gentlemen!' Opened the gate, set Tarling briefly. "'Excuse me while I go and get the keys,' said Milbur. 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 truth be told, but Mr. Mober was a cautious man, and took few risks. Tarling was accompanied by Inspector Whiteside and another man, whom Milbur 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. Milbur led the way to his cosy sitting-room. "'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. Mober 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 a light. "'You've been smoking in your sleep, Mr. Milbur,' he said dryly. "'No, no,' said the airy Mr. Milbur. "'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 Milbur, 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 Milbur'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. Milbur, 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, sir, 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. Milbur's eye is narrowed. I have a warrant to search this house.' "'For what?' demanded Milbur boldly. For a revolver or an automatic pistol, and anything else I can find.' Milbur 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 Milbur. 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,' set 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 she had expected to find in Milbur's possession. For he was not searching for the man who had assailed him, but for the man who had killed Thornton line. He came back to the little sitting-room where Milbur had been left with the inspector, and apparently he was unruffled by his failure. "'Now, Mr. Milbur,' 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. Milbur looked hard at the Chinese characters on the Crimson Square, and then nodded. "'You have?' said Tarling in surprise. "'Yes, sir,' said Milbur 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 their approachful Milbur. "'But I assure you that I hate and loathe an untruth.' "'Where have you seen these papers?' "'On Mr. Line's desk,' was the surprising answer. "'On Line's desk?' Milbur nodded. "'The late Mr. Thornton Line,' he said, came back from the east with a great number of curios, and amongst them there 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 Line'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. Milbur nodded. "'It is perfectly true that I did not mention the fact of 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. Line 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. "'You may have given me a sample of these slips. I remember his telling me a story about them, which I can't 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. Milbur accompanied him to the front gate, and locked the door upon the three men, before he went back to his sitting-room, smiling quietly to himself. "'I am certain that the man was Milbur,' said Tarling. "'I am as certain as that I am standing here.' "'Have you any idea why he should want to out you?' asked White-Side. "'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 cab man 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 sand-bag, and then to shoot me. "'But why?' asked White-Side again. "'Suppose Milbur 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.' End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of the Daffodil Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. All trace of the fog of the night before had disappeared when Tarling looked out from his bedroom window later that morning. The streets were flooded with yellow sunshine, and there was a tang in the air which brought the colour to the cheek and light to the eye of the patient Londoner. Tarling stretched his arms and yawned in the sheer luxury of living, before he took down his silk dressing gown and went into the breakfast which Ling Chu had laid for him. The blue-bloust Chinaman, who stood behind his master's chair, poured out the tea and laid a newspaper on one side of the plate and letters on the other. Tarling ate his breakfast in silence and pushed away the plate. "'Ling Chu,' he said in the vernacular of Lower China, I shall lose my name as the man-hunter, for this case puzzles me beyond any other.' Master said the Chinaman in the same language. There is a time in all cases when the hunter feels that he must stop and weep. I myself had this feeling when I hunted down Wu Feng, the strangler of Hang Cao. Yet, he added philosophically, one day I found him and he is sleeping on the terrace of night. He employed the beautiful Chinese simile for death. Yesterday I found the little young woman, said Tarling after a pause. In this quaint way did he refer to Odette Ryder. "'You may find the little young woman and yet not find the killer,' said Ling Chu, standing by the side of the table, his hands respectfully hidden under his sleeves, for the little young woman did not kill the white-faced man. "'How do you know?' asked Tarling, and the Chinaman shook his head. "'The little young woman has no strength, Master,' he said. Also it is not known that she has skill in the driving of the quick cart. "'You mean the motor?' asked Tarling quickly, and Ling Chu nodded. "'By Jove, I never thought of that,' said Tarling. "'Of course, whoever killed Thornton Line must have put his body in the car and driven him to the park, but how do you know that she does not drive?' "'Because I have asked,' said the Chinaman simply. Many people know the little young woman at the great stores where the white-faced man lived, and they all say that she does not drive the quick cart.' Tarling considered for a while. "'Yes, it is true talk,' he said. The little young woman did not kill the white-faced man, because she was many miles away when the murder was committed. That we know. The question is, who did?' "'The hunter of men will discover,' said Ling Chu. "'I wonder,' said Tarling. He dressed and went to Scotland Yard. He had an appointment with Whiteside, and later intended accompanying Odette Ryder to an interview before the assistant commissioner. Whiteside was at Scotland Yard before him, and when Tarling walked into his room, was curiously examining an object which lay before him on a sheet of paper. It was a short-barreled automatic pistol. "'Hello,' he said interested. Is that the gun that killed Thornton Line? That's the weapon,' said the cheerful Whiteside. An ugly-looking brute, isn't it? Where did you say it was discovered? At the bottom of the girl's work-basket. "'This has a familiar look to me,' said Tarling, lifting the instrument from the table. By the way, is the cartridge still in the chamber?' Whiteside shook his head. "'No, I removed it,' he said. I've taken the magazine out too. I suppose you've sent out the description and the number to all the gunsmiths.' Whiteside nodded. "'Not that it's likely to be of much use,' he said. "'This is an American-made pistol, and unless it happens to have been sold in England there is precious little chance of our discovering its owner.' Tarling was looking at the weapon, turning it over and over in his hand. Presently he looked at the butt and uttered an exclamation. Following the direction of his eyes, Whiteside saw two deep furrows running diagonally across the grip. "'What are they?' he asked. They look like two bullets fired at the holder of the revolver some years ago. Which missed him, but coughed a butt.' Whiteside laughed. "'Is that a piece of your deduction, Mr. Tarling?' he asked. "'No,' said Tarling. "'That is a bit of fact. That pistol is my own.' End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 OF THE DAFIDIL MISTRY This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Katie Gibbany. THE DAFIDIL MISTRY by Edgar Wallace Chapter 16 THE AIR "'Your pistol?' said Whiteside incredulously. "'My dear good chap, you are mad. How could it be your pistol?' "'It is nevertheless my pistol,' said Tarling quietly. I recognized it the moment I saw it on your desk, and thought there must be some mistake. These furrows prove that there is no mistake at all. It has been one of my most faithful friends, and I carried it with me in China for six years.' Whiteside gasped. "'And you mean to tell me,' he demanded, that Thornton Line was killed with your pistol?' Tarling nodded. "'It is an amazing but bewildering fact,' he said. "'That is undoubtedly my pistol, and it is the same that was found in Miss Writers' Room at Carymore Mansions, and I have not the slightest doubt in my mind that it was by a shot fired from this weapon that Thornton Line lost his life.' There was a long silence. "'Well, that beats me,' said Whiteside, laying the weapon on the table. At every turn some new mystery arises. This is the second jar I've had to-day.' The second,' said Tarling, he put the question idly, for his mind was absorbed in this new, and to him, tremendous aspect of the crime. Thornton Line had been killed by his pistol. That, to him, was the most staggering circumstance which had been revealed since he had come into the case. Yes, Whiteside was saying, it's the second setback. With an effort Tarling brought his mind back from speculating upon the new mystery. "'Do you remember this?' said Whiteside. He opened his safe and took out a big envelope, from which he extracted a telegram. Yes, this is the telegram supposed to have been sent by Odette Ryder, asking Mr. Line to call at her flat. It was found amongst the dead man's effects when the house was searched. To be exact, corrected Whiteside, it was discovered by Line's valet, a man named Cole, who seems to be a very honest person, against whom no suspicion could be attached. I had him here this morning early to make further inquiries into Line's movements on the night of the murder. He's in the next room, by the way. I'll bring him in.' He pushed a bell and gave his instructions to the uniformed policemen who came. Presently the door opened again, and the officer ushered in a respectable-looking, middle-aged man who had domestic service written all over him. "'Just tell Mr. Tarling what you told me,' said Whiteside. "'About the telegram, sir?' asked Cole. Yes, I'm afraid I made a bit of a mistake there, but I got flurried with this awful business and I suppose I lost my head a bit. "'What happened?' asked Tarling. "'Well, sir, this telegram I brought up the next day to Mr. Whiteside—that is to say, the day after the murder,' Tarling nodded, and when I brought it up I made a false statement. It's a thing I've never done before in my life, but I tell you I was scared by all these police inquiries.' "'What was the false statement?' asked Tarling quickly. "'Well, sir,' said the servant, twisting his hat nervously. I said that it had been opened by Mr. Line. As a matter of fact the telegram wasn't delivered until a quarter of an hour after Mr. Line left the place. It was I who opened it when I heard of the murder. Then, thinking that I should get into trouble for sticking my nose into police business, I told Mr. Whiteside that Mr. Line had opened it. "'He didn't receive the telegram?' asked Tarling. "'No, sir.' The two detectives looked at one another. "'Well, what do you make of that, Whiteside?' "'I'm blessed if I know what to think of it,' said Whiteside, scratching his head. We depended upon that telegram to implicate the girl. It breaks a big link in the chain against her.' "'Supposing it was not already broken,' said Tarling almost aggressively. And it certainly removes the only possible explanation for Line going into the flat on the night of the murder. You're perfectly sure, Cole, that that telegram did not reach Mr. Line?' "'Perfectly, sir,' said Cole emphatically. I took it in myself. After Mr. Line drove off I went to the door of the house to get a little fresh air, and I was standing on the top step when it came up. If you notice, sir, it's marked Received at 9.20. That means at the time it was received at the district post office, and that's about two miles from our place. It couldn't possibly have got to the house before Mr. Line left, and I was scared to death that you clever gentlemen would have seen that. I was so clever that I didn't see it.' Admitted Tarling with a smile. "'Thank you, Mr. Cole, that will do.' When the man had gone he sat down on a chair opposite White Side and thrust his hands into his pockets with the gesture of helplessness. "'Well, I'm baffled,' he said. Let me recite the case, White Side, because it's getting so complicated that I'm almost forgetting its plainest features. On the night of the fourteenth Thornton Line is murdered by some person or person's unknown, presumably in the flat of Odette Ryder, his former cashier, residing at Carremor Mansions. Blood stains are found upon the floor, and there is other evidence, such as the discovery of the pistol and the spent bullet, which emphasizes the accuracy of that conclusion. Nobody sees Mr. Line come into the flat or go out. He is found in Hyde Park the next morning without his coat or vest. A lady's silk night-dress, identified as Odette Ryder's, wrapped tightly round his breast, and two of Odette Ryder's handkerchiefs are found over the wound. Upon his body are a number of daffodils, and his car, containing his coat, vest, and boots, is found by the side of the road a hundred yards away. Have I got it right?' White Side nodded. "'Whatever else is at fault,' he smiled. "'Your memory is unchallengeable.' A search of the bedroom in which the crime was committed reveals a blood-stained thumbprint on the white bureau, a suitcase identified as Odette Ryder's, half-packed upon the bed. Later a pistol, which is mine, is found in the lady's work basket hidden under repairing material. The first suggestion is that Miss Ryder is the murderous. That suggestion is refuted, first by the fact that she was at Ashford when the murder was committed, unconscious as a result of a railway accident, and the second point in her favor is that the telegram, discovered by Lyne's valet, purporting to be signed by the girl, inviting Lyne to her flat at a certain hour, was not delivered to the murdered man. He rose to his feet. "'Come along and see Creswell,' he said. "'This case is going to drive me mad.' Assistant Commissioner Creswell heard the story the two men had to tell, and if he was astounded he did not betray any signs of his surprise. "'This looks like being the murder case of the century,' he said. "'Of course you cannot proceed any further against Miss Ryder, and you were wise not to make the arrest. However, she must be kept under observation, because apparently she knows, or thinks she knows, the person who did commit the murder. She must be watched day and night, and sooner or later she will lead you to the man upon whom her suspicions rest. White Side had better see her, he said, turning to Tarling. He may get a new angle of her view. I don't think there's much use in bringing her down here. And, by the way, Tarling, all the accounts of Lyne's stores have been placed in the hands of a clever firm of chartered accountants, Dashwood and Solomon, of St. Mary Acts. If you suspect there has been any speculation on the part of Lyne's employees, and if that speculation is behind the murder, we shall probably learn something which will give you a clue.' Tarling nodded. "'How long will the examination take?' he asked. They think a week. The books have been taken away this morning, which reminds me that your friend, Mr. Milberg, I think that is his name, is giving every assistance to the police to procure a faithful record of the firm's financial position.' He looked up at Tarling and scratched his nose. "'So it was committed with your pistol, Tarling,' he said with a little smile. That sounds bad.' "'It sounds mad,' laughed Tarling. I'm going straight back to discover what happened to my pistol and how it got into that room. I know that it was safe a fortnight ago because I took it to a gunsmith to be oiled. Where do you keep it as a rule?' "'In the cupboard with my colonial kit,' said Tarling. Nobody has access to my room except Ling Chu, who is always there when I'm out.' "'Ling Chu is your Chinese servant?' "'Not exactly a servant,' smiled Tarling. He is one of the best native thief-catchers I have ever met. He is a man of the greatest integrity and I would trust him with my life.' "'Murdered with your pistol, eh?' asked the commissioner. There was a little pause and then. I suppose Lyne's estate will go to the crown. He had no relations and no air. "'You're wrong there,' said Tarling quietly. The commissioner looked up in surprise. "'Has he an air?' he asked. He has a cousin,' said Tarling, with a little smile. A relationship close enough to qualify him for Lyne's millions, unfortunately. "'Why, unfortunately?' asked Mr. Creswell. "'Because I happen to be the heir,' said Tarling. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17 of the Daffodil Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 17. The Missing Revolver. Tarling walked out of Scotland Yard onto the Sunland embankment, trouble in his face. He told himself that the case was getting by onto him, and that it was only the case in its development which worried him. The queer little look which it dawned on the commissioner's face, when he learned that the heir to the murdered Thornton Lyne's fortune was the detective who was investigating his murder, and that Tarling's revolver had been found in the room where the murder had been committed, aroused nothing but an inward chuckle. That suspicion would attach to him was, he told himself, poetic justice. For in his day, he himself had suspected many men, innocent or partly innocent. He walked up the stairs to his room, and found Ling Chu polishing the meager stalk of silver which Tarling possessed. Ling Chu was a thief-catcher and a great detective, but he had also taken upon himself the business of attending to Tarling's personal comfort. The detective spoke no word and went straight to the cupboard where he kept his foreign kit. On a shelf in Nita Ray and carefully folded, with the clean white drill suits he wore in the tropics, his sun-helmet hung on a peg, and on the opposite wall was a revolver holster hanging by a strap. He lifted the holster. He was empty. He had had no doubts in his mind that the holster would be empty, and closed the door with a troubled frown. Ling Chu, he said quietly, you speak me in the edge in, said the man, putting down the spoons and rubber he was handling. Where is my revolver? It is gone, Li Zhen, said the man calmly. How long has it been gone? I miss him for days, said Ling Chu calmly. Who took it? said Tarling. I miss him for days, said the man. There was an interval of silence, and Tarling nodded his head slowly. Very good, Ling Chu, he said. There is no more to be said. For all his outward calm, he was distressed in mind. Was it possible that anybody could have gotten into the room in Ling Chu's absence? He could only remember one occasion when they had been out together, and that was the night he had gone to the girl's flat, and Ling Chu had shadowed him. What if Ling Chu? He dismissed the thought as palpably absurd. What interest could Ling Chu have in the death of Lin, whom he had only seen once, the day that Thornton Lin had called Tarling into consultation at the stores? That thought was too fantastic to entertain, but nevertheless it recurred again and again to him, and in the end he sent his servant away with a message to Scotland Yard, determined to give even his most fantastic theory as thorough and impartial an examination as was possible. The flat consisted of four rooms in a kitchen. There was Tarling's bedroom communicating with his dining and sitting room. There was a spare room in which he kept his boxes and trunks. He was in this room that the revolver had been put aside. And there was the small room occupied by Ling Chu. He gave his attendant time to get out of the house and well on his journey, before he rose from the deep chair where he had been sitting in puzzled thought, and began his inspection. Ling Chu's room was small and scrupulously clean. Saved for the bed in a plain black painted box beneath the bed, there was no furniture. The well-scrubbed boards were covered with a strip of Chinese matting, and the only ornamentation in the room was supplied by a tiny red blacker vase, which stood on the mantelpiece. Tarling went back to the outer room of the flat and locked it before continuing his search. If there was any clue to the mystery of the stolen revolver, it would be found here in this black box. The Chinaman keeps all his possession within six sides, as the saying goes, and certainly the box was very well secured. It was ten minutes before he managed to find a key to shift the two locks with which it was fastened. The contents of the box were few. Ling Chu's wardrobe was not an extensive one, and did little more than half fill the receptacle. Very carefully, he lifted out the one suit of clothes, the silk shirts, the slippers, and the odds and ends of the Chinaman's toilet, and came quickly to the lower layer. Here he discovered two lacquer boxes, neither of which were locked or fastened. The first of these contained sewing material, the second a small package wrapped in native paper, and carefully tied about with ribbon. Tarling undid the ribbon, opened the package, and found to his surprise a small pad of newspaper cuttings. In the main, they were cuttings from colloquial journals printed in Chinese characters, but there were one or two paragraphs evidently cut from one of the English papers published in Shanghai. He thought at first that these were records of cases in which Ling Chu had been engaged, and though he was surprised that the Chinaman should have taken the trouble to collect these souvenirs, especially the English cuttings, he did not think at first that there was any significance in the act. He was looking for some clue, what he knew not, which would enable him to explain to his own satisfaction the mystery of the filched pistol. He read the first of the European cuttings idly, but presently his eyes opened wide. There was a fracas at Ho Han's tea room last night, due apparently to the two persistent attentions paid by an English visitor to the dancing girl, the little narcissist, who was known to the English, or such as frequent Ho Han's room, as the little daffodil. He gasped. The little daffodil? He let the cutting drop on his knee and frowned at an effort of memory. He knew Shanghai well, he knew its mysterious underworld, and had more than a passing acquaintance with Ho Han's tea rooms. Ho Han's tea room was in fact the mask which hid in opium din that he had been instrumental in cleaning up just before he departed from China, and he distinctly remembered the little daffodil. He had had no dealings with her in the way of business, for when he had had occasion to go into Ho Han's tea rooms, he was usually after a bigger game than the graceful little dancer. It all came back to him in a flash. He had heard men at the club speaking of the grace of the little daffodil, and her dancing had enjoyed something of a vogue amongst the young Britishers who were exiled in Shanghai. The next cutting was also in the English and ran. A sad fatality occurred this morning. A young Chinese girl, Oh Ling, the sister of Inspector Ling Chu of the native police, being found in a dying condition in the yard at the back of Ho Han's tea rooms. The girl had been employed at the shop as a dancer, much against her brother's wishes, and figured in a very unpleasant affair reported in these columns last week. It is believed that the tragic act was one of those safe-faced suicides which were all too common amongst the native women. Tarling whistled, a soft, long, understanding whistle. The little daffodil and the sister of Ling Chu, he knew something of the Chinese, something of their uncanny patients, something of their unforgiving nature. This dead man had put an insult not only upon the little dancing girl, but upon the whole of her family. In China, disgrace to one is a disgrace to all, and she, realizing the shame that the notoriety had brought upon her brother, had taken what to her, as a Chinese girl, had been the only way out. But what was the shame? Tarling searched through the native papers and found several flowery accounts. Not any two agreed save on one point, that an Englishman and a tourist had made public love to the girl, no very great injury from the standpoint of the Westerner. A China man had interfered, and there had been a rough house. Tarling read the cuttings through from beginning to end, then carefully replaced them in the paper package, and put them away in the little lacquer box at the bottom of the trunk. As carefully he returned all the clothes he had removed, relopped the lid, and pushed it under the iron bedstead. Swiftly he reviewed all the circumstances. Ling Chu had seen Thornton Lin and had planned his vengeance. To extract Tarling's revolver was an easy matter. But why, if he had murdered Lin, but he had left the incriminating weapon behind? That was not likely, Chu. That was the act of a novice. But how had he lured Thornton Lin to the flat? And how did he know? A thought struck him. Three nights before the murder, Ling Chu, discussing the interview which had taken place at Lin's stores, had very correctly diagnosed the situation. Ling Chu knew that Thornton Lin was in love with the girl and desired her. It would not be remarkable if he had utilized this knowledge to his own ends. But the telegram which was designed to bring Lin to the flat was in English, and Ling Chu did not admit to a knowledge of that language. Here again Tarling came to a dead end. Though he might trust the China man with his life, he was perfectly satisfied that this man would not reveal all he knew. It was quite possible that Ling Chu spoke English as well as he spoke his own native tongue and the four dialects of China. I give it up, said Tarling, half to himself and half aloud. He was undecided as to whether he would wait for his subordinates' return from Scotland Yard and tax him with the crime, or whether he should let matter slide for a day or two and carry out his intention to visit Odette Ryder. He took that decision, leaving a note for the China man, and a quarter of an hour later got out of his taxi at the door of the West Somerset Hotel. Odette Ryder was in, that he knew, and waiting for him. She looked pale and her eyes retired, as though she had slept little in the previous night, but she greeted him with that half-smile of hers. I've come to tell you that you were to be spared the ordeal of meeting the third degreeman of Scotland Yard, he said laughingly, and her eyes spoke her relief. Haven't you been out this beautiful morning? he asked innocently, and this time she laughed aloud. What a hypocrite you are, Mr. Tarling, she replied. You know very well I haven't been out, and you know too that there are three Scotland Yardmen watching this hotel who would accompany me in any constitutional I took. How did you know that? he asked without denying the charge. Because I've been out, she said naively, and laughed again. You aren't so clever as I thought you were, she rallied him. I quite expected when I said I'd not been out, to hear you tell me just where I'd been, how far I walked, and just what I bought. Some green-sewing silk, six handkerchiefs, and a toothbrush, said Tarling promptly, and the girl stared at him in comic dismay. Well, of course I ought to have known you better than that, she said. Then you do have watchers. Watchers and talkers, said Tarling Galey. I had a little interview with the gentleman in the vestibule of the hotel, and he supplied me with quite a lot of information. Did he shadow you? She shook her head. I saw nobody she confessed, though I looked most carefully. Now what are you going to do with me, Mr. Tarling? For answer, Tarling took from his pocket a flat oblong box. The girl looked wonderingly as he opened the lid and drew forth a slip of porcelain covered with a thin film of black ink and two white cards. His hand shook as he placed them on the table, and suddenly the girl understood. You want my fingerprints? She asked, and he nodded. I just hate asking you, he said. But show me how to do it, she interrupted, and he guided her. He felt disloyal, a very traitor, and perhaps she realized what he was thinking, for she laughed as she wiped her stained fingertips. Duty's duty, she mocked him, and now tell me this. Are you going to keep me under observation all the time? For a little while, said Tarling, gravely. In fact, until we get the kind of information we want. He put away the box into his pocket as she shook her head. That means you're not going to tell us anything, said Tarling. I think you are making a very great mistake. But really, I am not depending upon your saying a word. I depend entirely upon... Upon what? She asked curiously as he hesitated. Upon what others will tell me, said Tarling. Others? What others? Her steady eyes met his. There was once a famous politician who said, Wait and see, said Tarling, advice which I am going to ask you to follow. Now, I will tell you something, Miss Ryder, he went on. Tomorrow, I am going to take away your watchers, though I would advise you to remain at this hotel for a while. It is obviously impossible for you to go back to your flat. The girl shivered. Don't talk about that, she said in a low voice. But is it necessary that I should stay here? There is an alternative, he said, speaking slowly. An alternative, he said, looking at her steadily. And it is that you should go to your mother's place, said Herford. She looked up quickly. That is impossible, she said. He was silent for a moment. Why don't you make a confidence of me, he said? I should not abuse your trust. Why don't you tell me something about your father? My father, she looked at him in amazement. My father, did you say? He nodded. But I have no father, said the girl. Have you? He found a difficulty in framing his words, and it seemed to him she must have guessed what was coming. Have you a lover? He asked at length. What do you mean? She countered, and there was a note of a tour in her voice. I mean this, said Tarling steadily. What is Mr. Milbro to you? Her hand went up to her mouth, and she looked at him in wide-eyed distress. Then, nothing, she said huskily. Nothing, nothing! End of Chapter 17. Recording by Melissa Chapter 18 of The Daffodil Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace Chapter 18 The Fingerprints Tarling, his hands thrust into his pockets, his chin dropped, his shoulders bent, slowly walked the broad pavement of the Edgware Road, on his way from the girl's hotel to his flat. He dismissed with good reason the not unimportant fact that he himself was suspect. He, a comparatively unknown detective from Shanghai, was, by reason of his relationship to Thornton Lane, and even more so because his own revolver had been found on the scene of the tragedy, the object of some suspicion on the part of the higher authorities, who certainly would not poo-poo the suggestion that he was innocent of any association with the crime, because he happened to be engaged in the case. He knew that the whole complex machinery of Scotland Yard was working, and working at top speed, to implicate him in the tragedy. Silent and invisible though that work may be, it would nevertheless be sure. He smiled a little, and shrugged himself from the category of the suspected. First, and most important of the suspects, was Odette Ryder. That Thornton Lane had loved her, he did not for one moment imagine. Thornton Lane was not the kind of man who loved. Brother had he desired, and very few women had thwarted him. Odette Ryder was the exception. Tarling only knew of the scene which had occurred between Lynn and the girl on the day he had been called in, but there must have been many other painful interviews, painful for the girl, humiliating for the dead millionaire. Anyway, he thought thankfully it would not be Odette. He had gotten to the habit of thinking of her as Odette, a discovery which had amused him. He could rule her out, because obviously she could not be in two places at once. When Thornton Lane was discovered in Hyde Park, with Odette Ryder's nightdress round about his wound, the girl herself was lying in a cottage hospital at Ashford, 50 miles away. What would have Milborough, that suave and oily man? Tarling recalled the fact that he had been sent for by his dead relative to inquire into Milborough's mode of living, and that Milborough was under suspicion of having robbed the firm. Suppose Milborough had committed the crime. Suppose, to hide his defocations, he had shot his employer dead. There was a flaw in this reasoning, because the death of Thornton Lane would be more likely to precipitate the discovery of the manager's embezzlement, there would be an examination of the accounts and everything would come out. Milborough himself was not unmindful of this argument in his favor, as was to be revealed. As against this, Tarling thought, it was notorious that criminals did foolish things. They took little or no account of the immediate consequences of their act, and a man like Milborough, in his desperation, might in his very frenzy overlook the possibility of his crime coming to light through the very deed he had committed to cover himself up. He had reached the bottom of Edward Road and was turning the corner of the street, looking across to the marble arch, when he heard a voice hail him, and Tarling saw a cab breaking violently to the edge of the pavement. It was Inspector Whiteside who jumped out. I was just coming to see you, he said. I thought your interview with the young lady would be longer. Just wait a moment till I've paid the cab then. By the way, I saw your chink serving and gather you sent him to the yard on a spoof errand. When he returned, he met Tarling's eye and grinned sympathetically. I know what's in your mind, he said frankly, but really, the chief thinks that no more than an extraordinary coincidence. I suppose you made inquiries about your revolver? Tarling nodded. And can you discover how it came to be in the possession of, he paused, the murderer of Thorne Lynn? I have a theory half-formed, it is true, but still a theory, said Tarling. In fact, it is hardly so much a theory as an hypothesis. Whiteside grinned again. This hair splitting in the matter of logical terms never did mean much in my young life, he said, but I take it you have a hunch. Without any more to do, Tarling told the other the discovery he had made in Linku's box, the press cuttings, descriptive of the late Mr. Lynn's conduct in Shanghai, and his tragic sequel. There may be something on that side, he said at last, when Tarling had finished. I've heard about your Linku. He's a pretty good policeman, isn't he? The best in China, said Tarling promptly, but I'm not going to pretend that I understand his mind. These are the facts. The revolver, or rather the pistol, was in my cupboard, and the only person who could get at it was Linku. There is the second and more important fact imputing motive, that Linku had every reason to hate Thor and Lynn, the man who had indirectly been responsible for his sister's death. I have been thinking the matter over, and I now recall that Linku was unusually silent after he had seen Lynn. He has admitted to me that he has been to Lynn's store, and in fact has been pursuing inquiries there. We happen to be discussing the possibility of Miss Rider committing the murder, and Linku told me that Miss Rider could not drive a motor car, and when I questioned him as to how he knew this, he told me that he had made several inquiries of the store. This I knew nothing about. Here is another curious fact, Tarling went on. I have always been under the impression that Linku did not speak English, except a few words of pigeon that tried him and picked up through mixing with foreign devils. Yet he pushes inquiries at Lynn's store amongst the employees, and it is million to one against his finding any shop girl who spoke Cantonese. I'll put a couple of men on to wash him, said Whiteside, but Tarling shook his head. Would be a waste of good men, he said, because Linku could lead than just where he wanted to. I tell you he is a better sleuth than any you have got at Scotland Yard, and he has an absolute gift for fading out of the picture under your very nose. Leave Linku to me. I know the way to deal with him, he added grimly. The little daffodil, said Whiteside thoughtfully, repeating the phrase which Tarling had quoted. That was the Chinese girl's name, eh? By Jove, it's something more than a coincidence, don't you think, Tarling? It may or may not be, said Tarling. There is no such word as daffodil in Chinese. In fact, I am not so certain that the daffodil is a native of China at all, though China is a mighty big place. Strictly speaking, the girl was called a little narcissist. But as you say, it may be something more than a coincidence, the man who insulted her, his murdered wills to her brothers in London. They had crossed the broad roadway as they were speaking, and had passed into Hyde Park. Tarling thought whimsically that this open space exercised the same attraction on him as it did upon Mr. Milbara. What were you going to see me about, he asked suddenly, remembering that Whiteside had been on his way to the hotel when they had met. I wanted to give you the last report about Milbara. Milbara again. All conversation, all thoughts, all clues led to that mystery man. But what Whiteside had to tell was not especially thrilling. Milbara had been shadowed day and night, and the record of his doings was a very prosaic one. But it is out of prosaic happenings that big clues are bored. I don't know how Milbara expects the inquiry into Lin's account will go, said Whiteside, but he is evidently connected, or expects to be connected with some other business. What makes you say that, asked Tarling. Well, replied Whiteside, he has been buying ledgers, and Tarling laughed. That doesn't seem to be a very offensive proceeding, he said good-humoredly. What sort of ledgers? Those heavy things which are used in big offices. You know, the sort of thing that it takes one man all his time to lift. He bought three at Roebuck's and said he rode, and took them to his house by taxi. Now my theory, said Whiteside earnestly, is that this fellow is no ordinary criminal, if he is a criminal at all. It may be that he has been keeping a duplicate set of books. That is unlikely, in terms of Tarling, and I say this with due respect for your judgment, Whiteside. He would want to be something more than an ordinary criminal, to carry all the details of Lin's mammoth business in his head, and it is more than possible that your first theory was right. Namely, that he contemplates either going with another firm, or starting a new business of his own. The second supposition is more likely. Anyway, it is no crime to own a ledger, or even three. By the way, when did he buy these books? Yesterday, said Whiteside, early in the morning, before Lin's opened. How did your interview with Miss Ryder go off? Tarling shrugged his shoulders. He felt a strange reluctance to discuss the girl with the police officer, and realized just how big a fool he was in allowing her sweetness to drug him. I am convinced that whoever she may suspect, she knows nothing of the murder. Then she does suspect somebody? Tarling nodded. Who? Again, Tarling hesitated. I think she suspects Milborough, he said. He put his hand in the inside of his jacket, and took it a pocket case, opened it, and drew forth the two cards bearing the finger impressions he had taken of Odette Ryder. It required more than an ordinary effort of Will to do this. They would have found it difficult to explain just what tricks his emotions were playing. Here are the impressions you wanted, he said. Will you take them? Whiteside took the cards with a nod and examined the inky smudges, and all the time Tarling's heart stood still. For Inspector Whiteside was the recognized authority of the police intelligence department on fingerprints and their characteristics. The survey was a long one. Tarling remembered the scene for years afterwards. The sunlit path, the straggling idlers, the carriages pursuing their leisurely way along the walks, and the stiff military figure of Whiteside standing almost to attention, his keen eyes peering down at the little cards which he held in the fingertips of both hands. Interesting, he said. You notice the two figures are almost the same, which is rather extraordinary. Very interesting. Well, as Tarling impatiently, almost savagely. Interesting, said Whiteside again. But none of these correspond to the thumbprints on the bureau. Thank God for that, said Tarling fervently. Thank God for that. End of Chapter 18, Recording by Melissa. Chapter 19 of the Daffodil Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Julie Bynum. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 19. Ling Chu Tells the Truth. The firm of Dashwood and Solomon occupied a narrow-fronted building in the heart of the city of London. Its reputation stood as high as any, and it numbered amongst its clients the best houses in Britain. Both partners had been knighted, and it was Sir Felix Solomon who received Tarling in his private office. Sir Felix was a tall, good-looking man, well past middle age, rather brusque of manner but kindly with all, and he looked up over his glasses as the detective entered. Scotland Yard, eh? He said, glancing at Tarling's card. Well, I can give you exactly five minutes, Mr. Tarling. I presume you've come to see me about the Linn accounts. Tarling nodded. We have not been able to start on these yet, said Sir Felix, though we are hoping to go into them to-morrow. We're terribly rushed just now, and we've had to get an extra staff to deal with this new work the government has put us on. By the way, you know we are not Linn's accountants. They are, matures, per break and store, but we have taken on the work at the request of Mr. per break, who very naturally wishes to have an independent investigation, as there seems to be some question of defalcation on the part of one of the employees. This, coupled with the tragic death of Mr. Linn, has made it all the more necessary that an outside firm should be called in to look into the books. That I understand, said Tarling, and, of course, the commissioner quite appreciates the difficulty of your task. I've come along rather to procure information for my own purpose, as I'm doubly interested. Sir Felix looked up sharply. Mr. Tarling, he repeated, looking at the card again. Why, of course. I understand that letters of administration are to be applied for on your behalf. I believe that is so, said Tarling quietly. But my interest in the property is more or less impersonal at the moment. The manager of the business is a Mr. Milberg. Sir Felix nodded. He has been most useful and helpful, he said, and certainly if the vague rumors I have heard have any substantial foundation, namely that Milberg is suspected of robbing the firm, then he is assuredly giving us every assistance to convict himself. You have all the books in your keeping? Absolutely, replied Sir Felix emphatically. The last three books unearthed by Milberg himself came to us only this morning. In fact, those are they. He pointed to a brown paper parcel standing on a smaller table near the window. The parcel was heavily courted and was secured again by red tape, which was sealed. Sir Felix leaned over and pressed a bell on the table and a clerk came in. Put those books with the others in the strong room, he said, and when the man had disappeared, staggering under the weight of the heavy volumes, he turned to Tarling. We're keeping all the books and accounts of the Linn's stores in a special strong room, he said. They are all under seal and those seals will be broken in the presence of Mr. Milberg as an interested party and a representative of the public prosecutor. When will this be, asked Tarling? Tomorrow afternoon, or possibly tomorrow morning. We will notify Scotland Yard as to the exact hour, because I suppose you will wish to be represented. He rose briskly there by ending the interview. It was another dead end, thought Tarling, as he went out into St. Mary Acts and boarded a westbound omnibus. The case abounded in these cul-de-sacs which seemed to lead nowhere. Cul-de-sac number one had been supplied by Odette Ryder. Cul-de-sac number two might very easily lead to the dead end of Milberg's innocence. He felt a sense of relief, however, that the authorities had acted so promptly in impounding Linn's books. An examination into these might lead to the discovery of the murderer, and at any rate would dispel the cloud of suspicion which still surrounded Odette Ryder. He had gone to Dashwood and Solomon to make himself personally acquainted with that string in the tangled skein which he was determined to unravel. And now, with his mind at rest upon that subject, he was returning to settle matters with Ling Chu, that Chinese assistant of his who was now as deeply under suspicion as any suspect in the case. He had spoken no more than the truth when he had told Inspector Whiteside that he knew the way to deal with Ling Chu. A Chinese criminal, and he was loathed to believe that Ling Chu, that fateful servant, came under that description, is not to be handled in the occidental manner. And he who had been known throughout China as the hunter of men had a reputation for exacting truth by methods which no code of laws would sanction. He walked into his Bond Street flat, shut the door behind him, and locked it, putting the key in his pocket. He knew Ling Chu would be in because he had given him instructions that morning to await his return. The Chinaman came into the hall to take his coat and hat, and followed Tarling into the sitting-room. Close the door, Ling Chu said Tarling in Chinese. I have something to say to you. The last words were spoken in English, and the Chinaman looked at him quickly. Tarling had never addressed him in that language before, and the Chinaman knew just what this departure portended. Ling Chu said Tarling sitting at the table, his chin in his hand watching the other with steady eyes. You did not tell me that you spoke English. The master has never asked me, said the Chinaman quietly, and to Tarling's surprise, his English was without accent and his pronunciation perfect. That is not true, said Tarling sternly. When you told me that you had heard of the murder, I said that you did not understand English, and you did not deny it. It is not for me to deny the master, said Ling Chu as coolly as ever. I speak very good English. I was trained at the Jesuit school in Hang Kao, but it is not good for a Chinaman to speak English in China, or for any to know that he understands. Yet the master must have known I spoke English and read the language, for why should I keep the little cuttings from the newspapers in the box which the master searched this morning. Tarling's eyes narrowed. So you knew that, did you, he said? The Chinaman smiled. It was a most unusual circumstance, for Ling Chu had never smiled within Tarling's recollection. The papers were in certain order, some turned one way and some turned the other. When I saw them after I came back from Scotland Yard, they had been disturbed. They could not disturb themselves, master, and none but you would go to my box. There was a pause, awkward enough for Tarling, who felt for the moment a little foolish that his carelessness had led to Ling Chu discovering the search which had been made of his private property. I thought I had put them back as I found them, he said, knowing that nothing would be gained by denying the fact that he had gone through Ling Chu's trunk. Now you will tell me, Ling Chu, did those printed words speak the truth? Ling Chu nodded. It is true, master, he said. The little Narcissus, or as the foreigners called her, the little daffodil was my sister. She became a dancer in a tea-house against my wish, our parents being dead. She was a very good girl, master, and as pretty as a spring of almond blossom. Chinese women are not pretty to the foreigner's eyes, but little daffodil was like something cast in porcelain, and she had the virtues of a thousand years. Tarling nodded. She was a good girl, he repeated, this time speaking in Chinese and using a phrase which had a more delicate shade of meaning. She lived good, and she died good, said the Chinaman calmly. The speech of the Englishman offended her, and he called her many bad names because she would not come and sit on his knee, and if he put shame upon her by embracing her before the eyes of men, she was yet good, and she died very honorably. Another interval of silence. I see, said Tarling quietly, and when you said you would come with me to England, did you expect to meet the bad Englishman? Ling Chu shook his head. I had put it from my mind, he said, until I saw him that day in the big shop, then the evil spirit which I had thought was all burnt out inside me blazed up again. He stopped. And you desired his death, said Tarling, and a nod was his answer. You shall tell me all, Ling Chu, said Tarling. The man was now pacing the room with restless strides. His emotion betrayed only by the convulsive clutching and unclutching of his hands. The little daffodil was very dear to me, he said. Soon I think she would have married and have had children, and her name would have been blessed after the fashion of our people. For did not the great master say, what is more worshipful than the mother of children? And when she died, master, my heart was empty, for there was no other love in my life. And then the hosting murder was committed, and I went into the interior to search for Lu Fang, and that helped me to forget. I had forgotten till I saw him again, then the old sorrow grew large in my soul, and I went out. To kill him, said Tarling quietly. To kill him, repeated the man. Tell me all, said Tarling, drawing a long breath. It was the night you went to the little girl, said Ling Chu. Tarling knew that he spoke of Odette Ryder. I had made up my mind to go out, but I could not find an excuse because master you had given me orders that I must not leave this place whilst you are out. So I asked if I might go with you to the house of many houses. To the flat, not at Tarling? Yes. Go on. I had taken your quick-quick pistol and loaded it and put it in my overcoat pocket. You told me to trail you, but when I had seen you on your way I left you and went to the big shop. To the big shop, said Tarling in surprise. But Lin did not live in his stores. So I discovered, said Ling Chu simply. I thought in such a large house he would have built himself a beautiful room. In China, many masters live in their shops. So I went to the big store to search it. Did you get in? asked Tarling in surprise. And again, Ling Chu smiled. That was very easy, he said. The master knows how well I climb, and there were long iron pipes leading to the roof. Up one of these I climbed. Two sides of the shop are on big streets. One side is on a smaller street, and the four side is on a very small piece street with few lights. It was up the side that I went. On the roof there were many doors, and to such a man as me there was no difficulty. Go on, said Tarling again. I came down from floor to floor always in darkness, but each floor I searched carefully, but found nothing but great bundles and packing cases and long bars. Counters, corrected Tarling. Yes, not at Ling Chu. They are called counters. And then at last I came to the floor where I had seen the man. He paused. First I went to the great room where we had met him, and that was locked. I opened it with a key, but it was in darkness and I knew nobody was there. Then I went along a passage very carefully, because there was a light at the other end, and I came to an office. Empty, of course. It was empty, said the Chinaman. But a light was burning, and the dust cover was open. I thought he must be there, and I slipped behind the bureau, taking the pistol from my pocket. Presently I heard a footstep. I peeped out and saw the big white-faced man. Milberg, said Tarling. So he is called, replied the Chinaman. He sat at the young man's desk. I knew it was the young man's desk, because there were many pictures upon it and flowers such as he would have. The big man had his back to me. What was he doing, asked Tarling. He was searching the desk, looking for something. Presently I saw him take from one of the drawers which he opened an envelope. From where I stood I could see into the drawer, and there were many little things such as tourists by in China. From the envelope he took the Hong. Tarling started. He knew of the Hong, to which the man referred. It was the little red slip of paper bearing the Chinese characters, which was found upon Thornton Lynn's body, that memorable morning in Hyde Park. Yes, yes, he said eagerly. What happened then? He put the envelope in his pocket and went out. I heard him walking along the passage, and then I crept out from my hiding place, and I also looked at the desk. I put the revolver down by my side, because I wanted both hands for the search, but I found nothing. Only one little piecebook that the master uses to write down from day to day all that happens to him. A diary, thought Tarling. Well, and what next, he asked. I got up to search the room and tripped over a wire. It must have been the wire attached to the electric light above the desk, for the room suddenly became dark, and at that moment I heard the big man's footsteps returning and slipped out of the door. And that is all, Master, said Ling Chu, simply. I went back to the roof quickly for fear I should be discovered, and it should bring dishonor to you. Tarling whistled, and left the pistol behind, he said. That is nothing but the truth, said Ling Chu. I have dishonored myself in your eyes, and in my heart I am a murderer, for I went to that place to kill the man who had brought shame to me and to my honorable relation. And left the pistol behind, said Tarling again, and Milberg found it. Chapter 20 Mr. Milberg Sees It Through Ling Chu's story was not difficult to believe. It was less difficult to believe that he was lying. There is no inventor in the world so clever, so circumstantial, so exact as to detail, as the Chinaman. He is a born teller of stories, and piecer together of circumstances that fit so closely, that it is difficult to see the joints. Yet the man had been frank, straightforward, patently honest. He had even placed himself in Tarling's power by his confession of his murderous intention. Tarling could reconstruct the scene after the Chinaman had left. Milberg stumbling in, in the dark, striking a match, and discovering a wall plug had been pulled away, reconnecting the lamp, and seeing to his amazement a murderous-looking pistol on the desk. It was possible that Milberg, finding the pistol, had been deceived into believing that he had overlooked it on his previous search. But what had happened to the weapon between the moment that Ling Chu left it on Thornton Line's private desk, and when it was discovered in the work-basket of Odette Ryder in the flat at Kerrymore Mansions, and what had Milberg been doing in the store by himself so late at night, and more particularly what had he been doing in Thornton Line's private room? It was unlikely that Line would leave his desk unlocked, and the only inference to be drawn was that Milberg had unlocked it himself with the object of searching its contents. And the Hong, those sinister little squares of red paper with the Chinese characters, one of which had been found in Thornton Line's pocket? The explanation of their presence in Thornton Line's desk was simple. He had been a globetrotter and had collected curios, and it was only natural that he should collect these slips of paper which were on sale in most of the big Chinese towns as a souvenir of the predatory methods of the cheerful hearts. His conversation with Ling Chu would have to be reported to Scotland Yard, and that august institution would draw its own conclusions. In all probability they would be most unfavorable to Ling Chu, who would come immediately under suspicion. Tarling, however, was satisfied, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, inclined to be satisfied, with his retainer's statement. Some of his story was susceptible to verification, and the detective lost no time in making his way to the stores. The topographical situation was as Ling Chu had described it. Tarling went to the back of the big block of buildings, into the small quiet street of which Ling Chu had spoken, and was able to distinguish the iron rain pipe, one of many, up which the Chinamen had clambered. Ling Chu would negotiate that task without any physical distress. He could climb like a cat, as Tarling knew, and that part of his story put no great tax upon the detective's credulity. He walked back to the front of the shop, past the huge plate-glass windows, fringed now with shoppers with whom Lines' store had acquired a new and morbid interest, and threw the big swinging doors on to the crowded floor. Mr. Milberg was in his office, said a shop-walker, and led the way. Mr. Milberg's office was much larger and less ornate than his late employers. He greeted Tarling effusively, and pushed an armchair forward and produced a box of cigars. We're in rather a turmoil and upset now, Mr. Tarling, he said in his ingratiating voice, with that set smile of his which never seemed to leave his face. The auditors, or rather, I should say the accountants, have taken away all the books, and of course that imposes a terrible strain on me, Mr. Tarling. It means that we've got to organize a system of interim accounts, and you as a business man will understand just what that means. You work pretty hard, Mr. Milberg, said Tarling. Why, yes, sir, smiled Milberg, I've always worked hard. You were working pretty hard before Mr. Lines was killed, were you not? asked Tarling. Yes, hesitated Milberg. I can say honestly that I was. Very late at night? Milberg still smiled, but there was a steely look in his eyes as he answered. Frequently I worked late at night. Do you remember the night of the eleventh? asked Tarling. Milberg looked at the ceiling for inspiration. Yes, I think I do. I was working very late that night. In your own office? No, replied the other readily. I did most of my work in Mr. Lines' office at his request, he added. A bold statement to make to a man who knew that Lines suspected him of robbing the firm. But Milberg was nothing if not bold. Did he also give you the key of his desk? asked the detective dryly. Yes, sir, beamed Mr. Milberg. Of course he did. You see, Mr. Lines trusted me absolutely. He said this so naturally, and with such assurance that Tarling was staggered before he had time to speak the other went on. Yes, I can truthfully say that I was in Mr. Lines' confidence. He told me a great deal more about himself than he has told anybody and— One moment, said Tarling, and he spoke slowly. Will you please tell me what you did with the revolver which you found on Mr. Lines' desk? It was a cult automatic and it was loaded. Blank astonishment showed in Mr. Milberg's eyes. A loaded pistol, he asked, raising his eyebrows. But, my dear good Mr. Tarling, whatever are you talking about? I never found a loaded pistol on Mr. Lines' desk, poor fellow. Mr. Lines objected as much to these deadly weapons as myself. Here was a facer for Tarling, but he betrayed no sign, either of disappointment or surprise. Milberg was frowning as though he were attempting to piece together some half-forgotten recollection. Is it possible, he said, in a shocked voice, that when you examined my house the other day, it was with the object of discovering such a weapon as this? It's quite possible, said Tarling coolly, and even probable. Now, I'm going to be very straightforward with you, Mr. Milberg. I suspect you know a great deal more about this murder than you have told us, and that you had ever so much more reason for wishing Mr. Lines was dead than you are prepared to admit at this moment. Wait, he said, as the other opened his mouth to speak. I am telling you candidly that the object of my first visit to these stores was to investigate happenings which looked very black against you. It was hardly so much the work of a detective, as an accountant, he said, but Mr. Lines thought that I should be able to discover who was robbing the firm. And did you, asked Milberg coolly, there was the ghost of a smile still upon his face but defiance shown in his pale eyes. I did not, because I went no further in the matter after you had expressed your agreement with Mr. Lines that the firm had been robbed by Odette Ryder. He saw the man change color and pushed home his advantage. I am not going to inquire too closely into your reasons for attempting to ruin an innocent girl, he said sternly. That is a matter for your own conscience, but I tell you, Mr. Milberg, that if you are innocent, both of the robbery and of the murder, then I have never met a guilty person in my life. What do you mean, asked the man loudly? Do you dare to accuse me? I accuse you of nothing more than this, said Tarling, that I am perfectly satisfied that you have been robbing the firm for years. I am equally satisfied that, even if you did not kill Mr. Lines, you at least know who did. Your mad, sneered Milberg, but his face was white. Supposing it were true that I had robbed the firm, why should I want to kill Mr. Thornton Lines? The mere fact of his death would have brought an examination into the accounts. This was a convincing argument, the more so as it was an argument which Tarling himself had employed. As to your absurd and melodramatic charges of robbing the firm, Milberg went on, the books are now in the hands of an eminent firm of chartered accountants, who can give the lie to any such statement as you have made. He had recovered something of his old urbanity and now stood, or rather straddled, with his legs apart, his thumbs in the armholes of his waist cut, beaming benignly upon the detective. I await the investigation of that eminent firm, Messers Dashwood and Solomon, with every confidence and without the least perturbation, he said. Their findings will vindicate my honour beyond any question. I shall see this matter through. Tarling looked at him. I admire your nerve, he said, and left the office without another word. LIBERVOX.ORG. Recording by Katie Gibbany. THE DAPHEDALE MYSTERY by Edgar Wallace. CHAPTER XXI. COVERING THE TRAIL. Tarling had a brief visit with his assistant Whiteside, and the inspector, to his surprise, accepted his view of Ling Chu's confession. I always thought Milberg was a pretty cool customer, Whiteside said thoughtfully. But he has more gall than I gave him credit for. I would certainly prefer to believe your chink than I would believe Milberg. And, by the way, your young lady has slipped the shadow. What are you talking about? asked Tarling in surprise. I am referring to your Miss Odette Ryder, and why on earth a grown-up police officer with your experience should blush, I can't imagine. I'm not blushing, said Tarling. What about her? I've had two men watching her, explained Whiteside, and whenever she has taken her walks abroad, she has been followed, as you know. In accordance with your instructions, I was taking off those shadows to-morrow. But today she went to Bond Street, and either Jackson was careless, it was Jackson who was on the job, or else the young lady was very sharp. At any rate, he waited for half an hour for her to come out of the shop, and when she didn't appear, he walked in and found there was another entrance through which she had gone, since then she has not been back to the hotel. I don't like that, said Tarling, a little troubled. I wished her to be under observation as much for her own protection as anything else. I wish you would keep a man at the hotel, and telephone me just as soon as she returns. Whiteside nodded. I've anticipated your wishes in that respect, he said. Well, what is the next move? I'm going to Hertford to see Miss Ryder's mother, and incidentally I may pick up Miss Ryder, who is very likely to have gone home. Whiteside nodded. What do you expect to find out from the mother, he asked. I expect to learn a great deal, said Tarling. There is still a minor mystery to be discovered. For example, who is the mysterious man who comes and goes to Hertford, and just why is Mrs. Ryder living in luxury whilst her daughter is working for her living at Lyne's store? There's something in that, agreed Whiteside. Would you like me to come along with you? Thanks, smiled Tarling. I can do that little job by myself. Reverting to Milburg, began Whiteside. As we always revert to Milburg, groaned Tarling, yes. Well, I don't like his assurance, said Whiteside. It looks as if all our hopes of getting a clue from the examination of Lyne's accounts are fated to be dashed. There's something in that, said Tarling. I don't like it myself. The books are in the hands of one of the best chartered accountants in the country, and if there has been any monkey business, he is the fellow who is certain to find it. And not only that, but to trace whatever defaultations there are to the man responsible. Milburg is not fool enough to imagine that he won't be found out once the accountants get busy, and his cheeriness in the face of exposure is, to say the least, disconcerting. Their little conference was being held in a prosaic public tea-room opposite the House of Commons. A tea-room, the walls of which, had they ears, could have told not a few of Scotland Yard's most precious secrets. Tarling was on the point of changing the subject when he remembered the parcel of books which had arrived at the accountants' office that morning. Rather late, said Whiteside thoughtfully, by Jove, I wonder. You wonder what? I wonder if they were the three books that Milburg bought yesterday. The three ledgers? Whiteside nodded. But why on earth should he want to put in three new ledgers? They were new, weren't they? That doesn't seem to me to be a very intelligent suggestion. And yet he jumped up, almost upsetting the table in his excitement. Quick, Whiteside, get a cab while I settle the bill, he said. Where are you going? Hurry up and get the cab, said Tarling, and when he had rejoined his companion outside, and the taxi was bowling along the Thames embankment, I'm going to St. Mary Axe. So I gathered from your directions to the cab man, said Whiteside, but why St. Mary Axe at this time of the afternoon, the very respectable Dashwood and Solomon will not be glad to see you until tomorrow. I'm going to see these books, said Tarling, the books which Milburg sent to the accountants this morning. What do you expect to find? I'll tell you later, was Tarling's reply. He looked at his watch. They won't be closed yet, thank heaven. The taxi was held up at the juncture of the embankment and Blackfriars Bridge, and was held up again for a different reason in Queen Victoria Street. Suddenly there was a clang-clang of gongs, and all traffic drew to one side to allow the passage of a flying motor-fire engine, another and another followed in succession. A big fire, said Whiteside, or it may be a little one, because they get very panicky in the city and they'll put in a divisional call for a smoking chimney. The cab moved on and had crossed Cannon Street when it was again held up by another roaring motor, this time bearing a fire escape. Let's get out of the cab. We'll walk, said Tarling. They jumped out and Whiteside paid the driver. This way, said Tarling, we'll make a short cut. Whiteside had stopped to speak to a policeman. Where's the fire, Constable? He asked. St. Mary Axe, sir, was the policeman's reply. A big firm of chartered accountants, Dashwood and Solomon. You know them, sir? I'm told the place is blazing from cellar to garret. Tarling showed his teeth in an unamused grin as the words came to him. And all the proof of Milberg's guilt gone up in smoke, eh? he said. I think I know what those books contained. A little clockwork detonator and a few pounds of thermite to burn up all the clues to the Daffodil murder.