<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></SPAN>CHAPTER IX</h2>
<h3>A CRIME AGAINST THE WORLD</h3>
<p>"What do you mean?" asked Dr. van Heerden.</p>
<p>"I merely repeat the words of the dead man," answered Beale, "heart
failure!"</p>
<p>He picked up from the table the leather case which<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></SPAN></span> the doctor had taken
from his pocket. There were four little phials and one of these was
uncorked.</p>
<p>"Digitalis!" he read. "That shouldn't kill him, doctor."</p>
<p>He looked at van Heerden thoughtfully, then picked up the phial again.
It bore the label of a well-known firm of wholesale chemists, and the
seal had apparently been broken for the first time when van Heerden
opened the tiny bottle.</p>
<p>"You have sent for the police?" Beale asked the agitated manager.</p>
<p>"Oui, m'sieur—directly. They come now, I think."</p>
<p>He walked to the vestibule to meet three men in plain clothes who had
just come through the swing-doors. There was something about van
Heerden's attitude which struck Beale as strange. He was standing in the
exact spot he had stood when the detective had addressed him. It seemed
as if something rooted him to the spot. He did not move even when the
ambulance men were lifting the body nor when the police were taking
particulars of the circumstances of the death. And Beale, escorting the
shaken girl up the broad staircase to a room where she could rest and
recover, looked back over his shoulder and saw him still standing, his
head bent, his fingers smoothing his beard.</p>
<p>"It was dreadful, dreadful," said the girl with a shiver. "I have never
seen anybody—die. It was awful."</p>
<p>Beale nodded. His thoughts were set on the doctor. Why had he stood so
motionless? He was not the kind of man to be shocked by so normal a
phenomenon as death. He was a doctor and such sights were common to him.
What was the reason for this strange paralysis which kept him chained to
the spot even after the body had been removed?</p>
<p>The girl was talking, but he did not hear her. He knew instinctively
that in van Heerden's curious attitude was a solution of Prédeaux's
death.</p>
<p>"Excuse me a moment," he said.</p>
<p>He passed with rapid strides from the room, down the broad stairway and
into the palm-court.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Van Heerden had gone.</p>
<p>The explanation flashed upon him and he hurried to the spot where the
doctor had stood.</p>
<p>On the tessellated floor was a little patch no bigger than a saucer
which had been recently washed.</p>
<p>He beckoned the manager.</p>
<p>"Who has been cleaning this tile?" he asked.</p>
<p>The manager shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>"It was the doctor, sare—so eccentric! He call for a glass of water and
he dip his handkerchief in and then lift up his foot and with rapidity
incredible he wash the floor with his handkerchief!"</p>
<p>"Fool!" snapped Beale. "Oh, hopeless fool!"</p>
<p>"Sare!" said the startled manager.</p>
<p>"It's all right, M'sieur Barri," smiled Beale ruefully. "I was
addressing myself—oh, what a fool I've been!"</p>
<p>He went down on his knees and examined the floor.</p>
<p>"I want this tile, don't let anybody touch it," he said.</p>
<p>Of course, van Heerden had stood because under his foot he had crushed
the digitalis tablet he had taken from the phial, and for which he had
substituted something more deadly. Had he moved, the powdered tablet
would have been seen. It was simple—horribly simple.</p>
<p>He walked slowly back to where he had left Oliva.</p>
<p>What followed seemed ever after like a bad dream to the girl. She was
stunned by the tragedy which had happened under her eyes and could offer
no evidence which in any way assisted the police in their subsequent
investigation, the sum of which was ably set forth in the columns of the
<i>Post Record</i>.</p>
<blockquote><p>"The tragedy which occurred in the Palm-Court of the Grand Alliance
Hotel yesterday must be added to the already long list of London's
unravelled mysteries. The deceased, a man named Jackson, has been
staying at the hotel for a week and was on the point of departure
for Canada. At the last moment Dr. van Heerden, who was assisting
the unfortunate man, discovered that Jackson was no other than the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></SPAN></span>
wanted man in the Millinborn murder, a crime which most of our
readers will recall.</p>
<p>"Dr. van Heerden stated to our representative that the man had
represented that he was a friend of the late John Millinborn, but
was anxious to get to Canada. He had produced excellent
credentials, and Dr. van Heerden, in a spirit of generosity,
offered to assist him. At the eleventh hour, however, he was struck
with the likeness the man bore to the published description of the
missing man in the Millinborn case, and was on the point of
telegraphing to the authorities at Liverpool, when he discovered
that Jackson had missed the train.</p>
<p>"The present tragedy points to suicide. The man, it will be
remembered, collapsed, and Dr. van Heerden rendered first aid,
administering to the man a perfectly harmless drug. The post-mortem
examination reveals the presence in the body of a considerable
quantity of cyanide of potassium, and the police theory is that
this was self-administered before the collapse. In the man's pocket
was discovered a number of cyanide tablets.</p>
<p>"'I am satisfied,' said Dr. van Heerden, 'that the man already
contemplated the deed, and when I voiced my suspicions in the
palm-court he decided upon the action. The presence in his pocket
of cyanide—one of the deadliest and quickest of poisons—suggests
that he had the project in his mind. I did not see his action or,
of course, I should have stopped him!'"</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Oliva Cresswell read this account in her room two nights following the
tragedy and was struck by certain curious inaccuracies, if all that the
doctor had told her was true.</p>
<p>Mr. Beale read the account, smiled across the table grimly to the
bearded superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department.</p>
<p>"How does that strike you for ingenuity?" he said, pushing the paper
over the table.</p>
<p>"I have read it," said the other laconically, "I think<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></SPAN></span> we have
sufficient evidence to arrest van Heerden. The tile from the Grand
Alliance shows traces of digitalis."</p>
<p>Beale shook his head.</p>
<p>"The case would fall," he said. "What evidence have you? We did not
confiscate his medicine-case. He might have dropped a tablet of
digitalis by accident. The only evidence you could convict van Heerden
on is proof that he brought with him cyanide tablets which he slipped
into Prédeaux's pocket. No, we can prove nothing."</p>
<p>"What is your theory in connection with the crime?"</p>
<p>"I have many theories," said Mr. Beale, rising and pacing the room, "and
one certainty. I am satisfied that Millinborn was killed by Doctor van
Heerden. He was killed because, during the absence of Mr. Kitson in the
village, the doctor forced from the dying man a secret which up till
then he had jealously preserved. When Kitson returned he found his
friend, as he thought, <i>in extremis</i>, and van Heerden also thought that
John Millinborn would not speak again. To his surprise Millinborn did
speak and van Heerden, fearful of having his villainy exposed, stabbed
him to the heart under the pretext of assisting him to lie down.</p>
<p>"Something different occurred at the Grand Alliance Hotel. A man swoons,
immediately he is picked up by the doctor, who gives him a harmless
drug—that is to say, harmless in small quantities. In five seconds the
man is dead. At the inquest we find he has been poisoned—cyanide is
found in his pocket. And who is this man? Obviously the identical person
who witnessed the murder of John Millinborn and whom we have been trying
to find ever since that crime."</p>
<p>"Van Heerden won't escape the third time. His presence will be a little
more than a coincidence," said the superintendent.</p>
<p>Beale laughed.</p>
<p>"There will be no third time," he said shortly, "van Heerden is not a
fool."</p>
<p>"Have you any idea what the secret was that he wanted to get from old
Millinborn?" asked the detective.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Beale nodded.</p>
<p>"Yes, I know pretty well," he said, "and in course of time you will
know, too."</p>
<p>The detective was glancing over the newspaper account.</p>
<p>"I see the jury returned a verdict of 'Suicide whilst of unsound mind!'"
he said. "This case ought to injure van Heerden, anyway."</p>
<p>"That is where you are wrong," said Beale, stopping in his stride, "van
Heerden has so manœuvred the Pressmen that he comes out with an
enhanced reputation. You will probably find articles in the weekly
papers written and signed by him, giving his views on the indiscriminate
sale of poisons. He will move in a glamour of romance, and his
consulting-rooms will be thronged by new admirers."</p>
<p>"It's a rum case," said the superintendent, rising, "and if you don't
mind my saying so, Mr. Beale, you're one of the rummiest men that figure
in it. I can't quite make you out. You are not a policeman and yet we
have orders from the Foreign Office to give you every assistance. What's
the game?"</p>
<p>"The biggest game in the world," said Beale promptly, "a game which, if
it succeeds, will bring misery and suffering to thousands, and will
bring great businesses tumbling, and set you and your children and your
children's children working for hundreds of years to pay off a new
national debt."</p>
<p>"Man alive!" said the other, "are you serious?"</p>
<p>Beale nodded.</p>
<p>"I was never more serious in my life," he said, "that is why I don't
want the police to be too inquisitive in regard to this murder of
Jackson, whose real name, as I say, is Prédeaux. I can tell you this,
chief, that you are seeing the development of the most damnable plot
that has ever been hatched in the brain of the worst miscreant that
history knows. Sit down again. Do you know what happened last year?" he
asked.</p>
<p>"Last year?" said the superintendent. "Why, the war ended last year."</p>
<p>"The war ended, Germany was beaten, and had to accept terms humiliating
for a proud nation, but fortunately<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></SPAN></span> for her Prussia was not proud, she
was merely arrogant. Her worst blow was the impoverishing conditions
which the Entente Powers imposed. That is to say, they demanded certain
concessions of territory and money which, added to the enormous interest
of war stock which the Germans had to pay, promised to cripple Prussia
for a hundred years."</p>
<p>"Well?" said the detective, when the other had stopped.</p>
<p>"Well?" repeated Beale, with a hard little smile. "Germany is going to
get that money back."</p>
<p>"War?"</p>
<p>Beale laughed.</p>
<p>"No, nothing so foolish as war. Germany has had all the war she wants.
Oh no, there'll be no war. Do you imagine that we should go to war
because I came to the Foreign Office with a crazy story. I can tell you
this, that officially the German Government have no knowledge of this
plot and are quite willing to repudiate those people who are engaged in
it. Indeed, if the truth be told, the Government has not contributed a
single mark to bring the scheme to fruition, but when it is working all
the money required will be instantly found. At present the inventor of
this delightful little scheme finds himself with insufficient capital to
go ahead. It is his intention to secure that capital. There are many
ways by which this can be done. He has already borrowed £40,000 from
White, of Punsonby's."</p>
<p>Superintendent McNorton whistled.</p>
<p>"There are other ways," Beale went on, "and he is at liberty to try them
all except one. The day he secures control of that fortune, that day I
shoot him."</p>
<p>"The deuce you will?" said the startled Mr. McNorton.</p>
<p>"The deuce I will," repeated Beale.</p>
<p>There was a tap at the door and McNorton rose.</p>
<p>"Don't go," said Beale, "I would like to introduce you to this
gentleman."</p>
<p>He opened the door and a grey-haired man with a lean, ascetic face came
in.</p>
<p>Beale closed the door behind him and led the way to the dining-room.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Mr. Kitson, I should like you to know Superintendent McNorton."</p>
<p>The two men shook hands.</p>
<p>"Well?" said Kitson, "our medical friend seems to have got away with
it." He sat at the table, nervously drumming with his fingers. "Does the
superintendent know everything?"</p>
<p>"Nearly everything," replied Beale.</p>
<p>"Nearly everything," repeated the superintendent with a smile, "except
this great Green Rust business. There I admit I am puzzled."</p>
<p>"Even I know nothing about that," said Kitson, looking curiously at
Beale. "I suppose one of these days you will tell us all about it. It is
a discovery Mr. Beale happed upon whilst he was engaged in protecting
Miss——" He looked at Beale and Beale nodded—"Miss Cresswell," said
Kitson.</p>
<p>"The lady who was present at the murder of Jackson?"</p>
<p>"There is no reason why we should not take you into our confidence, the
more so since the necessity for secrecy is rapidly passing. Miss Oliva
Cresswell is the niece of John Millinborn. Her mother married a scamp
who called himself Cresswell but whose real name was Prédeaux. He first
spent every penny she had and then left her and her infant child."</p>
<p>"Prédeaux!" cried the detective. "Why you told me that was Jackson's
real name."</p>
<p>"Jackson, or Prédeaux, was her father," said Kitson, "it was believed
that he was dead; but after John Millinborn's death I set inquiries on
foot and discovered that he had been serving a life sentence in Cayenne
and had been released when the French President proclaimed a general
amnesty at the close of the war. He was evidently on his way to see John
Millinborn the day my unhappy friend was murdered, and it was the
recognition of his daughter in the palm-court of the Grand Alliance
which produced a fainting-fit to which he was subject."</p>
<p>"But how could he recognize the daughter? Had he seen her before?"</p>
<p>For answer Kitson took from his pocket a leather folder<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></SPAN></span> and opened it.
There were two photographs. One of a beautiful woman in the fashion of
25 years before; and one a snapshot of a girl in a modern costume, whom
McNorton had no difficulty in recognizing as Oliva Cresswell.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said, "they might be the same person."</p>
<p>"That's the mother on the left," explained Kitson, "the resemblance is
remarkable. When Jackson saw the girl he called her Mary—that was his
wife's name. Millinborn left the whole of his fortune to Miss Cresswell,
but he placed upon me a solemn charge that she was not to benefit or to
know of her inheritance until she was married. He had a horror of
fortune-hunters. This was the secret which van Heerden surprised—I fear
with violence—from poor John as he lay dying. Since then he has been
plotting to marry the girl. To do him justice, I believe that the
cold-blooded hound has no other wish than to secure her money. His
acquaintance with White, who is on the verge of ruin, enabled him to get
to know the girl. He persuaded her to come here and a flat was found for
her. Partly," said the lawyer dryly, "because this block of flats
happens to be her own property and the lady who is supposed to be the
landlady is a nominee of mine."</p>
<p>"And I suppose that explains Mr. Beale," smiled the inspector.</p>
<p>"That explains Mr. Beale," said Kitson, "whom I brought from New York
especially to shadow van Heerden and to protect the girl. In the course
of investigations Mr. Beale has made another discovery, the particulars
of which I do not know."</p>
<p>There was a little pause.</p>
<p>"Why not tell the girl?" said the superintendent.</p>
<p>Kitson shook his head.</p>
<p>"I have thought it out, and to tell the girl would be tantamount to
breaking my faith with John Millinborn. No, I must simply shepherd her.
The first step we must take"—he turned to Beale—"is to get her away
from this place. Can't you shift your offices to—say New York?"</p>
<p>Beale shook his head.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"I can and I can't," he said. "If you will forgive my saying so, the
matter of the Green Rust is of infinitely greater importance than Miss
Cresswell's safety."</p>
<p>James Kitson frowned.</p>
<p>"I don't like to hear you say that, Beale."</p>
<p>"I don't like hearing myself say it," confessed the other, "but let me
put it this way. I believe by staying here I can afford her greater
protection and at the same time put a spoke in the wheel of Mr. van
Heerden's larger scheme."</p>
<p>Kitson pinched his lips thoughtfully.</p>
<p>"Perhaps you are right," he said. "Now I want to see this young lady,
that is why I have come. I suppose there will be no difficulty?"</p>
<p>"None at all, I think," said Beale. "I will tell her that you are
interested in the work she is doing. I might introduce you as Mr.
Scobbs," he smiled.</p>
<p>"Who is Scobbs?"</p>
<p>"He is a proprietor of a series of hotels in Western Canada, and is, I
should imagine, a most praiseworthy and inoffensive captain of minor
industry, but Miss Cresswell is rather interested in him," he laughed.
"She found the name occurring in Canadian guide-books and was struck by
its quaintness."</p>
<p>"Scobbs," said the lawyer slowly. "I seem to know that name."</p>
<p>"You had better know it if I am going to introduce you as Scobbs
himself," laughed Beale.</p>
<p>"Shall I be in the way?" asked the superintendent.</p>
<p>"No, please stay," said Beale. "I would like you to see this lady. We
may want your official assistance one of these days to get her out of a
scrape."</p>
<p>Mr. Beale passed out of the flat and pressed the bell of the door next
to his. There was no response. He pressed it again after an interval,
and stepped back to look at the fanlight. No light showed and he took
out his watch. It was nine o'clock. He had not seen the girl all day,
having been present at the inquest, but he had heard her door close two
hours before. No reply came to his second ring, and he went back to his
flat.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"She's out," he said. "I don't quite understand it. I particularly
requested her yesterday not to go out after dark for a day or two."</p>
<p>He walked into his bedroom and opened the window. The light of day was
still in the sky, but he took a small electric lamp to guide him along
the narrow steel balcony which connected all the flats with the
fire-escape. He found her window closed and bolted, but with the skill
of a professional burglar he unfastened the catch and stepped inside.</p>
<p>The room was in darkness. He switched on the light and glanced round. It
was Oliva's bedroom, and her workday hat and coat were lying on the bed.
He opened the long cupboard where she kept her limited wardrobe. He
knew, because it was his business to know, every dress she possessed.
They were all there as, also, were the three hats which she kept on a
shelf. All the drawers of the bureau were closed and there was no sign
of any disorder such as might be expected if she had changed and gone
out. He opened the door of the bedroom and walked into the sitting-room,
lighting his way across to the electric switch by means of his lamp.</p>
<p>The moment the light flooded the room he realized that something was
wrong. There was no disorder, but the room conveyed in some
indescribable manner a suggestion of violence. An object on the floor
attracted his attention and he stooped and picked it up. It was a shoe,
and the strap which had held it in place was broken. He looked at it,
slipped it in his pocket and passed rapidly through the other rooms to
the little kitchen and the tiny bath-room, put on the light in the hall
and made a careful scrutiny of the walls and the floor.</p>
<p>The mat was twisted out of its place, and on the left side of the wall
there were two long scratches. There was a faint sickly odour.</p>
<p>"Ether," he noted mentally.</p>
<p>He went quickly into the dining-room. The little bureau-desk was open
and a letter half-finished was lying on the pad, and it was addressed to
him and ran:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></SPAN></span></p>
<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Beale</span>,—</p>
<p>Circumstances beyond my control make it necessary for me to leave
to-night for Liverpool."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>That was all. It was obviously half finished. He picked it up, folded it
carefully and slipped it in his pocket. Then he returned to the hall,
opened the door and passed out.</p>
<p>He explained briefly what had happened and crossed to the doctor's flat,
and rang the bell.</p>
<hr />
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