The Daffodil Mystery, Edgar Wallace [feel good fiction books TXT] 📗

your arrest?"

She looked at him for a moment with wide, staring eyes.

"Dead!" she gasped. "Dead! Thornton Lyne dead! You don't mean that, you don't mean that?" She clutched at 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.

CHAPTER XII THE HOSPITAL BOOK

While the nurse was attending to the girl Tarling sought an interview with the medical officer in charge of the hospital.

"I don't think there's a great deal the 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 glibly. He realised that he was saying a ridiculous thing, because the fact that a warrant was out for Odette 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 Rider 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 arm chair, 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 Lyne," he began, "was murdered on the night of the 14th. 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 stanch the wound in his breast by binding a woman's silk night-dress 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 were 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 tighten 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 Rider," 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 will 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. Lyne 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 night-dress which had been found around Thornton Lyne's body.

"That was my night-dress," she said simply and without hesitation. "Go on, please, 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 of this 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 knew nothing of the murder until you told me. I had no idea, no thought.... I hated Thornton Lyne, 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 bunkum 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's Odette Rider, and she's wanted on a charge of murder."

"Got 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 murder," said Dr. Saunders. "She doesn't seem to possess the physique necessary to have carried out all the etceteras of the crime. I read the particulars in the Morning Globe. The person who murdered Thornton Lyne 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," Dr. 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 Rider, as 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 acknowledgment 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."

Tarling put the receiver to his ear.

"It is Whiteside," said a voice. "Is that you, Mr. Tarling? We've 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 Rider's 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 a revolver is it?" asked Tarling after a pause.

"A Colt 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. We've also found the spent bullet in the fireplace. Have you found your Miss Stevens?"

"Yes," said Tarling quietly. "Miss Stevens is Odette Rider."

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 gather they've found the weapon," said the interested medico.

"Yes," replied Tarling, "they have found the weapon."

"Humph!" said the doctor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "A pretty bad business." He looked at the other curiously. "What sort of a man was Thornton Lyne?" he asked.

Tarling shrugged 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 rum a girl 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 a 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 and shock."

He looked at the writing under his hand and then 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 this 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 Dr. Saunders, "at nine o'clock the boat train left Charing Cross, and at half-past ten Miss Rider 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 wrung it.

"That's the best bit of news I have had in my life," he said huskily.

CHAPTER XIII 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 the puzzling circumstances which had surrounded Odette Rider'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.