And that was all the other cylinders contained, he thought, with a gleam of satisfaction. Whoever had watched him--and he suspected Arthur Gwyn naturally--had had the same disappointment.
It was in this room that the old monks had stored their ancient music. There was a certain grim humour in the thought of how he had spent his night and the reward for it.
He crossed the road, opened the gate, and went into the field where he had left his car, and stood stock still, petrified with amazement. The car had disappeared!
The tracks were plainly visible. They led through the cutting, along the road toward Willow House. There was nothing to do but to tramp after them. A mile beyond Arthur Gwyn’s residence was Ravensrill Cottage, his own property, he thought with some satisfaction, and a snug retreat where a man could get a hot bath in an hour and a steaming cup of tea in a quarter. The prospect was cheering, for he was wet through, weary and footsore.
The tracks passed the entrance of Willow House and continued on the way to the cottage; and when at last he turned the bend of the road that brought his little country home into view, he saw the car standing before the door. There was no sign of any living creature. He went round the house, searched the tiny plantation to the left, and even descended to the banks of the stream, before he opened the door of his cottage and went in.
He put the key in the lock and, to his surprise, on the pressure of his hand, the door opened. The door which opened into his little dining-room yielded to his pressure before he could turn the key. He gazed, stricken dumb with amazement. A small fire was burning in the grate, on which a kettle was steaming. An open teapot was on the hearth, and somebody had broken open a tin of biscuits. He heard a footstep in the next room and swung round to meet the intruder; and at the sight of him, he dropped the point of his levelled Browning.
“Thomas!” he said, unable to believe his eyes. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Fired this morning,” said the ex-footman curtly.
“This morning? Why, it’s hardly daylight!”
Thomas nodded.
“Alford found me wandering about the house when I ought to have been in bed and asleep,” he said, “and he hoofed me out.”
“But why?”
The man was uncomfortable.
“How do I know why?” he demanded. “That dog never liked me. I think he suspected me of writing to you.”
Gilder knew that this story was a lie, designed to show him under an obligation to this ex-servant. Thomas had been a useful correspondent of his: all that went on at Fossaway Manor had been faithfully recorded for his information.
“You are in trouble. What have you been doing?”
The man pursed his lips.
“Well…” he hesitated, “I may as well tell you the truth. Have you ever heard of Monkey Puttler? Wait a minute, I’ll make the tea.”
He picked up the steaming kettle and filled the pot, and not till he had put it back on the hob did he continue his narrative.
“Monkey Puttler’s a ‘busy.’ Every crook in London knows him, and I know him as well as anybody because he got me three years for a job I did at the Westinghouse Hotel.”
“Burglary?” asked the other, to whom this was news.
“An inside job,” said the other tersely. “You can call it burglary if it gives you any pleasure. Anyway, Monkey caught me and pushed me over the Alps for three long and weary ones. When I came out I got this job. There were pickings to it, too. Chelford isn’t a man who counts his change, and Alford doesn’t dare ask him what he’s done with his money when he comes for more.”
“An ex-convict, eh?” Gilder was slightly shocked and regarded the man from a new angle. “I didn’t know that or I should never have employed you!”
“I had to kid a bit,” confessed Thomas, with a grin.
“You kidded me all right!” replied Gilder.
“Well, I didn’t exactly kid you,” said the other, amused. “But that day when I went to your office and you started cross-examining me about how things were at the Manor with Gwyn, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t earn a few honest dollars.”
“Well? Go on about your friend Monkey--what is his name?”
“Puttler. He came yesterday.”
“To Chelford’s house?” asked Gilder in surprise.
“Yes,” nodded Thomas. “Alford pretended he is an accountant, but he’s a busy all right; I knew him the moment I saw him, and, what’s worse, he knew me. I’d come to Chelford’s service on a false character and I knew my number was up as soon as I saw his ugly phiz. Sure enough, last night Alford gave me notice, told me to clear out to-day. I’ll catch that bird one of these days,” he said, with an ugly look in his face.
“But why this morning?” asked Gilder.
“I was going to tell you,” said the other impatiently. “Chelford keeps a cash box in his library; it’s in the second left-hand drawer, and he’s generally got a wad of stuff there. He’s childish in the matter of money. I knew if I could get my hooks into the stuff I could lift enough to be happy, and leave enough behind so that Chelford couldn’t swear whether I’d had it or not. I got into the library about four this morning, and was going upstairs when Alford spotted me, told me to go up and dress and clear, which I did--he’s got something on his mind, that fellow, he never sleeps!”
“He caught you with the money?” asked Gilder in disgust.
“Not he--I shoved that out of the library window as soon as I got it. I picked it up later.”
“What was Mr. Alford doing, wandering about the house at that hour?”
The man made a grimace.
“You never know when that bird is around,” he said. “He’s not human; I tell you he doesn’t want sleep!”
Though Gilder was certain he was telling the truth, he was equally sure that the man was concealing something. There seemed to him to be gaps in his story, which he bridged readily enough. Wisely he decided that it was not the moment to cross-examine him. On one point he made up his mind. This man and he must part company, and soon.
“Why did you come here?”
“Thought you were in London,” said the other coolly. “I’ve been here before to see you, and I didn’t think you’d mind my using your house for a day or two--maybe a week or two,” he added, his eyes fixed on the other’s face.
Gilder scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know that it will do me much good if it’s known that you’re an ex-convict.”
“They needn’t know, why should they?” said the other.
“Did you bring my car here?”
Thomas nodded.
“I was going over to Red Farm first; there’s a groom there who’s a friend of mine. Then I saw your car and thought something had happened to you. I waited for a time, and when you didn’t turn up I brought it along.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“Nobody. It was nearly dark.”
What was the man concealing? The impression that Gilder had--and he was a skilful reader of minds--was that Thomas was bursting with some vital information. Once or twice it had been at the end of his tongue, and he had inhibited the sensation.
“You can stay here if you like; I’m going to town. If I get a letter from the local police saying you’re living in the house, I shall write saying that you have no authority. You understand that I must protect myself?”
“I can understand that, guv’nor.”
Again his lips moved to speak, and again he checked himself.
“What do you want to tell me?”
“It’s too big to tell. I am going to keep it. Maybe if you come down later I’ll spin you a story that’s worth a million dollars.”
Thomas had once spent twelve months in a Canadian penitentiary, and it was his favourite pose that he was an American crook.
