Another Man's Shoes

by Victor Bridges

CHAPTER XX

One seldom does the right thing in moments of great emergency. As an innocent man I suppose I ought to have started back and exclaimed, "Good heavens! What is the meaning of this outrage?" But, to tell the truth, I did nothing of the kind.

I stared blankly at my new friend for a moment, and then suddenly burst into a peal of laughter which I was quite unable to suppress. My mirth seemed to infect Billy, who sat down on the railings and chuckled like a fool.

The Inspector's face was a joy!

"I'm awfully sorry," I jerked out at last. "Suppose we go inside?"

Still keeping his hand on my shoulder, the Inspector stepped back, and Billy and I followed him into the hall—the former shutting the door behind us.

"Now," I said, "perhaps you'll be kind enough to explain."

As I spoke, there was a sound of heavy footsteps, and a police constable came tramping down the staircase.

The Inspector looked at me with a not unfriendly interest.

"There is not much to explain, sir. I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Mr. Stuart Northcote, and it is my duty to inform you that anything you say now will be used in evidence against you."

"But what makes you think Mr. Northcote is dead?" I inquired.

"Because his body," returned the Inspector grimly, "is at present in the East Street mortuary."

I have had several fairly unpleasant shocks in the course of my life, but this one was something of a novelty. Even Billy, whose usual equanimity nothing but an earthquake can disturb, was surprised into a long low whistle of amazement.

So they had got him after all! Despite his unscrupulous cunning, despite the almost devilish ingenuity with which he had covered his tracks, Ignace Prado's long and black account was ended. I thought of Mercia, and I was glad.

"As a breaker of news, Inspector," I said, "you seem to me a little abrupt. When did this regrettable accident occur?"

"It's not my place to answer any questions now, sir," replied the Inspector civilly. "The charge will be read over to you at the station; and if you wish to employ counsel, we shall afford him the usual facilities."

I nodded. "You'll forgive me bothering you," I said, "but I've had so little experience of being arrested for murder. What happens next?"

The Inspector's eyes twinkled. "I shall have to ask you to accompany me to Bow Street, where you will be detained until this charge is cleared up."

"May I come too?" inquired Billy, coolly lighting a cigarette.

"This is Mr. Logan, Inspector," I said. "I don't know whether you're looking for him as well?"

The Inspector shook his head. "I have no warrant for your arrest, sir; but since you arrived with Mr. Burton, I shall have to keep you under observation till to-morrow."

"That'll be all right," returned Billy cheerfully. "I've only got to put the car in the garage; then I shall come back and go to bed. You'd better leave Robert with me. He can have a shake-down here, and we'll stroll round to Bow Street together in the morning."

I don't know how much experience of this kind of work Inspector Neil had enjoyed, but our method of accepting the situation evidently struck him as being both original and entertaining.

"Very well, sir," he said, with a broad smile. Then turning to the constable, he added: "Jackson, you are responsible for this gentleman till to-morrow morning. You will report to me at Bow Street by telephone if you have anything further to communicate."

The constable saluted.

"And ring up now for a taxi."

As the man stepped forward towards the telephone my pretty housemaid, who all this time had been hovering in the background listening to our conversation, suddenly came forward. Her face was very pale, and she was clasping and unclasping her hands in a pitiable state of agitation.

"Oh, what does it mean, sir? They're never going to take you to prison, sir?"

She gasped out the words—her eyes fixed pleadingly on mine.

"It's quite all right," I said soothingly. "You stay on here and look after the house for me. I shall be back in a couple of days."

"Oh, sir," she sobbed, "I hope I haven't said anything I oughtn't to have! They've been asking us questions—all sorts of questions, sir. Oh, I wouldn't have said anything to hurt you, sir—not for the world, I wouldn't!"

The poor girl's distress was so genuine that I must admit I was rather touched. I laid my hand on her shoulder.

"It's generally the best to tell the truth," I said, "and I'm sure you did that."

"Cheer up, Gwendoline," added Billy kindly. "We're not in the soup this journey—you can take my word for it."

There came the sharp honk-honk of a motor horn from outside, followed by the noise of a taxi pulling up at the door.

I turned to the Inspector.

"That sounds like our carriage," I observed. "Ought I to be handcuffed or anything?"

He shook his head, smiling again. "I don't think that will be necessary, sir."

"So long, Billy," I said. "See you in the morning. You'll look after Robert, won't you? The cook's got the key of the cellar."

Billy nodded. "Good!" said he. "We'll do ourselves proud—eh, Constable?"

And in this altogether inappropriate fashion I went down the steps to take my trial for murder.

There were not many remarks exchanged during our drive to Bow Street. I saw it was no use questioning the Inspector any further, and, as you may imagine, I had quite enough to think about without wasting my energies in making conversation. The whole thing had happened so unexpectedly and so quietly that I was only just beginning to grasp it as an accomplished fact.

There seemed to be little doubt that Prado must have met his death at the hands of the missing Da Costa. That the rest of the gang were quite innocent in the matter I had fairly convincing evidence. Where and when the tragedy had been played out I was quite unable to guess, and it was equally puzzling to know how the police had discovered the secret of my identity. Maurice's hurried departure from Ashton was doubtless connected with this, and I could understand now why he had looked at me with that strange expression of half-incredulous triumph when he read the wire.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, I was not particularly upset. Indeed, my principal sensation, apart from an ardent desire to get to bed as soon as possible, was one of genuine relief to feel that the business was over and done with. Fond as I am of the strenuous life, I had had just about enough of Mr. Stuart Northcote. There was a strange pleasure in being Jack Burton again, even with a charge of murder hanging over my head.

My musings were cut short by the cab pulling up outside Bow Street. The Inspector got out first, and I followed, to the evident excitement of several midnight loafers, who peered at us from the safe distance of the opposite pavement.

We went straight up the steps and entered a long, brightly lit corridor. A policeman who was standing there favoured us with a keen glance of curiosity, and respectfully touched his helmet to my companion.

The latter opened a door on the right. "This way," he said.

It was an office, a big and very tidy room, with two roll-top desks, at one of which a grey-haired soldierly-looking man in plain clothes was seated, writing. He looked up as we entered, and I saw him start slightly as his eyes fell on me.

"It's Mr. John Burton," said my captor, with a pardonable touch of pride in his voice. Then he turned to me. "This is Inspector Curtis. He will read you the charge."

Inspector Curtis had quickly conquered his momentary emotions. "Where was the arrest effected?" he demanded sharply, studying me with considerable interest.

"At Park Lane," returned the other. "I was making inquiries, when Mr. Burton arrived in a car with a companion. I have placed the latter under observation. No resistance was offered."

Inspector Curtis nodded, and rising to his feet crossed the room to a series of pigeon-holes, from one of which he took out an official-looking paper.

"I will read you the charge against you," he said.

I am afraid I cannot recall now the exact phraseology of this impressive document. Briefly speaking, it accused me of having wilfully done to death one Stuart Northcote on the night of the 17th of September at a place called Baxter's Rents in East Street, Stepney. I need hardly say that, sleepy as I was, I listened with the utmost attention while the good man read it out slowly in a serious voice.

"Thank you very much," I said, when he had finished. Then for the life of me I was unable to control a long and most inopportune yawn.

"I really must apologise," I said. "It was most interesting: but the truth is, I'm half asleep."

Both of them smiled.

"You can turn in at once, if you wish to," said Inspector Curtis, folding up the document. "You are also at liberty to communicate with your solicitor or to send any other message."

I shook my head. "A bed," I observed, "is all I want at present. We'll do the communicating to-morrow morning."

"Come with me, then," remarked Inspector Neil, and turning round he conducted me out of the office and down the corridor to a small, plainly furnished bedroom, the window of which was heavily guarded with iron bars. There was a bed, however, and the sheets looked clean, and in my present state of sleepiness that was more than enough for me.

"You will be able to send round to-morrow for your own things," said the Inspector, "but I think you'll be comfortable enough for to-night."

"I'm sure I shall," I returned.

"There's one other thing, sir. I am afraid I shall have to run through your clothes before I leave you. We are compelled to search everyone under arrest by regulations.

"Right you are," I said. "I've really no intention of cutting my throat, but if it's the rule—"

I held up my hands, and with deft fingers he went swiftly through my pockets, taking out the contents.

"These will be entered and returned to you," he said. "Good-night."

"Good-night," I replied; and turning the key in the lock, the good fellow tramped away down the passage, leaving me to myself.

I am afraid I was much too tired to indulge in any of the proper emotions for a wrongly accused prisoner. Indeed, beyond reckoning out in a vague sort of way that the murder must have taken place on the night of Sangatte's party, I did not bother my head any further about the matter. Stripping off my clothes as quickly as possible, I scrambled into bed and flicked off the switch which controlled an invisible electric light. Five minutes later I was as sound asleep as I have ever been in my life.

If the French gentleman who said that life was only worth living for its new experiences was right in his statement, I had no reason to complain when I woke up next morning. It was certainly a novel sensation to open one's eyes in a police station under a charge of murder, and to find an affable-looking Inspector standing beside one's bed with a bag in his hand.

It was my captor of the previous day, and the bag which he was holding was the one which I had brought up with me from Woodford.

"Good morning," I said, smiling at him sleepily.

"I am glad to see you slept all right," he returned. "There are your things. I went round to Park Lane for them first thing this morning."

"That was uncommonly good of you, Inspector," I replied gratefully. "Now I shall be able to do you credit in the dock."

He grinned amiably. "We can give you a breakfast, of course, and if there's anything special you want, you can send out for it."

I shook my head. "I'll leave it to you," I said. "It's not often one gets a chance of sampling His Majesty's hospitality."

"Very good." He paused a moment. "You will be taken before the magistrate at eleven o'clock. Any letters you wish to write will be attended to at once, provided they are in order. I will let you have some paper and envelopes with your breakfast."

I nodded.

"And if you would like a shave," he continued, "I'll send round for a barber."

"It seems to me," I said, "that, next to the Savoy, Bow Street is about the best hotel in London."

The Inspector smiled again. "We try to make prisoners on remand as comfortable as possible," he replied, and going out he left me to my toilet.

I dressed quickly, and dispatched with appreciation the plentiful if somewhat plain breakfast which a stolid constable brought in to me on a tray. It was while I was engaged in this latter occupation that the brilliant thought of writing to Lord Lammersfield suddenly occurred to me. I had been puzzling my brains all the time I was dressing as to what was the best course to pursue, and I think it must have been the Bow Street cocoa which inspired me with this happy idea.

I pushed aside the tray, and taking a sheet of the notepaper which the constable had brought in, I composed with some care the following letter:—

"BOW STREET POLICE STATION,
Thursday.

"DEAR LORD LAMMERSFIELD,—The last time I had the pleasure of meeting you, at Sangatte's dance, you were good enough to say that I was to let you know if I ever found myself in prison. As you will see by my present address, this situation has arisen with unexpected abruptness. I don't know whether the interesting offence with which I am charged is now public property, but if so, I can assure you my present fame is quite unearned. If you could spare me half an hour of your time later in the day, I should be very grateful for your advice. In return, I can promise you a story which will help to relieve the regrettable monotony of the Home Office that you were complaining of last time we met—Yours sincerely,

"STUART NORTHCOTE."

From what I had seen of Lord Lammersfield, I felt fairly confident that this letter would bring him to the station. The circumstances attending the charge against me were so extraordinary, and his own interests so closely tied up with mine, that his curiosity about the case, if he had been informed of it, must already be overwhelming.

I was just addressing the envelope when Inspector Neil came in again, accompanied by the barber.

"Here you are, Inspector," I said, handing it to him. "This is the only letter I want to send at present, but I should be much obliged if it could be delivered at once."

He read the address with a mingled expression of surprise and respect. Then, calling the constable into the room, presumably to assist the barber in case I made a sudden dash for the razor, he went out with the letter in his hand.

I felt rather sorry for that barber. I think he must have had some inkling as to my identity, for I could see that he was almost bursting with anxiety to break into conversation. The cold eye of the constable was on us, however, and the poor man had to pursue his task in silence. He had just finished, and was mournfully dabbing me with the towel, when Inspector Neil returned.

"Your friend of last night, Mr. Logan, is here," he said. "You can see him now if you want to."

"I shall be pleased to receive him," I replied, with dignity.

A minute later Billy was ushered into the room by the constable, who then withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Billy looked round with an expression of mild surprise.

"Hullo, my son!" he observed. "I expected to find you in a dungeon cell. What's the meaning of this magnificence?"

"We try to make prisoners on remand as comfortable as possible," I quoted. "I'm sorry I can't offer you a whisky, but there's some excellent cocoa here, if that's any good."

Billy seated himself on the edge of the table and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Well," he said, "this is rather an unholy mix-up—eh?" Then he looked at the door. "I suppose we've got an audience," he added.

"I expect so," I said, "but it doesn't matter. I'm going to do the George Washington act in any case now. As Northcote's dead, I consider our bargain's at an end."

He nodded. "Of course it is. The only way is to make a clean breast of it. You'll have to have a lawyer or a counsel or whatever they call it over here to put the thing properly. I'd better see about getting one, hadn't I?"

"I've written to Lammersfield," I said, "and asked him to come and see me. I'll wait and hear what he's got to say before I take any further steps."

Billy slapped his leg. "By Jove!" he cried, "that was a sound notion. Nothing like having the Home Secretary behind you. Do you reckon he'll come?"

"I think so, Billy," I said complacently.

"Have you heard anything fresh about the facts?" he asked. "Who the devil put it across Prado, and how did the police get on to your track?"

"I think it must have been Da Costa," I answered, "but we shall know more about it before very long. I'm due to meet the magistrate at eleven."

Billy looked at his watch. "Eleven, is it?" he said. "I ought to be going, then. I've promised to call for your girl and take her to the court."

"Mercia!" I exclaimed. "Does she know?"

"Yes," said Billy. "I told her this morning when she rang up. Was that wrong?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Lord, no," I said. "She'd have heard all about it by midday in any case. The papers will be shrieking themselves purple. The only thing is that I don't want her name dragged in if I can help it."

"Well, she'd have to come to court in any case," said Billy, "so I thought I might as well take her, and let her know the real truth right away. It'll save her a lot of worry."

I held out my hand. "Billy," I said, "you're a brick."

He gave me a vigorous grip, and jumped down off the table.

"Honour amongst thieves, my son," he said, with a laugh.

He walked to the door and tapped on it with his knuckles. It was opened by my friend the policeman with a promptness which was slightly suggestive, and waving his hand to me, Billy passed out into the passage.

For the next twenty minutes I occupied myself with straightening out in my head the exact date and sequence of each occurrence since my fateful meeting with Prado on the Embankment. I had determined to tell Lammersfield the entire truth, and I wanted to be able to present my story as briefly and crisply as possible.

I had just concluded this task to my own satisfaction when Inspector Neil returned.

"The magistrate has arrived," he said. "They are going to take your case first."

I got up from my chair. "I'm quite ready, Inspector," I said cheerfully.

Any doubts I may have had as to whether my arrest was known to the public were effectually settled the moment I entered the court. Despite the earliness of the hour, the place was packed with spectators. The only face I recognised, as I marched to a sort of wooden cattle-pen which the Inspector indicated, was that of Maurice, who, studiously avoiding my eye, was seated in the body of the court. The Press was there in force, and as I took my seat I could hear the quick buzz of whispered speculation going on all round me. This, however, was almost immediately suppressed by a harsh observation of "Silence!" from a severe-faced gentleman whom I supposed to be the magistrate's clerk.

The magistrate himself I took rather a fancy to. He was not unlike Lord Lammersfield in appearance—a very pleasant, acute-looking man of about sixty, with sharp, twinkling eyes behind gold-rimmed pince-nez. I bowed to him politely, and he returned the compliment with a quick, penetrating glance that seemed to take in my entire personality.

The proceedings that followed were what the newspapers would designate as "Brief and formal."

First of all, Inspector Neil stepped into the witness-box, and described with commendable curtness the facts relating to my arrest. It appeared that another officer had already been dispatched to effect this at Woodford, and that my arrival at Park Lane in a motor had been a dramatically unexpected occurrence.

He was followed by Inspector Curtis, who at once requested the magistrate to grant a remand until the next day.

The latter looked at him rather quizzically over his glasses.

"As I did not grant the warrant for the arrest," he observed in a dry voice, "it would perhaps be as well to state your grounds."

I don't think the Inspector was pleased, but he was too old a hand to betray any sign of annoyance. In quick, short sentences he began a brief statement of the case for the police, to which I need hardly say I listened with the most intense interest.

To start with, he informed the magistrate that the body of the man found murdered in Baxter's Rents had been identified beyond all question as that of Stuart Northcote. Secondly, there was ample evidence to show that I had spent some time with the deceased at the Milan Hotel two days before the murder. On the night of the crime, I had attended Lord Sangatte's dance in the character of Stuart Northcote, and his lordship would bear witness that I had left early in a state of some agitation. I had not arrived home in Park Lane until the small hours of the morning, the clothes that I was wearing being subsequently found saturated with blood. The case still presented many mysterious features, but he maintained that this evidence was amply sufficient to justify a remand.

The magistrate heard him without interruption, and then turned to me.

"Do you wish to cross-examine the witness?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I shall be represented by counsel when I appear again," I replied. "I shall have to pay him, so he may as well do the work."

A smile flickered across the magistrate's face.

"In that case," he said, "I shall remand you until to-morrow. I presume the police are granting you the usual facilities for preparing your defence?"

"I have nothing to complain of," I answered, with an amiable glance at Inspector Neil.

The buzz of whispered conversation again broke out in the court, and looking round I caught sight for the first time of Mercia and Billy. They were sitting right at the back, but even at that distance Mercia's face stood out like some beautiful white flower. I made no sign of recognition, for I knew that the gentlemen of the Press were watching me with vulturean interest, and I was desperately anxious to avoid calling attention to her connection with the case.

I think my little tribute to the civility of the police had pleased Inspector Neil, for he conducted me back to my apartment in the most friendly fashion. Indeed, but for the fact that he was careful to turn the key in the lock when he left me, I might, from his manner, have been a private guest of his own instead of a suspected murderer. It struck me that perhaps he did not feel quite so certain as some of his colleagues as to the obviousness of my guilt.

I was not left very long to my reflections. A quarter of an hour could have hardly elapsed when my gaoler returned, coming into the room with a slightly awestruck expression on his good-natured countenance.

"The Home Secretary is here," he said, with a befitting sense of gravity. "He will see you at once."

"Thank you, Inspector," I returned, in the same dignified key.

A minute later Lord Lammersfield was ushered into the room.

I got up at once, and as the Inspector withdrew, closing the door behind him, I bowed to my distinguished visitor.

"It is very good of you to have come so soon," I said.

For a moment Lord Lammersfield made no answer.

He was looking at me keenly—a half-puzzled, half-humorous expression on his handsome, cynical face. Then quite suddenly he held out his hand.

"Even a Cabinet Minister, Mr. Northcote," he said, "occasionally keeps his word."

I laughed, and we exchanged a grip.

"Lord Lammersfield," I said, "I asked you to come here so that I might tell you the truth." Then I paused and looked him straight in the face. "I am not Stuart Northcote," I added slowly. "That interesting gentleman is dead. It is apparently the only point on which the police are correctly informed."

Lord Lammersfield's expression remained unaltered. "Scotland Yard is making distinct progress," he observed. Then, placing his hat on the table, he pulled up a chair and seated himself.

For a moment I hesitated.

"I think it will be quickest," I said, "if I tell you my story straight through. I can at least promise you that you won't be bored."

His lordship bowed courteously. "I am never bored," he answered, "except by politics."

It is a little characteristic of mine to be able to talk better when I am on my feet. So while Lammersfield sat on in his chair, motionless and without betraying any sign of surprise, I paced up and down the room and let him have the whole amazing narrative of my adventures since the moment when I had met with Northcote on the Embankment. I cut out one or two private matters, dealing with Mercia and Lady Baradell; but with these exceptions I told him the entire story, in as brief and as straightforward a fashion as possible.

When I had quite finished, he sat up and looked at me for a moment without speaking. Then he laughed quietly, and taking off his glasses, polished them carefully with his handkerchief.

"I am much indebted to you, Mr. Burton," he said. "I was under the impression that gentlemen of your kind were extinct, except in novels. It is refreshing to find that I was wrong."

"It is because I object to becoming extinct," I replied, "that I ventured to send you my message."

He replaced his glasses, and again examined me with a kind of cynical amusement.

"Yes, I should imagine that life was eminently worth living to anyone with your digestion and morals." Then he paused. "I believe your story, Mr. Burton," he added. "It is altogether too incredible to be doubted."

I bowed.

"Besides," he continued ironically, "it has the additional merit of explaining several facts over which our good friend Inspector Curtis is at present straining his intelligence."

"I suppose," I said, with some reluctance, "that I shall have to tell the truth?"

Lord Lammersfield raised his hand protestingly. "One should never consider the most desperate course until the alternatives have been exhausted. I will send George Gordon down to you this afternoon. He has a natural aversion to the truth that I have never seen equalled; and if there is any feasible method of extracting you from your difficulties without resorting to accuracy, you may be sure that he will find it."

He had named the most famous young K.C. of the day—a brilliant criminal barrister, and the rising hope of the Conservative party.

I began to thank him, but he cut me short.

"I am looking at the question from a purely selfish point of view. Much as I admire the British Public, I have no wish that they should acquire an intimate knowledge of my private relations with the late Mr. Prado. I would rather you left that part of the story out when you are confiding in Gordon."

I nodded. "Of course I shall," I said; "but Prado is sure to have left some record of the business behind him, and if his cousin comes into everything—well, you know from my story what sort of a gentleman Master Maurice Furnivall is."

Lord Lammersfield shrugged his shoulders. "One attains a certain measure of philosophy in politics," he said. "At the worst, it will give me an additional breathing space; and I deserve to be worried if only for my stupidity in misreading our defunct friend the filibuster in the way I did. I made certain the fellow was after a title."

"I don't think we shall hear much more of 'The Amalgamated Goldfields of South America,'" I said, with a short laugh.

Lord Lammersfield got up from his chair. "A pity!" he said regretfully. "It was a good title, and I hate waste."