# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 38/Number 3/The Kiss of Judas

From the Red Book magazine, Jan 1922, pp. 32–36, 108–110. Accompanying illustrations by W. B. King may be omitted. [Michael's Evil Deeds]
The Pursuit of an Arch Criminal by a Master Detective
The Kiss of Judas
By E. Phillips Oppenheim
SIR NORMAN GREYES, formerly of Scotland Yard, is devoting his life to tracking down an arch criminal of many aliases and disguises but known to him as Michael Sayers. Among Sayers’ secret abodes was a cottage near an English golf course where he was served by a housemaid named Janet and lived as “Mr. Stanfield.” One day while Sir Norman, as a guest at the golf-club, was playing the course with “Stanfield,” Janet shot and killed a police officer who had tracked Sayers to the spot. The maid professed to her master and to Sir Norman complete ignorance, but later confessed to “Stanfield” and became his accomplice, as is told in the present story by Sir Norman.
Illustrated by W. B. King
ON the evening of my return from the Riviera after a three months' holiday, I was accosted in the lounge of Marridge's Hotel by a middle-aged man of inconspicuous appearance who had been seated in a corner alone. It was some few seconds before I could recall him to my memory, but curiously enough a crowd of unpleasant associations gathered themselves together in my mind even before I had recognized him.
“You haven't forgotten me and our golf down at Woking, Sir Norman?” he asked.
I knew all about him then.
“Mr. Stanfield isn't it?” I said. “No, I haven't forgotten.”
I was a few minutes early for my part and I accepted the the offer of a cocktail from my golfing a acquaintance.
“That was an extraordinary interruption to our first game,” he remarked. “I never fancied my little house much afterward. I gave it up, in fact, within the year.”
“I heard you had left,” I told him.
“You had no luck in your investigations, Sir Norman?” he inquired.
I shook my head. The subject was still a sore one with me.
“I had no luck at all,” I confessed. “I came to certain conclusions which carried me a little way along the road, but all the clues ended abruptly. Yet I don't despair. I always have the fancy that some day or other I shall solve that mystery.”
The waiter brought the cocktails, and we raised our glasses.
“I drink, then, to that day, Sir Norman,” my companion said.
“I am with you,” I declared heartily.
Illustration: Sir Norman Greyes
We talked idly of various matters for a few moments—principally of golf, which I had been playing regularly in the south of France. There were several dinner-parties being given in the restaurant that evening, and some very beautiful women were in evidence. One in particular attracted my attention. She was tall, slender, slim, beautifully made. Her complexion was perfect, although a little colorless. Her strange-colored eyes had a nameless attraction. Her hair, beautifully coiffed, was just the shade of brown which appealed to me. She bowed to my companion as she passed. and joined a little group at the farther end of the hall. The last thing I noticed about her was her wonderful string of pearls.
“That is a very beautiful woman,” I remarked. “Do you know who she is?”
“A South American widow—De Mendoza, her name is.”
“You know her?”
“My humble apartment is on the same floor as her suite,” my companion replied. “She is gracious enough sometimes to remember the fact that we meet occasionally in the lift.”
My friends arrived, and I made my adieux to my erstwhile golfing acquaintance. Somehow or other, my meeting with him had left an unpleasant impression behind it. It had forced my thoughts back to the humiliating recollection of the fact that the murderer of Richard Ladbrooke still remained undiscovered, and that the man who had called himself Pugsley had walked away from detection under our very eyes and had never been heard of since.
Among my fellow-guests was an official of the Home Office, and our conversation naturally drifted into the subject of social order.
“Your connection with Scotland Yard having long since ceased, Sir Norman,” he remarked to me, “you will not be oversensitive as to facts. The epidemic of crime which was raging about two years ago seems to have broken out again with exactly the same results. There are four undetected murders and five great robberies up to the debit of your late department. Your people believe that the same person is at the head of it who planned all those robberies eighteen months ago and escaped arrest by shooting the inspector.”
“He is quaint, that little man,” my companion remarked once. “He reminds me of those impossible characters one reads about, who detect crime for the pleasure of it.”
I affected to take only a casual interest in the information; but as a matter of fact, I was considerably moved. If the man who had last concealed his identity under the name of Pugsley, but whom I strongly suspected to be the notorious Michael Sayers, had really come out into the open once more, life would certainly possess a new interest for me during the next few few months.
We were a party of that evening—a celebrated criminal lawyer and his wife, my friend from the Home Office, with his wife and sister-in-law, and myself. The criminal lawyer, who was our host, heard scraps of our conversation and leaned forward.
“You did well to leave Scotland Yard when your reputation stood high, Sir Norman,” he said. “A new era of crime has dawned, and the struggle no longer equal. It isn't the riffraff of the world today who take to murder and burglary. The skilled and conscienceless scientist has taken their place. The criminal of today, in nine cases out of ten, is of higher mental caliber than the detective who is opposed to him.”
“The struggle should be the more interesting,” I remarked vaguely.
It was a fancy of mine that my continued interest in my profession should remain as little known as possible, and I talked for some time on indifferent subjects to the lady who was seated by my side. We admired Mrs. De Mendoza and her gorgeous rope of pearls. My host intervened.
“It is women like that,” he commented, “who choose to deck their bodies with jewels of fabulous value, who encourage crime.”
“Roughly speaking, I dare say that necklace is worth eighty thousand pounds. For purposes of theft, it could probably be disposed of for fifty thousand. What a haul for the scientific thief! If it is really true that Pugsley is once more at work, what an opportunity!”
“A woman must be very brave,” my hostess declared, “to run the risks.”
“The jewels are probably in the hotel safe most of the time,” I suggested. “I don't suppose she goes out in them.”
Our host smiled.
“I can imagine Pugsley finding a few minutes in the hotel quite sufficient,” he observed. “He or his successors, whoever they may be, would think little enough of human life by the side of, say, fifty thousand pounds. The modern maxim of the thief seems to be all or nothing. By killing at sight they certainly increase their chances of escape.”
That closed our conversation upon the subject. We sat about in the lounge and drank coffee and liqueurs, danced for a time and smoked a few cigarettes. The party broke up as the lights in the lounge were being lowered. I was the only one of our little gathering remaining in the hotel, and I was talking for a few moments to the head porter, who was an old acquaintance of mine, when a man made a somewhat hurried entrance through the swing-doors and seemed on the point of proceeding to the office. As he saw me, however, he hesitated, and turning aside, addressed me.
“Excuse me, but are you Sir Norman Greyes?” he asked.
I admitted the fact.
“Can I ask you to give me five minutes of your time on a matter of urgent business?”
I looked at him with some surprise. His voice and address were good, and in appearance he differed in no respect from the crowd of diners who frequented the place. He drew a card from his pocket and handed it to me.
“It is an absurd hour, I know, to trouble you,” he apologized, “but I can explain in a very few minutes if you will give me the opportunity.”
I stepped underneath one of the electric standards and looked at the card—“Mr. Stanley Delchester.”
Underneath was the name of a famous insurance company. I motioned him to follow me into the deserted lounge, and invited him to take a chair. I must say that he wasted no time in stating his business.
“Many years ago, Sir Norman,” he reminded me, “when you were officially engaged at Scotland Yard, you saved our firm a great loss in the matter of the Hatton Gardens emerald theft.”
“I remember it quite well,” I admitted
“We understand,” my visitor continued, “that you have now resigned from the Force, but we hoped that you might be inclined to undertake a small commission for us. It came to the ears of our chief quite unexpectedly that you were staying here, and he sent me after you at once.”
“I can at least hear what the business is,” I replied.
“There is staying in this hotel,” the insurance agent proceeded, “a Mrs. De Mendoza, the reputed widow of a fruit merchant in Buenos Aires. She is the fortunate possessor of a very wonderful pearl necklace, which she has insured with our firm for a hundred thousand pounds. Our acceptance of the policy was a grave error which we recognized almost immediately afterward. We know nothing of the lady, and under those circumstances it is against our business policy to accept the risk. We have done our best to protect ourselves, however. Since the policy was issued we have kept in constant touch with her, and have been in daily communication with the hotel detective. By tonight's post, however, we had a message from the latter to say that he was at home ill, and that during his absence his duties would be taken over by the night watchman. The policy has only one more week to run, and will not under any conditions be renewed. We want to know if, for any fee which you care to name, you will do your best to guard the necklace for us during that week?”
“Have you had any intimation of thieves working in this neighborhood?” I asked him
“None whatever,” he replied. “I will be perfectly frank with you. It is not an ordinary robbery of which we are afraid. For some reason or other, our inquiry department has formed a dubious opinion of Mrs. De Mendoza herself.”
“I see,” I remarked. “You are afraid of a fraud.”
“Precisely! Directly we received the letter from the hotel detective, we rang up the manager here. All that we could learn was that the illness was altogether unexpected, and that the man had been compelled to go home at a moment's notice. In reply to our request that a trained detective might take his place, the management assured us that they considered nothing of the sort necessary. No robbery of jewels had ever taken place from this hotel, and they considered their night porter fully competent to watch over the interests of their guests.”
I considered for a moment.
“Sir William Greaves, our manager, desired me to suggest a fee of two hundred guineas,” my visitor concluded.
“I will accept the commission,” I promised.
The next morning I interviewed the manager of the hotel to whom I was well known. He showed some irritation when I spoke of Mrs. De Mendoza's necklace and her nervousness concerning it.
“To be quite frank with you,” he confessed, “although Mrs De Mendoza is a good client and pays her accounts regularly I am inclined to be sorry that we ever let her the rooms.”
“Why?” I asked
“People with valuable jewelry should accept its possession with a certain resignation,” he replied. “This is the last hotel in London where a jewel robbery would be likely. The lady herself, I understand, takes every possible care and caution. She wears her necklace nowhere except in the restaurant and lounge, and every night it is deposited in the hotel safe. I cannot see that she has the slightest cause for anxiety; nor do I understand the nervousness of the insurance company. However, you may rely upon it, Sir Norman, that every facility will be given to you in your task. I would suggest that you pay a visit to the lady herself.”
The idea had already occurred to me, and later in the day I sent up my card to Mrs. De Mendoza and was at once invited to enter her sitting-room. I found her writing letters, simply dressed in a black negligée and wearing the pearls. I was struck once more by the extreme elegance of her bearing and figure. As she turned and invited me to seat myself, she stirred in my memory a faint suggestion of reminiscence. I was not sure even then, however, whether it was a real person or a picture of which she reminded me. She listened to the few words with which I introduced myself, and smiled deprecatingly.
“It is true that I am very foolish,” she admitted, “but then I have always been a person of superstitions. I have owned my necklace for some years, and I have had it with me in quite law less places. I have never, however, felt just the same amount of apprehension as I do at the present moment.”
The maid had recovered sufficiently to sit up. The empty jewel-case told its own story.
“That certainly seems strange,” I replied. “The servants at this hotel are more carefully chosen than at any other hotel in London, and the guests are in nearly every case old clients.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Apprehensions such as mine,” she said, “are not based upon reason. However, I must confess that I feel more comfortable now that the insurance company has engaged your services. Would you not like to examine the pearls?”
She came over to my side, and without unclasping the necklace, let it rest in my hands. The pearls were all marvelously matched, all of considerable size, and with that milky softness which she pointed out to me as being a proof of their great perfection. As we stood there, necessarily close together, a wisp of her hair touched my forehead. Something in the timbre of her low laugh as she brushed it back induced me to look up. There were qualities about her smile and the peculiar expression of her eyes which gave me a momentary thrill. I understood at once why men turned their heads always to look at her. Notwithstanding her reserved appearance, she possessed that strange gift of allurement which Helen of Troy might have bequeathed to Mademoiselle de la Vallière.
“Do you admire my pearls?” she asked softly.
I let them slip from my palm.
“They are very wonderful,” I admitted.
She moved slowly away. I breathed more easily as the distance increased between us. She looked over her shoulder unexpectedly, and I believe that she realized my sensation. The slight frown passed from her forehead. She was obviously more content.
“Tell me how you propose to guard my treasures, Sir Norman?” she inquired as she sank into an easy-chair, “Shall you stand behind my chair at dinner, disguised as a waiter, and lie on my mat at night. It gives one quite a shivery sensation to think of such espionage!”
“Believe me,” I assured her, “I shall not be in the least obtrusive. I understand that you send your pearls down every night to the hotel safe.”
“I have always done so,” she answered. “Do you think it would be better to keep them up here? Will you promise to sit in this easy-chair, with a revolver on your knee, all night, if I do so?”
“Not for the world,” I declared. “The hotel safe is much the better place.”
“I am glad to hear your decision,” she said with a slight smile. “I should sleep very little if I thought that my pearls were near me—and that you were sitting here, on guard. The idea would be disturbing.”
“One cannot guard against miracles,” I observed, “but I think you can make your mind quite easy about the necklace. If you should need me at any time, the number of my room is Four-thirty-two.”
“On this floor?”
“On this floor.”
“Tell me,” she asked a little abruptly as I rose to take my leave, “who was the man with whom you were talking last night in the lounge—a slim, middle-aged man with a very hard face? I am always seeing him in the lift.”
“A man I know scarcely anything of,” I replied. “His name, I believe, is Stanfield. I once played golf with him down at Woking.”
“Stanfield?” she repeated. “Was it in his grounds near Woking that a murder was committed—a policeman was found shot there?”
I nodded. “I was playing golf with Mr. Stanfield at the time,” I told her.
“And the murderer was never discovered?”
“Never!”
“I wonder you didn't take an interest in the case yourself,” she remarked.
“I did,” I told her.
She made a little grimace.
“My fears for my necklace are reawakened,” she declared. “Surely it ought to have been an easy task for a clever man like you, one who used to be called a really great detective, to discover the murderer?”
“It is beyond my powers to bring him to justice, at any rate,” I replied. “There are many criminals walking about today, of whose guilt the police are perfectly well aware. They cannot be arrested, however, for lack of evidence.”
“How thrilling!” she murmured. “Will you ask me to dine with you some night and tell me some of your adventures?”
“I shall be happy to do so,” I replied. “Meanwhile—”
“The kiss of Judas,' I warned her. “You will need more than his cunning, she answered
She accepted my departure a little unwillingly. I am not a vain man, and I felt inclined to wonder at a certain graciousness of attitude on her part which more than once during our interview had forced itself upon my notice. I decided, however, that she was just one of those women who are born with the desire to attract, and dismissed the matter from my mind.
Later, about seven o'clock, a note was brought into my room:
    Dear Sir Norman,
    A lady and her husband who were dining, have disappointed me Can you, by any chance, be my guest? If so, let us meet at eight o'clock in the lounge.
Hopefully yours, Blanche de Mendoza.
I scribbled a line of acceptance. I felt, as I descended into the lounge that evening, a premonition that life for the next few hours was going to be very interesting indeed.
At eight o'clock, precisely, Mrs. De Mendoza came into the lounge. She was wearing a white lace evening dress, with an ermine wrap which hung loosely around her, disclosing the pearls underneath. Her entrance made a mild sensation. Mr. Stanfield who was seated in his accustomed corner, drinking his cocktail, watched our meeting and departure into the restaurant with obvious surprise.
“The little man was there again who stares at me so much—Mr. Stanfield, I think you called him?” she remarked as we took our places.
I nodded.
“I dare say he was surprised to see us together,” I said “I asked him who you were, on the night of my arrival here.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason that a great many other people ask the same question,” I replied.
She made a little grimace.
“You are determined to pay me no compliments this evening, and I am wearing my favorite gown.”
“I admire your taste,” I assured her.
“Anything else?”
“You are the best-dressed and the best-looking woman in the room.”
“Too impersonal,” she complained.
I turned the conversation to the subject of the necklace The pearls were collected for her, she told me, by her husband, some in India, some in the Malay states, some in Paris, some in Rio. She spoke of him quite frankly—a prosperous fruit-broker who had achieved sudden opulence.
“It was quite as much a change for me as for him,” she remarked. “I was a typist in Buenos Aires before we were married. I have known what it is to be poor.”
She answered all my questions without reserve, displaying later on much interest in the recounting of such of my adventures as were public property. I began to feel that I had been mistaken with regard to her, that she was really exactly what she seemed—a very wealthy woman of adventurous type, suddenly released from matrimonial obligations and a little uncertain what to make of her life. We took our coffee in the lounge afterward. In the background my golfing friend, Mr. Stanfield, was seated, smoking a cigarette in a retired corner, and having the air of studying everyone who passed.
“He is quaint, that little man,” my companion remarked once, as he glanced over toward us. “He reminds me of those impossible characters one reads about in magazines, who detect crime for the pleasure of it, and discover hidden treasures in absurd places.”
“He is, as a matter of fact,” I told her, “a retired city merchant with a passion for golf—at least, that is what the golf secretary at Woking told me.”
The music was seductive, and presently we danced once or twice. In the ballroom, however, my companion showed signs of renewed nervousness. The fingers of one hand were nearly all the time straying around her neck, as though to assure herself that the necklace was still there. Presently she drew me away with an apologetic little laugh.
“I am quite mad,” she confessed, “but I have a fit of nerves tonight. I am going upstairs early. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” I told her. “Let me see you to the lift.”
“I am going to ask you to do more than that,” she said as we crossed the hall. “I am going to ask you to come up to my sitting-room and escort my maid down to the office when she takes my necklace there. As a reward you can come back afterward, if you will, and have a whisky and soda with me.”
“I shall be very pleased,” I acquiesced.
I rang for the lift, and we ascended together to the fourth floor. She handed me her key, and I unlocked the door of her charming little salon. She pointed to the evening paper and an easy-chair.
“Please make yourself comfortable for five minutes,” she begged, looking back from the threshold of the inner room. “I shall just let Annette help me out of my gown. Then I will give her the jewel-case and she shall call for you.”
She nodded and disappeared. I stood for a moment looking after her. The door was closed softly. I heard her call to her maid in the farther apartment.
Those next few seconds seemed to beat themselves out in my brain, charged with a strange and almost amazing significance. I am convinced that I acted from impulse. There was nothing definite in my mind when from behind that closed door I conceived the sudden idea which prompted my action. I crossed the floor of the sitting-room and opened the door which led on to the corridor. There was no one in sight, and it seemed to me that fewer of the electric lights were lit than usual. I stood there, every nerve of my body riveted upon an attempt at dual listening. I listened for the return of Mrs. De Mendoza, and I listened for the opening of either of her doors. Presently what I had divined might happen, came to pass. The door of her bedroom, in a line with the one behind which I was lurking, opened. I peered through the crack.
Annette, the maid, a trim, dark figure, had crossed the threshold. She stood for a moment listening. Then without even glancing toward the sitting-room, she walked swiftly along the corridor and turned to the left towards the lift and staircases. In a couple of stealthy strides I too had reached the corner, and peering round, watched her movements. To my surprise, she passed the lift and turned the other corner of the corridor toward the staircase. As soon as she was out of sight, I followed.
As I reached the farther angle, every light was suddenly extinguished. There was a little gurgling cry, the sound of a heavy fall upon the soft carpet. In a second or two I was on the spot. I could dimly see where Annette was lying, gasping for breath, apparently half unconscious. By her side lay the jewel-case, open and empty.
I DID nothing for a moment toward raising any alarm. I bent over the girl and satisfied myself that she was not shamming—that she had, in effect, been subjected to a certain amount of violence. I glanced at the transoms over the doors of the bedrooms opposite. There were three of them between where I was and the turn to the lift. Suddenly the farthest door was opened, softly but not stealthily. A figure appeared, and leaning down, threw a pair of shoes upon the mat. I suppose that I was dimly visible in the semi-gloom, for the man suddenly left off whistling and turned in my direction.
“Hullo, there!” he called out.
I drew from my pocket the little electric torch which I had been keeping in readiness, and flashed it upon him. It was my friend Mr. Stanfield, in striped yellow and white pajamas, a cigarette between his teeth, his feet encased in comfortable slippers.
“What the devil are you doing out there?” he demanded. “And who's turned the lights out?”
“Better turn them on and you may see,” I replied. “There's a switch close to your door.”
He found it after a moment's fumbling, and stared at us in amazement. The maid, with her fingers still to her throat, had recovered sufficiently to sit up, and was leaning with her back to the wall, ghastly white and moaning to herself. The empty jewel-case told its own story.
“Jerusalem!” Mr. Stanfield exclaimed breathlessly. “A robbery!”
“Ring your bell,” I directed.
He disappeared into his room for a moment, leaving the door open. Presently he reappeared.
“I've rung all three,” he announced.
“Then the wires have been cut,” I answered, pointing to the register lower down, which had not moved. “Go to the lift and see if you can get anyone.”
He was gone for about half a minute.
I leaned down toward the girl, who was beginning to cry.
“Did you see who attacked you?” I asked.
“No!” she sobbed. “All the lights went out suddenly. Some one came up from behind. I never heard a sound—just the clutch at my throat and the choking.”
“Why did you not wait for me or go down by the lift?” I demanded.
She looked a little puzzled. “I never go by the lift,” she replied.
“Why not?”
“Fred, the second-floor valet, generally meets me on the floor below,” she explained reluctantly, “and—”
“I see,” I interrupted. “But didn't your mistress tell you to wait and go down with me?”
The girl seemed surprised.
“My head is queer,” she admitted, “and I can't remember much; but Madame said nothing to me except to tell me to hurry down.”
THE silence of the corridor was suddenly broken. Mr. Stanfield reappeared, followed by a little army of servants and the manager.
“Send everyone away except two men whom you can trust,” I begged the latter. “Mrs. De Mendoza's necklace has been stolen.”
There was a murmur of consternation and excitement. The manager selected two of the servants and dismissed the rest. He posted one by the lift and one by the staircase. I explained in a few words what had happened.
“Do you think the thief has got away?” he asked.
“One cannot tell,” I replied. “I want to know about these three rooms.”
He glanced at the numbers.
“The farthest one is occupied by Mr. Stanfield,” he announced. “The other two are empty.”
“You are sure that this one,” I asked, pointing to the door close to where we stood, “is unoccupied?”
“Certain,” was the confident reply. “Take my keys and see for yourself.”
I was on the point of doing so when Mrs. De Mendoza appeared. She was clad in a wonderful light blue wrapper, and the touch of excitement seemed to add to her beauty.
“My necklace!” she gasped. “Don't I tell me that it is gone!”
“Madam,” the manager began, “I regret to say—”
“What were you doing, then?” she cried, turning to me. “Do you mean to say that it was stolen while Annette was with you?”
“Annette was never with me,” I replied. “She left your bedroom with the jewel-case, without coming near the sitting-room.”
“Is this true, Annette?” her mistress demanded.
“But why not, Madame?” Annette faltered. “You said nothing to me about going into the sitting-room. I did not know that Monsieur was to accompany me.”
“The girl is telling a falsehood,” Mrs. De Mendoza declared angrily.
“Could these matters wait for a moment?” I intervened. “Our immediate task is to try and recover the necklace. I wish everyone to leave this place—except you, sir,” I added, addressing the manager, “and myself.”
The manager was a person of determination, and in a moment or two the corridor was empty. Mr. Stanfield lingered on the threshold of his room.
“Can I remain?” he inquired. “In a way I am interested, as my room is so near.”
The manager waved him back.
“I desire to hear what Sir Norman has to say, alone,” he insisted.
Mr. Stanfield reluctantly withdrew. We first of all entered the room opposite to us. It was empty and apparently undisturbed. There was a connecting door on the left.
“Where does that lead to?” I asked.
The manager unlocked it. It led into a similar room, also empty. The room on the other side was Mr. Stanfield's, also connecting. The outlook of all three was onto some mews.
“These are our cheapest rooms,” my companion explained. “They are generally occupied by servants, or people of an economical turn of mind.”
We withdrew into the first one we had entered.
“Will you lend me that master-key of yours?” I begged.
The manager detached it from his chain and handed it to me.
“If you should be instrumental in recovering the necklace, Sir Norman,” he said, “the hotel authorities would appreciate all possible reticence in the matter.”
I nodded.
“It is hard to keep anything out of the press, nowadays,” I reminded him, “but so far as I am concerned you may rely upon my discretion.”
THE few days that followed were filled with hysterical and irritating appeals, complaints and inquiries from Mrs. De Mendoza herself, the insurance company and the management. No efforts on our part could keep the affair out of the newspapers, and the disappearance of the necklace became the universal subject of conversation. A hundred amateur detectives suggested solutions of the mystery, and thousands of knowing people were quite sure that they could put their hands on the thief.
On the sixth day after the robbery I felt that a brief escape was necessary. I proposed to Mr. Stanfield, whom I met in the hall of the hotel, that we go down to Woking and have a round of golf, an arrangement to which he agreed with avidity. We lunched at the clubhouse, and as on previous occasions, we played a careful and hard-fought game. It was on the eighteenth tee when one of those unexplained moments of inspiration came to me which serve as the landmarks of life. We had spoken of that grim tragedy which had interrupted our first game. I thought of poor Ladbrooke lying there with a bullet-hole in his forehead, the maid, Janet, serene and secretive, with the strange eyes and unruffled manner. The memory of these things came back to me as I stood there and it seemed as though my faculties were suddenly prompted by a new vigor and a new insight.
Supposing it had been the maid who had killed the prying stranger! What was her motive? Whom was she trying to shield? Could it be her master? And if her master's name was not Stanfield, might it not be Pugsley? The two men were of the same height and build, and the one thing which Rimmington had always insisted upon was Pugsley's genius for disguise. The pieces of my puzzle fell together like magic, and with them the puzzle of the necklace. I turned back to the tee, and I was suddenly conscious of my companion's intense gaze. His eyes seemed to be boring their way into the back of my head. I knew that something in my face had given me away.
“Your honor,” he said tersely.
I topped my drive miserably. My companion's drive went sailing down the course, and he halved the match in a perfectly played four. We walked together to the clubhouse.
“A whisky and soda?” I suggested.
“I'll change my shoes first,” he answered, turning toward the dressing-room.
I drank my whisky and soda, exchanged greetings with a few acquaintances and paid my bill. Then I went to look for Stanfield. I might have spared myself the trouble. He and the taxi had alike disappeared. I had to wait while they telephoned for another, and I traveled up to London alone.
THE game was played out in quite the grand fashion. On my arrival at the hotel, I found the representative of the insurance company waiting to see me, and I was told that Mrs. De Mendoza was in her room. Accompanied by the manager, we made our way thither. I think that she was well prepared for what was coming, or rather one part of it. She received us a little impatiently.
“I have been waiting to hear from your firm all day,” she said, addressing Delchester. “My jewelers, who valued the pearls, and my legal adviser, have helped to make out my claim. I am anxious to know when I may expect your check.”
“I am thankful to say, madam, that that will not be necessary,” the manager announced, stepping forward. “Here is your necklace.”
He handed it to her. She stared at it like a woman transfixed. There were no signs of joy in her face. She seemed, indeed, for the moment stricken with consternation.
“When was it found?” she demanded breathlessly.
“About four o'clock on the morning after the theft,” I told her.
“But where?”
“If you will come with me,” I replied, “I will show you.”
I led the way down the corridor to the exact spot where Annette had been attacked, and opened the door of the nearest room. I saw Mrs. De Mendoza start when she saw the heavy bolt which had been fitted to the communicating door.
“I came to the conclusion,” I explained, “that the theft was committed by some one hiding in one of these three rooms, and to the further conclusion that the necklace had been hidden on the spot.”
“How did you guess that?” she inquired.
“Because the thief made a slight blunder,” I answered. “For a single moment, as I stood by Annette's side in the darkness outside, I saw a light flash out through the transom of this room. I must admit, however,” I went on, “that it took me four hours to find the necklace.”
“Where was it, then?” she asked curiously.
I TURNED up the rug. In one of the planks of the wooden floor was a knot. I took a little corkscrew gimlet from my pocket, bored into it and drew it out. Then I made Delchester push his finger through. There was a hook fastened in the under side of the floor.
“The necklace was hanging there,” I told him. “I imagine it would have been found later by some one making a point of occupying this room. As a matter of fact, I believe it was booked for the first week in June.”
“By whom?” Mrs. De Mendoza demanded.
“By Mr. Stanfield,” I replied. “He is paying a return visit in June, and he appears to prefer this room to the one he is occupying at present.”
There was a brief silence. Delchester held out his hand.
“We are very much obliged to you, Sir Norman,” he declared. “Our insurance, as you know, expired at midday today. I need not say that it will not be renewed. I wish you all good afternoon.”
He took his leave. The manager appealed to me.
“Sir Norman,” he said, “there is a great deal in this matter which it is hard to understand. I hope that you will not consider it a case for the police?”
I turned to Mrs. De Mendoza.
“Do you wish to prosecute?” I asked. “There is a certain amount of circumstantial evidence which might be collected.”
“Against whom?”
“Against the gentleman whom we have known as Mr. Stanfield.”
She laughed scornfully.
“That funny little man who sits about in the lounge? I would as soon believe that you yourself were the thief, Sir Norman! I have my necklace back, and that is all I care about,” she concluded.
THE manager departed, very much relieved. Mrs. De Mendoza beckoned me to follow her to her suite. Arrived in her sitting-room, she closed the door. She had rather the look of a tigress as she turned and faced me. Never was a woman born, of more splendid courage.
“And the epilogue?” she asked.
“I fear,” I replied, “that the epilogue must be postponed. It was only today, on Woking Golf Links, that a certain little scene of eighteen months ago became reconstructed in my mind. I saw a motiveless crime explained. I realized by whose hand that bullet might have found its way into Ladbrooke's brain, and for whose sake.”
“Yet you let him go!” she cried.
“I must admit that he has scored a trick,” I said slowly, “but you must remember, or perhaps you have yet to find out, that the world where such a man can live, is a very small place.”
“And what about me?” she asked. “From the moment when I heard that you had gone out with him alone, I could foresee what was coming. Yet I was not afraid. I waited for you.”
I looked at the necklace and shrugged.
“It is hard to leave a hundred thousand pounds,” I pointed out, “and so far as you realized, the game was not up. Not a soul in this hotel except myself knew that the necklace had been recovered. Yet you had courage to remain and see the thing through. I admit that.”
She came a little nearer to me. The green lights in her eyes were soft. I felt the attraction of her as she meant me to.
“Where I love,” she said, “I have courage, and my love has every quality which the devil ever distilled, except constancy. Are you afraid of me, Sir Norman, because I killed a man who—”
“A confession,” I muttered.
She laughed.
“No witnesses,” she reminded me. “After all, it was you who once said that murder was the easiest of crimes. What you know and what I know will never take me to the dock. Would you put me there if you could, my enemy?”
I drew a little away. Her breath was almost upon my cheek; her lips had taken to themselves the curve of invitation.
“I would put you there without a moment's hesitation,” I retorted. “You killed a man in cold blood to shield a murderer and a criminal. The hand of justice is slow, especially where evidence is scanty, but in the end it grips.”
She laughed scornfully.
“You speak in ignorance,” she declared. “At least be friends,” she went on, “until you can drag me to the gallows. I shot him with my right hand.”
She held out her left fingers. I raised them to my lips.
“The kiss of Judas,” I warned her.
“You will need more than his cunning,” she answered.
A new adventure in this pursuit of an arch criminal by a master-detective will be described by Mr. Oppenheim in the February issue.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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