# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 22

CHAPTER II
THE WAYSIDE INN
The two detectives went out of the little foreign hotel in Golden Square to set in motion one of the most perfect machines which this world has ever known—a machine more intricate, and at the same time more simple, than any tangible invention. Somewhere, speeding through the night, with another man's death on his soul, was a fugitive from justice; the province of that machine was to release the outer edges of a gigantic net which, closing in on every side, should draw nearer and nearer together until no way of escape was left.
Sometimes a slippery fish found a mesh in that net which was big enough to glide through with care, or to wriggle through with a little difficulty, but not often, for as a rule the net was drawn together with startling rapidity. And so messages flashed along the telegraph wires, and telephone bells rang everywhere, and there was great excitement and sometimes stopping of machines in the newspaper offices, and before midnight every care had been taken to let everybody in ​England know by breakfast-time next morning that another murder had taken place in London, and that a man racing away somewhere in a green automobile, No. LX 5031, was the supposed, and therefore much wanted, murderer.
While all this was going on in London, there were plenty of places in the country outside where things were quiet and peaceful enough. Nothing could have been more peaceful, for instance, than a certain heath just within the borders of Hampshire, around which stood a few small cottages, the lights of which had long since been extinguished. Over its trangular expanse the summer night made a wide-spread canopy of silence; across the heather and bracken and gorse which covered it a gentle wind blew from the south-west. There was not a sound to be heard on this heath when the midnight hour had been struck from a neighbouring village clock the last stroke seemed to announce a final silence from then till cock-crow.
A wide road ran on the north side of the heath; a road white and distinct in the half-light of the June midnight. It came round a sharp corner at the wide end of the triangle, where stood a cottage which had once been a toll-bar. Opposite this cottage was a great spectral guide-post; on the arm which pointed eastward were the words "To London"; on that pointing westward: "To Winchester and Southampton". In a line with this sign-post was a four-square erection of solid stone, which occasionally did ​duty as the village pound; beyond it lay a round pond in which the cottagers' ducks were wont to disport themselves.
This was what might be called the populous part of the heath, for at the other end of the triangle's base was a farmstead, and between it and the erstwhile toll-bar there were a few cottages. But the real hub of the place was at the apex, four hundred yards away, where stood an ancient wayside hostelry, "The Jolly Woodman", a timbered, thatched, and dormer-windowed house which was as picturesque as it was old. A good many people rushing along that road were sufficiently fascinated by the looks of "The Jolly Woodman" to alight to make further acquaintance with him; those who were too much pressed for time gazed at him with regret.
On that particular June night the landlord of "The Jolly Woodman", who had retired to rest within half an hour of closing his establishment at ten o'clock, according to country usage, found himself singularly wakeful and restless. Being a widower, and having no one to disturb but himself, he tossed and turned and moaned and groaned, until in sheer despair he flung from him the far too heavy clothes which wrapped his substantial frame, and coming to the conclusion that he was much too hot, leaped out of bed to open the window. And as he stood there, drawing in a grateful breath of the night air, he was suddenly startled by a violent and most alarming sound, which burst upon his ears with a ​terrific crash, and was over and lost in the silence before he could well comprehend that it had been.
"Now if this was anywhere near a railway line," soliloquized the landlord, "I should say that was a smash. And since we're not near a railway line—well, I'll lay anything that's one of them motors that's run into the old pinfold in coming round the corner by the tall house that was. I always said accidents would happen there."
He was so convinced of the truth of this supposition that he immediately betook himself to an adjoining room, from the window of which he could command a view of the other end of the green. By the time he reached that window, lights were showing in the old toll-house; then more lights broke out in the adjacent cottages; and presently he saw lanterns being carried towards the old pound.
"I'll lay it's what I expected!" he said to himself. "I always said it would happen."
He went back to his room and hurried some clothes on, and before he had finished even a hasty toilet, there came hurrying steps along the highway outside. He leaned out of the window and saw a man running towards the inn.
"Well, what is it?" he called, while the man was twenty yards away. "Something happened?"
"It's a motor accident, Mr. Marrett," said the ​runner, fetching his breath in pants. "Great fine car—run clean into the old pin-fold. We think the driver's dead and the other man's unconscious. Can we bring them here, Mr. Marrett, and could you send one of your men for Dr. Sprig?"
"All right," said the landlord. "Any more of 'em—any ladies?"
"No, sir—only them two," replied the man outside.
The landlord roused his household, man and maid; in a few minutes "The Jolly Woodman" was lighted from top to bottom; rooms were being prepared; a man was hastening away on a bicycle to the next village for medical help. And a few minutes later came a little procession with the two victims of the accident carried on hastily improvised stretchers, and under the supervision of the policeman who lived in one of the cottages near the pound, and happened not to have gone to bed, having only just come in from his nightly patrol.
The unfortunate chauffeur was dead enough, with doubt, and had probably been killed on the spot. As for the occupant of the car, a tall, handsome, bearded man of foreign appearance, he seemed to have been hurled through the glasswork of the front of the car and was much cut and disfigured. But there were presumably worse injuries than this, for he was unconscious and looked more dead than alive.
And so for that night the folk of "The Jolly ​Woodman" knew no rest, and the inhabitants of the houses and cottages around the lonely heath rose out of their beds and gathered about the inn, or went to the scene of the accident, and discussed it in all its phases, and everyone agreed with Mr. Marrett's first opinion, that it was a very dangerous corner for them as didn't know it, and that, spite of notices and what not, it ought to have been done away with long since, so it did. That, however, did not mend matters for the victims, one of whom was already laid out in readiness for the coroner's inquiry, and the other was pronounced by the doctor to be mortally injured.
To the doctor—a young practitioner lately settled down to a country practice—and the local constable, the thick of the honours and business of the night naturally fell. There was nothing to be done for the chauffeur but to search his pockets for any particulars of his identity, and that search revealed him as Stephen Green of Lime Avenue, Battersea. But the examination of the passenger, who had been carried into the best bedroom of "The Jolly Woodman", because of his superior appearance, was both sensational and surprising, for the doctor immediately discovered that the very fine beard and moustaches were false!—most beautifully and artistically fashioned and fitted, but undeniably false. And when they were removed, the man's ashen face looked very, very different.
"There's some mystery here," said the doctor ​to those around him—the landlord, his housekeeper, and the policeman. "Say nothing about it outside—whoever he is, we must do what we can."
They searched the man's clothing, in the hope of discovering something that would lead to his identification. To the comfort of the landlord, whose spirits had fallen at the evidence of disguise, there was brought to light a considerable sum of money in notes, gold, and silver, but of papers of any sort there was not a trace. In fact, beyond such matters as a cigar-case, matchbox, watch, and so on, there was nothing on the man. Yet, stay—here was something in a pocket inside his waistcoat—a packet done up in cartridge paper and sealed. Not a big packet—but weighty. Nothing else anywhere—not even a card-case.
The doctor saw the landlord lock these matters and the money in his safe, and devoted himself to his patient, having already dispatched a messenger for further professional help. As for the policeman, who was greatly amazed by the incident of the false beard and moustaches, he, on the doctor's suggestion, repaired to the damaged car, in order to see if he could find any trace of the injured man's identity amongst the baggage which it might be supposed to contain. But upon reaching the car, which presented a sad spectacle in the grey light then falling across the heath, the policeman discovered that there was not so much as a handbag in it. In fact, ​beyond the ordinary furnishings, there was nothing to be found in the car, but a silver- mounted umbrella and a travelling-rug; so the constable went back to "The Jolly Woodman" as wise as he had left it.
The extra medical advice arrived and con- sulted with what was already on the spot, and sent away for still more experience, and the night wore on, and the man who had disguised himself for some purpose of which these people knew nothing, still lay in "The Jolly Woodman's" best bedroom, knowing nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but alive. They came to the conclusion that his spine was injured, that he was internally injured, that he was, in fact, drawing near to death. And they tried to restore him to consciousness, if only to hear who he was, and if he wanted to do anything, or to send for anybody, or say a word or two before he died.
The constable spent the remaining hours of the night in close attendance on "The Jolly Wood- man". It was a trying experience, because he had already been out on a long patrol before the accident occurred, and being an ambitious young officer he was greatly concerned about the false beard, which to him spelt Suspicious Circumstances. He was, therefore, very much pleased when at half past six o'clock Mr. Marrett invited him to a hot breakfast, with the remark that he was sure he could do with it.
It was after that grateful breakfast of toasted bacon, new-laid eggs, and hot coffee that the ​grand opportunity of that young constable's life came. For as he sat smoking his pipe in the parlour after breakfast, in walked the newspaper-boy, and handed Mr. Marrett his morning budget of the world's doings. Mr. Marrett threw it over to the constable.
"No time for news-reading just now!" he said.
The constable took the paper, and glanced it over, at first with indifference, then with interest. And saying that he would sit in the garden awhile and finish his pipe, he went out, taking the news with him. But instead of sitting in the garden, he hurried up the road to the damaged car, and turning back the tarpaulin which had been placed over it, looked anxiously at the number—LX 5031.
Then he covered the number up again and sped away to the telegraph office. He saw himself a sergeant or inspector.
It was just two hours and twenty minutes after that, that another car drew up at "The Jolly Woodman", and out of it stepped Inspector Dwayne. The constable met him and made obeisance to the great man.
"It was me that sent the wire, sir," he said. "The man's conscious now, and the doctor said I was to take you up at once—this way, sir."
And Inspector Dwayne walked into the best bedroom and looked at the wreck on the bed. And he turned to Mitchell with a sudden exclamation.
"Good heavens!" he cried. "Dick the Tale-pitcher!"