# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 21

BOOK THE FIFTH
Brought to Light
CHAPTER I
THE MURDER AT THE HOTEL VENEZIA
Inspector Dwayne went away from the coachman's house in a state of mental wonderment such as he had never known in the whole course of his life. He was not an imaginative man, and had always been too hard-worked to indulge in flights of poetic fancy, but he could not help thinking, as he walked along Knightsbridge towards a certain place where he had made an appointment with Mitchell, that if ever there had been a case of Nemesis, of Retribution, of whatever grand name the scholars and poets liked to call it, here it was! He was firmly enough convinced of the guilt of Anthony Berridge, alias Grandfather Punctuality, by this time. The old villain, he said to himself, had had some grudge against Bartenstein, and knowing the ways of the house had seized his chance and murdered him; but what a manifestation of the decrees of Providence, of Fate, that the very instrument by which his guilt was revealed should be the woman whom he had wronged half a lifetime before!
"Makes one think deeper than usual," said ​Inspector Dwayne meditatively. "I wonder what those folk would say who tell you that it's all chance."
If the Inspector had been more of what he called a scholar, he would have improved the occasion by reminding himself of the late Mr. Alexander Pope's famous lines, but as he was not at that time able to indulge in taste for reading, he was not conversant with them, and so devoted himself to reconsidering the information which the one-time Mary Simpson had given him. For, having once opened the closed book of her life, she had been encouraged by Inspector Dwayne's obvious sympathy for his old townswoman to speak fully and freely, and it had probably been a relief to her to tell what had been locked up from all the world for so long.
It appeared that she had never known much of this Anthony Berridge. She had met him casually at a theatre and been flattered by his attentions. She described him as being then a very handsome man, something like an actor in appearance—indeed, she had always believed him to be an actor, and had teased him on the matter. He had never made any reply of a direct nature, but had laughed at her and said she should know all in good time. He was always well dressed and appeared to have plenty of money. One peculiarity she had noticed about him and still remembered, and that was that he wore a profusion of rings, but was always changing them, and that he had the same habit as ​regards his scarf-pin. They were not ordinary rings or pins, she said—they were curious things to look at; and he had told her that they were very old and very valuable.
From her description of these things Inspector Dwayne was pretty sure that even at that time Anthony Berridge had been carrying on a trade in antique gems, cameos, and intaglios. And even then to the girl whom he had ruined he was a mystery; she knew nothing of where he lived or who he was, and he had gone out of her life as suddenly as he had entered it.
Gone out! Yes, thought Inspector Dwayne, as he walked along—gone out!—but only to come back into it in a way which neither he nor she could have dreamed of! If she had not been in attendance on their own child, if she had not chanced to look out of that window, if———
"If ifs and buts were apples and nuts'," said the Inspector, recalling an old rhyme familiar in childhood. "Well, it's a queer world. What I want now, and must have, is Master Anthony Berridge."
He had told the woman nothing of Grandfather Punctuality, nor of his suspicions, nor of Dermiston Road, nor of anything. He had left her with a promise that, whatever happened, her secret should be safe in his hands, for he was already fairly confident that her name need never be brought into public notice. Yet, if she she had not seen———
The Inspector had arranged with Mitchell ​to meet him at the corner of Knightsbridge and Brompton Road, and as he had plenty of time to spare, he walked but slowly along, enjoying the cool air and the fragrance of a second cigar. He had passed the barracks and was thinking of crossing the road, when he suddenly caught sight of the pseudo Mr. Olivares, who, seated in a motor-car, was just passing him in the full glare of a brilliant lamp. The car was travelling fast—as fast as regulations permitted—but the Inspector was certain of his man, who, at the moment of passing, was lifting his hat from his head as if to cool his forehead. He was also able to note that the car, a fine travelling Daimler, was painted a bright green. And as he could neither stop it nor go after it, even if there had been the facilities at hand, which there were not, Inspector Dwayne steadied himself, gave one searching look, and was successful in snapping the number as it flashed into and sank out of the circle of light.
LX 5031.
He wrote the letters and figures down in his note-book and went leisurely onward, having still some minutes to spare. But as he came within sight of the trysting-place, he was aware of Mitchell, who, obviously in a state of great excitement, was walking up and down the pavement, looking in all directions, and evidently wishing that Inspector Dwayne would appear. And at that the Inspector hurried forward. He was on Mitchell before the latter saw him.
​"What is it, Mitchell?" he asked quietly.
Mitchell turned quickly with a sigh of relief. He pointed to a taxi-cab which stood at the kerb.
"I'm glad you've come, Inspector," he said. "I've been here ten minutes, hoping you might be a bit in advance. Get in—the man knows where to drive. Quick as you can!" he called to the driver as they entered the cab. "And the shortest way."
"What is it?" asked Inspector Dwayne, as they went swiftly away in the direction of Piccadilly.
"There's a message come down for you from an hotel in Golden Square," said Mitchell. "Hotel—Hotel Venezia. The manager wants you there quick; he was so confused and spoke so indistinctly, and such bad English, that I couldn't make it all out, but it was something about a man dying from poison, who mentioned you, and some diamonds, and an old man—that was all I could get at."
"Poisons—diamonds—an old man?" said Inspector Dwayne. "Sounds queer, Mitchell. I wonder if the old man has any connection with Berridge?"
"That," replied Mitchell, "is exactly what I was wondering. Though, why it should have, I don't know."
They were in Golden Square in a very few minutes, and soon found the Hotel Venezia, which Inspector Dwayne immediately recog​nized as the place which he had seen Olivares's clerk, Fernandes, enter after he had followed him from the Café Royal. Everything seemed quiet within the modest hall, but on seeing them, an olive-complexioned, black-moustachioed gentleman in a frock-coat came forward and bowed.
"I am Inspector Dwayne," said the detective. "You telephoned for me."
The frock-coated gentleman bowed them into his office, where was seated a lady who was obviously Madame, the proprietress, together with another gentleman who was just as obviously a doctor.
"Be seated, gentlemen, please," said he of the frock-coat. "Yes, I sent for you because the man mention your name. But the man he is dead—gone! Is it not so, Doctor?"
The doctor made an affirmative gesture.
"Quite dead—nearly an hour ago," he answered, "and he has been poisoned. Or poisoned himself, which, from the evidence, does not seem to be the case."
Inspector Dwayne looked from one to the other.
"Speak plainly, gentlemen," he said. "I know nothing of what you are talking about."
"It is, then, this, sir," said the proprietor. "It is two—three days ago that a gentleman took of me a room on the first floor. He look to me like a Spanish or Portugee, perhaps Italian, but he call himself Mr. Martin. He is very quiet, nice man, with polite manners and two portmanteaus, and seems to have much money on ​him. He is visit twice by another gentleman whose name I do not know—a tall gentleman with fine moustache and beard and the grand manner—I think him certainly not English. They were very good friends these two—they dine together and are very amicable. This afternoon they come in together about the time of . . . "
"A little after five," said Madame, seeing her husband falter.
"A little after five, then," continued Monsieur. "They rest a while in the smoking-room, afterwards they demand a bottle of wine in Mr. Martin's apartment upstairs. It is carried to them. After that I hear nor see anything of them until it is almost dark. Then the friend, carrying some letters in his hand, come down, and as he pass out, make the adieu to me and my wife. All rests tranquil—we hear nothing—we suspect nothing. After along time has passed, the chambermaid come to say she hear strange sound from the apartment of Mr. Martin. I proceed there———"
"I also!" exclaimed Madame. "I, myself!"
"We proceed there," said Monsieur. "We open the door. We find Mr. Martin—he make a faint groan on the bed. We turn up the light—he is unconscious. We send for monsieur the doctor there—till he comes we examine him, the sufferer. There is no mark, no blood—yet he is unconscious, he is dying! We look about the apartment—we find—this!"
​With a dramatic flourish the proprietor produced from behind his back a half-sheet of note-paper, which he handed dramatically to the Inspector, who, holding it nearer to the light, slowly read aloud certain words which had been scrawled upon it in pencil, each stroke growing weaker and more irregular.
"Poisoned—going fast—just strength—Mourn has diamonds—traitor—communicate Dwayne. New Scotland Yard—the old man is at his . . . "
There had been an attempt to write another word, but there the fingers had failed, and the stroke had ended in a meaningless scrawl.
"Well, sir?" said Inspector Dwayne.
"Then, sir," continued the proprietor, "the doctor he arrive, and———"
He bowed to the physician as if indicating that it was now his turn to take up the tale. To him the two detectives turned.
"There is little to tell," he said. "I saw at once that the man was dying, and that I could do nothing for him. In fact, he died within a few minutes of my arrival."
"Did he regain consciousness?" asked Inspector Dwayne.
"Oh no!" replied the doctor. "He probably lost consciousness as he wrote the last letter on that half-sheet of note-paper, and had just instinct enough to fall back on the bed."
"What do you suppose he had taken, or had been given to him, sir?" asked the Inspector.
​"Cyanide of potassium," replied the doctor. "If the other man gave him it, he probably did so, or put it into his glass, just before leaving the room. He would soon feel the effect and would know, instinctively, that he was beyond aid. He could be in full possession of his senses, and would scribble down those words, feeling his senses quickly slipping from him."
"We will go upstairs," said Inspector Dwayne.
The death-chamber was locked and a constable was in charge of it. The Inspector and Mitchell entered in company with the proprietor and the doctor. One look at the dead man was sufficient for Inspector Dwayne. He recognized the clerk, Fernandes.
"You know him, monsieur?" asked the proprietor.
"Oh yes, I know him, sir!" replied Inspector Dwayne. "You had better let the divisional police take charge. And now, sir," he continued, drawing the photograph of the pseudo Señor Olivares from his pocket-book, "do you recognize this?"
The proprietor raised his eyebrows and extended his hands.
"Juste ciel!" he exclaimed. "It is the portrait of the dead man's friend!"