# The Cask/Chapter 4
### CHAPTER IV A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW

The constable paused in the lane and considered. Up to the present he felt he had done splendidly, and he congratulated himself on his luck. But his next step he did not see clearly at all. Should he find the nearest police station and advise the head constable, or should he telephone, or even go to Scotland Yard? Or more difficult still, should he remain where he was and look-out for fresh developments?
He paused irresolutely for some fifteen minutes pondering the situation, and had almost made up his mind to telephone for instructions to his own station, when he heard a footstep slowly approaching along the lane. Anxious to remain unseen, he rapidly regained the small gate in the hedge, passed inside and took up a position behind the trunk of one of the small trees. The sounds grew gradually nearer. Whoever was approaching was doing so exceedingly slowly, and seemed to be coming on tiptoe. The steps passed the place where the constable waited, and he could make out dimly the form of what seemed to be a man of medium height. In a few seconds they stopped, and then returned slowly past the constable, finally coming to a stand close by the little gate. It was intensely still, and the constable could hear the unknown yawning and softly clearing his throat.
The last trace of light had gone from the sky and the stars were showing brightly. There was no wind but a sharpness began to creep into the air. At intervals came the disconnected sounds of night, the bark of a dog, the rustle of some small animal in the grass, the rush of a motor passing on the high road.
The constable’s problem was settled for him for the moment. He could not move while the other watcher remained. He gave a gentle little shiver and settled down to wait.
He began reckoning the time. It must, he thought, be about half-past eight o’clock. It was about eight when the dray had turned into the drive and he was sure half an hour at least must have passed since then. He had leave until ten and he did not want to be late without authority, though surely, under the circumstances, an excuse would be made for him. He began to picture the scene if he were late, the cold anger of the sergeant, the threat to report him, then his explanation, the sudden change of manner. …
A faint click of what seemed to be the entrance gate of the drive recalled him with a start to his present position. Footsteps sounded on the gravel, firm, heavy footsteps, walking quickly. A man was approaching the house.
Constable Walker edged round the tree trunk so as to get it between himself and any light that might come from the hall door. The man reached the door and rang.
In a few seconds a light appeared through the fanlight, and the door was opened by the bearded man. A big, broad-shouldered man in a dark overcoat and soft hat stood on the steps.
“Hallo, Felix!” cried the new-comer heartily. “Glad to see you’re at home. When did you get back?”
“That you, Martin? Come in. I got back on Sunday night.”
“I’ll not go in, thanks, but I want you to come round and make up a four at bridge. Tom Brice is with us, and he has brought along a friend of his, a young solicitor from Liverpool. You’ll come, won’t you?”
The man addressed as Felix hesitated a moment before replying.
“Thanks, yes. I’ll go, certainly. But I’m all alone and I haven’t changed. Come in a minute till I do so.”
“And, if it’s a fair question, where did you get your dinner if you’re all alone?”
“In town. I’m only just home.”
They went in and the door was closed. Some few minutes later they emerged again and, pulling the door behind them, disappeared down the drive, the distant click of the gate signifying their arrival at the road. As soon as this sounded, the watcher in the lane moved rapidly, though silently, after them, and Constable Walker was left in undisputed possession.
On the coast becoming clear he slipped out on to the lane, walked down it to the road and turned back in the direction of London. As he did so a clock struck nine.
Entering the first inn he came to, he called for a glass of ale and, getting into conversation with the landlord, learnt that he was near the hamlet of Brent, on the Great North Road, and that Mr. Felix’s house was named St. Malo. He also inquired his way to the nearest public telephone, which, fortunately, was close by.
A few minutes later he was speaking to Scotland Yard. He had to wait for a little time while Inspector Burnley, who had gone home, was being fetched, but in fifteen minutes he had made his report and was awaiting instructions.
The Inspector questioned him closely about the position of the house, finally instructing him to return to his post behind the tree and await developments.
“I will go out with some men now, and will look for you by the little gate in the hedge.”
Constable Walker walked rapidly back, and as he did so the same clock struck ten. He had been gone exactly an hour. In the meantime, Inspector Burnley got a taxi and, after a careful examination of his route and the district on a large scale map, started for St. Malo with three other men. He called on his way at Walpole Terrace, Queen Mary Road, where Tom Broughton lived and delighted that young man by inviting him to join the party. On the way, he explained in detail the lie of the house and grounds, where he wanted each man to stand, and what was to be done in various eventualities. The streets were full of people and motoring was slow, but it was still considerably before eleven when they entered the Great North Road.
They ran on till the Inspector judged they were not far from the house, when the car was run up a side road and the engine stopped. The five men then walked on in silence.
“Wait here,” whispered Burnley, when they had gone some distance, and slipped away into the dark. He found the lane, walked softly down it until he came to the little gate, slipped inside and came up to Constable Walker standing behind his tree.
“I’m Inspector Burnley,” he whispered. “Has any one come in or out yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, wait here until I post my men.”
He returned to the others and, speaking in a whisper, gave his directions.
“You men take up the positions I explained to you. Listen out for a whistle to close in. Mr. Broughton, you come with me and keep silent.”
The Inspector and his young acquaintance walked down the lane, stopping outside the little gate. The other three men posted themselves at various points in the grounds. And then they waited.
It seemed to Broughton that several hours must have passed when a clock in the distance struck twelve. He and the Inspector were standing beside each other concealed under the hedge. Once or twice he had attempted whispered remarks, but Burnley was not responsive. It was rather cold and the stars were bright. A light breeze had risen and it rustled gently through the hedge and stirred the branches of the trees. An insistent dog was barking somewhere away to the right. A cart passed on the road, the wheels knocking on their axles annoyingly. It took ages to get out of earshot, the sounds coming in rotation through nearly a quarter of the compass. Then a car followed with a swift rush, the glare of the headlights glancing along through the trees. And still nothing happened.
After further ages the clock struck again—one. A second dog began barking. The breeze freshened, and Broughton wished he had brought a heavier coat. He longed to stamp up and down and ease his cramped limbs. And then the latch of the road gate clicked and footsteps sounded on the gravel.
They waited motionless as the steps came nearer. Soon a black shadow came into view and moved to the hall door. There was a jingling of keys; the rattling of a lock, the outline of the door became still darker, the shadow disappeared within and the door was closed.
Immediately Burnley whispered to Broughton:—
“I am going now to ring at the door, and when he opens it I will flash my light in his face. Take a good look at him and if you are sure—absolutely positive—it is Felix, say “yes,” just the one word ‘yes.’ Do you understand?”
They went in through the small gate, no longer taking any precautions against noise, walked to the door, and Burnley knocked loudly.
“Now, remember, don’t speak unless you are sure,” he whispered. A light flickered through the fanlight and the door was opened. A beam from the Inspector’s dark lantern flashed on the face of the man within, revealing the same dark complexion and black beard that had attracted Constable Walker’s attention. The word “Yes” came from Broughton and the Inspector said:—
“Mr. Léon Felix, I am Inspector Burnley from Scotland Yard. I have called on rather urgent business, and would be glad of a few minutes’ conversation.”
The black-bearded man started.
“Oh, certainly,” he said, after a momentary pause, “though I don’t know that it is quite the hour I would have suggested for a chat. Will you come in?”
“Thanks. I’m sorry it’s late, but I have been waiting for you for a considerable time. Perhaps my man might sit in the hall out of the cold?”
Burnley called over one of his men who had been stationed near the summer-house.
“Wait here till I speak to Mr. Felix, Hastings,” he said, giving him a sign to be ready if called on. Then, leaving Broughton outside with Constable Walker and the other men, he followed Felix into a room on the left of the hall.
It was fitted up comfortably though not luxuriously as a study. In the middle of the room stood a flat-topped desk of modern design. Two deep, leather-covered arm-chairs were drawn up on each side of the fireplace, in which the embers still glowed. A tantalus stood on a small side table with a box of cigars. The walls were lined with bookshelves with here and there a good print. Felix lighted a reading-lamp which stood on the desk. He turned to Burnley.
“Is it a sitting down matter?” he said, indicating one of the arm-chairs. The Inspector took it while Felix dropped into the other.
“I want, Mr. Felix,” began the detective, “to make some inquiries about a cask which you got from the steamer Bullfinch this morning—or rather yesterday, for this is really Tuesday—and which I have reason to believe is still in your possession.”
“Yes?”
“The steamboat people think that a mistake has been made and that the cask that you received was not the one consigned to you, and which you expected.”
“The cask I received is my own property. It was invoiced to me and the freight was paid. What more do the shipping company want?”
“But the cask you received was not addressed to you. It was invoiced to a Mr. Felix of West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road.”
“The cask was addressed to me. I admit the friend who sent it made a mistake in the address, but it was for me all the same.”
“But if we bring the other Mr. Felix—The West Jubb Street Mr. Felix—here, and he also claims it, you will not then, I take it, persist in your claim?”
The black-bearded man moved uneasily. He opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated. The Inspector felt sure he had seen the little pitfall only just in time.
“If you produce such a man,” he said at last, “I am sure I can easily convince him that the cask was really sent to me and not to him.”
“Well, we shall see about that later. Meantime, another question. What was in the cask you were expecting?”
“Statuary.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Why, of course I’m sure. Really, Mr. Inspector, I’d like to know by what right I am being subjected to this examination.”
“I shall tell you, Mr. Felix. Scotland Yard has reason to believe there is something wrong about that cask, and an investigation has been ordered. You were naturally the first person to approach, but since the cask turns out not to be yours, we shall——”
“Not to be mine? What do you mean? Who says it is not mine?”
“Pardon me, you yourself said so. You have just told me the cask you expected contained statuary. We know the one you received does not contain statuary. Therefore you have got the wrong one.”
Felix paled suddenly, and a look of alarm crept into his eyes. Burnley leant forward and touched him on the knee.
“You will see for yourself, Mr. Felix, that if this matter is to blow over we must have an explanation of these discrepancies. I am not suggesting you can’t give one. I am sure you can. But if you refuse to do so you will undoubtedly arouse unpleasant suspicions.”
Felix remained silent, and the Inspector did not interrupt his train of thought.
“Well,” he said at length, “I have really nothing to hide, only one does not like being bluffed. I will tell you, if I can, what you want to know. Satisfy me that you are from Scotland Yard.”
Burnley showed his credentials, and the other said:—
“Very good. Then I may admit I misled you about the contents of the cask, though I told you the literal and absolute truth. The cask is full of plaques—plaques of kings and queens. Isn’t that statuary? And if the plaques should be small and made of gold and called sovereigns, aren’t they still statuary? That is what the cask contains, Mr. Inspector. Sovereigns. £988 in gold.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Felix. We knew there was money in the cask. We also know there is something else. Think again.”
“Oh, well, there will be packing, of course. I haven’t opened it and I don’t know. But £988 in gold would go a small way towards filling it. There will be sand or perhaps alabaster or some other packing.”
“I don’t mean packing. Do you distinctly tell me no other special object was included?”
“Certainly, but I suppose I’d better explain the whole thing.”
He stirred the embers of the fire together, threw on a couple of logs and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.