A Mysterious Disappearance

“Surely things look black now against this Mensmore?”

“Do they? How would it have fared with an acquaintance of one of the unfortunate women killed by Jack the Ripper had the police found him in the locality with fresh blood-stains on his clothes? What would have resulted from the discovery of a chemist’s mortar among the possessions of one of Elizabeth Camp’s male friends? Come now, be honest, and tell me.”

But Mr. White could only smoke in silence.

“Therefore,” continued Bruce, “let us ask ourselves why, and how, it was possible for Mensmore to commit the crime. Personally, notwithstanding all that we apparently know against him circumstantially, I should hardly believe Mensmore if he confessed himself to be the murderer!”

“Now, why on earth do you say that, Mr. Bruce?”

“Because Mensmore is normal and this crime abnormal. Because the man who would blow out his brains on account of losses at pigeon-shooting never had brains enough to dispose of the body in such fashion. Because Mensmore, having temporarily changed his name for some trivial reason, would never resume it with equal triviality with this shadow upon his life.”

“Then why have you told me all these things that tell so heavily against him?”

“In order that, this time at least, you may feel that the production of a pair of handcuffs does not satisfactorily settle the entire business.”

“I promise there shall be no more arrests until this affair is much more decided than it is at present.”

“Good. I shall make a detective of you after my own heart in time.”

“Yet I cannot help being surprised at the very strange fact that his own sister should seem to suspect him!”

“Ah! Now you have struck the true line. Why did she have that fear? There I am with you entirely. Let us ascertain that and I promise you an important development. Mrs. Hillmer and Mensmore are both concerned in the disappearance of Lady Dyke, yet neither knew that she had disappeared, and both are deeply upset by it, for Mrs. Hillmer flies off to warn her brother, and the brother posts back to London the moment it comes to his ears through her. There, you see, we have a key which may unlock many doors. For Heaven’s sake let it not be battered out of shape the instant it reaches our hands.”

But Mr. White was quite humble. “As I have told you,” he said, “I have done with the battering process.”

“I am sure of it. And now listen to the most remarkable fact that has yet come to light. Lady Dyke’s body was taken from Raleigh Mansions to Putney in a four-wheeler. The cabman was forthwith locked up by the police and clapped into prison for three months. He was released yesterday, and will be here within the next quarter of an hour.”

The detective’s hair nearly rose on end at this statement.

“Look here, Mr. Bruce!” he cried, “have you any more startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish?”

“That is the last shot in my locker.”

“I’m jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you would say was that you did the job yourself.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you thought that; eh, my friend?”

White positively blushed.

“Oh! that’s chaff,” he said. “But why the dickens did the police lock up this cabman – the only witness we could lay our hands upon? Why, I myself questioned every cabman in the vicinity several times.”

“Because he got drunk on the proceeds of the journey, and subsequently thought he was Phaeton driving the chariot of the sun. But, there, he will tell you himself. I met him yesterday morning outside Holloway Jail, and persuaded him to come here to-night, provided he has not gone on the spree again with disastrous results.”

The entrance of Smith – obviously relieved to see his master and the “tec” on such good terms – to announce the arrival of “Mr. William Marsh,” settled any doubts as to the cabman’s intentions, and his appearance established the fact of his sobriety. Three months “hard” had made the cab-driver a new man.

Recognition was mutual between him and Mr. White.

“Hello, Foxey,” cried the latter. “It’s you, is it?”

“Me it is, guv’nor; but I didn’t know there was to be a ‘cop’ here” – this with a suspicious glance at Bruce and a backward movement towards the door.

“Do not be alarmed,” said the barrister; “this gentleman’s presence implies no trouble for you. We want you to help us, and if you do so willingly I will make up that lost fiver you received for driving two people to Putney the night you were arrested.”

The poor old cabman became very confused on hearing this staggering remark. Up to that moment he regarded Bruce as the agent for a charitable association, and there was no harm, he told his “missus,” in trying to “knock him for a bit.”

He stood nervously fumbling with his hat, but did not answer. White knew how to deal with him.

“Sit down, Foxey, and have a drink. You need one to cheer you up. Answer this gentleman’s questions. He means you no harm.”

“Honor bright?”

“Honor bright.”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do. No soda, thank you, sir. Just a small drop of water. Ah, that’s better stuff ’n they keep in Holloway.”

Thus fortified, Marsh had no hesitation in telling them what he knew. Substantially, his story was identical with the version given to Bruce by the ticket collector.

“Can you describe the gentleman?” said the barrister.

“No, sir. He was just like any other swell. Tall and well-dressed, and talked in the ’aw-’aw style. It might ha’ been yerself for all I could tell.”

“Do you think it was I?”

Foxey scratched his head.

“No, p’r’aps it wasn’t, now I come to rec’llect. He ’ad a moustache, and you ’aven’t. Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but you ’ave a bit of the cut of a parson or a hactor, an’ this chap wasn’t neither – just an every-day sort of toff.”

“Could you swear to him if you saw him?”

“That I couldn’t, sir. I am a rare ’and at langwidge, but I couldn’t manage that.”

“Why?”

“Because that night, sir, I were as full as a tick when I started. Lord love you, it must ’ave poured out of me afterwards when I started fightin’ coppers. Mr. White, ’e knows, I ain’t no fightin’ man as a rule.”

“And the lady? Did you see her?”

“No, sir. Leastways, I seed a bundle which I took to be a lydy, but her face was covered up with a shawl, and she was lyin’ ’eavy in ’is arms as though she was mortal bad. He tell’d me she was sick.”

“Did he? Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure it was a shawl?”

A vacuous smile spread over Foxey’s countenance as he answered, “I ain’t sure of anythink that ’appened that night.”

“But were you not surprised when a man hired your cab under such peculiar circumstances, and paid you such a high fare?”