BARBARA TAKES A HAND
"No luck, Mr. Marigold," said the Assistant Provost Marshal, "I'm sorry, but there it is! We've made every possible inquiry about this Private... er..." he glanced at the buff-colored leave pass in his hand, "... this Gunner Barling, but we can't trace him so far. He should have gone back to France the afternoon before the day on which you found his pass. But he hasn't rejoined his unit.
He's been posted as an absentee, and the police have been warned.
I'm afraid we can't do any more than that!"The detective looked at the officer with mild reproach in his eyes.
"Dear, dear," he replied, "and I made sure you'd be able to trace him with that pass!"He clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head.
"Dear, dear!" he said again.
"What's the feller been up to?" asked the A.P.M. Detectives have a horror of leading questions, and Mr. Marigold shrank visibly before the directness of the other's inquiry. Before replying, however, he measured the officer with his calm, shrewd eye. Mr.
Marigold was not above breaking his own rules of etiquette if thereby he might gain a useful ally.
"Well, Captain Beardiston," he answered slowly,I'll tell you because I think that you may be able to help me a little bit. It's part of your work to look after deserters and absentees and those sort o' folk, isn't it?"The A.P.M. groaned.
"Part of my work?" he repeated, "it seems to be my whole life ever since I came back from the front.""If you want to know what this young fellow has been up to," said Mr. Marigold in his even voice, "it's murder, if I'm not mistaken!""Murder?" echoed the other in surprise. "Why, not the Seven Kings murder, surely?"The detective gave a brisk nod.
"That's it," he replied, "I'm in charge of that case, if you follow me. I found that pass in the front garden of the Mackwayte's house in Laleham Villas, half trodden into the earth of the flower-bed by a heavy boot, a service boot, studded with nails. There had been a lot of rain in the night, and it had washed the mosaic-tiled pathway up to the front door almost clean. When I was having a look round the garden, I picked up this pass, and then I spotted the trace of service boots, a bit faint, on the beds. You know the way the nails are set in the issue boots?"The officer nodded:
"I ought to know that foot-print," he said. "It's all over the roads in northern France.""We made inquiries through you," the detective resumed, "and when I found that this Gunner Barling, the owner of the pass, was missing, well, you will admit, it looked a bit suspicious.""Still, you know," the A.P.M. objected, this man appears to have the most excellent character. He's got a clean sheet; he's never gone absent before. And he's been out with his battery almost since the beginning of the war.""I'm not making any charge against him as yet," answered the detective, picking up his hat, "but it would interest me very much, very much indeed, Captain Beardiston, to have five minutes'
chat with this gunner. And so I ask you to keep a sharp lookout for a man answering to his description, and if you come across him, freeze on to him hard, and give me a ring on the telephone.""Right you are," said the officer, "I'll hold him for you, Mr.
Marigold. But I hope your suspicions are not well-founded."For a brief moment the detective became a human being.
"And so do I, if you want to know," he said. "One can forgive those lads who are fighting out there almost anything. I've got a boy in France myself!"A little sigh escaped him, and then Mr. Marigold remembered "The Yard.""I'll bid you good-day!" he added in his most official voice and took his leave.
He walked down the steps by the Duke of York's column and through the Horse Guards into Whitehall, seemingly busy with his own thoughts. A sprucely dressed gentleman who was engaged in the exciting and lucrative sport of war profiteering turned color and hastily swerved out towards the Park as he saw the detective crossing the Horse Guards' Parade. He was unpleasantly reminded of making the acquaintance of Mr. Marigold over a bucketshop a few years ago with the result that he had vanished from the eye of his friends for eighteen months. He congratulated himself on thinking that Mr. Marigold had not seen him, but he would have recognized his mistake could he but have caught sight of the detective's face. A little smile flitted across Mr. Marigold's lips and he murmured to himself:
"Our old friend is looking very prosperous just now. I wonder what he's up to?"Mr. Marigold didn't miss much.
The detective made his way to the Chief's office. Barbara Mackwayte, in a simple black frock with white linen collar and cuffs, was at her old place in the ante-room. A week had elapsed since the murder, and the day before, Mr. Marigold knew, the mortal remains of poor old Mackwayte had been laid to rest. He was rather surprised to see the girl back at work so soon.
She did not speak to him as she showed him into the Chief, but there was a question lurking in her gray eyes.
Mr. Marigold looked at her and gravely shook his head.
"Nothing fresh," he said.
The Chief was unusually exuberant. Mr. Marigold found him surrounded, as was his wont, by papers, and a fearsome collection of telephone receivers. He listened in silence to Mr. Marigold's account of his failure to trace Barling.
"Marigold," he said, when the other had finished, "we must undoubtedly lay hold of this fellow. Let's see now... ah! I have it!"He scribbled a few lines on a writing-pad and tossed it across to the detective.
"If your friend's innocent," he chuckled, "that'll fetch him to a dead certainty. If he murdered Mackwayte, of course he won't respond. Read it out and let's hear how it sounds!"The Chief leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette while the detective read out:
