Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery Read online

  Cheyne stared incredulously.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he ejaculated. ‘Drugged! By—not by that literary man, surely?’ He paused, in amazed consternation and then his hand flew to his pocket. ‘My money,’ he gasped. ‘I had over £100 in my pocket. Just got it at the bank.’ He drew out a pocket-book and examined it hurriedly. ‘No,’ he went on more quietly. ‘It’s all right.’ He took from it a bundle of notes and with care counted them. ‘A hundred and eight pounds. That’s quite correct. My watch? No, it’s here.’ He got up unsteadily, and rapidly went through his pockets. ‘Nothing missing anyway. Are you sure I was drugged? I don’t understand the thing a little bit.’

  ‘I am afraid there is no doubt about it. You seemed so ill that I sent for a doctor. He said you were suffering from the effects of a drug, but were in no danger and would be all right in a few hours. He advised that you be left quietly to sleep it off.’

  Cheyne rubbed his hand over his eyes.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ he repeated. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘About three o’clock or shortly before it Mr Parkes appeared at the office and asked for his bill. He paid it, complimented the clerk on the excellent lunch he had had, and left the hotel. He was perfectly calm and collected and quite unhurried. Shortly after the waiter went up to clear away the things and he found you lying back in your chair, apparently asleep, but breathing so heavily that he was uneasy and he came and told me. I went up at once and was also rather alarmed at your condition, so I sent at once for the doctor.’

  ‘But,’ Cheyne objected, ‘that’s all right, only I wasn’t drugged. I know exactly what I ate and drank and Parkes had. precisely the same. If I was drugged, he must have been also, and you say he wasn’t.’

  ‘He certainly was not. But think’ again, Mr Cheyne. Are you really quite certain that he had no opportunity of putting powder over your food or liquid into your drink? Did he divert your attention at any time from the table?’

  Cheyne was silent. He had remembered the flask of old brandy.

  ‘He put cognac in my coffee from his own flask,’ he admitted at length, ‘but it couldn’t have been that.’

  ‘Ah,’ the manager answered in a satisfied tone, ‘it was that, I should swear. Why don’t you think so?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why I don’t think so; why, in fact, I know it wasn’t. He put an even larger dose out of the same flask into his own cup and he drank his coffee before I drank mine. So that if there was anything in the flask he would have got knocked over first.’

  The manager looked puzzled.

  ‘Don’t think me discourteous, Mr Cheyne, but I confess I have my doubts about that. That episode of the flask looks too suspicious. Are you sure it was the same flask in each case? Did he pour straight into one cup after the other or was there an interval in between? You realise of course that a clever conjurer could substitute a second flask for the first without attracting your notice?’

  ‘I realise that right enough, but I am positive he didn’t do so in this case. Though,’ he paused for a moment, ‘that reminds me that there was an interval between pouring into each cup. He got a fit of coughing after giving me mine and had to put down the flask. But when the paroxysm was over he lifted it again and helped himself.’

  ‘There you are,’ the manager declared. ‘During his fit of coughing he substituted a different flask.’

  ‘I’ll swear he didn’t. But can’t we settle the thing beyond doubt? Have the cups been washed? If not, can’t we get the dregs analysed?’

  ‘I have already asked the doctor to have it done. He said he would get Mr Pringle to do it at once: that’s the city analyst. They’re close friends, and Mr Pringle would do it to oblige him. We should have his report quite soon. I am also having him analyse the remains on the plates which were used. Fortunately, owing to lunch being served in a private room, these had been stacked together and none had been washed. So we should be able to settle the matter quite definitely.’

  Cheyne nodded as he glanced at his watch. ‘Good Lord!’ he cried, ‘it’s eight o’clock and I said I should be home by seven! I must ring up my mother or she’ll think something is wrong.’

  The Cheynes had not themselves a telephone, but their nearest neighbours, people called Hazelton, were good-natured about receiving an occasional message through theirs and transmitting it to Warren Lodge. Cheyne went down to the lounge and put through his call, explaining to Mrs Hazelton that unforeseen circumstances had necessitated his remaining overnight in Plymouth. The lady promised to have the message conveyed to Mrs Cheyne and Maxwell rang off. Then as he turned to the dining-room, a page told him that the manager would like to see him in his office.

  ‘I’ve just got a report from the doctor about that coffee, Mr Cheyne,’ the other greeted him, ‘and I must say it confirms what you say though it by no means clears up the mystery. There was brandy in those cups, but no drug: no trace of a drug in either.’

  ‘I knew that,’ Cheyne rejoined. ‘Everything that I had. for lunch Parkes had also. I was there and I ought to know. But it’s a bit unsettling, isn’t it? Looks as if my heart or something had gone wrong.’

  The manager looked at him more seriously. ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he dissented. ‘I don’t think you can assume that. The doctor seemed quite satisfied. But if it would ease your mind, why not slip across now and see him? He lives just round the corner.’

  Cheyne reflected.

  ‘I’ll do so,’ he answered presently. ‘If there’s nothing wrong it will prevent me fancying things, and if there is I should know of it. I’ll have some-dinner and then go across. By the way, have you said anything to the police?’

  The manager hesitated.

  ‘No, I have not. I don’t know that we’ve evidence enough. But in any case, Mr Cheyne, I trust you do not wish to call in the police.’ The manager seemed quite upset by the idea and spoke earnestly. ‘It would not do the hotel any good if it became known that a visitor had been drugged. I sincerely trust, sir, that you can see your way to keep the matter quiet.’

  Cheyne stared.

  ‘But you surely don’t suggest that I should take the thing lying down? If I have been drugged, as you say, I must know who has done it, and why. That would seem to me obvious.’

  ‘I agree,’ the manager admitted, ‘and I should feel precisely the same in your place. But it is not necessary to apply to the police. A private detective would get you the information quite as well. See here, Mr Cheyne, I will make you an offer. If you will agree to the affair being hushed up, I will employ the detective on behalf of the hotel. He will work under your direction and keep you advised of every step he takes. Come now, sir, is it a bargain?’

  Cheyne did not hesitate.

  ‘Why, yes,’ he said promptly, ‘that will suit me all right. I don’t specially want to advertise the fact that I have been made a fool of. But I’d like to know what has really happened.’

  ‘You shall, Mr Cheyne. No stone shall be left unturned to get at the truth. I’ll see about a detective at once. You’ll have some dinner, sir?’

  Cheyne was not hungry, but he was very thirsty, and he had a light meal with a number of long drinks. Then he went round to see the doctor, to whom the manager had telephoned, making an appointment.

  After a thorough examination he received the verdict. It was a relief to his mind, but it did not tend to clear up the mystery. He was physically perfectly sound, and his sleep of the afternoon was not the result of disease or weakness. He had been drugged. That was the beginning and the end of the affair. The doctor was quite emphatic and ridiculed the idea of any other explanation.

  Cheyne returned to the Edgecombe, and sitting down in a deserted corner of the lounge, tried to puzzle the thing out. But the more he thought of it, the more mysterious it became. His mind up till then had been concentrated on the actual administration of the drug, and this point alone still seemed to constitute an insoluble problem. But now he saw that it was but a small
part of the mystery. Why had he been drugged? It was not robbery. Though he had over £100 in his pocket, the money was intact. He had no other valuables about him, and in any case nothing had been removed from his pockets. It was not to prevent his going to any place. He had not intended to do anything that afternoon that could possibly interest a stranger. No, he could form no conception of the motive.

  But even more puzzling than this was the question: How did Parkes, if that was really his name, know that he, Cheyne, was coming to Plymouth that day? It was true that he had mentioned it to his mother and sister a couple of days previously, but he had told no one else and he felt sure that neither had they. But the man had almost certainly been expecting him. At least it was hard to believe that the whole episode had been merely the fruits of a chance encounter. On the other hand there was the difficulty that any other suggestion seemed even more unlikely. Parkes simply couldn’t have known that he, Cheyne, was coming. It was just inconceivable.

  He lay back in his deep arm-chair, the smoke of his pipe curling lazily up, as he racked his brains for some theory which would at least partially meet the facts. But without success. He could think of nothing which threw a gleam of light on the situation.

  And then he made a discovery which still further befogged him and made him swear with exasperation. He had taken out his pocket book and was once more going through its contents to make absolutely sure nothing was missing, when he came to a piece of folded paper bearing memoranda about the money matters which he had discussed with his banker. He had not opened this when he had looked through the book after regaining consciousness, but now half absent-mindedly he unfolded it. As he did so he stared. Near the crease was a slight tear, unquestionably made by someone unfolding it hurriedly or carelessly. But that tear had not been there when he had folded it up. He could swear to it. Someone therefore had been through his pockets while he was asleep.

  2

  Burglary!

  The discovery that his pockets had been gone through while he was under the influence of the drug reduced Cheyne to a state of even more complete mystification than ever. What had the unknown been looking for? He, Cheyne, had nothing with him that, so far as he could imagine, could possibly have interested any other person. Indeed, money being ruled out, he did not know that he possessed anywhere any paper or small object which it would be worth a stranger’s while to steal.

  Novels he had read recurred to him in which desperate enterprises were undertaken to obtain some document of importance. Plans of naval or military inventions which would give world supremacy to the power possessing them were perhaps the favourite instruments in these romances, but treaties which would mean war if disclosed to the wrong power, maps of desert islands on which treasure was buried, wills of which the existence was generally unknown and letters compromising the good name of wealthy personages had all been used time and again. But Cheyne had no plans or treaties or compromising letters from which an astute thief might make capital. Think as he would, he could frame no theory to account for Parkes’s proceedings.

  He yawned, and getting up, began to pace the deserted lounge. The effects of the drug had not entirely worn off, for though he had slept all the afternoon he still felt slack and drowsy. In spite of its being scarcely ten o’clock, he thought he would have a whisky and go up to bed, in the hope that a good night’s rest would drive the poison out of his system and restore his usual feeling of mental and physical well being.

  But Fate, once more in the guise of an approaching page, decreed otherwise. As he turned lazily towards the bar a voice sounded in his ear.

  ‘Wanted on the telephone, sir.’

  Cheyne crossed the hall and entered the booth.

  ‘Well?’ he said shortly. ‘Cheyne speaking.’

  A woman’s voice replied, a voice he recognised. It belonged to Ethel Hazelton, the grown up daughter of that Mrs Hazelton whom he had asked to inform Mrs Cheyne of his change of plans. She spoke hurriedly and he could sense perturbation in her tones.

  ‘Oh, Mr Cheyne, I’m afraid I have rather disturbing news for you. When you rang up we sent James over to Warren Lodge. He found Mrs Cheyne and Agatha on the doorstep trying to get in. They had been ringing for some time, but could not attract attention. He rang also, and then eventually found a ladder and got in through one of the upper windows. He opened the door for Mrs Cheyne and Agatha. Can you hear me all right?’

  ‘Yes, clearly. Go on, please, Miss Hazelton.’

  ‘They searched the house and they discovered cook and Susan in their bedrooms, both tied up and gagged, but otherwise none the worse. They released them, of course, and then they found that the house had been burgled.’

  ‘Burgled!’ Cheyne ejaculated sharply. ‘Great Scott!’ He was considerably startled and paused in some consternation, asking then if much stuff was missing.

  ‘They don’t know,’ the distant voice answered. ‘Your safe had been opened, but they hadn’t had time to make an examination when James left. The silver seems to be all there, so that’s something. James came back here with a message from Mrs Cheyne asking us to let you know, and I have been ringing up hotels in Plymouth for the last half hour. You know, you only said you were staying the night in your message; you didn’t say where. Mrs Cheyne would like you to come back if you can manage it.’

  There was no hesitation about Cheyne’s reply.

  ‘Of course I shall,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll start at once on my bicycle. What about telling the police?’

  ‘I rang them up immediately. They said they would go out at once. James has gone back also. He will stay and lend a hand until you arrive.’

  ‘Splendid! It’s more than good of you both, Miss Hazelton. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be there in less than an hour.’

  He delayed only to tell the news to the manager.

  ‘There’s the explanation of this afternoon’s affair at all events,’ he declared. ‘I was evidently fixed up so that I couldn’t butt in and spoil sport. But it’s good-bye to your keeping it quiet. The police have been called in already and the whole thing is bound to come out.’

  The manager made a gesture of concern.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear your news,’ he said gravely. ‘Are you properly insured?’

  ‘Partially. I don’t know if it will cover the loss because I don’t know what’s gone. But I must be getting away.’

  He was moving off, but the manager laid a detaining hand on his arm.

  ‘Well, I’m extremely sorry about it. But see here, Mr Cheyne, it may not prove to be necessary to bring in about the drugging. It would injure the hotel. I sincerely trust you’ll do what you can in the matter, and if you find the private detective sufficient, you’ll let our arrangement stand.’

  ‘I’ll decide when I hear just what has happened. You’ll let me have a copy of the analyst’s report?’

  ‘Of course. Directly I get it I shall send it on.’

  Fifteen minutes later Cheyne was passing through the outskirts of Plymouth on his way east. The night was fine, the mists of the day having cleared away, and a three-quarter moon shone brilliantly out of a blue-black sky. Keenly anxious to reach home and learn the details of the burglary and the extent of his loss, Cheyne crammed on every ounce of power, and his machine snored along the deserted road at well over forty miles an hour. In spite of slacks for villages and curves he made a record run, turning into the gate of Warren Lodge at just ten minutes before eleven.

  As he approached the house everything looked normal. But when he let himself in this impression was dispelled, for a constable stood in the hall, who, saluting, informed him that Sergeant Kirby was within and in charge.

  But Cheyne’s first concern was with his mother and sister. An inquiry produced the information that the two ladies were waiting for him in the drawing-room, and thither he at once betook himself.

  Mrs Cheyne was a frail little woman who looked ten years older than her age of something under sixty. She welcomed her son with a
little cry of pleasure.

  ‘Oh, I am relieved to see you, Maxwell,’ she cried. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come. Isn’t this a terrible business?’

  ‘I don’t know, mother,’ Cheyne answered cheerily, ‘that depends. I hear no one is any the worse. Has much stuff been stolen?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Mrs Cheyne’s tone conveyed the wonder she evidently felt. ‘Nothing whatever! Or at least we can’t find that anything is missing.’

  ‘Unless something may have been taken from your safe,’ Agatha interposed. ‘Was there much in it?’

  ‘No, only a few pounds and some papers, none valuable to an outsider.’ He glanced at his sister. She was a pretty girl, tall and dark and in features not unlike himself. Both the young people had favoured the late commander’s side of the house. He turned towards the door, continuing: ‘I’ll go and have a look, and then you can tell me what has happened.’

  The safe was built into the wall in his own sanctum, ‘the study,’ as his mother persisted in calling it. It had been taken over with the house when Mrs Cheyne bought the little estate. As Cheyne now entered he saw that its doors were standing open. A tall man in the uniform of a sergeant of police was stooping over it. He turned as he heard the newcomer’s step.

  ‘Good-evening, sir,’ he said in an impressive tone. ‘This is a bad business.’

  ‘Oh, well, I don’t know, Sergeant,’ Cheyne answered easily. ‘If no one has been hurt and nothing has been stolen, it might have been worse.’

  The sergeant stared at him with some disfavour. ‘There’s not much but what might have been worse,’ he observed oracularly. ‘But we’re not sure yet that nothing’s been stolen. Nobody knows what was in this here safe, except maybe yourself. I’d be glad if you’d have a look and see if anything is gone.’

  There was very little in the safe and it did not take Cheyne many seconds to go through it. The papers were tossed about—he could swear someone had turned them over—but none seemed to have been removed. The small packet of Treasury notes was intact and a number of gold and silver medals, won in athletic contests, were all in evidence.