Lansbury smiled at the note of eagerness in the detective’s voice. He leaned forward in his chair, looking from one to the other of his listeners as if to indicate that he was now coming to the really important part of his story. “Go back a bit, you mean,” he said with a laugh “to my meeting with von Eckhardstein. Well, as I said, I explained the proposition to him. We walked along the road, leading outward from Markenmore, for some time, discussing matters. We——”
“Meet anybody—see anybody?” interrupted Blick.
“I don’t remember that we encountered a soul!” answered Lansbury. “Pretty lonely parts, those. We walked up that road, perhaps a mile; then turned and came back to about where we’d met. By that time we’d got on to other topics than that which I’d first mentioned. Von Eckhardstein was not greatly taken with the matter I put before him. He saw its value as a commercial proposition, but while he felt that it would materialize well in this country and in mine, he was not so sure if he could make it a big thing in the mid-European countries, because of certain German opposition. However, he neither said yes nor no: and when we were about to part he asked me where I was staying, and what time I’d be likely to go to bed. I told him I had put up at the Sceptre Inn, close by, and that I expected Markenmore there about ten-thirty to eleven, to supper, and that he and I would be sure to sit up late as we’d a good deal to talk about. Von Eckhardstein then told me a thing which may be of some significance to you police people, now that things have turned out as they have. He said that he was suffering badly from insomnia; couldn’t sleep at night—at any rate as he ought to—and that since coming to this place where he was visiting, he’d frequently gone out long walks in the middle of the night to see if he could induce sleep. He said that if he so went out that night, and if, in the meantime, he’d changed his mind about the proposition I’d put before him, he’d likely drop in on Markenmore and myself if he saw a light in my sitting-room window. So——”
“From his last remark you gathered that he knew the Sceptre?” enquired Blick. “Enough to know where your sitting-room was, eh?”
“Well, that’s what he said, anyhow,” replied Lansbury. “As for my sitting-room, it was one which the landlord showed me into when I stepped into his house—a biggish room on the left-hand side of the hall, with a French window that opened on the front garden.”
“Precisely,” said Blick. “I’m occupying that room, now. Well——?”
“Well, we parted on that,” continued Lansbury. “Von Eckhardstein turned into a little gate that led, I suppose, to the house where he was staying, and I strolled back to the Sceptre. I sat down and waited for Markenmore. He was very late in coming; in fact, he didn’t come until close on twelve o’clock. He was in very high spirits—he told me, as we sat at supper, that he’d met his old sweetheart (handsomest woman in England, he called her!), and that they were both so pleased to meet again that they’d fixed it up to be married right off, and I’d have to be his best man. Then we got on to business, and I mentioned von Eckhardstein. Of course he knew all about von Eckhardstein, and he said that von Eckhardstein was staying with this lady, he, Markenmore, was going to marry, though he hadn’t met him then, being more pleasantly engaged. We went on discussing our business until close on two o’clock in the morning. Just about that time I heard the latch of the garden gate snap, and guessing that was von Eckhardstein out on one of his nocturnal rambles, I opened the French window and stepped into the garden. There he was, coming across the bit of lawn, and I took him in and introduced him to Markenmore, and we began to re-discuss the business proposition. That——”
“A moment, if you please!” interrupted Blick. “Before you tell us about that, will you answer a question which has just occurred to me? During the time you three were together, did Markenmore ever mention his approaching marriage to von Eckhardstein? I want to know—particularly.”
“No, I am sure he did not,” replied Lansbury promptly. “While the three of us were together, nothing but the immediate business proposition was discussed. What Markenmore may have said on that subject—if he said anything—to von Eckhardstein later, when I parted from them and left them together, I can’t presume to speculate on, but during the hour or so in which we were all in company, nothing was talked of but business. Now, without telling you the exact details of the secret, I’ll tell what that business was. A young fellow who lived in a small country town between this city and London, getting in touch with Markenmore as a financial man, offered him a trade secret which he was anxious to sell outright, for strict cash, for a certain amount of money that he required to set himself up in business. The amount asked was three thousand pounds. It was a good bargain—a very good bargain. The advantage was on the side of the purchaser—but the young fellow had fixed his own price and would evidently be well content if he got it. After von Eckhardstein came to the Sceptre we all three talked the matter out—Markenmore had the papers and showed them—and we decided to buy: that is, von Eckhardstein decided to come in, for Markenmore and myself had already made up our minds. We then settled matters: von Eckhardstein and myself each giving Markenmore a thousand pounds in notes as our shares——”
“Do I understand that you each gave Markenmore one thousand pounds, in notes, there and then?” asked Blick abruptly. “Notes?”
“Why, certainly!” answered Lansbury. “That’s just what I said. Bank of England notes. To which, of course, he added a similar sum of his own—to make up the three thousand. What’s surprising you?”
“Do you mean to say that all three of you were carrying large sums of money on you—like those?” asked Blick. “Walking about with as much as a thousand pounds on you?”
“That’s no great sum to carry,” replied Lansbury. “Men in our line have to carry a good deal of ready money about them. A thousand pounds doesn’t take up much room in a wallet.”
“There would be notes of big denominations, I suppose?” suggested the Chief Constable.
“Exactly!” assented Lansbury. “Mostly so, at any rate. Notes of five hundred or two hundred each. I remember that von Eckhardstein handed over two notes of five hundred. Mine were smaller—four two hundreds, one one hundred, and two fifties, I don’t know anything of Markenmore’s—he simply put our money to his in an envelope with the rest of the papers.”
“Why notes at all?” asked Blick, in whom an absolutely new train of thought was now developing. “Why could not this transaction have been settled by a cheque?”
“Because the young fellow of whom I have told you—the seller—particularly wanted his money in notes,” replied Lansbury. “I said he lives in a small town between this city of yours and London. Well, Markenmore was going to call on him on his way back, hand him the cash, and the thing was settled. Do you get that?”
Blick was beginning to manifest a certain restlessness. He got out of his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the room with bent head. Suddenly he twisted round on Lansbury.
“Then, when Guy Markenmore went out of that inn, the Sceptre, at three o’clock on Tuesday morning, he’d three thousand pounds, in Bank of England notes, on him?” he said. “Is that a fact?”
“Sure!” replied Lansbury. “He had!”
Blick gave the Chief Constable a significant look and snapped out a significant word.
“Robbery!”
The Chief Constable nodded. He, too, was beginning to see developments.
“Looks like it,” he said. “Murdered for what he had on him. And yet——” he paused, looking at the detective with professional appeal. “Odd,” he went on, “that everything else was untouched.”
“That makes things all the more significant,” observed Blick. He turned to Lansbury. “Did you see where Markenmore put the money—the banknotes—and the papers you referred to just now?” he asked.
“I did! In the inner breast pocket of his coat.”
“Just put them in—as one puts letters, or anything of that sort, into one’s pocket?”
“Sure!”
“Did he ever leave that room in which you were all three sitting until you all left it for good?”
“He did not! None of us did.”
“Well,” said Blick, after a pause, during which he appeared to be deep in reflection. “What happened after you’d finished this business?”
“Nothing unusual. We talked a bit, had a whisky and soda, lighted a fresh cigar, perhaps——”
“Ah!” remarked Blick. “That reminds me of another question. Were you all smoking cigars?”
“No,” replied Lansbury. “Von Eckhardstein was smoking a pipe. He said cigars made his insomnia worse.”
“Well—you left at about three o’clock, I think?” suggested Blick.
“About that. Markenmore was going across country to a station called Mitbourne: we said we would walk a little way with him. We left by the French window: it was then beginning to get grey in the sky—you could see things. We walked up the road, past the village cross and the old church. A little further on, I remembered that I had bought a local railwa............