Hetherwick took in the general aspect and contents of that room at a glance. It had been fitted up—recently, he thought, from certain small evidences—as a bed-sitting-room. A camp-bed stood in one corner; there was a washstand, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, two or three pictures, a shelf of books, a small square of carpet in the centre of the floor, the outer edges of which had been roughly and newly stained. On the bed lay, open, a suit-case, already packed with clothes and linen; by it lay an overcoat, hat, gloves, umbrella; it was evident that the man to whom it belonged had completed his preparations for a departure, and had nothing to do but to close and lock the suit-case, put on his overcoat and hat, pick up the other things and go away.
But the man himself? There was a big, old-fashioned easy chair at the side of the bed—a roomy, comfortable affair. A man lay, rather than sat, in it, in an attitude which suggested that he had dropped there as with a sudden weariness, laid his head back against the padded cushion, and—gone to sleep. But the men knew, all of them, as they crowded into that room, that it was no sleep that they had broken in upon—it was death. This, as the Jew had been quick to see, was a dead man—dead!
Hetherwick took him in as quickly as he had taken in his surroundings. His head lay quietly against the padding of the chair, a little inclined to his left shoulder: the face was fully visible. It was—to Hetherwick—the face of a stranger; in all his and Matherfield's investigations it had not been described to them. Yet he was certain that he was looking on the man known to them by repute as Ambrose. Disguised, of course—he had shaved off the dark beard and moustache of which they had heard, and he could see at once that the loss of them had made a remarkable difference in his appearance. But nothing could disguise his height and general build. This, without doubt, was the man Matherfield and he had hunted for, the man who had met Hannaford at Victoria, who had disappeared from his flat in the Adelphi—the man who was associated with Baseverie, and who——
"Dead as a door-nail!" muttered Robmore, bending close to the still figure. "And—he's been dead a good bit, too!—some hours, anyway. Stiff! Do ye know him, Mr. Hetherwick?"
Hetherwick said what he thought. Robmore pointed to the things on the bed.
"Looks as if he'd been taken with a seizure just as he was about to set off somewhere," he remarked. "Well, if this is the Dr. Ambrose we've been seeking—but let's see if he's got anything on him to prove his identity."
While the rest of the men stood by watching, he put his hand into the dead man's inside breast pocket—he was wearing a smart, brand-new grey tweed suit, Hetherwick, later on, remembered how its newness struck him as being incongruously out of place, somehow—and drew out a pocket-book. Touching Hetherwick's elbow and motioning him to follow him, he went over to the window, leaving the others still staring wonderingly at the dead man.
"This is a queer business, Mr. Hetherwick," he whispered as they drew apart. "You think this is the Dr. Ambrose we were after?"
"Sure of it!" answered Hetherwick. "He's shaved off his beard and moustache, and that's no doubt made a big difference in his appearance, but you may depend on it, this is the man! But what's caused his sudden death?"
Then a keen, vivid recollection flashed up in him, and he turned sharply, glancing at the rigid figure in the background.
"What is it?" asked Robmore curiously. "Something strikes you?"
Hetherwick pointed to the dead man's attitude.
"That's—that's just how Hannaford looked when he died in the railway carriage!" he whispered. "After the first signs—you know—he laid back and—died. Just like that—as if he'd dropped quietly asleep. Can—can it be that——"
"I know what you're thinking," muttered Robmore. "Poisoned! Well—what about—eh—the other man?"
"Baseverie!" exclaimed Hetherwick.
"Why not?—to rid himself of an accomplice! But—this pocket-book," said Robmore. "Let's see what's in it. Doesn't seem to be anything very much, by the thinness."
From one flap of the pocket-book he drew out a wad of carefully-folded bank notes, and rapidly turned them over.
"Hundred and fifty pounds there," he remarked. "And what's this paper—a draft on a New York bank for two hundred. New York, eh? So that's where he was bound? And this," he went on, turning out the other flap. "Ah! see this, Mr. Hetherwick? He'd got his passage booked by the Maratic, sailing to-night. Um! And Matherfield's gone to Southampton, after Baseverie. I'm beginning to see a bit into this, I think."
"What do you see?" asked Hetherwick.
"Well, it looks to me as if Baseverie had gone ahead to collect that box containing the jewels, and that Ambrose was to follow later, join him there, when Baseverie had secured the loot, and that they were then to be off with their harvest! But—do you notice this—the name under which the passage is booked? Not Ambrose—Charles Andrews, Esquire. Andrews! And Baseverie is Basing. Basing and Andrews. Now I wonder if they carried on business here under these names?"
"That's an unimportant detail," said Hetherwick. "The important thing, surely, is—that! How did that man come by his death?"
"Well, but I don't think that is very important—just now," replied Robmore. "After all, he is dead, and whether he died as the result of a sudden seizure, or whether Baseverie cleverly poisoned him before he left, is a question we'll have to settle later. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Hetherwick—I'll lay anything he didn't poison himself! Look round—there isn't a sign of anything he's been drinking out of. No, sir—the other man's done this. And if Matherfield has the luck to lay hands on him to-night—ah! But now, what was this your clerk, Mapperley, told us as we came along about the Little Smith Street landlady coming here this afternoon?"
"She was followed here by Goldmark," replied Hetherwick. "Goldmark saw her admit herself by a key which she took from her pocket. She stayed inside a few minutes, came out looking much upset, and hurried away to her own house."
"And now you and I'll just hurry after her," said Robmore. "After all, she's living, and we'll make her find her tongue. Of course, she came in here expecting to find this man, and to tell him somebody was on the look-out. And—she found him dead! Come round there with me, Mr. Hetherwick, at once."
He turned to the other detective and the constable, and after giving them some whispered instructions, left the room, Hetherwick, after a word or two with Mapperley, following him. But before they had reached the outer door, they heard steps in the yard, and suddenly two men appeared in the doorway.
If Hetherwick and his companion looked questioningly at these two men, they, on their part, looked questioningly at Robmore and Hetherwick. They were youngish men—Hetherwick set them down as respectably-dressed artisans. That they were surprised to find anyone confronting them at the door whereat all four now stood, was evident; their surprise, indeed, was so great that they came to a sudden halt, staring silently. But Robmore spoke. "Wanting somebody?" he asked sharply.
The two strangers exchanged a glance, and the apparently elder one replied:
"Well, no!" he said. "Not that we know of. But might we ask if you are? And how you got in here? Because this place happens to be ours!"
"Yours!" exclaimed Robmore. "Your property?
"Well, if buying it, paying for it, and taking a receipt and papers makes it so!" answered the man. "Bought it this morning—and settled up for it, too, anyway."
Robmore produced and handed over a professional card, and the faces of the two men fell as they read it. The elder looked up quickly.
"I hope there's nothing wrong?" he said anxiously. "Detectives, eh? We've laid out a nice bit on this—savings, too, and——"
"I don't suppose there's anything wrong that way," replied Robmore reassuringly. "But there's something uncommonly wrong in other ways. Now look here, who are you two, and from whom did you buy this place?"
"My name's Marshall, his is Wilkinson," answered the leader. "We're just starting business for ourselves as electrical engineers. We advertised for a likely place hereabouts, and Mr. Andrews came to us about this—said he and his partner, Mr. Basing, were leaving, and wanted to sell it, just as it stood. We came to look at it, and as it's just the place we need to start with, we agreed to buy it. They said it was their own property, and to save law expenses we carried out the purchase between ourselves. And we paid over the purchase money this morning, and got the papers and the key."
"What time was that?" asked Robmore.
"Ten o'clock or thereabouts," replied Marshall. "By appointment, here."
"Did ye see both men—Basing and Andrews?"
"Both! In that little room to the right. We settled the business—paid them in cash—and settled all up. It was soon done, then they stood us a drink and a cigar, and we went."
"Stood you a drink, eh?" said Robmore suddenly. "Where?"
"Here! Basing, he pulled out a big bottle of champagne and a cigar-box, and said we'd wet the bargain. We'd a glass apiece, Wilkinson and me, then we left 'em to finish the bottle: we were in a hurry. But—is anything wrong?"
"What is wrong, my lad, is that the man you know as Andrews is lying dead upstairs!" replied Robmore. "Poisoned, most likely, by his partner. But, as I said just now, I don't suppose there's anything wrong about your buying the property, providing you can show a title to it; you say you've got the necessary papers?"
Marshall clapped a hand on the pocket of his coat.
"Got 'em all here, now," he said. "But—did you say Andrews was dead—poisoned? Why, he was as alive as I am when we left the two of 'em together. They were finishing the bottle——"
"Look here," interrupted Robmore. "Wait awhile until we come back—we've some important work close by. There are people of ours upstairs—tell them I said you were to wait a bit. Now, Mr. Hetherwick."
Outside the yard and in the crowded street, Robmore turned to his companion with a cynical laugh.
"Champagne—to wet the bargain!" he said. "Left them to finish it, eh? And no doubt what finished Ambrose was in that champagne—slipped in by Baseverie when his back was turned. I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick, that chap's a thorough-paced 'un—he goes the whole hog! I only hope he won't be too deep for Matherfield at Southampton! I shall be anxious till I hear."
"Is it possible for him to escape Matherfield?" exclaimed Hetherwick. "How can he? I look on him as being as good as in custody already! He's bound to call at the post office for that box."
"Is he, though?" interrupted the detective, with another incredulous laugh. "I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Hetherwick. Baseverie is evidently an accomplished scoundrel, and full of all sorts of tricks! I'll tell ye what I'm wondering—will that parcel ever get to Southampton post office, where it's to be called for?"
"Whatever do you mean?" demanded Hetherwick. "It's in the post! Posted this morning."
"No doubt," agreed Robmore dryly. "By special delivery, eh? And when it gets to Southampton Station, it's got to be taken to the head post office, hasn't it?"
"Well?" asked Hetherwick.
"There's many a slip twixt cup and lip—so the old saying goes," replied Robmore. "That parcel may slip. But isn't this the number your clerk mentioned?"
The door of Mrs. Mallett's house looked more closely barred than ever—if possible. And no answer came to several summonses by bell and knocker. But presently Robmore tried the handle—the door opened at his touch.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "Open! Um! That seems a bit queer. Well—inside!"
For the second time that afternoon, Hetherwick walked into a place that seemed to be wholly deserted.