"It vos quite dark behind the curtain but from the bathroom, through the open door, I could just see ole Mac standing with his back to me, a-holding the curtain. He must haf shlip in there to watch the other who vos komming opstairs. Then... then... I hear a step on the stair... a little, soft step... then ole Mac he open the curtain and cry 'Who are you?' Bang! the... the... other on the stairs he fire a shot. I see the red flash and I smell the... the powder not? The other, he does not vait... he just go on opstairs and ole Mac is lying there on his back with the blood a-trickling out on the oil-cloth. And I, vith my bag on my back, I creep downstair and out by the back again, and I ron and ron and then I valks. Gott! how I haf walked! I vos so frightened!
And then, at last, I go to a policeman and gif 'myself op!"Barney stopped. The tears burst from his eyes and laying his grimy face on his arm, he sobbed.
The detective patted him on the back.
"Pull yourself together, man!" he said encouragingly.
"This man on the stairs," queried the Chief, "did you see him?""Ach was!" replied the prisoner, turning a tearstained face towards him, "I haf seen nothing, except old Mac's back vich vos right in vront of me, it vos so dark!""But couldn't you see the other person at all, not even the outline" persisted the Chief.
The prisoner made a gesture of despair.
"It vos so dark, I say! Nothing haf I seen! I haf heard only his step!""What sort of step I Pas it heavy or light or what? Did this person seem in a hurry?""A little light tread... so! won, two! won, two! , and qvick like 'e think 'e sneak opstairs vithout nobody seeing!""Did he make much noise"
"Ach was! hardly at all... the tread, 'e vos so light like a woman's...""Like a woman's, eh!", repeated the Chief, as if talking to himself, "Why do you think that?""Because for vy it vos so gentle! The' staircase, she haf not sqveak as she haf sqveak when I haf creep away!"The Chief turned to the plain clothes man.
"You can take him away now, officer," he said.
Barney sprang up trembling.
"Not back to the cell," he cried imploringly, "I cannot be alone.
Oh, gentlemen, you vill speak for me! I haf not had trobble vith the police this long time! My vife's cousin, he is an elder of the Shool he vill tell you 'ow poor ve haf been..."But the Chief crossed the room to the door rind the detective hustled the prisoner away,Then the official whom they had seen before came in.
"Glad I caught you," he said. "I thought you would care to see the post mortem report. The doctor has just handed it in."The chief waved him off.
"I don't think there's any doubt about the cause of death," he replied, "we saw the body ourselves...""Quite so," replied the other, "but there is something interesting about this report all the, same. They were able to extract the bullet!""Oh," said the Chief, "that ought to tell us something!""It does," answered the official. "We've submitted it to our small arms expert, and he pronounces it to be a bullet fired by an automatic pistol of unusually large calibre."The Chief looked at Desmond.
"You were right there," he said.
"And," the official went on, "our man says, further, that, as far as he knows, there is only one type of automatic pistol that fires a bullet as big as this one!""And that is?" asked the Chief.
"An improved pattern of the German Mauser pistol," was the other's startling reply.
The Chief tapped a cigarette meditatively on the back of his hand.
"Okewood," he said, "you are the very model of discretion. I have put your reticence to a pretty severe test this morning, and you have stood it very well. But I can see that you are bristling with questions like a porcupine with quills. Zero hour has arrived. You may fire away!"They were sitting in the smoking-room of the United Service Club.
"The Senior," as men call it, is the very parliament of Britain's professional navy and army. Even in these days when war has flung wide the portals of the two services to all-comers, it retains a touch of rigidity. Famous generals and admirals look down from the lofty walls in silent testimony of wars that have been. Of the war that is, you will hear in every cluster of men round the little tables. Every day in the hour after luncheon battles are fought over again, personalities criticized, and decisions weighed with all the vigorous freedom of ward-room or the mess ante-room.
And so to-day, as he sat in his padded leather chair, surveying the Chief's quizzing face across the little table where their coffee was steaming, Desmond felt the oddness of the contrast between the direct, matter-of-fact personalities all around them, and the extraordinary web of intrigue which seemed to have spun itself round the little house at Seven Kings.
