The White Room

"A Greek. Bocaros means bull's head or bull's tail-at least it did when I was at school. Ah! I've been educated, though you mightn't think so, Mister Inspector."

Derrick passed over this remark. "Did you see this man?"

"No. My time's too valuable to run after foreigners. I wrote to him at the address given by Mrs. Brand. She said he was a cousin of hers. He wrote back saying that she was a respectable person. I dare say she was, but I don't believe she had a husband. If she had, why didn't he show? A commercial gent! Bah! Don't tell me."

"What address did Mrs. Brand give you?"

"Now that's queer. She gave me Ulysses Street, Troy!"

This time Derrick could not suppress an exclamation. "Why, that is only a stone-throw from Achilles Avenue. It's near Meadow Lane."

"I said it was queer," remarked Webb, nodding. "Perhaps he did her to death. What do you think?"

"I think you may have put a clue into my hand," said the inspector, noting the address in his useful little book. "Don't speak of this to any one. I'll make it worth your while."

"Halves," said the miser again; "though it's only fifty pounds. I think Mr. – what's his name? – Fane should give me the whole hundred."

"Oh, indeed." Derrick put the book into his pocket. "And what about me, Mr. Webb, if you please?"

"You're paid for finding criminals, I ain't," said Webb, entering a side door. "Come and look at the room. My time's valuable. I can't stand talking to you all day. The drawing-room this is."

"Ha!" Derrick stood at the door, and looked at the small room, which was furnished in the same fashion as the larger one in Ajax Villa, though not in so costly a manner. The walls and hangings were white, the carpet and furniture also, and even the piano was cased in white wood. In all respects, save in the way of luxury, the room was the same. It was strange that Mrs. Brand should have been killed in a room similar to her drawing-room, and in a house situated at the other end of London. "Though we don't know if the dead woman is Mrs. Brand," said Derrick, looking round.

"That's easily settled," said Webb, who had taken up his position in a cane chair. "There's her portrait."

On the mantel-piece were two silver frames, one on either side of a gimcrack French clock. The frame to the left contained the photograph of a pretty slight woman, in whom Derrick immediately recognised the dead unknown. "That's her sure enough," said he, taking a long look. "I wonder how she came to die in a room similar to this," and he glanced around again. "The mystery is growing deeper every discovery I make. What of the other silver frame?"

"It's got the photograph of a man-the husband, I suppose."

"No." Derrick took down the frame. "The photograph has been removed."

"Lord!" said Webb, when a close examination assured him of this fact. "Why, so it has. But she showed it to me one day when I asked about Mr. Brand, and said it was his picture."

"Do you remember what the man was like in looks?" said the inspector, replacing the frame, much disappointed.

"No," replied the old man; "my eyesight's that bad as I can hardly tell A from B. It was the picture of a bearded man."

"A pointed beard?"

"I can't say. He had a beard, that's all I know. Mrs. Brand said that his business took him away a good deal. But she didn't say he was a commercial gent."

"Did Mrs. Brand, go out much?"

"Not at all. I told you so before. She kept very much to herself, in a haughty kind of way. Thought herself a fine lady, I suppose, and there's no denying she was a lady. She has been my tenant for over five years, and always paid regular, but she knew no one, and when any one called she never would let them in. I only got to know of this room because I came for my rent."

"Did she pay her bills regularly?"

"Yes. I asked that, being fearful for my rent. She always paid up like a lady. Not that she took much in. Generally she lived by herself, so didn't eat much, keeping no servant either."

"Did she ever go out to concerts or theatres or anywhere?"

"When her husband came home she used to enjoy herself. I believe she went to the opera, or to concerts, being fond of music."

"Ah!" Derrick recalled the song. "Did she sing?"

"Not that I ever heard of. She told me very little about herself, and what I know I had to drag out of her. She came five years ago and took this cottage by herself. Afterwards her husband, as she called him, came. I never saw him, and she always paid her rent regularly. That's all I know."

"Why do you think Mr. Brand was not her husband?"

"I never said he wasn't. I don't know. She seemed a respectable person, and was very quiet in her living and dress. Sometimes she shut up the cottage and went away for a week."

"Always for a week?"

"Yes. She never was absent long. I suppose she and her husband had a jaunt all to themselves. She had no children. But ain't you going to look at the rest of the house?"

"Yes." Derrick cast his eyes round the room again. On the round white wood table was a photograph album bound in white leather. He opened this, and found that all the portraits therein-the book was only half full-were those of women. Several were of Mrs. Brand as child and girl and woman. Spaces showed that five or six portraits had been removed. Derrick noted this, and then left the drawing-room thoughtfully. It seemed to him as though all the male portraits had been removed on purpose. And the chances were that in an album belonging to the wife, portraits of the husband might be found. At the door of the white room he cast his eyes on the ground. "Has it been raining?" he asked.

Webb, who was already in the passage, came back, and stared at the footmarks-muddy footmarks which were printed on the white carpet. "It's not been raining for over a week," he said. "Strange that there should be this mess. Mrs. Brand was always a particularly tidy woman. She never let a spot of dirt remain in this room."

"We've had a dry summer," said Derrick, pinching his lip.

"Very dry," assented Webb. "To be sure, there was that big thunderstorm eight days ago."

"And before that we had three weeks of sunshine."

"Yes." The old man stared. "What of that?"

"It seems to me-" said Derrick; then he paused, and shook his head. "Let us examine the rest of the house."

Webb, not knowing what was passing in the officer's mind, stared again and hobbled round as cicerone. They went to the small kitchen, to the one bedroom, to the tiny dining-room, and examined the small conservatory opening out of this last. At the back of the house there was a small garden filled with gaudy sunflowers and tall hollyhocks. The red brick walls which enclosed the plot of ground scarcely larger than a handkerchief were draped with ivy, carefully trimmed and tended. The conservatory was filled with cheap flowers neatly ranged. Apparently Mrs. Brand, judging by the conservatory and the back and front gardens, was fond of flowers, and made it the pleasure of her life to tend them.

The kitchen and the dining-room were plainly furnished. In the meat-safe outside the back door were the chops and steaks left by the butcher's boy, and also loaves of bread. A milk-can was on the ground and empty, showing that probably all the cats in the place had been enjoying themselves. Derrick found that a narrow passage between the enclosing wall and the house led from the front garden to the back. Having assured himself of this, he re-entered the house, and examined the bedroom.

This was better furnished than the rest of the house. There was a smart dressing-table decked with muslin and pink ribbons. On it were articles of female toilette. Several dresses (plain for the most part) were hanging up in the wardrobe, and there was a warm but untrimmed dressing-gown in the bathroom. But Derrick could not see any male apparel, and pointed this out to Webb.

"Perhaps Mr. Brand wasn't her husband after all," said the old man. "He may have been a friend of hers, and came here occasionally. But he didn't live here."

"The boy said he did sometimes."

"The boy's a liar," said Webb vindictively.

"Hum! I don't know that. I have an idea."

"Of what?"

"I'll tell you directly." Derrick opened all the drawers in the bedroom. He found linen, hats, handkerchiefs, ribbons-all articles of female attire, but again nothing appertaining to a man's dress.

"Where's her desk?" he asked abruptly.

"In the white room. I was sitting near it."

"The inspector, having searched the bedroom again to see if he could find any papers, led the way back to the drawing-room. The desk was near the window, and unlocked; that is, it opened easily enough, and Derrick thought it was unlocked. But a glance showed him that the lock was broken. The desk has been forced," he said, and threw wide the lid, "and the contents have been removed," he added.

Webb stared at the empty desk. There were a few bundles of receipted bills, some writing-paper and envelopes, and a stick or two of red sealing-wax. But no scrap of writing was there to reveal anything about Mrs. Brand. Yet on a knowledge of her past depended the discovery of the reason she had been stabbed in Troy. The inspector looked at the desk, at the floor, and drew his own conclusions. "Some one has been here eight days ago, and has removed all papers and pictures likely to give a clue to the past of this woman and to the identity of the husband."

"How do you know?" asked Webb, startled.

Derrick pointed to the muddy marks on the carpet. "The fact that the carpet is white betrays the truth," said he. "For the last month or so, that is, before and since the murder, we have had only one storm-that was eight days ago. The person who removed the portraits from the album and from the silver frame, who forced the desk and destroyed the papers, came on that day-"

"The thunderstorm was at night," interrupted Webb.

"Then at night, which would be the better concealment of his purpose. He came here with mud on his boots, as is proved by these marks. He wished to remove all evidence of Mr. Brand's identity. Therefore-"

"Well," said Webb, seeing that Derrick hesitated. "I believe that Brand himself did so, and that Brand is the man who killed his wife in Ajax Villa."

CHAPTER VIII

PROFESSOR BOCAROS

Mrs. Baldwin always called herself an unlucky woman, and lamented that she had to undergo misfortunes heavier than those of other people. But in truth she was better off than her laziness and grumbling deserved. Her income was small but sure, and if she lived unhappily, with her second husband the fault was hers. The man grew weary of her inattention to domestic comfort, and to her constant lamentations. It said a great deal for the absent Mr. Baldwin that he had lived with this slattern for so many years. The most sensible thing he ever did in his life was when he left her.

On losing him Mrs. Baldwin had taken up her abode in Cloverhead Manor House, and obtained it at a low rent. She would not have got it so cheap, but that in those days Troy was only beginning to gather round the ancient village. Mrs. Baldwin, in spite of her laziness, was clever enough to foresee that land would increase in value, and bought the acres upon which the manor stood. The former owner, the last member of a decayed family, had sold the land gladly enough, as he obtained from Mrs. Baldwin a larger price than was offered by the classic jerry-builder, who was responsible for the modern suburb. Since then the value of the land-as was anticipated by Mrs. Baldwin-had increased, and many speculators offered large sums to buy it. But Mrs. Baldwin was too lazy to make another move. She enjoyed pigging it in the large roomy house, and quite resolved not to move until the children were settled in life. She then proposed to sell the land, and use the money "to take her proper station in society," whatever that meant. And she was cunning enough to know that the land would increase still more in value. There were the makings of a business woman in Mrs. Baldwin had she not been so incorrigibly lazy.

"But I really can't move," sighed Mrs. Baldwin when approached on the subject by Gerty, who was businesslike and speculative. "Heaven knows I can hardly get through the day's work with my bad health. Besides, there is the professor to be considered. Such a nice man. If I were only sure that Rufus was dead I might consent to take him."

This was sheer vanity on the part of the lazy fat woman, as the professor had no intention of asking her to become Mrs. Bocaros. He was a bachelor by nature, and passed his life in study. Holding a small post in a suburban college where he taught foreign languages, he just managed to keep his head above water. For the sake of peace, and because he hated a boarding-house, the professor wanted a home to himself. When Mrs. Baldwin came to Cloverhead she had a tiny cottage on her estate at the foot of the meadow at the back of the manor-house. It was surrounded by pines, and lying near a small stream which overflowed whenever there was rain, being therefore extremely damp. She had no idea of letting it, but on meeting Bocaros at a scholastic "At Home" she learned of his desire, and offered him the place. He accepted it eagerly, and for some years had been Mrs. Baldwin's tenant.

The professor was a quiet neighbour. He kept no servant, and did the work himself. The cottage possessed but two rooms, one of which was used as a kitchen, and the other as a dining-room, a bedroom, a study, and a reception-room. This last was large and airy and damp, but the professor loved it because of the solitude. He cherished a tranquil life above all things, and certainly found it in "The Refuge," as he called his tiny domicile. Through the pines he could see the country dotted with red brick villas, the outposts of London, for Troy was one of the last additions to the great city, and its surroundings were almost rural. Beside the stream grew stunted alders and tall poplars. There was no fence round the place. It was clapped down on the verge of the meadow, and girdled with the pines. A more isolated hermitage it is impossible to conceive. Tracey, who sometimes came to see Bocaros, for whose learning he had a great respect, advised draining the place, but Bocaros was obstinate. "It will last my time," he said in his rather precise way; "and I may not live here for many years."

"Do you intend to leave then?" asked Tracey.

"I might. There is a chance I may inherit money, and then I would live in Switzerland."

"That's where the anarchists dwell," said Tracey, wondering if this queer-looking foreigner was a member of some secret society.

Professor Bocaros-he obtained his title from a Greek College, as he stated-was certainly odd in his appearance. He was tall and lean and lank, apparently made of nothing but bones. Rheumatism in this damp spot would have had a fine field to rack Bocaros, but he never seemed to be ill. Always dressed in black broadcloth, rather worn, he looked like an undertaker, and moved with quite a funereal step. His face was of the fine Greek type, but so emaciated that it looked like a death's-head. With his hollow cheeks, his thin red lips, his high bald forehead, and the absence of beard and moustache, Bocaros was most unattractive. The most remarkable feature of his face was his eyes. These, under shaggy black brows, seemed to blaze like lamps. However weak and ill the man looked, his blazing eyes showed that he was full of vitality. Also, his lean hands could grip firmly, and his long legs took him over the ground at a surprising rate. Yet he ate little, and appeared to be badly nourished. Tracey, to whom Bocaros was always a source of wonder and constant speculation, confided to Gerty that he believed the professor was possessed of some restorative which served instead of food. On the whole, there was an air of mystery about the man which provoked the curiosity of the lively, inquisitive American. It would have inspired curiosity with many people also, had not Bocaros lived so retired a life. The Baldwin children called his house "Ogre Castle," and invented weird tales of the professor eating little children.

"I shouldn't wonder if he was a vampire of sorts," said Tracey. "He don't live on air, and the food in that Mother Hubbard's cupboard of his wouldn't keep a flea in condition."

"I don't believe in much eating myself," Mrs. Baldwin responded, although she never gave her inside a rest, and was always-chewing like a cow. "Abstinence keeps the brain clear."

"And over-abstinence kills the body," retorted Tracey.

Whatever Bocaros may have thought of the murder, he said very little about it. He never took in a paper himself, but was accustomed to borrow the Daily Budget from Mrs. Baldwin when that lady had finished the court news, the only part of the paper she took any interest in. Usually after his return from the school where he taught, Bocaros came across the meadows by a well-defined path, and asked for the journal. This was usually between four and five o'clock, and then he would have a chat with Mrs. Baldwin. But two or three weeks after the Ajax Villa tragedy, when the professor tore along the path-he always walked as though he were hurrying for a doctor-he met Tracey half-way. The American had the newspaper in his hand.

"Coming for this, I guess," said Tracey, handing over the journal. "I was just bringing it to you. There's a question or two I wish to ask. You don't mind, do you?"

Bocaros fixed his brilliant eyes on the other. "What is the question, my friend?" he demanded in English, which hardly bore a trace of foreign accent.

The American did not reply directly. "You're a clever sort of smart all-round go-ahead colleger," said Tracey, taking the thin arm of the man, an attention which Bocaros did not appreciate, "and I want to ask your opinion about this murder."

"I know nothing about murders, my friend. Why not go to the police?"

"The police!" Tracey made a gesture of disgust. "They ain't worth a cent. Why, about three weeks have gone by since that poor girl was stabbed, and they don't seem any nearer the truth than they were."

"We discussed this before," said Bocaros, as they approached the belt of pines, "and I told you that I could form no theory. My work lies amidst languages. I am a philologist, my friend, and no detective."

"I guess you'd pan out better than the rest of them if you were."

"You flatter me." Bocaros removed his arm, and inserted a large key into the lock of his door. "Will you come in?"

"You don't seem very set on chin-music, but I'll come," said Tracey, who, when bent on obtaining anything, never rested till he achieved his purpose.

Bocaros gave a gentle sigh, which a more sensitive man might have taken as a sign that his company was not wanted at that precise moment. But Tracey would not go, so he had to be admitted. He entered the room, which was lined with books, and furnished otherwise in a poor manner, and threw himself into the one armchair. Then he took out a cigarette-case. "Have one," he said, extending this.

"A pipe, my friend, will please me better," replied Bocaros, and filled a large china pipe, which he must have obtained when he was a German student. He then took a seat with his back towards the window, and intimated that he was ready.

"See here!" said Tracey, opening the newspaper and pointing to a paragraph; "read that!"

"Is it about the murder?" asked Bocaros, puffing gently at his pipe.

"Yes. That fool of a Derrick has made a discovery of some value."

"In that case he cannot be a fool, my friend," replied Bocaros, leaning back his head and inhaling the smoke luxuriously. "Tell me what the paper says. I can't read while you talk, and I am sure you will not be silent for five minutes."

"That's a fact," said Tracey coolly. "I've got a long tongue and an inquiring mind. I shan't read the paragraph. But it seems that he-Derrick, I mean-has found out the woman's name."

"How interesting!" said Bocaros, unmoved and in rather a bored tone. "How did he find it out?"

"Well, some one wrote from Hampstead," said Tracey, throwing the paper aside, and giving the gist of his information, "and let out there was a woman who lived in Coleridge Lane who had a white room, same as that she was murdered in."

"Coleridge Lane!" repeated Bocaros, opening his eyes. "I know some one living there. What is this woman's name?"

"The inspector," continued Tracey, taking no notice of this direct question, "went to see this room. He found the house shut up. The landlord had the key, and with the landlord he entered. He found, as was stated, a room similar in all respects to the one in Ajax Villa, though the furniture was poor. More than that, there was a portrait on the mantel-piece of the woman who was murdered."

"You can give me the details afterwards," said Bocaros hastily. "At present I want to know the woman's name."

"Keep your hair on, professor. Her name is Brand."

Bocaros rose from his chair and, dropping his pipe, threw up his hands with a foreign ejaculation. "Brand! Flora Brand?"

"Yes. How do you come to know her front name?"

"She is my cousin," said the professor, and sat down to cover his face with his hands.

Tracey whistled, and stared. In making the communication to the man, he was far from expecting that this announcement would be made. "I guess you know who killed her then?" he observed coolly. Bocaros leaped to his feet. "Man," he cried fiercely, "what is that you say? How should I know who killed her?"

"You're her cousin, and Derrick says in the woman's past life will be found the motive for the crime."

"I know very little of my cousin's past life," said Bocaros, walking rapidly to and fro, and apparently much moved. "What I do know I shall tell to the police."

"Tell it to me now," suggested the American.

The professor looked at him mistrustfully. "I don't know if you are a good person to make a confidant of."

"Bless you, there's no confidence about this, professor. You'll have to tell the police what you know, and they'll put it all in print."

"True! True!" Bocaros took a turn up and down the room, then passed his lean hand through his long hair. "Mr. Tracey, you are a clever man. I can rely on you to help me."

"Help you!" Tracey looked sharply at the professor. "What's that?"

"I mean help me with the police. I am not accustomed to deal with these matters. They will ask me questions."

"Well, what if they do? You can answer them, I reckon."

"Yes, yes. But you know how suspicious the police are."

"They may be in foreign lands where you hail from. But I guess they're too pig-headed here to think much."

"This woman-Flora-was murdered in Ajax Villa. It is only a short distance from my house. They may think-"

"That you killed her? That's rubbish. It's queer, certainly, that she should have come to end her life in that way so near to your shanty, but there's not much chance of the police accusing you. Did you know Fane in any way?"

"I never even heard of him."

"Not from Miss Mason? You know her?"

"I have only spoken half a dozen words to her," said Bocaros, twisting his hands together. "You know how shy I am. Your lady-"

"Gerty B.," put in Tracey.

"Yes, Miss Baldwin. She introduced me to Miss Mason. But we had little speech together. Your young lady might have mentioned the name of Fane, but I forget-I forget." And Bocaros passed his hand over his brow again. "You know how absent I am."

"Yes, yes," said Luther Tracey soothingly, for he saw that the man was growing excited. "You lie down and go slow. Tell me about this cousin of yours."

"She is my first cousin," explained Bocaros, sitting down, and keeping himself down by the strongest of efforts. "My father's sister married a man called Calvert, and-"

"Calvert! Why, that's the name of the man Miss Mason's going to be married to!"

"Is it?" The professor stared. "I never knew. Flora told me that her father's brother had a son called Arnold."

"That's the name. He's an actor at one of the big shows. Arnold Calvert. You must have heard of him."

"Never as an actor."

"Well, I guess he's not got much of a reputation. Just now he's acting in a piece at the Frivolity Theatre. The Third Man is the name of the piece. I don't think much of it myself, or of him as-"

Bocaros threw up a protesting hand. "We have more important things to talk about than this young man."