The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (simple e reader TXT) 📗

It was close on five o'clock when Glassdale, leaving Folliot at his garden door, turned the corner into the quietness of the Precincts. He walked about there a while, staring at the queer old houses with eyes which saw neither fantastic gables nor twisted chimneys. Glassdale was thinking. And the result of his reflections was that he suddenly exchanged his idle sauntering for brisker steps and walked sharply round to the police-station, where he asked to see Mitchington.

Mitchington and the detective were just about to walk down to the railway-station to meet Ransford, in accordance with his telegram. At sight of Glassdale they went back into the inspector's office. Glassdale closed the door and favoured them with a knowing smile.

“Something else for you, inspector!” he said. “Mixed up a bit with last night's affair, too. About these mysteries—Braden and Collishaw—I can tell you one man who's in them.”

“Who, then?” demanded Mitchington.

Glassdale went a step nearer to the two officials and lowered his voice.

“The man who's known here as Stephen Folliot,” he answered. “That's a fact!”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mitchington. Then he laughed incredulously. “Can't believe it!” he continued. “Mr. Folliot! Must be some mistake!”

“No mistake,” replied Glassdale. “Besides, Folliot's only an assumed name. That man is really one Falkiner Wraye, the man Braden, or Brake, was seeking for many a year, the man who cheated Brake and got him into trouble. I tell you it's a fact! He's admitted it, or as good as done so, to me just now.”

“To you? And—let you come away and spread it?” exclaimed Mitchington. “That's incredible! more astonishing than the other!”

Glassdale laughed.

“Ah, but I let him think I could be squared, do you see?” he said. “Hush-money, you know. He's under the impression that I'm to go back to him this evening to settle matters. I knew so much—identified him, as a matter of fact—that he'd no option. I tell you he's been in at both these affairs—certain! But—there's another man.”

“Who's he?” demanded Mitchington.

“Can't say, for I don't know, though I've an idea he'll be a fellow that Brake was also wanting to find,” replied Glassdale. “But anyhow, I know what I'm talking about when I tell you of Folliot. You'd better do something before he suspects me.”

Mitchington glanced at the clock.

“Come with us down to the station,” he said. “Dr. Ransford's coming in on this express from town; he's got news for us. We'd better hear that first. Folliot!—good Lord!—who'd have believed or even dreamed it!”

“You'll see,” said Glassdale as they went out.

“Maybe Dr. Ransford's got the same information.” Ransford was out of the train as soon as it ran in, and hurried to where Mitchington and his companions were standing. And behind him, to Mitchington's surprise, came old Simpson Harker, who had evidently travelled with him. With a silent gesture Mitchington beckoned the whole party into an empty waiting-room and closed its door on them.

“Now then, inspector,” said Ransford without preface or ceremony, “you've got to act quickly! You got my wire—a few words will explain it. I went up to town this morning in answer to a message from the bank where Braden lodged his money when he returned to England. To tell you the truth, the managers there and myself have, since Braden's death, been carrying to a conclusion an investigation which I began on Braden's behalf—though he never knew of it—years ago. At the bank I met Mr. Harker here, who had called to find something out for himself. Now I'll sum things up in a nutshell: for years Braden, or Brake, had been wanting to find two men who cheated him. The name of one is Wraye, of the other, Flood. I've been trying to trace them, too. At last we've got them. They're in this town, and without doubt the deaths of both Braden and Collishaw are at their door! You know both well enough. Wraye is-”

“Mr. Folliot!” interrupted Mitchington, pointing to Glassdale. “So he's just told us; he's identified him as Wraye. But the other—who's he, doctor?”

Ransford glanced at Glassdale as if he wished to question him, but instead he answered Mitchington's question.

“The other man,” he said, “the man Flood, is also a well-known man to you. Fladgate!”

Mitchington started, evidently more astonished than by the first news.

“What!” he exclaimed. “The verger! You don't say!”

“Do you remember,” continued Ransford, “that Folliot got Fladgate his appointment as verger not so very long after he himself came here? He did, anyway, and Fladgate is Flood. We've traced everything through Flood. Wraye has been a difficult man to trace, because of his residence abroad for a long time and his change of name, and so on, and it was only recently that my agents struck on a line through Flood. But there's the fact. And the probability is that when Braden came here he recognized and was recognized by these two, and that one or other of them is responsible for his death and for Collishaw's too. Circumstantial evidence, all of it, no doubt, but irresistible! Now, what do you propose to do?”

Mitchington considered matters for a moment.

“Fladgate first, certainly,” he said. “He lives close by here; we'll go round to his cottage. If he sees he's in a tight place he may let things out. Let's go there at once.”

He led the whole party out of the station and down the High Street until they came to a narrow lane of little houses which ran towards the Close. At its entrance a policeman was walking his beat. Mitchington stopped to exchange a few words with him.

“This man Fladgate,” he said, rejoining the others, “lives alone—fifth cottage down here. He'll be about having his tea; we shall take him by surprise.” Presently the group stood around a door at which Mitchington knocked gently, and it was on their grave and watchful faces that a tall, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking man gazed in astonishment as he opened the door, and started back. He went white to the lips and his hand fell trembling from the latch as Mitchington strode in and the rest crowded behind.

“Now then, Fladgate!” said Mitchington, going straight to the point and