“There was a trustworthy man in whom I confided, privately; he watched Mercier in London, and followed him on the channel boat, which I met at Dieppe. Of course, Sir John Landervorne’s connections with Scotland Yard ceased long ago, but he remains no less valuable for that. I met the boat at Dieppe. I must not be seen; if I were seen, it was necessary that my presence be denied. I had confided in Sir John. I also confided in M. Saulomon, the train guard, because I recognized his intelligence, and also because it was such an ironical joke that I should confide thus in the man who murdered Mercier—M. Saulomon,” he said quietly, “you are caught. I trust that you will make no resistance.”
It would have relieved the tension had anybody exclaimed, or moved, or cried out. Instead, there was such a deadly matter-of-fact calmness in the room that the whole proceeding seemed unreal. Saulomon was lighting a cigarette; his big hands did not tremble, his face was wooden, but under the harsh light the veins were throbbing in his head.
“Proof, monsieur?” he asked.
Abruptly the thought shot through Sir John’s mind, “God, something’s going to happen!”—the stiffness of Bencolin’s pose, the tensity like the sound of drums slowly rising.
“Your strong box at the Credit Lyonnais,” answered Bencolin, “contains the marked money you stole from Mercier’s wallet when you killed him. You said that you took Mercier’s ticket; you did not, because you never went into the compartment. I found it on him when the body was examined at the morgue. They found none of your finger-prints at the scene of the crime; nevertheless, they were found on the metal clasps of Mercier’s rifled portmanteau.”
It was rather like handling a bomb. By his shiftings
