The Man They Couldn't Arrest

Delbury of Scotland Yard, was a machine made model of all that is just and proper in a force the discipline of which is second only to that of the fighting services. Three minutes to eight every morning of his life saw him swinging off his tram in the shadow of Big Ben. The next three minutes saw him walking the three hundred steps from the tramline to the entrance under the great gloomy arch. The clamorous strokes of eight o'clock saw him hanging his hat up on his own private peg. His subordinates dubbed him 'Old Punctuous," a nickname bestowed on him by his unimpressed Irish second in command.

Shaughnessy had only arrived ten minutes before his chief. But in that time he had scrambled through an immense amount of work. A trifle excited and not a little perturbed he met Delbury at the door.

"Chief, there's the devil of a stew been brewing overnight," he said hurriedly. "I've been getting a line on it, but we're a bit patchy on information yet. Murder job. Out Hendon way. sent two men out to hold up everything till we get out there. The car's waiting at the door now. Will you---"

"Murder? Give me the fact. Who did you send?" The questions were snapped out, brusque, business-like. Delbury was in harness the moment he entered the great building.

"Minter and Harper---- they're out there now. Two of the Flying squad--- went off on motor cycles. might be through at any minute with their first report."

"sure it's murder?"

"Looks like it. most extraordinary case. complications stickin' out at every yard. premeditated. But the murderer got it himself."

"What? what the devil do you mean, man? What happened? out with the details-- all you know."

"I don't know much. But the ghost seems to know all about it. He's the feller you want to get. He came through with the story too late for us to get a net out."

"What! The ghost, Is that devil in it again?"

" 'Intimation no. 35,' says he, 'congratulatin' you on the action you took concerning intimation no. 34. sorry,' says he, 'but there's going to be a murder done at Hendon tonight.' who do you think it was , chief?"

"Quickly--- out with it. Who was the victim?"

"Willard Lyall, the boss gangster who didn't turn up on the park Lane wipe-up."

Delbury, snapping his fingers irritably, reached out for the correspondence.

"The card! The card! Didn't he send one?" he snapped.

"Where is it? Give it to me.'

Shaughnessy produced it from his pocket and handed it over without a word.

Delbury read the missive down , his highly trained memory assimilation and retaining every sentence as his eyes flashed over it. When he reached the end of it he gasped. "Good Lord! Valmon Dain! he's the great inventor, isn't he?"

"He is just that same person, chief. devil of a queer mess up, ain't it?"

Delbury's brows were pointing to "stormy." With his ready grasp of possibilities, his quick intuition saw complications looming ahead out of all proportion to the mere smashing of the sixth commandment.

"Dain. Valmon Dain," he muttered. "Wasn't he in the papers again only a couple of days ago?"

"He was that, chief. A naval Invention. It was tried out by the Admiralty, off Brighton. According to the papers he was on a big thing. The experts went in off the deep end about it."

"But this-this ghost! How the flaming blazes does he manage to get his nose into it again? Eh? When was the murder committed?"

"According to what can be made out at Mr. Dain's house, somewhere about midnight----- dead on the time given by the Ghost; may the Lord bless his days for the helpful soul he is."

"And this card was posted at ten o'clock--- bears the ten o'clock post-mark. why didn't he phone or wire? He had time to have had this murder prevented!"

"I dunno, chief. But next time I see him I'll ask him. The very next seance I go to ask him that Same question."

"Oh, don't be a blithering fool. Save all that funny stuff till I've got the hang of the business. Now then, short and sharp..

Who is this man Willard Lyall----have you made any inquiries?"

"Willard Lyall is a respectable resident of Highgate. Got a big house up there called Greydene. owns a business in the city. He's the sole partner of it. Entered in all the trade directories. Been living at Greydene ever since he married, nearly thirty years ago. Built the house himself. Doesn't owe a cent, even to Inland Revenue. Wife still living. Has one child, a grown up daughter."

"Married?"

"No. Her name is Mercia; Mercia Frances Lyall. She's going about a good deal with---whom do you think?"

"Oh, spit it out, man; this isn't a guessing competition."

"Valmon Dain!"

"Phew!" said Delbury, and mopped his forehead.

He thought hard for a moment and then snapped: "Was Lyall living with his wife?"

"Oh yes. so was the daughter. All three were on very affectionate terms."

"Have the relatives been informed?"

"No. I thought it best to leave everything until you got the full outline."

"Good for you. Warn Mr. Dain not to leave the house till I get there."

"Valmon Dain absconded soon after midnight last night," said Shaughnessy blandly.

"Hell!" said Delbury. "Quick! Get the net out!"

Delbury was eager, imperative. it wasn't so much that he had landed full tilt into a particular puzzling murder, but that he felt himself at last getting some sort of a clue to the identity of the exasperating man if mystery who for months had been making his life a misery to him. Detectives have their pride, like any other skilled craftsmen, and the utter anonymity of the ghost had galled him beyond endurance; his complete inability to produce even a theory as to how it was done was to him a daily, almost hourly meal of wormwood.

But here in this Hendon affair, he felt himself getting nearer to the to the bone. Here was something be could get his teeth into; some really definite clue. For the first time on record the card had arrived too late for anything to be done about it. And also for the first time on record, the sender has deliberately refrained from allowing it to get there in time.