CHAPTER 2

HE PURSUED his leisurely way to the Bellingham Library, one of the
institutions of London that is known only to a select few. No novel or
volume of sparkling reminiscence has a place upon the shelves of this
institution, founded a hundred years ago to provide scientists and
_littérateurs_ with an opportunity of consulting volumes which were
unprocurable save at the British Museum. On the four floors which
constituted the building, fat volumes of German philosophy, learned and,
to the layman, unintelligible books on scientific phenomena, obscure
treatises on almost every kind of uninteresting subject, stood shoulder
to shoulder upon their sedate shelves.

John Bellingham, who in the eighteenth century had founded this exchange
of learning, had provided in the trust deeds that ‘two intelligent
females, preferably in indigent circumstances’, should form part of the
staff, and it was to one of these that Dick was conducted.

In a small, high-ceilinged room, redolent of old leather, a girl sat at
a table, engaged in filing index cards.

“I am from Scotland Yard,” Dick introduced himself. “I understand that
some of your books have been stolen?”

He was looking at the packed shelves as he spoke, for he was not
interested in females, intelligent or stupid, indigent or wealthy. The
only thing he noticed about her was that she wore black and that her
hair was a golden-brown and was brushed into a fringe over her forehead.
In a vague way he supposed that most girls had hair of golden-brown, and
he had a dim idea that fringes were popular among working-class ladies.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “a book was stolen from this room whilst I was
at luncheon. It was not very valuable—a German volume written by
Haeckel called ‘Generelle Morphologie’.”

She opened a drawer and took out an index card and laid it before him,
and he read the words without being greatly enlightened.

“Who was here in your absence?” he asked.

“My assistant, a girl named Helder.”

“Did any of your subscribers come into this room during that time?”

“Several,” she replied. “I have their names, but most of them are above
suspicion. The only visitor we had who is not a subscriber of the
library was a gentleman named Stalletti, an Italian doctor, who called
to make inquiries as to subscription.”

“He gave his name?” asked Dick.

“No,” said the girl to his surprise; “but Miss Helder recognized him;
she had seen his portrait somewhere. I should have thought you would
have remembered his name.”

“Why on earth should I remember his name, my good girl?” asked Dick a
little irritably.

“Why on earth shouldn’t you, my good man?” she demanded coolly, and at
that moment Dick Martin was aware of her, in the sense that she emerged
from the background against which his life moved and became a
personality.

Her eyes were grey and set wide apart; her nose straight and small; the
mouth was a little wide—and she certainly had golden-brown hair.

“I beg your pardon!” he laughed. “As a matter of fact”—he had a trick
of confidence which could be very deceptive—“I’m not at all interested
in this infernal robbery. I’m leaving the police force tomorrow.”

“There will be great joy amongst the criminal classes,” she said
politely, and when he saw the light of laughter in her eyes, his heart
went out to her.

“You have a sense of humour,” he smiled.

“You mean by that, that I’ve a sense of _your_ humour,” she answered
quickly. “I have, or I should very much object to being called ‘my good
girl’ even by an officer of the law”—she looked at his card
again—“even with the rank of sub-inspector.”

There was a chair at his hand. Dick drew it out and sat down unbidden.

“I abase myself for my rudeness, and humbly beg information on the
subject of Signor Stalletti. The name means no more to me than John
Smith—the favourite pseudonym of all gentlemen caught in the act of
breaking through the pantry window in the middle of the night.”

For a second she surveyed him gravely, her red lips pursed.

“And you’re a detective?” she said, in a hushed voice. “One of those
almost human beings who protect us while we sleep!”

He was helpless with laughter.

“I surrender!” He put up his hands. “And now, having put me in my place,
which I admit is a pretty lowly one, perhaps you will pass across a
little information about the purloined literature.”

“I’ve no information to pass across.” She leaned back in her chair,
looking at him interestedly. “The book was here at two o’clock; it was
not here at half past two—there may be fingerprints on the shelf, but I
doubt it, because we keep three charladies for the sole purpose of
cleaning up fingerprints.”

“But who is Stalletti?”

She nodded slowly.

“That was why I expressed a little wonder about your being a detective,”
she said. “My assistant tells me that he is known to the police. Would
you like to see his book?”

“Has he written a book?” he asked in genuine surprise.

She got up, went out of the room and returned with a thin volume,
plainly bound. He took the volume in his hand and read the title.

“New Thoughts on Constructive Biology, by Antonio Stalletti.”

Turning the closely printed leaves, broken almost at every page by
diagrams and statistical tables, he asked:

“Why did he get into trouble with the police? I didn’t know that it was
a criminal offence to write a book.”

“It is,” she [said] emphatically; “but not invariably punished as such.
I understand that the law took no exception to Mr Stalletti being an
author; and that his offence was in connection with vivisection or
something equally horrid.”

“What is all this about?” He handed the book back to her.

“It is about human beings,” she said solemnly, “like you and me; and how
much better and happier they would be if, instead of being
mollycoddled—I think that is the scientific term—they were allowed to
run wild in a wood and fed on a generous diet of nuts.”

“Oh, vegetarian stuff!” said Slick contemptuously.

“Not exactly vegetarian. But perhaps you would like to become a
subscriber and read it for yourself?”

And then she dropped her tone of banter.

“The truth is, Mr—er—” she looked at his card again—“Martin, we are
really not worried about the loss of this book of Haeckel’s. It is
already replaced, and if the secretary hadn’t been such a goop he
wouldn’t have reported the matter to the police. And I beg of you”—she
raised a warning finger—“if you meet our secretary that you will not
repeat my opinion of him. Now please tell me something that will make my
flesh creep. I’ve never met a detective before; I may never meet one
again.”

Dick put down the book and rose to his seventy-two inches.

“Madam,” he said, “I have not mustered courage to ask your name, I
deserve all the roasting you have given me, but as you are strong, be
merciful. Where does Stalletti live?”

She picked up the book and turned back the cover to a preface.

“Gallows Cottage. That sounds a little creepy doesn’t it? It is in
Sussex.”

“I can read that for myself,” he said, nettled, and she became instantly
penitent.

“You see, we aren’t used to these exciting interludes, and a police
visitation gets into one’s head. I really don’t think the book’s worth
bothering about, but I suppose my word doesn’t go very far.”

“Was anybody here besides Stalletti?”

She showed him a list of four names.

“Except Mr Stalletti, I don’t think anybody is under suspicion. As a
matter of fact, the other three people were severely historical, and
biology wouldn’t interest them in the slightest degree. It could not
have happened if I had been here, because I’m naturally rather
observant.”

She stopped suddenly and looked at the desk. The book that had been
lying there a few seconds before had disappeared.

“Did you take it?” she asked.

“Did you see me take it?” he challenged.

“I certainly didn’t. I could have sworn it was there a second ago.”

He took it from under his coat and handed it to her.

“I like observant people,” he said.

“But how did you do it?” She was mystified. “I had my hand on the book
and I only took my eyes off for a second.”

“One of these days I’ll come along and teach you,” he said with
portentious gravity, and was in the street before he remembered that
clever as he was, he had not succeeded in learning the name of this very
capable young lady.

Sybil Lansdown walked to the window which commanded a view of the square
and watched him till he was out of sight, a half smile on her lips and
the light of triumph in her eyes. Her first inclination was to dislike
him intensely; she hated self-satisfied men. And yet he wasn’t exactly
that. She wondered if she would ever meet him again—there were so few
amusing people in the world, and she felt that—she took up the
card—Sub-Inspector Richard Martin might be very amusing indeed.