Kitabı oku: «Mrs. Vanderstein's jewels», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XVI
Scholefield Avenue was a short street of moderate-sized houses, which, when they were built, had stood at the extreme margin of what was then a suburb; indeed, some of the original tenants had called it the country. There was considerable variety of appearance about them, but they were alike in one respect: each stood apart from its neighbours, in grounds that differed in extent from a tiny yard to half an acre. Thus No. 1, at the south-eastern corner, possessed a large kitchen garden running back a long way, with outbuildings at the further end, a stable, with a coach house on one side of the stable gate, and a chicken house and run on the other. The old lady who lived at No. 1 was very proud of the fact that she supplied herself with vegetables, eggs, and poultry all the year round, though, as she was fond of saying, her house was within three miles of the Marble Arch. She often thought of keeping a cow.
No. 3, next door, had hardly any garden behind it at all, the ground that should by rights have belonged to it having been bought up by No. 1 in former days and added to its own; and this caused an unneighbourly feeling to exist between the two houses, which was inherited by each successive occupier of No. 3. Most of the other dwellings in the street were more equally provided with land; and the row came to an end with No. 17, a very small house surrounded by nothing more interesting than an asphalt path, with a thin hedge of laurel between it and the outer railings. Some of the houses showed the large, high window of a studio. On the opposite side of the road the same variety existed.
The taxi containing Gimblet, Sir Gregory, and Higgs drove slowly down the street, and was more than halfway along it when the detective caught sight of the board “To Let” for which he was looking. It adorned the railings of No. 6, which stood on the left hand side as they went north.
They stopped after they had turned the corner, and got out of the cab. Gimblet paid and dismissed it, and they walked back to No. 6.
It did not look very promising, presenting a shuttered and unbroken front to the spectator, and bearing marks of age and disrepair. The gate swung on a broken hinge, and, in the cold wind that was still blowing, a door at the back banged every now and then with uncontrolled and unprofitable violence.
Higgs, at a sign from Gimblet, rang the bell and stood aside, while they waited for some one to answer it. For a few minutes they heard nothing but the jar of the banging door and the rustle of the wind in the trees that lined the street; then they were aware of a slatternly woman, carrying a wooden bucket in her hand, who was trying to attract their attention from the steps of the house next door.
“If you gentleman are a-ringing,” she began, addressing them in a shout over the intervening bushes, “a-thinking, as it might be, by so doing to get into that there house, it ain’t no good; you can’t do it. There ain’t no one in it.”
“Who’s got the key?” Gimblet cried back to her.
“I’ve got it meself. I’ll come round and unlock the door.”
Descending the steps as she spoke she proceeded to make her way into the street, and so in at the swinging gate of No. 6.
“‘Ave you got a horder from the hagents?” she demanded when she arrived. “No? Well, I don’t mind you having a look at the ’ouse all the same, if you’re set on it. There ain’t much to see, I reckon, but a lot of dirt and litter.”
As she spoke she inserted the key in the lock, and opened the door. Sir Gregory, who was nearest, was about to enter, but Gimblet laid a hand upon his arm.
“Please, Sir Gregory, I must pass before you to-day,” he said, and putting him gently on one side he stepped across the threshold. The woman was in the act of following, but he motioned her back, and stood for a moment staring at the floor. Then he turned to her.
“I see on the board that the house is to be let unfurnished, or would be sold,” he said, “and I understand it has been empty a considerable time. Can you tell me how long it is since anyone has been to look at it?”
“It’s stood hempty more’n two years,” said the woman, “so I’ve ’eard say. There ain’t been no one come to look at it since I’ve been ’ere. I’m caretaking, I am, for a party what live next door. ’E’s away in foreign parts, that’s where ’e is, and time I’ve been a-caretaking for ’im you’re the first what’s asked to see the hinside of this yere ’ouse.”
“And how long have you been caretaking here, do you say?” Gimblet inquired.
“I’ve been ’ere a matter of four months come next Monday,” replied the woman.
“Thanks,” said Gimblet; and turned again towards the interior of the building. He bent down, and looked close at the bare boards of the passage, on which lay the dust and dirt that accumulates in an empty house. Then as an idea struck him he stood upright again.
“I don’t think we will bother to go over the house,” he said to the woman. “I fear it wouldn’t suit me. At all events, you can perhaps tell me one more thing I am anxious to know,” he continued, coming out of the house and facing the street. “There was another board up in this street about a week ago, but I see they have taken it down. Do you know which number it was, and whether the house has been let?”
“Why yes, sir, they ’ave been and took down the board from No. 13,” said the caretaker, “took it down beginning of the week, they did. But the ’ouse’s let, I think; it won’t be no good your going after it. If it’s a furnished ’ouse you’re looking for, I see a board hup in the next street t’other day. Little Cumberland Street.”
“Thank you very much,” said Gimblet. “I’ll take a look at it if I find No. 13 is let. Good morning, and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
They left the woman to lock up the house and return to her caretaking, and started off up the street.
Sir Gregory went reluctantly, visibly hanging back.
“Look here,” he said to Gimblet, “why don’t you go over that house? It wouldn’t take a minute. Supposing they’ve got her shut up in an empty room at the top somewhere. Much better make sure.”
“My dear Sir Gregory, no one has been in that house for months; the dust was deep on the floor and there were no signs of its having been disturbed recently. Do you think two women in long evening dresses could go in without leaving some mark of their passage so short a time ago. Their dresses would either have swept away some of the dust or, if they held them high, their footmarks would have remained. It is impossible that No. 6 is the house, unless some one has spread fresh dust in the hall since Monday. Besides, it is very improbable that they should have gone to such a deserted, filthy building, and, on the contrary, more than likely that they should go to a house that had just been let. I felt sure there must have been a board up at another house in this street when Miss Finner passed, as soon as I looked at the floor. Come, here is No. 13, and I have a feeling that we shall find it a more profitable hunting ground.”
Gimblet opened, as he spoke, the gate of No. 13, and took a rapid scrutiny of its exterior as he walked quickly up the short distance that separated it from the road.
It showed a striking contrast to the forlorn and gloomy front offered to the world by the house they had just visited. No. 13 was spick and span; its white walls and shutters shone with the brightness of new paint; a neat grass plot, with a diminutive carriage drive winding in a half-circle round it, divided it from the railings of the street, the whole occupying no more than a few square yards of space. On each side of the flight of steps that led up to the front door there was a little triangular flower bed, gay with pansies, and, as the three men approached, the sun, breaking for the first time that day through the dilatory dispersal of the clouds, cast a shining beam about the place and was caught and reflected from the surface of the windows.
The change in the day was not without its effect even on Sir Gregory, and as he watched Higgs spring forward to ring the bell a new and sudden inrush of hope mounted to his heart.
“I have an excuse by which we may get into the house if they seem disinclined to admit us,” Gimblet was murmuring in his ear. “Back me up in all I say, but leave the chief part of the talking to me.”
They waited eagerly, with eyes fixed on the door and ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps; but minutes passed and no such sound greeted them. Higgs rang again; the loud pealing of the bell could be heard jingling itself to a standstill in the basement, and must surely be audible all over the house. Still no one came, and he tried the area with no better result. Leaving Higgs to continue his efforts, Gimblet backed across the little lawn, and looked up at the windows to see if he could detect any sign of life.
There were muslin curtains in the bedroom windows and he tried in vain to catch sight of a pair of eyes peeping from behind one of them; but not a movement was visible anywhere. The shutters of the drawing-room were closed, and the parapet of the broad balcony shut them out from a searching inspection, which was still further impeded by a wide wooden stand which took up most of the balcony, and extended its whole length. In it were planted flowers, tall daisies and geraniums, which appeared somewhat withered and neglected, and, with the closed shutters, contributed the only hint of disorder in the clean and cheerful aspect of the house.
The detective made his way round to the back. Here the ground fell away, and the basement appeared on the surface instead of below the level of the ground. Another and longer flight of iron steps led up to a door used, no doubt, to give access to the garden. There was no bell here, and the door, of which Gimblet tried the handle, was locked. Through the windows of the basement he could see into the kitchen, clean and orderly as the outside of the house, with white tiled walls and rows of shining stewpans. The table was bare, he noticed, and no fire burnt in the grate; on a summer’s evening such as this it might well have been allowed to go out. On the other side of the steps he looked into what must be the scullery, and beyond this was a larder; over these was a small window into which he could not see, while above the kitchen a large one was hidden, like those of the drawing-room, by outside shutters. The back window of the first floor, however, and all the other windows at the back of the house were without shutters, and veiled only by curtains of white muslin.
Gimblet took a hasty survey of the garden. It was not large, extending back for some sixty or seventy yards from the house, but bright with flowers and green with lawn and leaf; trees surrounded it on all sides, now golden in the rays of the descending sun; and a high wall gave it privacy from an inquisitive world. Here again the beds were dappled with pansies; here were pinks and poppies, daisies and tall larkspurs, with such other flowers as could be induced to derive nourishment from the unrefreshing showers of smuts, which was their daily portion. By the end wall was a hut, of which the door yielded to Gimblet’s touch, and disclosed a mowing machine in one corner, some garden implements in another, and a potting bench with boxes of mould and some packets of seeds; by the door were stacked a few red pots. Gimblet stood for a moment looking in, and then went back to the front of the house.
Here he found Sir Gregory engaged in conversation with an elderly man, whose velvet coat and the paint brush he carried stuck behind his ear suggested that he was an artist. He introduced himself as the detective came up.
“Mr. Gimblet, I think,” said he; “my name is Brampton. I live next door,” and he waved his hand towards the south.
Gimblet ground his teeth as he realised that Sir Gregory had given away his identity, but he replied civilly that it was indeed he.
“Although only a stay-at-home painter, I have heard of you,” said the new-comer; “but of course I had no idea who was ringing, when I came round. My wife saw your friends at the door here, and suggested that I should come and tell you that she believes there is no one in the house. We heard that it was let, and the other day a man came and took down the board, but my wife says that no one has been seen to go in or leave the house for several days; she and the servants are of opinion that it is empty at the present moment, and that the new tenant has not yet arrived.”
“Indeed,” said Gimblet, “I am grateful for your information; but I have some reason to think that the new tenant took possession some time ago.”
“It can hardly be very long,” observed Brampton, “for the Mills, to whom it belongs, only went away last week.”
“Really,” said Gimblet, “you interest me. Who are the Mills? Do you know them at all?”
“Most certainly I do. They are great friends of ours, and their having to go away like this is a sad loss to us. Arthur Mill is the son of an old acquaintance of mine – a manufacturer of glass – and is employed in his father’s business. His wife is a charming woman, and we are devoted to them both. It was only lately decided that he was to go abroad, to look after a branch of the business in Italy, and they had very little time to make arrangements about letting their house. They only left on Friday last, and it was a great surprise to us to hear on Monday that the house had been let.”
“Did you hear who had taken it?” inquired Gimblet.
“I think I did hear the man’s name, but I am afraid I have forgotten it. My wife saw a charwoman going in on Monday morning whom she often employs herself, so she ran in here, as she told me, to ask her what she was doing, as the house had been all cleaned up on Friday and Saturday after the Mills left. The charwoman said she had been sent in by the house agents to see if anything remained to be put in order, as the new tenant, or so she understood, wanted to go in at once. That is all we heard; but as no one has been seen or heard about the place since that day it looks as if they had changed their minds.”
“Thanks very much,” said Gimblet. “If you could tell me the name of the agents I think my best plan is to go and try to get the key from them, as it seems impossible to rouse anyone here.”
“Ennidge and Pring are the agents; in Sentinel Street, about ten minutes’ walk from here. You’ll have to be quick, or you won’t catch them. They’re sure to close at six.”
“I will go now,” said Gimblet, and he drew Higgs on one side. “Higgs,” he said, “keep an eye on the front of the house, and if anyone comes out and you fail to detain him, follow him, leaving Sir Gregory to watch the house. In the meantime, let him watch the back. I shall be back soon if I can get a taxi.”
He started off, Mr. Brampton accompanying him as far as his own door and pointing out the way to Sentinel Street. At the gate they glanced back at the shuttered first floor windows and the faded flowers on the balcony.
“Mrs. Mill would be terribly upset if she saw how her flowers are being neglected,” said Mr. Brampton. “She is so very fond of her garden, and is always watering and attending to her plants. A man is to come once a week, on Saturday mornings, to look after the garden and mow the lawn, and I shall tell him to insist on watering the balcony boxes. That’s your way now, up the street and bear to the left. Ah, there’s a taxi.”
A cab had indeed that moment turned into the street, and Gimblet hailed it and drove rapidly to the offices of Messrs. Ennidge and Pring, house agents.
CHAPTER XVII
Mr. Ennidge was a short, middle-aged man, with grey hair, and a mild, benignant eye, which gazed at you vaguely through gold-rimmed spectacles. Mr. Pring, his partner, tall, thin, nervous and excitable, was the very antithesis of him, and that is possibly why they got on so well together. While Mr. Pring was always able to display enthusiasm in regard to the properties he had to dispose of, to the people who were inquiring for houses, and was never at a loss when it was necessary to explain that what the intending client took for geese were really swans, he was apt to relapse into gloom when called upon to deal with would-be sellers, or those who had houses to let and were disappointed with the rent obtainable, or the failure of Ennidge and Pring to procure them a tenant at any price. He was then only too likely, if left to himself, to disclose his plain and truthful opinion as to their property. This was seldom productive of good results, for, as a rule, the transference of the property in question to the books of another agent followed these outbursts; and, Ennidge and Pring’s business being a small one, they could not afford to lose customers.
It was in such cases, however, that Mr. Ennidge was seen at his best. It was he who, with friendly smile and hopeful, encouraging word, cheered the downhearted householder and sent him away with confidence restored, convinced once more that a tenant would shortly be forthcoming to whom the absence of a bath-room, of a back door, of gas or hot water laid on, and the presence of blackened ceilings, wallpaper hanging in strips, and dirt-encrusted paint, would if anything prove a veritable inducement to clinch a bargain most satisfactory to the landlord.
Mr. Pring had already left the office when Gimblet arrived on the scene, and in another quarter of an hour he would have found it wholly deserted. He gave his card to the only clerk of the establishment, who took it in to the little inner room, where he was immediately received by the smiling Mr. Ennidge; and to him he quickly stated his business.
“There can be no possible objection to my giving you all the information in my power with regard to the gentleman who has taken 13 Scholefield Avenue,” said the house agent, “and since you cannot get an answer at the house I will send down my clerk with the key to let you in and assist, if necessary, in explaining matters to the tenant, if he should be discovered to be there after all. A very eccentric gentleman, I fancy, and something of a recluse. I could not, of course, take it on myself to use the spare key, which the owner happens to have left with us, at the request of a less well-known and responsible person than yourself, if I may say so, Mr. Gimblet; but since the capture of the forgers at the Great Continental last year, your name, sir, has been in every one’s mouth; and you will allow me to add that I am, although hitherto unknown, one of your most fervent admirers.”
Thus was it ever Mr. Ennidge’s pleasant way to oil the wheels of intercourse with his fellows.
“The name of the tenant of No. 13,” he continued, “is Mr. West, Mr. Henry West. He has taken the house for a month with the option of taking it on for a year or longer; and I fancy he must be a man of means, as the offer which he made appears to be an unusually high one – unnecessarily so, I may say, between you and me, Mr. Gimblet; but in the interests of our client, the owner of the lease, I need hardly tell you we did not quarrel with him on that account!”
“What aged man is he?” inquired Gimblet.
“I really can hardly tell you,” replied Mr. Ennidge. “The fact is that I myself have not yet seen him. Both I and my partner happened to be out when Mr. West came to the office, and he made all the arrangements with our clerk. Perhaps you would like him to come in?”
“I should be glad to ask him a few questions,” said Gimblet.
Mr. Ennidge put his head into the outer office.
“Tremmels,” he called, with his hand on the door. “Just come in here a moment.”
The clerk appeared, a white-faced young Londoner, showing very plainly the effects of an indoor life and long, hot hours spent upon an office stool; he moved languidly, as if every step were an exertion almost too great to repeat, and stood before Gimblet in a drooping attitude of fatigue.
“Mr. Gimblet wants to hear about the tenant of No. 13 Scholefield Avenue,” Mr. Ennidge told him.
The clerk straightened himself with a perceptible effort, and stared fixedly at Gimblet, who had long since become accustomed to the interest the mention of his name commonly aroused. No doubt this youth knew the detective by repute; but he had an expression of such wooden stupidity, and withal looked so terribly ill and exhausted, that Gimblet wondered if he would be able to extract much sense from him.
“It was you,” he said, “who let the house to Mr. West?”
“Yes,” said the clerk. “He came in one day last week.”
“Friday,” interposed Mr. Ennidge.
“Yes, he came in here last Friday morning, and said he’d been over No. 13 Scholefield Avenue, having seen the board ‘To Let’ in front of the house,” replied the clerk. “The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Mill, had only gone away that morning, and Mr. West was shown over by a servant who had been left behind to clear up and follow by a later train. He told me he required a furnished house for a year. He said he was very fond of solitude; that he had lived in India all his life and didn’t care to meet strangers, but wanted a house with a garden, where he could be private, so to speak. He said he thought Scholefield Avenue would suit him admirably, but that he wished to take it for a month first to see how he liked it, and to have the option of taking it on. I was uncertain whether Mr. Mill would be agreeable to such an arrangement, and suggested waiting till we could communicate with the owner, but he wouldn’t hear of that; said he wished to go in immediately, and would take some other house he’d seen unless he could clinch the matter then and there. He made an offer of fifteen guineas a week for the first month, and eight for the rest of the year if he should decide to take it on. This is such a very high price for this part of London that I felt sure Mr. Ennidge or Mr. Pring, if they had been here, would not have let it escape, but would have hit the iron while it was hot, if you take my meaning; and as I was aware that Mr. Mill had left an absolute discretion to the firm with regard to letting the house, and that he was very anxious to do so as quickly as possible, I didn’t hesitate any longer, but agreed to Mr. West’s conditions.
“He said that he wished to have possession of the house from midday of Monday last; told me to get a charwoman in on Monday morning, in case any cleaning up remained to be done, and that he wished me to meet him at the house on Monday for the purpose of going over the inventory. Then he took out a pocket book, which seemed to be stuffed full of bank notes, paid me thirty guineas, the rent for half the first month, and asked me to get the agreement for him to sign. I got him two agreement forms such as we use, as a rule, when letting furnished houses, and he signed them both and put one in his pocket.”
“Perhaps Mr. Gimblet would like to glance at our copy,” said Mr. Ennidge, diving into a drawer. “Here it is,” and he handed a paper to the detective, who turned it over thoughtfully. There was nothing on it beyond the ordinary printed clauses setting forth the terms of the contract. At the end the tenant had signed his name, “Henry West,” in large, sprawling characters, the strokes of which seemed a trifle uncertain, as if the hand that held the pen had not been absolutely steady. Below, in a neat business-like writing, was the clerk’s signature: “A. W. Tremmels, for Messrs. Ennidge and Pring.”
Gimblet put it in his pocket. “I may keep it for the present, I suppose?” he asked Mr. Ennidge, who looked rather as if he would have liked to object, but on the whole decided not to.
“Can you describe what Mr. West looked like?” Gimblet asked the clerk. “But perhaps you had better tell me that on the way to the house. Mr. Ennidge has promised to send you down with me. One thing, however, before we start: I should like to see the inventory, if I may.”
“By all means,” Mr. Ennidge replied. “Just get it, Tremmels, and the key too. You know where they are kept,” and as the clerk went into the outer office he turned again to Gimblet.
“If you would like me to come myself?” he suggested.
“Oh no, thanks,” Gimblet answered, “do not trouble to come. As the clerk is the only one who met Mr. West, I think he will really be more useful to me. I suppose he can stand a walk down to Scholefield Avenue? He looks dreadfully ill, poor chap; what’s wrong with him? Consumptive?”
“He is ill, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Ennidge regretfully, “but it will do him good to get a walk and a breath of fresh air. The hot weather we had last week was very trying; Tremmels certainly looks very bad since the heat. I have told him to take a holiday to-morrow,” he added kindly, “a day in the country will be the best thing for him, and there is not very much to be done in the office at this time of the year. Business is very slack, Mr. Gimblet. I daresay, now, yours keeps your nose to the grindstone, at one season as much as another?”
“Well, yes,” said Gimblet. “I’m afraid the criminal classes aren’t very regular in their holiday-making. It’s very inconsiderate of them, but I’m afraid they’re a selfish lot.”
The house agent’s ever-present smile broadened, and at that moment young Tremmels made his reappearance with the inventory. In an instant Gimblet’s keen nose had told him that with the clerk there now entered the room a pervading smell of brandy, and his quick eye noted a tinge of colour in the pale cheek of the young man, which had previously not been visible there. “O-ho,” he said to himself, “so that’s the trouble, is it?” Then, with a word of thanks to Mr. Ennidge, Gimblet led the way out into the street, and turned his steps towards Scholefield Avenue.
“Now then,” he said to his companion as they hurried along, “about this Mr. West. What is he like?”
“He’s an elderly, rather horsey-looking gentleman, and odd in his manner,” said the clerk. “What I mean to say is, he has a very pleasant way of talking, and yet somehow he doesn’t talk like an ordinary gentleman might. Seems rather fond of what I may term the habit of using bad language.”
“What does he look like?”
“He isn’t what you’d call a tall man; not that I should call him short either; and thin, very thin. Don’t know if I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Gimblet patiently, “would you know him again?”
“Oh yes. He’s a very uncommon sort to meet about. I’d know him anywhere. He’s got a leather coloured face, which looks as if he’d been out in the sun more than a few weeks, and a funny little bit of a pointed beard on his chin. Tell you what he looks like,” said Tremmels, with more show of animation than he had so far exhibited, “he looks more like an American than he does an Indian; and, come to think of it, he’s got a nasty sort of voice, same as they have, but not very strong.”
“Anything else you can remember about him?” Gimblet asked. He was listening with intense interest.
“Well, he has got a way of standing with his legs apart, and getting up on his tiptoes; and then down he lets himself go with a jerk, if I make myself plain. His wool is a bit grey and is commencing to get baldish on the top. He seems to dislike seeing strangers or making new acquaintances, as you may say. He gave me to understand that he’s a scholar, and going in for reading and what not when he’s settled in Scholefield Avenue; says his health’s bad too, but I shouldn’t wonder if it was more likely something else. More this sort of thing.” The clerk made an upward movement with his right arm and hand, of which, as Gimblet was walking on his other side, the significance was lost on him.
“I beg your pardon?” he inquired doubtfully.
“Granted,” said Tremmels; “what I mean is, if you understand me, I shouldn’t be surprised if anyone was to tell me that he takes a drop too much. Rather rosy about the beak, I thought, and when he left the office I watched him go down the street till he was nearly out of sight, when what should he do but nip across into the private bar of the Lion and Crown.”
“Ah,” said Gimblet, “I observed a certain shakiness in the signature of the lease.” In his own mind he was thinking that it was more than probable that the clerk had accompanied Mr. West to the Lion and Crown. “Did you notice anything else?”
“I don’t know that I did,” said Tremmels thoughtfully. “He wore ordinary sort of clothes. Gent’s lounge suit with a large check pattern, brown boots, and a very genteel diamond pin in the centre of his tie. Altogether quite the gentleman, and very civil-spoken and pleasant when not swearing. He told me that he wouldn’t want any coals ordered in, as his cooking would be done chiefly on the gas stove with which the kitchen of No. 13 is fitted. There is every convenience, as you may say,” concluded the clerk.
As Gimblet pondered over what he had heard, and reflected that the powers of observation that his companion showed were greater than he had given him credit for, they drew near to Scholefield Avenue and passed beneath its lines of branching plane trees to the gate of Mr. Mill’s house. Higgs was at his post before it and reported that nothing had stirred during the detective’s absence. Sir Gregory came from the back of the house in the company of Mr. Brampton, who had joined him there. The artist was plainly excited.
“Your friend tells me,” he said, as he came up to Gimblet’s side, “that you think that the two ladies of whose disappearance the papers are so full – Mrs. Vanderstein and her companion – came to this house on the night that they vanished. It will be the greatest favour if you will allow me to witness your methods of investigating this affair.”
“By all means,” said Gimblet ungraciously, “why shouldn’t the whole street come? I think it is very probable that it will do so, since Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones appears to be perfectly incapable of keeping his own counsel, no matter whether the safety of his friends is endangered or not.” So saying he turned and held out his hand for the key of the house to the clerk, who, panting and gasping after his walk, now leant against the door as if no longer able to support himself unaided.
