Kitabı oku: «The Herapath Property», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XXXI
THE INTERRUPTED DINNER-PARTY

Triffitt’s recent inquiries in connection with the Herapath affair had been all very well from a strictly professional point of view, but not so well from another. For nearly twelve months he had been engaged to a sweet girl, of whom he was very fond, and who thoroughly reciprocated his affection; up to the time of the Herapath murder he had contrived to spend a certain portion of each day with her, and to her he had invariably devoted the whole of his Sundays. In this love affair he was joined by his friend, to whom Triffitt’s young lady had introduced her great friend, with whom Carver had promptly become infatuated. These ladies, both very young and undeniably charming, spent the greater part of the working week at the School of Needlework, in South Kensington, where they fashioned various beautiful objects with busy needles; Sundays they gave up to their swains, and every Sunday ended with a little dinner of four at some cheap restaurant whereat you could get quite a number of courses at the fixed price of half a crown or so and drink light wine which was very little dearer than pale ale. All parties concerned looked forward throughout the week to these joyful occasions; the girls wore their best frocks, and the young men came out bravely in the matter of neckties; there was laughter and gaiety and a general escape from the prosaic matters which obtained from Monday to Saturday—consequently, Triffitt felt it a serious thing that attention to this Herapath business had come to interfere with his love-making and his Sunday feast of mirth and gladness. More than once he had been obliged to let Carver go alone to the usual rendezvous; he himself had been running hither and thither after chances of news which never materialized, while his sweetheart played gooseberry to the more favoured people. And as he was very much in love, Triffitt had often been tempted to throw his clues and his theories to the winds, and to vow himself to the service of Venus rather than to that of Mercury.

But on that Sunday which saw the white-haired lady interviewing Peggie Wynne and Selwood, Triffitt, to his great delight, found that newspaper requirements were not going to interfere with him. The hue-and-cry after the missing Burchill was dying down—the police (so Davidge told Triffitt in strict confidence) were of the firm opinion that Burchill had escaped to the continent—probably within a few hours of the moment wherein he made his unceremonious exit from Mr. Halfpenny’s office. Even Markledew was not so keen about the Herapath affair as he had been. His policy was—a new day, a new affair. The Herapath mystery was becoming a little stale—it would get staler unless a fresh and startling development took place. As it was, nothing was likely to arise which would titillate the public until Barthorpe Herapath, now safely lodged in the remand prison, was brought to trial, or unless Burchill was arrested. Consequently, Triffitt was not expected to make up a half or a whole column of recent and sensational Herapath news every morning. And so he gladly took this Sunday for a return to the primrose paths. He and Carver met their sweethearts; they took them to the Albert Hall Sunday afternoon concert—nothing better offering in the middle of winter—they went to tea at the sweethearts’ lodgings; later in the evening they carried them off to the accustomed Sunday dinner.

Triffitt and Carver had become thoroughly seasoned men of the world in the matter of finding out good places whereat to dine well and cheaply. They knew all the Soho restaurants. They had sampled several in Oxford Street and in Tottenham Court Road. But by sheer luck they had found one—an Italian restaurant—in South Kensington which was, in their opinion, superior to all of their acquaintance. This establishment had many advantages for lovers. To begin with, it bore a poetical name—the Café Venezia—Triffitt, who frequently read Byron and Shelley to his adored one, said it made one think of moonlight and gondolas, and similar adjuncts to what he called parfaite amour. Then it was divided off into little cabinets, just holding four people—that was an advantage when you were sure of your company. And for the prix fixe of two shillings they gave you quite a good dinner; also their Chianti was of exceptional quality, and according to the proprietor, it came straight from Siena.

On this Sunday evening, then, Triffitt on one side of a table with his lady-love, Carver on the other with his, made merry, with no thought of anything but the joys of the moment. They had arrived at the last stages of the feast; the heroes puffed cigarettes and sipped Benedictine; the heroines daintily drank their sweetened coffee. They all chattered gaily, out of the fulness of their youthful hearts; not one of them had any idea that anything was going to happen. And in the midst of their lightsomeness, Triffitt, who faced a mirror, started, dropped his cigarette, upset his liqueur glass and turned pale. For an instant he clutched the tablecloth, staring straight in front of him; then with a great effort he controlled his emotion and with a cautious hissing of his breath, gazed warningly at Carver.

“‘Sh!” whispered Triffitt. “Not a word! And don’t move—don’t show a sign, any of you. Carver—turn your head very slowly and look behind you. At the bar!”

At the entrance to that restaurant there was a bar, whereat it was possible to get a drink. There were two or three men, so occupied, standing at this bar at that moment—Carver, leisurely turning to inspect them, suddenly started as violently as Triffitt had started a moment before.

“Good heavens!” he muttered. “Burchill!”

“Quiet!” commanded Triffitt. “Quiet, all of you. By Gad!—this is–”

He ended in an eloquent silence and with a glare at his companions which would have imposed silence on an unruly class-room. He was already at work—the quick, sure journalistic instinct had come up on top and was rapidly realizing the situation. That the man standing there, openly, calmly, taking a drink of some sort, was Frank Burchill he had no more doubt than of his own identity. The thing was—what was to be done?

Triffitt was as quick of action as of thought—in two seconds he had made up his mind. With another warning glance at the startled girls, he bent across the table to Carver.

“Carver!” he whispered. “Do exactly what I tell you. When Burchill goes out, Trixie and I’ll follow him. You pay the bill—then you and Lettie jump into the first taxi you can get and go to Scotland Yard. Find Davidge! If Davidge isn’t there, get somebody else. Wait there until I ring you up! What I’ll do will be this—we’ll follow Burchill, and if I see that he’s going to take to train or cab I’ll call help and stop him. You follow me? As soon as I’ve taken action, or run him to earth, I’ll ring up Scotland Yard, and then–”

“He’s going,” announced Carver, who had taken advantage of the many mirrors to keep his eye on Burchill. “He’s off! I understand–”

Triffitt was already leading his sweetheart quietly out. In the gloom of the street he saw Burchill’s tall figure striding away towards Cromwell Road. Triffitt’s companion was an athletically inclined young woman—long walks in the country on summer Sundays had toughened her powers of locomotion and she strode out manfully in response to Triffitt’s command to hurry up.

“Lucky that you were with me, Trixie!” exclaimed Triffitt. “You make a splendid blind. Supposing he does look round and sees that he’s being followed? Why, he’d never think that we were after him. Slip your hand in my arm—he’ll think we’re just a couple of sweethearts, going his way. Gad!—what a surprise! And what a cheek he has—with all those bills out against him!”

“You don’t think he’ll shoot you if he catches sight of you?” asked Trixie, anxiously. “He’d be sure to recognize you, wouldn’t he?”

“We’ll not come within shooting distance,” replied Triffitt grimly. “All I want to do is to track him. Of course, if he gets into any vehicle, I’ll have to act. Let’s draw a bit nearer.”

Burchill showed no sign of hailing any vehicle; indeed, he showed no sign of anything but cool confidence. It was certainly nearly nine o’clock of a dark winter evening, but there was plenty of artificial light in the streets, and Burchill made no attempt to escape its glare. He walked on, smoking a cigar, jauntily swinging an umbrella, he passed and was passed by innumerable people; more than one policeman glanced at his tall figure and took no notice. And Triffitt chuckled cynically.

“There you are, Trixie!” he said. “There’s a fellow who’s wanted about as badly as can be, whose picture’s posted up outside every police-station in London, and at every port in England, and he walks about, and stares at people, and passes policemen as unconcernedly as I do. The fact of the case is that if I went to that bobby and pointed Burchill out, and told the bobby who he is, all that bobby would say would be, ‘Who are you a-kiddin’ of?’—or words to that equivalent. And so—still ahead he goes, and we after him! And—where?”

Burchill evidently knew very well where he was going. He crossed Cromwell Road, went up Queen’s Road, turned into Queen’s Gate Terrace, and leisurely pursuing his way, proceeded to cut through various streets and thoroughfares towards Kensington High Street. Always he looked forward; never once did he turn nor seem to have any suspicion that he was being followed. There was nothing here of the furtive slink, the frightened slouch of the criminal escaped from justice; the man’s entire bearing was that of fearlessness; he strode across Kensington High Street in the full glare of light before the Town Hall and under the noses of several policemen.

Five minutes later Triffitt pulled himself and Trixie up with a gasp. The chase had come to an end—for that moment, at any rate. Boldly, openly, with absolute nonchalance, Burchill walked into a brilliantly-lighted entrance of the Herapath Flats!

CHAPTER XXXII
THE YORKSHIRE PROVERB

In the course of Triffitt’s brief and fairly glorious journalistic career, he had enjoyed and suffered a few startling experiences. He had been fastened up in the darker regions of a London sewer in flood, wondering if he would ever breathe the fine air of Fleet Street again or go down with the rats that scurried by him. He had been down a coal-mine in the bad hour which follows an explosion. He had several times risked his neck; his limbs had often been in danger; he had known what it was to feel thumpings of the heart and catchings of the breath from sheer fright. He had come face to face with surprise, with astonishment, with audacious turnings of Fortune’s glass. But never in all his life had he been so surprised as he now was, and after one long, low whistle he relieved his feelings by quoting verse:

 
“Is things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
 

“Trixie!” he went on in a low, concentrated voice. “This licks all! This bangs Banagher! This—but words fail me, Trixie!”

“What is it, Herbert?” demanded Trixie anxiously. “What does it all mean?”

“Ah!” responded Triffitt, wildly smiting the crown of his deerstalker. “That’s just it! What does it all mean, my dear! Gad!—this is—to use the common language of the common man, a fair licker! That that chap Burchill should march as bold as brass into those Herapath Flats, is—well, I couldn’t be more surprised, Trixie, than if you were to tell me that you are the Queen of Sheba’s grand-daughter! Not so much so, in fact. You see–”

But at that moment a taxi-cab came speeding round the corner, and from it presently emerged Carver and Davidge. The detective, phlegmatic, quiet as ever, nodded familiarly to Triffitt and lifted his hat to Trixie.

“Evening, Mr. Triffitt,” he said quietly.

“He’s in there!” exclaimed Triffitt, grabbing Davidge’s arm and pointing wildly to the brilliantly lighted entrance, wherein two or three uniformed servants lounged about to open doors and attend to elevators. “Walked in as if the whole place belonged to him! You know—Burchill!”

“Ah, just so!” responded Davidge unconcernedly. “Quite so—I wouldn’t name no names in the street if I were you, Mr. Triffitt. Ah!—to be sure, now. Well, of course, he would have to go in somewhere, wouldn’t he?—as well here as anywhere, perhaps. Yes. Now, if this young lady would join the other young lady in the cab, Mr. Carver’ll escort ’em home, and then he can come back here if he likes—we might have a bit of a job for him. And when the ladies retire, you and me can do our bit of business, d’ye see, Mr. Triffitt. What?”

Trixie, urged towards the cab, showed signs of uneasiness.

“Promise me you won’t get shot, or poisoned, or anything, Herbert!” she entreated. “If you do–”

“We aren’t going in for any shooting tonight, miss,” said Davidge gravely. “Some other night, perhaps. All quiet and serene tonight—just a little family gathering, as it were—all pleasant!”

“But that dreadful man!” exclaimed Trixie, pointing to the door of the flats. “Supposing–”

“Ah, but we won’t suppose,” answered Davidge. “He’s all right, he is. Mild as milk we shall find him—my word on it, miss. Now,” he continued, when he had gently but firmly assisted Trixie into the cab, said a word or two to Carver, taken Triffitt’s arm, and led him across the street, “now we’ll talk a bit, quietly. So he’s gone in there, has he, Mr. Triffitt? Just so. Alone, now?”

“Quite alone,” replied Triffitt. “What’s it all about—what does it mean? You seem remarkably cool about it!”

“I shouldn’t be much use in my trade if I didn’t keep cool, Mr. Triffitt,” answered Davidge. “You see, I know a bit—perhaps a good deal—of what’s going on—or what’s going to go on, presently. So will you. I’ll take you in there.”

“There? Where?” demanded Triffitt.

“Where he’s gone,” said Davidge. “Where—if I’m not mistaken—that chap’s going.”

He pointed to a man who had come quickly round the corner from the direction of the High Street, a middle-sized, apparently well-dressed man, who hurried up the broad steps and disappeared within the glass-panelled doors.

“That’s another of ’em,” observed Davidge. “And I’m a Dutchman if this taxi-cab doesn’t hold t’other two. You’ll recognize them, easy.”

Triffitt gaped with astonishment as he saw Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood descend from the taxi-cab, pass up the steps, and disappear.

“Talk of mysteries!” he said. “This–”

Davidge pulled out an old-fashioned watch.

“Nine o’clock,” he remarked. “Come on—we’ll go in. Now, then, Mr. Triffitt,” he continued, pressing his companion’s arm, “let me give you a tip. You mayn’t know that I’m a Yorkshireman—I am! We’ve a good old proverb—it’s often cast up against us: ‘Hear all—say naught!’ You’ll see me act on it tonight—act on it yourself. And—a word in your ear!—you’re going to have the biggest surprise you ever had in your life—and so’s a certain somebody else that we shall see in five minutes! Come on!”

He took Triffitt’s arm firmly in his, led him up the stairs, in at the doors. The hall-porter came forward.

“Take me up,” said Davidge, “to Mrs. Engledew’s flat.”

CHAPTER XXXIII
BURCHILL FILLS THE STAGE

It seemed to Triffitt, who possessed, and sedulously cultivated, a sense of the dramatic, that the scene to which he and Davidge were presently conducted by a trim and somewhat surprised-looking parlour-maid, was one which might have been bodily lifted from the stage of any theatre devoted to work of the melodramatic order. The detective and the reporter found themselves on the threshold of a handsomely furnished dining-room, vividly lighted by lamps which threw a warm pink glow over the old oak furniture and luxurious fittings. On one side of the big table sat Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood both looking a little mystified; at the further end sat a shortish, rather fat man, obviously a foreigner, who betrayed anxiety in every line of his rather oily countenance. And posed in an elegant attitude on the hearthrug, one elbow resting on the black marble of the mantelpiece, one hand toying with a cigarette, stood Burchill, scrupulously attired as usual, and conveying, or endeavouring to convey to whoever looked upon him, that he, of all people present, was master of himself and all of the scene.

Triffitt took all this in at a glance; his next glance was at the elegant, white-haired lady who came forward to meet him and his companion. Davidge gave him a nudge as he executed a duck-like bow.

“Servant, ma’am,” said Davidge in his quietest and coolest manner. “I took the liberty of bringing a friend with me. You see, ma’am, as these proceedings are in what we may call the public way, Mrs. Engledew, no objection I’m sure to having a press gentleman at them. Mr. Triffitt, ma’am, of the Argus newspaper. Known to these gentlemen—all of ’em—unless it’s the gentleman at the far end, there. Known, at any rate, to Mr. Selwood and the Professor,” continued Davidge, nodding with much familiarity to the person he named. “And likewise to Mr. Burchill there. How do you do, sir, this evening? You and me, I think, has met before, and shall no doubt meet again. Well, ma’am, and now that I’ve come, perhaps I might ask a question. What have I come for?”

Davidge had kept up this flow of talk while he took stock of his surroundings, and now, with another nudge of his companion’s elbow, he took a chair between the door and the table, planted himself firmly in it, put his hands on top of his stout stick, and propped his chin on his hands. He looked at Mrs. Engledew once more, and then let his eyes make another inspection of her guests.

“What have I come for, ma’am?” he repeated. “To hear those revelations you spoke of when you called on me this afternoon? Just so. Well, ma’am, the only question now is—who’s going to make ’em? For,” he added, sitting up again after his further inspection, and bestowing a general smile all round, “revelations, ma’am, is what I chiefly hanker after, and I shall be glad—delighted!—to hear any specimens from—anybody as chooses to make ’em!”

Mrs. Engledew looked at Burchill as she resumed her seat.

“I think Mr. Burchill is the most likely person to tell you what there is to tell,” she said. “His friend–”

“Ah!—the gentleman at the other end of the table, no doubt,” observed Davidge. “How do you do, sir? And what might that gentleman’s name be, now?”

Burchill, who had been watching the detective carefully, threw away his cigarette and showed an inclination to speak.

“Look here, Davidge!” he said. “You know very well why you’re here—you’re here to hear the real truth about the Herapath murder! Mrs. Engledew told you that this afternoon, when she called on you at Scotland Yard. Now the only two people who know the real truth are myself and my friend there—Mr. Dimambro.”

Selwood and Cox-Raythwaite, who until then had remained in ignorance of the little foreigner’s identity, started and looked at him with interest. So this was the missing witness! But Davidge remained cool and unimpressed.

“Ah, just so!” he said. “Foreign gentleman, no doubt. And you and Mr. Dimambro are the only persons who know the real truth about that little affair, eh, Mr. Burchill. Very good, so as–”

“As Mr. Dimambro doesn’t speak English very well–” began Burchill.

“I speak it—you understand—enough to say a good many words—but not so good as him,” observed Mr. Dimambro, waving a fat hand. “He say it for me—for both of us, eh?”

“To be sure, sir, to be sure,” said Davidge. “Mr. Burchill is gifted that way, of course. Well, Mr. Burchill, and what might this story be, now? Deeply interesting, I’ll be bound.”

Burchill pulled a chair to the table, opposite Selwood and the Professor. He put the tips of his fingers together and assumed an explanatory manner.

“I shall have to begin at the beginning,” he said. “You’ll all please to follow me closely. Now, to commence—Mrs. Engledew permits me to speak for her as well as for Mr. Dimambro. The fact is, I can put the circumstances of the whole affair into a consecutive manner. And I will preface what I have to say by making a statement respecting a fact in the life of the late Mr. Herapath which will, I believe, be substantiated by Mr. Selwood, my successor as secretary to the deceased gentleman. Mr. Herapath, in addition to being an authority on the building of up-to-date flats, was also more or less of an expert in precious stones. He not only bought and sold in these things, but he gave advice to his friends in matters relating to them. Mr. Selwood has, I am sure, had experience of that fact?”

“To a certain extent—yes,” agreed Selwood. “But I had not been long enough in Mr. Herapath’s employ to know how much he went in for that sort of thing.”

“That is immaterial,” continued Burchill. “We establish the fact that he did. Now we come to the first chapter of our story. This lady, Mrs. Engledew, a tenant of this flat since the Herapath Estate was built, is an old acquaintance—I am permitted to say, friend—of the late Jacob Herapath. She occasionally consulted him on matters of business. On November 12th last she consulted him on another affair—though it had, of course, a business complexion. Mrs. Engledew, by the death of a relative, had just come into possession of some old family jewels—chiefly diamonds. These diamonds, which, Mrs. Engledew tells me, had been valued by Spinks at about seven thousand pounds, were in very old, considerably worn settings. Mrs. Engledew wished to have them reset. Knowing that Jacob Herapath had great taste and knowledge in that direction, she saw him at his office on the noon of November 12th, showed him the diamonds, and asked his advice. Jacob Herapath—I am giving you Mrs. Engledew’s account—told her to leave the diamonds with him, as he was going to see, that very day, an expert in that line, to whom he would show the stones with the idea of his giving him his opinion on what ought to be done with them. Mrs. Engledew handed him the diamonds in a small case, which he put in his pocket. I hope,” added Burchill, turning to Mrs. Engledew, “that I have given all this quite correctly?”

“Quite,” assented Mrs. Engledew. “It is perfectly correct.”

“Then,” continued Burchill, “we pass on to Mr. Dimambro. Mr. Luigi Dimambro is a dealer in precious stones, who resides in Genoa, but travels widely about Europe in pursuance of his business. Mr. Dimambro had had several dealings with Jacob Herapath during past years, but previous to November 12th last they had not met for something like twelve months. On their last previous meeting Jacob Herapath told Mr. Dimambro that he was collecting pearls of a certain sort and size—specimens of which he showed him—with a view to presenting his niece, Miss Wynne, with a necklace which was to be formed of them. He gave Dimambro a commission to collect such pearls for him. On November 11th last Dimambro arrived in London from the Continent, and wrote to Mr. Herapath to tell him of his arrival, and to notify him that he had brought with him some pearls of the sort he wanted. Mr. Herapath thereupon made an appointment with Dimambro at the House of Commons on the evening of November 12th at half-past ten o’clock. Dimambro kept that appointment, showed Mr. Herapath the pearls which he had brought, sold them to him, and received from him, in payment for them, a cheque for three thousand guineas. This transaction being conducted, Mr. Herapath drew from his pocket (the same pocket in which he had already placed the pearls, which I understand, were wrapped up in a small bag or case of wash-leather) the diamonds which Mrs. Engledew had entrusted to him, showed them to Dimambro, and asked his opinion as to how they could best be reset. It is not material to this explanation to repeat what Dimambro said on that matter—suffice it to say that Dimambro gave an expert opinion, that Mr. Herapath once more pocketed the diamonds, and soon afterwards left the House of Commons for his estate offices with both lots of valuable stones in his possession—some ten thousand pounds’ worth in all. As for Dimambro, he went home to the hotel at which he was stopping—a little place called the Ravenna, in Soho, an Italian house—next morning, first thing, he cashed his cheque, and before noon he left for the Continent. He had not heard of the murder of Jacob Herapath when he left London, and he did not hear of it until next day. I think I have given Mr. Dimambro’s account accurately—his account so far,” concluded Burchill, turning to the Italian. “If not, he will correct me.”

“Quite right, quite right!” said Dimambro, who had listened eagerly. “I do not hear of the murder, eh, until I am in Berlin—it is, yes, next day—day after I leave London—that I hear of it, you understand? I then see it in the newspaper—English news, eh?”

“Why did you not come back at once?” asked Cox-Raythwaite.

Dimambro spread out his hands.

“Oh, I have my business—very particular,” he said. “Besides, it has nothing to do with me, eh? I don’t see no—no connection between me and that—no! But in time, I do come back, and then—he tell you,” he broke off, pointing to Burchill. “He tell you better, see?”

“I am taking everything in order,” said Burchill. “And for the present I have done with Mr. Dimambro. Now I come to myself. I shall have to go into details about myself which I should not give if it were not for these exceptional circumstances. Mr. Davidge, I am sure, will understand me. Well, about myself—you will all remember that at both the coroner’s inquest and at the proceedings before the magistrate at which Barthorpe Herapath was present and I—for reasons well known!—was not, there was mention made of a letter which I had written to Jacob Herapath and was subsequently found in Barthorpe’s possession, on his arrest. That letter was taken to be a blackmailing letter—I don’t know whether any of you will believe me, and I don’t care whether you do or not, but I declare that it was not meant to be a letter of that sort, though its wording might set up that opinion. However, Jacob Herapath resented that letter, and on its receipt he wrote to me showing that it had greatly displeased him. Now, I did not want to displease Jacob Herapath, and on receipt of his letter, I determined to see him personally at once. Being, of course, thoroughly familiar with his habits, I knew that he generally left the House of Commons about a quarter past eleven, every night when the House was sitting. I accordingly walked down to Palace Yard, intending to accost him. I arrived at the entrance to the Hall soon after eleven. A few minutes later Mountain, the coachman, drove up with the coupé brougham. I remained within the shadow of the porch—there were other people about—several Members, and men who were with them. At a quarter past eleven Jacob Herapath came down the Hall, accompanied by Dimambro. I knew Dimambro, though I had not seen him for some time—I used to see him, very occasionally, during my secretaryship to Mr. Herapath. When I saw these two in conversation, I drew back, and neither of them saw me. I did not want to accost Mr. Herapath in the presence of a second party. I watched him part from Dimambro, and I heard him tell Mountain to drive to the estate office. When both he and Dimambro had gone, I walked out into Parliament Square, and after thinking things over, I hailed a passing taxi-cab, and told the driver to go to Kensington High Street, and to pull up by the Metropolitan Station.”

Burchill here paused—to give Davidge a peculiarly knowing look.

“Now I want you all—and particularly Mr. Davidge—to follow closely what I’m going to tell you,” he continued. “I got out of the cab at the station in the High Street, dismissed it, walked a little way along the street, and then crossed over and made for the Herapath Flats—for the estate office entrance. I think you are all very well acquainted with that entrance. You know that it lies in a covered carriage way which leads from the side-street into the big quadrangle round which the flats are built. As I went up the side-street, on the opposite side, mind, to the entrance, I saw a man come out of the covered carriage way. That man I knew!”

Burchill made a dramatic pause, looking impressively around him amidst a dead silence.

“Knew!” he repeated, shaking his finger at the expectant faces. “Knew well! But—I am not going to tell you his name at this moment. For the present we will call him Mr. X.”