Kitabı oku: «The Doctor of Pimlico: Being the Disclosure of a Great Crime», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXVII
THE RESULT OF INVESTIGATION
As the expectant trio had come round the bend in the road they saw in front of them, walking alone, a young lady in a short tweed suit with hat to match.
The gown was of a peculiar shade of grey, and by her easy, swinging gait and the graceful carriage of her head Walter Fetherston instantly recognised that there before him, all unconscious of his presence, was the girl he believed to be still in Sicily—Enid Orlebar!
He looked again, to satisfy himself that he was not mistaken. Then, drawing back, lest her attention should be attracted by their footsteps, he motioned to his companions to retreat around the bend and thus out of her sight.
"Now," he said, addressing them, "there is some deep mystery here. That lady must not know we are here."
"You've recognised her, sir?" asked Summers, who had on several previous occasions assisted him.
"Yes," was the novelist's hard reply. "She is here with some mysterious object. You mustn't approach The Yews till dark."
"Mr. Bailey will then be at home, sir," remarked the sergeant. "I thought you wished to explore the place before he arrived?"
Walter paused. He saw that Enid could not be on her way to visit Bailey, if he were not at home. So he suggested that Summers, whom she did not know, should go forward and watch her movements, while he and the sergeant should proceed to the house of suspicion.
Arranging to meet later, the officer from Scotland Yard lit his pipe and strolled quickly forward around the bend to follow the girl in grey, while the other two halted to allow them to get on ahead.
"Have you ever seen that lady down here before, sergeant?" asked Walter presently.
"Yes, sir. If I don't make a mistake, it is the same lady who asked me the way to The Yews soon after Mr. Bailey took the house—the lady who came with the man whom she addressed as 'Doctor'!"
"Are you quite certain of this?"
"Not quite certain. She was dressed differently, in brown—with a different hat and a veil."
"They came only on that one occasion, eh?"
"Only that once, sir."
"But why, I wonder, is she going to The Yews? Pietro, you say, went up to London this morning?"
"Yes, sir, by the nine-five. And the house is locked up—she's evidently unaware of that."
"No doubt. She'll go there, and, finding nobody at home, turn away disappointed. She must not see us."
"We'll take good care of that, sir," laughed the local sergeant breezily, as he left his companion's side and crossed the road so that he could see the bend. "Why!" he exclaimed, "she ain't goin' to Asheldham after all! She's taken the footpath to the left that leads into Steeple! Evidently she knows the road!"
"Then we are free to go straight along to The Yews, eh? She's making a call in the vicinity. I wonder where she's going?"
"Your friend will ascertain that," said the sergeant. "Let's get along to The Yews and 'ave a peep round."
Therefore the pair, now that Enid was sufficiently far ahead along a footpath which led under a high, bare hedge, went forth again down the high road until, after crossing the brook, they turned to the right into Asheldham village, where, half-way between that place and New Hall, they turned up a short by-road, a cul-de-sac, at the end of which a big, old-fashioned, red-brick house of the days of Queen Anne, half hidden by a belt of high Scotch firs, came into view.
Shut off from the by-road by a high, time-mellowed brick wall, it stood back lonely and secluded in about a couple of acres of well wooded ground. From a big, rusty iron gate the ill-kept, gravelled drive took a broad sweep up to the front of the house, a large, roomy one with square, inartistic windows and plain front, the ugliness of which the ivy strove to hide.
In the grey light of that wintry afternoon the place looked inexpressibly dismal and neglected. Years ago it had, no doubt, been the residence of some well-to-do county family; but in these twentieth-century post-war days, having been empty for nearly ten years, it had gone sadly to rack and ruin.
The lawns had become weedy, the carriage-drive was, in places, green with moss, like the sills of the windows and the high-pitched, tiled roof itself. In the centre of the lawn, before the house, stood four great ancient yews, while all round were high box hedges, now, alas! neglected, untrimmed and full of holes.
The curtains were of the commonest kind, while the very steps leading to the front door were grey with lichen and strewn with wisps of straw. The whole aspect was one of neglect, of decay, of mystery.
The two men, opening the creaking iron gate, advanced boldly to the door, an excuse ready in case Pietro opened it.
They knocked loudly, but there was no response. Their summons echoed through the big hall, causing Walter to remark:
"There can't be much furniture inside, judging from the sound."
"Four motor vanloads came here," responded the sergeant. "The first was in a plain van."
"You did not discover whence it came?"
"I asked the driver down at the inn at Southminster, and he told me that they came from the Trinity Furnishing Company, Peckham. But, on making inquiries, I found that he lied; there is no such company in Peckham."
"You saw the furniture unloaded?"
"I was about here when the first lot came. When the other three vans arrived I was away on my annual leave," was the sergeant's reply.
Again they knocked, but no one came to the door. A terrier approached, but he proved friendly, therefore they proceeded to make an inspection of the empty stabling and disused outbuildings.
Three old hen-coops were the only signs of poultry-farming they could discover, and these, placed in a conspicuous position in the big, paved yard, were without feathered occupants.
There were three doors by which the house could be entered, and all of them Walter tried and found locked. Therefore, noticing in the rubbish-heap some stray pieces of paper, he at once turned his attention to what he discovered were fragments of a torn letter. It was written in French, and, apparently, had reference to certain securities held by the tenant of The Yews.
But as only a small portion of the destroyed communication could be found, its purport was not very clear, and the name and address of the writer could not be ascertained.
Yet it had already been proved without doubt that the mysterious tenant of the dismal old place—the man who posed as a poultry-farmer—had had as visitors Dr. Weirmarsh and Enid Orlebar!
For a full half-hour, while the red-faced sergeant kept watch at the gate, Walter Fetherston continued to investigate that rubbish-heap, which showed signs of having been burning quite recently, for most of the scraps of paper were charred at their edges.
The sodden remains of many letters he withdrew and tried to read, but the scraps gave no tangible result, and he was just about to relinquish his search when his eye caught a scrap of bright blue notepaper of a familiar hue. It was half burned, and blurred by the rain, but at the corner he recognised some embossing in dark blue—familiar embossing it was—of part of the address in Hill Street!
The paper was that used habitually by Enid Orlebar, and upon it was a date, two months before, and the single word "over" in her familiar handwriting.
He took his stout walking-stick, in reality a sword-case, and frantically searched for other scraps, but could find none. One tiny portion only had been preserved from the flames—paraffin having been poured over the heap to render it the more inflammable. But that scrap in itself was sufficient proof that Enid had written to the mysterious tenant of The Yews.
"Well," he said at last, approaching the sergeant, "do you think the coast is clear enough?"
"For what?"
"To get a glimpse inside. There's a good deal more mystery here than we imagine, depend upon it!" Walter exclaimed.
"Master and man will return by the same train, I expect, unless they come back in a motor-car. If they come by train they won't be here till well past eight, so we'll have at least three hours by ourselves."
Walter Fetherston glanced around. Twilight was fast falling.
"It'll be dark inside, but I've brought my electric torch," he said. "There's a kitchen window with an ordinary latch."
"That's no use. There are iron bars," declared the sergeant. "I examined it the other day. The small staircase window at the side is the best means of entry." And he took the novelist round and showed him a long narrow window about five feet from the ground.
Walter's one thought was of Enid. Why had she written to that mysterious foreigner? Why had she visited there? Why, indeed, was she back in England surreptitiously, and in that neighbourhood?
The short winter's afternoon was nearly at an end as they stood contemplating the window prior to breaking in—for Walter Fetherston felt justified in breaking the law in order to examine the interior of that place.
In the dark branches of the trees the wind whistled mournfully, and the scudding clouds were precursory of rain.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Walter. "This isn't a particularly cheerful abode, is it, sergeant?"
"No, sir, if I lived 'ere I'd have the blues in a week," laughed the man. "I can't think 'ow Mr. Bailey employs 'is time."
"Poultry-farming," laughed Fetherston, as, standing on tiptoe, he examined the window-latch by flashing on the electric torch.
"No good!" he declared. "There's a shutter covered with new sheet-iron behind."
"It doesn't show through the curtain," exclaimed Deacon.
"But it's there. Our friend is evidently afraid of burglars."
From window to window they passed, but the mystery was considerably increased by the discovery that at each of those on the ground floor were iron-faced shutters, though so placed as not to be noticeable behind the windows, which were entirely covered with cheap curtain muslin.
"That's funny!" exclaimed the sergeant. "I've never examined them with a light before."
"They have all been newly strengthened," declared Fetherston. "On the other side I expect there are strips of steel placed lattice-wise, a favourite device of foreigners. Mr. Bailey," he added, "evidently has no desire that any intruder should gain access to his residence."
"What shall we do?" asked Deacon, for it was now rapidly growing dark.
A thought had suddenly occurred to Walter that perhaps Enid's intention was to make a call there, after all.
"Our only way to obtain entrance is, I think, by one of the upper windows," replied the man whose very life was occupied by the investigation of mysteries. "In the laundry I noticed a ladder. Let us go and get it."
So the ladder, a rather rotten and insecure one, was obtained, and after some difficulty placed against the wall. It would not, however, reach to the windows, as first intended, therefore Walter mounted upon the slippery, moss-grown tiles of a wing of the house, and after a few moments' exploration discovered a skylight which proved to be over the head of the servants' staircase.
This he lifted, and, fixing around a chimney-stack a strong silk rope he had brought in his pocket ready for any emergency, he threw it down the opening, and quickly lowered himself through.
Scarcely had he done so, and was standing on the uncarpeted stairs, when his quick ear caught the sound of Deacon's footsteps receding over the gravel around to the front of the house.
Then, a second later, he heard a loud challenge from the gloom in a man's voice that was unfamiliar:
"Who's there?"
There was no reply. Walter listened with bated breath.
"What are you doing there?" cried the new-comer in a voice in which was a marked foreign accent. "Speak! speak! or I'll shoot!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE SECRET OF THE LONELY HOUSE
Walter did not move. He realised that a contretemps had occurred. The ladder still leaning against the wall outside would reveal his intrusion. Yet, at last inside, he intended, at all hazards, to explore the place and learn the reason why the mysterious stranger had started that "poultry farm."
He was practically in the dark, fearing to flash on his torch lest he should be discovered.
Was it possible that Bailey or his Italian manservant had unexpectedly returned!
Those breathless moments seemed hours.
Suddenly he heard a second challenge. The challenger used a fierce Italian oath, and by it he knew that it was Pietro.
In reply, a shot rang out—evidently from the sergeant's pistol, followed by another sharp report, and still another. This action showed the man Deacon to be a shrewd person, for the effect was exactly as he had intended. The Italian servant turned on his heel and flew for his life down the drive, shouting in his native tongue for help and for the police.
"Madonna santa!" he yelled. "Who are you here?" he demanded in Italian. "I'll go to the police!"
And in terror he rushed off down the road.
"All right, sir," cried the sergeant, after the servant had disappeared. "I've given the fellow a good fright. Be quick and have a look round, sir. You can be out again before he raises the alarm!"
In an instant Walter flashed on his torch and, dashing down the stairs, crossed the kitchen and found himself in the hall. From room to room he rushed, but found only two rooms on the ground floor furnished—a sitting-room, which had been the original dining-room, while in the study was a chair-bed, most probably where Pietro slept.
On the table lay a heavy revolver, fully loaded, and this Fetherston quickly transferred to his jacket pocket.
Next moment he dashed up the old well staircase two steps at a time and entered room after room. Only one was furnished—the tenant's bedroom. In it he found a number of suits of clothes, while on the dressing-table lay a false moustache, evidently for disguise. A small writing-table was set in the window, and upon it was strewn a quantity of papers.
As he flashed his torch round he was amazed to see, arranged upon a neat deal table in a corner, some curious-looking machinery which looked something like printing-presses. But they were a mystery to him.
The discovery was a strange one. What it meant he did not then realise. There seemed to be quite a quantity of apparatus and machinery. It was this which had been conveyed there in those furniture vans of the Trinity Furnishing Company.
He heard Deacon's voice calling again. Therefore, having satisfied himself as to the nature of the contents of that neglected old house, he ascended the stone steps into the passage which led through a faded green-baize door into the main hall.
As he entered he heard voices in loud discussion. Sergeant Deacon and the servant Pietro had met face to face.
The Italian had evidently aroused the villagers in Asheldham, for there were sounds of many voices of men out on the gravelled drive.
"I came up here a quarter of an hour ago," the Italian cried excitedly in his broken English, "and somebody fired at me. They tried to kill me!"
"But who?" asked Deacon in pretended ignorance. He was uncertain what to do, Mr. Fetherston being still within the house and the ladder, his only means of escape, still standing against a side wall.
"Thieves!" cried the man, his foreign accent more pronounced in his excitement. "I challenged them, and they fired at me. I am glad that you, a police sergeant, are here."
"So am I," cried Walter Fetherston, suddenly throwing open the front door and standing before the knot of alarmed villagers, though it was so dark that they could not recognise who he was. "Deacon," he added authoritatively, "arrest that foreigner."
"Diavolo! Who are you?" demanded the Italian angrily.
"You will know in due course," replied Fetherston. Then, turning to the crowd, he added: "Gentlemen, I came here with Sergeant Deacon to search this house. He will tell you whether that statement is true or not."
"Quite," declared the breezy sergeant, who already had the Italian by the collar and coat-sleeve. "It was I who fired—to frighten him off!"
At this the crowd laughed. They had no liking for foreigners of any sort after the war, and were really secretly pleased to see that the sergeant had "taken him up."
But what for? they asked themselves. Why had the police searched The Yews? Mr. Bailey was a quiet, inoffensive man, very free with his money to everybody around.
"Jack Beard," cried Deacon to a man in the crowd, "just go down to Asheldham and telephone to Superintendent Warden at Maldon. Ask him to send me over three men at once, will you?"
"All right, Sam," was the prompt reply, and the man went off, while the sergeant took the resentful Italian into the house to await an escort.
Deacon called the assistance of two men and invited them in. Then, while they mounted guard over the prisoner, Fetherston addressed the little knot of amazed men who had been alarmed by the Italian's statement.
"Listen, gentlemen," he said. "We shall in a couple of hours' time expect the return of Mr. Bailey, the tenant of this house. There is a very serious charge against him. I therefore put everyone of you upon your honour to say no word of what has occurred here to-night—not until Mr. Bailey arrives. I should prefer you all to remain here and wait; otherwise, if a word be dropped at Southminster, he may turn back and fly from justice."
"What's the charge, sir?" asked one man, a bearded old labourer.
"A very serious one," was Walter's evasive reply.
Then, after a pause, they all agreed to wait and witness the dramatic arrest of the man who was charged with some mysterious offence. Speculation was rife as to what it would be, and almost every crime in the calendar was cited as likely.
Meanwhile Fetherston, returning to the barely-furnished sitting-room, interrogated Pietro in Italian, but only obtained sullen answers. A loaded revolver had been found upon him by Deacon, and promptly confiscated.
"I have already searched the place," Walter said to the prisoner, "and I know what it contains."
But in response the man who had posed as servant, but who, with his "master," was the custodian of the place, only grinned and gave vent to muttered imprecations in Italian.
Fetherston afterwards left the small assembly and made examination of some bedrooms he had not yet inspected. In three of these, the locks of which he broke open, he discovered quantities of interesting papers, together with another mysterious-looking press.
While trying to decide what it all meant he suddenly heard a great shouting and commotion outside, and ran down to the door to ascertain its cause.
As he opened it he saw that in the darkness the crowd outside had grown excited.
"'Ere you are, sir," cried one man, ascending the steps. "'Ere are two visitors. We found 'em comin' up the road, and, seein' us, they tried to get away!"
Walter held up a hurricane lantern which he had found and lit, when its dim, uncertain light fell upon the two prisoners in the crowd.
Behind stood Summers, while before him, to Fetherston's utter amazement, showed Enid Orlebar, pale and terrified, and the grey, sinister face of Doctor Weirmarsh.
CHAPTER XXIX
CONTAINS SOME STARTLING STATEMENTS
Enid, recognising Walter, shrank back instantly in fear and shame, while Weirmarsh started at that unexpected meeting with the man whom he knew to be his bitterest and most formidable opponent.
The small crowd of excited onlookers, ignorant of the true facts, but their curiosity aroused by the unusual circumstances, had prevented the pair from turning back and making a hurried escape.
"Enid!" exclaimed Fetherston, as the girl reluctantly crossed the threshold with downcast head, "what is the meaning of this? Why are you paying a visit to this house at such an hour?"
"Ah, Walter," she cried, her small, gloved hands clenched with a sudden outburst of emotion, "be patient and hear me! I will tell you everything—everything!"
"You won't," growled the doctor sharply. "If you do, by Gad! it will be the worse for you! So you'd best keep a silent tongue—otherwise you know the consequences. I shall now tell the truth—and you won't like that!"
She drew back in terror of the man who held such an extraordinary influence over her. She had grasped Fetherston's hand convulsively, but at Weirmarsh's threat she had released her hold and was standing in the hall, pale, rigid and staring.
"Summers," exclaimed Fetherston, turning to his companion, "you know this person, eh?"
"Yes, sir, I should rather think I do," replied the man, with a grin.
"Well, detain him for the present, and take your instructions from London."
"You have no power or right to detain me," declared the grey-faced doctor in quick defiance. "You are not a police officer!"
"No, but this is a police officer," Fetherston replied, indicating Summers, and adding: "Sergeant, I give that man into custody."
The sergeant advanced and laid his big hand upon the doctor's shoulder, telling him to consider himself under arrest.
"But this is abominable—outrageous!" Weirmarsh cried, shaking him off. "I've committed no offence."
"That is a matter for later consideration," calmly replied the man who had devoted so much of his time and money to the investigation of mysteries of crime.
In one of the bare bedrooms upstairs Fetherston had, in examining one of the well made hand-presses set up there, found beside it a number of one-pound Treasury notes. In curiosity he took one up, and found it to be in an unfinished state. It was printed in green, without the brown colouring. Yet it was perfect as regards the paper and printing—even to its black serial number.
Next second the truth flashed upon him. The whole apparatus, presses and everything, had been set up there to print the war paper currency of Great Britain!
In the room adjoining he had seen bundles of slips of similar paper, all neatly packed in elastic bands, and waiting the final process of colouring and toning. One bundle had only the Houses of Parliament printed; the other side was blank. He saw in a flash that the placing in circulation of such a huge quantity of Treasury notes, amounting to hundreds of thousands of pounds, must seriously damage the credit of the nation.
For a few seconds he held an unfinished note in his hand examining it, and deciding that the imitation was most perfect. It deceived him and would undoubtedly deceive any bank-teller.
In those rooms it was plain that various processes had been conducted, from the manipulation of the watermark, by a remarkably ingenious process, right down to the finished one-pound note, so well done that not even an expert could detect the forgery. There were many French one-hundred-franc notes as well.
The whole situation was truly astounding. Again the thought hammered home: such a quantity of paper in circulation must affect the national finances of Britain. And at the head of the band who were printing and circulating those spurious notes was the mysterious medical man who carried on his practice in Pimlico!
The scene within the sparsely furnished house containing those telltale presses was indeed a weird one.
Somebody had found a cheap paraffin lamp and lit it in the sitting-room, where they were all assembled, the front door having been closed.
It was apparent that Pietro was no stranger to the doctor and his fair companion, but both men were highly resentful that they had been so entrapped.
"Doctor Weirmarsh," exclaimed Fetherston seriously, as he stood before him, "I have just examined this house and have ascertained what it contains."
"You've told him!" cried the man, turning fiercely upon Enid. "You have betrayed me! Ah! It will be the worse for you—and for your family," he added harshly. "You will see! I shall now reveal the truth concerning your stepfather, and you and your family will be held up to opprobrium throughout the whole length and breadth of your land."
Enid did not reply. She was pale as death, her face downcast, her lips white as marble. She knew, alas! that Weirmarsh, now that he was cornered, would not spare her.
There was a pause—a very painful pause.
Everyone next instant listened to a noise which sounded outside. As it grew nearer it grew more distinct—the whir of an approaching motor-car.
It pulled up suddenly before the door, and a moment later the old bell clanged loudly through the half-empty house.
Fetherston left the room, and going to the door, threw it open, when yet another surprise awaited him.
Upon the steps stood four men in thick overcoats, all of whom Walter instantly recognised.
With Trendall stood Sir Hugh Elcombe, while their companions were two detective-inspectors from Scotland Yard.
"Hallo!—Fetherston!" gasped Trendall. "I—I expected to find Weirmarsh here! What has happened?"
"The doctor is already here," was the other's quick reply. "I have found some curious things in this place! Secret printing-presses for forged notes."
"We already know that," he said. "Sir Hugh Elcombe here has, unknown to us, obtained certain knowledge, and to-day he came to me and gave me a full statement of what has been in progress. What he has told me this afternoon is among the most valuable and reliable information that we ever received."
"I know something of the scoundrels," remarked the old general, "because—well, because, as I have confessed to Mr. Trendall, I yielded to temptation long ago and assisted them."
"Whatever you have done, Sir Hugh, you have at least revealed to us the whole plot. Only by pretending to render assistance to these scoundrels could you have gained the intensely valuable knowledge which you've imparted to me to-day," replied the keen-faced director from Scotland Yard.
Fetherston realised instantly that the fine old fellow, whom he had always held in such esteem, was making every effort to atone for his conduct in the past; but surely that was not the moment to refer to it—so he ushered the four men into the ill-lit dining-room wherein the others were standing, none knowing how next to act.
When the doctor and Sir Hugh faced each other there was a painful silence for a few seconds.
To Weirmarsh Trendall was known by sight, therefore the criminal saw that the game was up, and that Sir Hugh had risked his own reputation in betraying him.
"You infernal scoundrel!" cried the doctor angrily. "You—to whom I have paid so many thousands of pounds—have given me away! But I'll be even with you!"
"Say what you like," laughed the old general in defiance. "To me it is the same whatever you allege. I have already admitted my slip from the straight path. I do not deny receiving money from your hands, nor do I deny that, in a certain measure, I have committed serious offences—because, having taken one step, you forced me on to others, always holding over me the threat of exposure and ruin. But, fortunately, one day, in desperation, I took Enid yonder into my confidence. It was she who suggested that I might serve the ends of justice, and perhaps atone for what I had already done, by learning your secrets, and, when the time was ripe, revealing all the interesting details to our authorities. Enid became your friend and the friend of your friends. She risked everything—her honour, her happiness, her future—by associating with you for the one and sole purpose of assisting me to learn all the dastardly plot in progress."
"It was you who supplied Paul Le Pontois with the false notes he passed in France!" declared Weirmarsh. "The French police know that; and if ever you or your step-daughter put foot in France you will be arrested."
"Evidently you are unaware, Doctor, that my son-in-law, Paul Le Pontois, was released yesterday," laughed Sir Hugh in triumph. "Your treachery, which is now known by the Sûreté, defeated its own ends."
"Further," remarked Walter Fetherston, turning to Enid, "it was this man here"—and he indicated the grey-faced doctor of Pimlico—"this man who denounced you and Sir Hugh to the French authorities, and had you not heeded my warning you both would then have been arrested. He had evidently suspected the object of your friendliness with me—that you both intended to reveal the truth—and he adopted that course in order to secure your incarceration in a foreign prison, and so close your lips."
"I knew you suspected me all along, Walter," replied the girl, standing a little aside and suddenly clutching his hand. "But you will forgive me now—forgive me, won't you?" she implored, looking up into his dark, determined face.
"Of course," he replied, "I have already forgiven you. I had no idea of the true reason of your association with this man."
And he raised her gloved hand and carried it gallantly to his eager lips.
"Though more than mere suspicion has rested upon you," he went on, "you and your stepfather deserve the heartiest thanks of the nation for risking everything in order to be in a position to reveal this dastardly financial plot. That man there"—and he indicated the doctor—"deserves all he'll get!"
The doctor advanced threateningly, and, drawing a big automatic revolver from his pocket, would have fired at the man who had spoken his mind so freely had not Deacon, quick as lightning, sprung forward and wrenched the weapon so that the bullet went upward.
White with anger and chagrin, the doctor stood roundly abusing the man who had investigated that lonely house.
But Fetherston laughed, which only irritated him the more. He raved like a caged lion, until the veins in his brow stood out in great knots; but, finding all protests and allegations useless, he at last became quiet again, and apparently began to review the situation from a purely philosophical standpoint, until, some ten minutes later, another motor-car dashed up and in it were an inspector and four plain-clothes constables, who had been sent over from Maldon in response to Deacon's message for assistance.
When they entered Pietro became voluble, but the narrow-eyed doctor of Pimlico remained sullen and silent, biting his lips. He saw that he had been entrapped by the very man whom he had believed to be as clay in his hands.
The scene was surely exciting as well as impressive. The half-furnished, ill-lit dining-room was full of excited men, all talking at once.
