Kitabı oku: «The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery», sayfa 13
Chapter Twenty Five.
Still More Mystery
Grant answered the ’phone in Chesterfield Street. To Smeaton’s inquiry, he replied that Miss Monkton had just left the house with Mr Wingate. They were lunching out somewhere, but she had left word that she would be back about three o’clock.
“Any message, sir?” he concluded.
“No, thank you. Grant. I want to see her rather particularly. I’ll look round about three o’clock. I suppose she’s likely to be pretty punctual?”
Grant replied that, as a rule, she kept her time. He added, with the privileged freedom of an old servant: “But you know, sir, when young folk get together, they are not in a great hurry to part. And poor Miss Sheila hasn’t much brightness in her life now. I don’t know what she would do if it wasn’t for Mr Wingate.”
About two o’clock Varney walked into Smeaton’s room at Scotland Yard. He had taken an early morning train to Forest View, to find out what he could concerning the mysterious flitting. He had interviewed the house-agent at Horsham, and had learned a few facts which he communicated to the detective.
There had been mystery about the man who called himself Strange from the beginning. When he proposed to take the house, he had been asked for references, according to the usual custom. He had demurred to this, explained that he did not care to trouble his friends on such a matter, and made a counter-proposition. He would pay a quarter’s rent at once, and every three months pay in advance.
The landlord and the house-agent both thought this a queer proceeding, and were half inclined to insist upon references. But the house had been to let for some time, and the loss of rent was a consideration. The man Strange might be an eccentric sort of person, who disliked putting himself under an obligation, even of such a trifling kind. They gave him the benefit of the doubt, feeling so far as the money was concerned that they were on the safe side.
Another peculiar thing about Mr Strange was that, during the whole of his residence at Forest View, he had never been known to give a cheque. The landlord’s rent was paid in banknotes, the tradesmen’s accounts in gold and silver.
Smeaton put an obvious question: “Have they heard anything from Stent?”
“I am coming to that now, and here is more mystery, as might naturally be expected,” was Varney’s answer. “A young man called at the house-agent’s late yesterday afternoon. He was described to me as a youngish, well-dressed fellow, rather thick-set and swarthy. I take it, we know nothing of him in connection with this case?”
Varney looked at Smeaton interrogatively. The detective shook his head.
“No; you have been told of everybody I know.”
“Well, this chap came with a queer sort of story,” Varney went on. “He explained that he was a friend of Stent, I should say Strange. Two or three days ago Strange had received an urgent summons from abroad, which admitted of no delay. He had posted off at once to Croydon, got hold of a furniture dealer there, brought him back, and sold the furniture to him. He was to fetch it before the end of the week. Strange had given this fellow a letter to the agent, authorising him to let the dealer have the furniture, and hand him the proceeds, less a sum of twenty-five pounds which had been paid as deposit. Out of these proceeds the agent was to deduct the sum accruing for rent, the tenancy being up in four months’ time – and keep the balance till Strange sent for it, or gave instructions for it to be sent to him!”
“And, of course, nothing more will be heard of Stent,” interrupted Smeaton. “The balance will lie in the agent’s hands unclaimed.”
“It looks like it,” said Varney. “The agent thought it all sounded very fishy, although this young fellow carried it off in a pretty natural manner. It was only when he was asked to give his name and address that he showed any signs of embarrassment. But, after a moment’s hesitation, it came out pat enough. He was a Mr James Blake, of Verbena Road, Brixton, by profession an insurance agent.”
“A false name and address, of course?” queried Smeaton.
“Yes and no,” replied Varney. “I got up to Victoria about twelve o’clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was a plate on the door, ‘James Blake, Insurance Agent.’ I rang the bell and asked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there. Fortunately he was in.”
“And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone to Horsham?”
“Certainly not. He was a man of about forty-five with a black beard. In five minutes he told me all about himself, and his family, a wife and two daughters. One was a typist in the city, the other an assistant in a West End hat shop. Our dark-faced friend apparently picked the name out of the directory at random, or knew something of the neighbourhood and its residents. We may be quite sure Horsham will not see him again for a very long time. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Stent went round the day before, and paid up all the tradespeople.”
“No want of money,” observed Smeaton. “They evidently didn’t ‘shoot the moon’ on account of poverty. There’s no doubt they spotted you, and guessed they were under observation.”
“It looks like it,” admitted Varney reluctantly. Smeaton had uttered no word of reproach, but it was a blow to the young man’s pride to know that he had allowed his quarry to escape.
“Well, we must think this over a bit, before we can decide on further steps,” said the detective at length, in a desponding tone. “I am off to Chesterfield Street in a few moments, to see if I can learn anything fresh there. We know that Mrs Saxton was at the corner of the street last night, if we are not positive about her companion.”
Grant opened the door to him when, on the stroke of three, he alighted from a taxi.
Half-an-hour went by, and still Sheila did not make her appearance. Smeaton began to fidget and walk up and down the dining-room, for he hated waiting for anybody. Then the door-bell rang. He rose and hastened into the hall, just as Grant opened the door.
He saw a dark-haired young woman, neatly dressed in navy blue, standing there. He thought there was a slight tremor of nervousness in her voice as she asked if Miss Monkton was at home.
Grant explained that she was out, but he expected her back every minute. Would she come in and wait?
Apparently she was on the point of doing so, when she caught sight of Smeaton standing in the background.
Her face flushed, and then went pale. She drew back, and her nervousness seemed to increase. It was impossible for her to keep her voice steady. “No – no, thank you,” she stammered, as she edged back. “It is of really no importance. I will call another day – to-morrow perhaps.”
“What name shall I say?” asked Grant, surprised at her agitation.
She grew more confused than ever. “I won’t trouble you; it doesn’t matter in the least. I mean. Miss Monkton would not know my name, if I told it you.”
With a swift gesture, she turned and fled. She had been nervous to start with, but Smeaton’s steady and penetrating gaze seemed to have scared her out of her wits.
The detective chatted for a moment or two with Grant, but made no comment upon the strange visitor. Still, it struck him as a curious thing, as one more of the many mysteries of which this house was so full. Would the young woman come back to-morrow, he wondered?
Five minutes later Sheila and her lover arrived. They had spent the best part of the morning in each other’s company, and had lingered long over their lunch. But Wingate was loth to part from her, and insisted upon seeing her home.
She was puzzled, too, at the advent of this dark-haired young woman. “Oh, how I wish I had been a few minutes earlier,” she cried. “I shall worry about it all night.”
“Strange things seem to happen every day,” grumbled Smeaton. “A very mysterious thing happened at the corner of this street last night.”
Then he told them briefly of the midnight move from Forest View, of his dinner with Varney, and how they had seen Mrs Saxton in the taxi-cab in Coventry Street; of the taxi-driver’s story that he had driven her to the corner of Chesterfield Street, where she had got out, and dismissed the cab.
“But surely she was not alone,” cried Sheila.
“A man was with her, but the cab passed too rapidly for us to get a look at him,” replied Smeaton evasively. After all, it was only a suspicion, he could not be positive.
He paused a second, and went on hesitatingly.
“I can’t imagine what her motive could be in coming so near. I came round to-day because I had an idea that she might have called here on some pretext.”
“But, if she had done so, of course I should have rung you up,” said Sheila quickly.
“Well, I could have been sure of that too, if I had thought it out.” Smeaton’s manner was strangely hesitating, it seemed to them, not knowing that he was only revealing half of what was in his mind. “I hardly know why I came at all. I think the case is getting on my nerves. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Let me know if that young woman calls again, and if her visit concerns me in any way.”
He left, and when he had gone Sheila turned to her lover. “Mr Smeaton was very peculiar to-day, wasn’t he, Austin? He gave me the impression of keeping something back – something that he wanted to tell and was afraid.”
Austin agreed with his well-beloved. There was certainly something mysterious about the great detective that afternoon.
Meanwhile Smeaton walked back to his office, more puzzled and baffled than ever. Why on earth had Mrs Saxton and her companion driven to Chesterfield Street? And what had become of the other inmates of Forest View?
Chapter Twenty Six.
The Secret Picture
Sheila Monkton spent a restless night; truth to tell, her nights were never very peaceful. Even when she snatched her fitful sleep, the sinister figures of Stent, Farloe, and all the others who had become part of that haunting tragedy, flitted through her dreams, and made her welcome the daylight.
And now she had still more perturbing food for thought. Why had Mrs Saxton, object of suspicion as she knew herself to be, ventured so near her? What did that surreptitious excursion portend?
And who was that strange female who had called, and who would leave neither name nor message and had fled precipitately at sight of Smeaton in the hall?
She made up her mind, when she wakened in the morning, to remain at home all day. It might turn out to be nothing, but she felt sure that this woman had some object in calling upon her. The air had been thick with mystery for many weeks; she was convinced there was still more in store, and it would be brought by this strange visitor.
Yet she waited in vain; the young woman dressed in the navy blue costume, as described by the old manservant, did not make a second call. And poor Sheila spent still another night as wakeful as the preceding one. She came down to breakfast languid and heavy-eyed.
She opened her letters listlessly, till she came to one larger than the rest, out of which dropped a photograph. At sight of it she exclaimed warmly to herself: “What a charming likeness. It is the image of dear Gladys. How sweet of her to send it to me!”
She threw away the envelopes, and took the photo to the window to examine it more closely. It was a picture of her greatest friend, a girl a year older than herself, the Lady Gladys Rainham, only daughter of the Earl of Marshlands.
Her father had been intimate with the Earl since boyhood, and the passing years had intensified their friendship, which had extended to their families. Until this great sorrow had fallen upon Sheila, hardly a day passed without the two girls getting a glimpse of each other.
The Rainhams were amongst the few friends who knew the true facts of Monkton’s disappearance. And, in almost morbid sensitiveness, Sheila had withdrawn a little from them. Even sympathy hurt her at such a time.
But the sudden arrival of this photo of the young Society beauty brought old memories of friendship and affection. They had played together as children; they had told their girlish secrets to each other, and it struck her that she had been wrong, and a little unkind, in withdrawing herself from the sympathy of those who were so interested in her welfare.
Gladys, no doubt, had been hurt by this attitude. She had written no note, she had not even signed the photograph. She had just sent it to recall herself to her old friend and companion. It had been sent as signal that if Sheila chose to make the smallest advance, the old relations would be at once re-established.
On the spur of the moment, she wrote a warm and impulsive note, begging Gladys to come and lunch with her that day.
“Forgive me for my long silence and absorption,” she concluded. “But I know you will understand what I have lately suffered.”
She sent the note round to Eaton Square by her maid, with instructions to wait for an answer. It came, and Sheila’s face flushed with pleasure as she read it.
“I quite understand, and I have nothing to forgive,” wrote the warm-hearted girl. “But it will be heavenly to see you again and talk together as we used.”
She came round half-an-hour before lunch-time, and the pair reunited, kissed, and clung together, and cried a little, after the manner of women. Then Sheila thanked her for the present of the photo, which, she declared, did not make her look half as beautiful as she was.
Gladys looked puzzled. “But I never sent any photo to you, Sheila! Which one is it? Let me see it.”
Sheila handed it to her friend, who exclaimed, after examining it: “It is the one they took of me at the Grandcourt House Bazaar; I think it is quite a good one. But, Sheila darling, if I had sent it to you I should have written a note, at least have signed it. All this is strange – very strange! What does it mean?”
Miss Monkton coloured a little as she answered:
“Yes, I did think it strange that you did not write. I thought it so far as I am capable of thinking. But I know I have been very difficult lately, and I fancied perhaps you didn’t want to make advances, and that you just sent that as a reminder of old times, trusting to me to respond.”
Lady Gladys kissed her warmly. “Ah! you poor darling, I quite see,” she said. “But who could have sent it? That is the puzzle.”
They both discussed it, at intervals, at table, and could arrive at no solution. When Lady Gladys had left, Sheila puzzled over it all by herself, with no better result. Then, at last, weary of thinking, she telephoned to Wingate.
Austin, who was in his office, agreed that the thing was very mysterious, and that he was as much mystified as she was. He ended the brief conversation by advising her to go to Smeaton.
“Our brains are no good at this sort of thing,” he said candidly. “The atmosphere of mystery seems to suit them at Scotland Yard – they breathe it every day.”
She drove at once to Scotland Yard, where they knew her well by now. Smeaton was disengaged, and she was taken to his room at once.
“Any news. Miss Monkton?” he asked eagerly. “Has that young woman called?”
The girl shook her head. “No, I waited in all day yesterday, but to no purpose. Now another strange thing has happened,” and she told him briefly of the receipt of the photograph from some unknown person.
“You didn’t look at the envelope, I suppose?”
“No, Mr Smeaton. I hardly ever do look at envelopes. I threw it away with the rest. It would have given you a clue, of course.”
“It might,” returned Smeaton, who was nothing if not cautious. He ruminated for a few moments, and then said, abruptly, “You have brought it with you?”
Sheila, who had taken that precaution, handed it to him. He turned it over, peering at it in that slow, deliberate fashion of a man who examines with the microscopic detail everything submitted to him.
“Taken, I see, by the well-known firm of Kester and Treeton in Dover Street. Well, somebody ordered it, so we’ve got to find out who that somebody was. I will go to them at once, and let you know the result in due course.”
Sheila looked at him eagerly. She had great faith in him, although so far he had had nothing but failure to report.
“Have you formed any opinion about it?” she asked timidly.
Smeaton smiled grimly, but he answered her very kindly.
“My dear Miss Monkton, I have formed many theories about your father’s disappearance, and, alas! they have all been wrong. I am leaning to distrust my own judgment. I will say no more than this. This curious incident may end as everything else has done, but I think it is worth following up. I will put you into your car, and go on to the photographers.”
“Let me drive you there, and wait,” urged Sheila eagerly. “I shall know the result so much quicker.”
The photographers in Dover Street had palatial premises. Smeaton was ushered from one apartment to another, till he reached the private sanctum of the head of the firm, where he produced his card, and explained his errand.
Mr Kester was very obliging; he would do all he could to help, and it would only be a matter of a few moments. They kept a record of every transaction, and in all probability this was quite a recent one.
He returned very shortly. It seemed that a young lady had called a couple of days ago, and asked for half-a-dozen portraits of Lady Gladys. On account of the Grandcourt House Bazaar, there had been a great run on the photos of the various stallholders, he explained. They happened to have a few copies of this particular picture in stock. The lady purchased six and took them away with her, saying that “they were for reproduction in the illustrated newspapers and the usual copyright fee would be paid.”
“Can you give me a description of the person who bought them?” was Smeaton’s first question, when Mr Kester had concluded his story.
“My assistant who served her is a very intelligent girl. Let us have her in.”
Kester ’phoned and requested Miss Jerningham to be sent to him. The fluffy-haired young lady remembered the incident perfectly, and described the dress and appearance of the young woman who had bought the photographs.
If her description was to be trusted, it was the same person who had asked to see Miss Monkton and refused to leave her name.
Smeaton, who had grown so utterly tired of theories and clues, began to believe he was on something tangible at last.
He rejoined Sheila, but he did not say much.
“I shall follow this clue,” he told her. “The photo was sent for a purpose, and that woman knows why it was sent. I believe you will hear from her again, unless I scared her away.”
“Mr Smeaton, do tell me what you really think. I am sure there is something curious in your mind,” implored the agitated Sheila.
But the detective was not to be charmed from his reserve.
“I must think over it a lot more yet. Miss Monkton, before I can hazard any opinion,” he told her in his grave, deliberate way. “If I were to reveal any half-formed idea that is running through my brain, it is one I should have to dismiss as inapplicable to the circumstances as I see them at present.”
From that he would not budge. Sheila drove away with a heavy heart. Wingate came round to dinner that night, and they talked about nothing else. The only thing they could arrive at with any certainty was that the mysterious visitor, the young woman dressed in navy blue serge costume, was the sender of the photo. But that did not help them to discover the reason she had sent it.
That night Sheila lay awake, very depressed and anxious, still puzzling over this latest mystery. Presently she dozed, and then, after a few moments of fitful sleep, woke with a start. Was it in that brief dream that some chords of memory had been suddenly stirred of a conversation held long ago between her father and a young man named Jack Wendover, a second secretary in the diplomatic service at Madrid?
Jack Wendover had told him of an ingenious method of communication invented by a married couple, who were spies in the pay of a foreign Government. She could hear him explaining it to Reginald Monkton, as she sat up in the dark, in that semiconscious state between dreaming and waking.
“They were clever. They wouldn’t trust to ciphers or anything of that sort, when they were separated; it was much too commonplace. They sent each other photographs. The receiver cut the photograph down, and found between the two thicknesses of cardboard a piece of tissue paper, upon which was written the message that the sender wished to convey.”
She could hear her father’s hearty laughter, as he said: “Truly, a most ingenious method. Has that really been done?”
She had not been reminded of that for nothing, she felt sure. Why had this sudden recollection of an old conversation come to her in the dead of the night, if not for some purpose?
The photo was still lying upon her desk in the morning-room. The house was quite quiet. Grant slept in the basement and the maids and the footman were at the top of the house.
She rose, slipped on a dressing-gown, and lighted a candle. Then noiselessly she descended the stairs and reached the morning-room. She took a small penknife from the drawer of her desk, and carefully split the mount of the photograph.
When she had finished, a piece of tissue paper fluttered to the floor, and upon that paper was a message.
As she read it she held her breath. Her beautiful eyes grew soft and misty, while a lovely flush crept over her fair features. Tenderly, almost reverently, she raised the flimsy paper to her lips.
“Not even to Austin,” she murmured, in a voice that was half a sob. “Not even to Austin – dear as he is to me – not even to him.”
