Kitabı oku: «The Voice from the Void: The Great Wireless Mystery», sayfa 10
Chapter Nineteen
A Matter of Urgency
When Roddy Homfray returned from Farncombe Towers shortly before midnight he was staggered to find his father lying back in his arm-chair.
Horrified, he tried to rouse him. But at once he saw that he was dead.
He raised the alarm, and Doctor Denton was at once fetched out in his pyjamas from the other end of the village.
“As I feared,” said his friend when he saw the dead rector. “He has had another heart attack which has unfortunately proved fatal.”
“But he was quite all right and bright when I left him at seven,” Roddy cried in despair.
“No doubt. But your father has had a weak heart for years. I’ve attended him for it, so there will be no need for an inquest. Indeed, only a week ago I warned him that any undue excitement might end fatally.”
“But he has had no excitement!” cried the dead man’s son, looking in despair around the cosy little study, where upon the writing-table “Cruden’s Concordance” still lay open, as it had done when Gordon Gray had entered.
“Apparently not,” Denton admitted. “But perhaps he may have been secretly worrying over something. We shall, I fear, never know. Your father was a rather secretive man, I believe, wasn’t he, Roddy?”
“Yes. He was. He held some secret or other from me, the nature of which I could never make out,” said his son, overcome with grief. At first he could not believe that his father, whom he idolised, was actually dead. But now he realised his loss, and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“A secret!” exclaimed his friend the doctor. “Of what nature?”
“I have no idea. He once warned me against a certain man and a certain woman, who were apparently his enemies. But he would tell me nothing definite – nothing!”
“When you came home, was the front-door locked?” asked the doctor.
“No, my father always leaves it unlocked for me.”
“He expected you to come in later, and was no doubt at work here preparing his sermon,” said Denton, glancing at the open reference book lying upon the blotting-pad. Indeed, beside the copy of “Cruden” was a sheet of sermon paper with a number of headings written in the neat uniform hand of a classical scholar, as old Mr Homfray was.
“Yes. It seems so,” said his son. “Apparently he felt the seizure approaching, and, leaving the table, crossed to the chair, and sinking into it, he breathed his last. Poor dear father! Why was I not here to assist him, instead of playing bridge? I – I’ll never forgive myself, Denton!”
“But you could not have foretold this. Who could?” asked his friend. “Endocarditis, from which your father was suffering, is quite a common complaint and very often causes sudden death, especially when it is ulcerative, as in your lamented father’s case. No medical aid would have saved him.”
“And he knew this, and never told me!” cried Roddy.
“He was secretive, as I have already said,” answered the doctor. “Your poor father’s death was caused by embolism; I have suspected it for some time.”
While Roddy and Denton were speaking at the dead man’s side, Gordon Gray entered the tawdrily-decorated dancing-room of a certain disreputable night-club off Regent Street known as “The Gay Hundred” – a haunt of cocaine sellers and takers – and glanced eagerly around. He had driven up in his car a few doors away, and the doorkeeper had bowed to him and taken his coat and hat as he rushed in.
His quick eyes espied a table in the corner at which sat Freda Crisp, in a daring black-and-orange gown without sleeves, smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, laughing, and drinking champagne with two young men in evening clothes, while about them whirled many couples dancing, the women mostly with artificially fair hair and wearing deeply-cut gowns, while some of them smoked cigarettes as they danced to the wild strains of the blatant orchestra.
Freda’s eyes met those of her friend Gray, and she read in them a message. She was a woman of quick perception and astounding intuition. Her adventures had been many and constant, and if she could have recorded them in print the book would certainly have been amongst the “best sellers” of which the public hear so much.
The men with her were strangers to Gordon, therefore, assuming an instant carelessness, he lounged over, bowed, and greeted her. He did not know on what terms she was with the pair with whom she was drinking “bubbly,” whether, indeed, they were pigeons worth plucking. Therefore his attitude was one of extreme caution. Gordon Gray was far too clever ever to spoil “a good thing” in the course of being engineered by any of his accomplices of either sex.
“Oh! Good-evening, Mr Gray!” Freda exclaimed. “Fancy your being here to-night! I never suspected you of being a member of this place!”
“I’m not. A friend of mine has introduced me,” he said, and then, when the elegantly-dressed woman in the daring black-and-orange gown had introduced her companions, Gray sat down at the table and took a cigarette.
Presently she excused herself from her two friends, saying:
“You’ll forgive me if I have just this one dance with Mr Gray – won’t you?”
And both joined the fox-trot which was at that moment commencing.
“Well, I see by your face, Gordon, that something has happened. What?” she whispered as they took the floor.
“Something good. Old Homfray is dead!”
“Dead!” gasped the woman. “But you didn’t do it – eh?”
“No. I might have done. You know what I intended to do if he cut up rough – but luck came to my aid. The old hypocrite died suddenly from heart disease, I think. At any rate, he got into a passion and sank into his chair and expired. And then I quietly retired and drove back here to town. Nobody saw me. Luck – eh?”
“By Jove! yes. That relieves us of a great deal of worry, doesn’t it?” said the woman. “It’s the best bit of news I’ve heard for years. While the old man lived there was always a risk – always a constant danger that he might throw discretion to the winds and give us away.”
“You’re quite right, Freda. He was the only person in the world I feared.”
“And yet you defied him!” she remarked. “That is the only way. Never let your enemy suspect that you are frightened of him,” said the stout, beady-eyed man in the navy-blue suit.
“What about the young pup?” asked the woman in a low voice as they danced together over the excellent floor, while yellow-haired, under-dressed women who bore on their countenances the mark of cocaine-taking, and prosperous, vicious-looking men, both young and old, sat at the little tables, laughing, drinking and looking on.
“He knows nothing, and he’s going to be useful to us.”
“But he’s very deeply in love with Elma.”
“Of course. But to part them will be quite easy. Leave all that to me.”
There was a pause.
“And you will desert me for that slip of a girl – eh, Gordon?” asked the handsome woman suddenly in a strange, unusual voice.
He started. He had never realised that the woman’s jealousy had been aroused, but, nevertheless, he knew that a jealous woman always constitutes a danger when one sails near the wind.
“Oh! my dear Freda, please don’t talk like that,” he laughed. “Surely ours is a business connexion. Your interests are mine, and vice versa. Have they not been so for five years? You have kept your eyes open for the pigeons, while I have plucked them for you and given you half share of the spoil.”
“And now you contemplate deserting me – and perhaps marrying the daughter of a wealthy man. Where do I come in?”
“As you always have done, my dear Freda. Both of us are out for money – and big money we must get from somewhere. That concession in Morocco is my main object at the present moment. We already have the plan, and Barclay has not yet discovered his loss.”
“He may do so at any moment. What then?”
“Why, nothing. He will have no suspicion as to who has secured it or how it was taken from his safe. Besides, the old Moor is arriving at the Ritz and is bringing the actual signed concession over from Fez. And now that the parson is dead all will be plain sailing. Have you heard from Arthur to-day?”
“Not a word. He should be back from Bayeux in a couple of days.”
“I shall want him to help me when young Homfray gets the concession in his possession.”
The woman looked him straight in the face, and then, after another pause, asked in a whisper: “What! Do you intend that an – an accident shall happen to him – eh?”
“Perhaps,” replied the man with a grim smile. “Who knows?”
“Ah! I see!” she exclaimed quickly. “There cannot be two candidates for the hand of Elma Sandys!”
And he nodded in the affirmative, a few moments later leading her back to the two young men who had been entertaining her, and then he left the place.
The ill-suppressed jealousy which his accomplice had expressed considerably perturbed him. He saw that if he intended to attain success with Elma he must first propitiate Freda. A single word from her as an enemy would ruin all his chances.
He was not blind to the fact either that Elma had no great liking for him, and that, on the other hand, the girl was deeply in love with the late rector’s son. Though he had declared to Freda that all was plain sailing, he viewed the situation with considerable misgiving. As Rex Rutherford he had made a very favourable impression upon Mr Sandys, but women being gifted with an often uncanny intuition, Elma had from the first viewed him with suspicion. His studied attentions had annoyed her. And now that Freda had shown jealousy, a further difficulty, and even danger, had arisen.
Since their hurried departure from Willowden Freda had taken another furnished house called The Elms, not far from Laleham, on the Thames, and there old Claribut had again been installed as butler and general factotum, while Gray, under the name of Rutherford, occupied a handsome suite of chambers in Dover Street, to which his new chauffeur eventually drove him that night.
Next day the village of Little Farncombe was plunged into grief at the astounding news that their popular rector was dead. Old Mr Sandys’ valet told his master the sad truth when he took up his early cup of tea, and within an hour the old financier called at the Rectory and offered his sincere condolences to Roddy, while later he sent a telegram to Elma at Harrogate announcing the tragic fact.
Not a soul had apparently seen the dead man’s visitor either arrive or depart. Mrs Bentley had, as was her habit, gone to bed without wishing her master “Good-night.” Nobody, therefore, discovered that the poor old gentleman had been taken ill in consequence of violent anger expressed to a visitor, for the latter had been clever enough to slip away without being seen.
Before noon Roddy received a long telegram from Elma, among many others, and three days later the body of the Reverend Norton Homfray was laid to rest in the quiet old churchyard which almost joined the Rectory garden. From far and near came crowds of mourners, and many were the beautiful wreaths placed upon the coffin by loving hands, though none was more beautiful than that which Elma herself brought from the Towers.
That evening, when the funeral was over, and all the mourners had gone, Roddy stood in the wireless-room with his loved one clasped in his strong arms.
He was pale, serious, and grief-stricken. She saw it, and kissed him upon the lips in mute sympathy.
He held his breath as his eyes wandered over the long row of experimental instruments which had been his chief hobby and delight. But with his father’s death all the interest in them had been swept away.
This he declared to Elma in a tone of deep and poignant sorrow.
“No, Roddy dear,” she exclaimed, her hand tenderly placed on his shoulder. “You must strive to bear your loss, great as it is. I know how you loved your dear father, but the parting must always come for all of us. The blow is great – to us all, to the village – and to you more especially, but you must not allow it to interfere with your future interests.”
She saw in his eyes the light of unshed tears, and taking his strong hand, softly added:
“Face the world anew, dear – face it with greater spirit and energy than you have done before, so that you may become a son worthy of a splendid and revered father.”
“I know!” he said. “It is very good of you to speak like that, Elma, but my grief seems to have altered the face of the world for me. The Moroccan Government has suddenly changed, it appears, and the Kaid Ahmed-el-Hafid is now no longer in power. The Minister of the Interior has been replaced by Mohammed ben Mussa, who was grand chamberlain to the Sultan, and who is now at the Ritz Hotel. My friend Barclay has arranged with him that I shall receive the concession for the ancient emerald mines, and I have to be introduced to him to-morrow. He promises me every facility and protection.”
“Then you will go, dearest,” she said, standing with her little black “pom” in her arms. “It will mean a great fortune for you. Father was only remarking about it the other day.”
Roddy paused and looked fondly at her sweet face.
“Yes. If you really wish it, darling, I’ll go.”
“That’s right,” she exclaimed brightly. “Come up to the Towers with me in the car. Father asked me to bring you. You can’t stay here alone this evening.”
He demurred, and tried to excuse himself, but the girl was insistent.
“There’s the news broadcast!” she exclaimed next second, glancing at the big, round-faced ship’s clock. “Let’s listen for a moment before we go – eh? The broadcast always fascinates me.”
In obedience to her desire Roddy switched on the aerial, lit the valves, and giving her one pair of head-’phones, took another. Then adjusting a tuning-coil and turning the knobs of the two condensers one after the other, a deep, sonorous voice was heard announcing the results of certain races held that afternoon, followed by a number of items of general news, which included a railway accident in France and the facts, that the King had left Buckingham Palace for Windsor, and that yet another conference of the Allies was contemplated.
The news was followed by the announcement:
“Mr George Pelham will now tell you all one of the famous bedtime stories for the children. Hulloa! C.Q. Hulloa! C.Q.? Listen! A bedtime story.”
Elma removed the telephones from her ears, and said:
“I think we may go now.” And then together they went forth to the car awaiting them.
Mr Sandys had asked Roddy to fit for him a wireless transmitting set so that he could speak to his office by wireless telephone. This he had done, though not without considerable difficulties with the authorities.
It was eleven o’clock before the young man returned to the silent, empty house, and on entering his dead father’s study he saw that upon the blotting-pad old Mrs Bentley had placed several letters.
He took them up thoughtfully.
“Poor old dad!” he exclaimed aloud. “These have been written by people who still believe him to be alive!”
He turned them over in his hand, and then began to open them. The first was a polite intimation from a moneylender, who expressed himself anxious to lend the reverend gentleman a loan of anything from two pounds to two thousand pounds at practically a nominal interest. The next was from a second-hand bookseller of whom his father frequently dealt, the third a bill, and the fourth was thin and bore a foreign stamp, the address being written in a small, angular hand.
He opened it with some curiosity, and read as follows:
“Dear Mr Homfray, – Though we have not met for nearly two years, you will probably recollect me. I have of late been very ill, and in a most mysterious manner. I am, however, fast recovering, and am at last able to write to you – having recollected only yesterday your name and address.
“I have been suffering from blindness and a peculiar loss of memory; indeed, so much that I could not, until yesterday, tell people my own name. Here I am known as Betty Grayson, and I am living with some good, honest Normandy folk called Nicole.
“I need not recall the tragedy which befell my fiancé, Mr Willard, but it is in that connexion that I wish to see you – and with all urgency, for your interests in the affair coincide with my own. I feel that I dare not tell you more in this letter than to say that I feel grave danger threatening, and I make an appeal to you to come here and see me, so that we may act together in clearing up the mystery and bringing those guilty to the justice they deserve.
“The situation has assumed the greatest urgency for action, so will you, on receipt of this letter, telegraph to me: chez Madame Nicole, 104, Rue des Chanoines, Bayeux, France, and tell me that you will come at once to see me. I would come to you, but as an invalid I am in the charge of those who are doing their best to ensure my rapid recovery. You are a clergyman, and I rely upon your kind and generous aid. – Yours very sincerely,
“Edna Manners.”
“Edna Manners?” gasped Roddy when he saw the signature. “Can she possibly be the girl whom I saw dead in Welling Wood?”
Chapter Twenty
Concerns the Concession
Next morning Roddy was compelled to leave Haslemere by the early train, and having met Barclay at Waterloo station, they drove in a taxi to the Ritz, where in a luxurious suite of apartments they found the white-bearded intellectual old Moor, Mohammed ben Mussa. His dark, deep-set eyes sparkled when in French Mr Barclay introduced the young man as “one of the most active and enthusiastic mining engineers in London,” and from beneath his white robe he put forth his hand and grasped Roddy’s.
“I am very pleased, Monsieur Homfray, to think that you contemplate prospecting in the Wad Sus. Our mutual friend Mr Barclay is well known to us in Fez, and at his instigation I am granting you the necessary concession on the same conditions as my predecessor proposed to you, namely, that one-eighth of the profits be paid to me privately.”
“To those terms, Your Excellency, we entirely agree,” Roddy said.
“Good. Then I have the agreement ready for your signature.”
Upon the writing-table stood a small steel dispatch-case, from which His Excellency brought out a document which had been drawn up by a French notary in Tangiers, and, having read it, both Barclay and Homfray appended their signatures. Replacing it in the box, he then drew out a formidable-looking document written in Arabic with a translation in French.
Both Roddy and his friend sat down and together digested the contents of the document by which “Son Majesté Chérifiane,” through “his trusted Minister Mohammed ben Mussa,” granted to Roderick Charles Homfray, of Little Farncombe, in Surrey, the sole right to prospect for and to work the emerald mines in the Wad Sus region of the Sahara on payment of one-eighth of the money obtained from the sale of the gems to the Sultan’s private account at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris.
It was a long and wordy screed, couched in the quaint and flowery language of the Moors, but the above was the gist of it. The Sultan and his Minister were sharing between themselves a quarter of the spoils, while Morocco itself obtained no benefit whatever.
The two Englishmen having expressed their acceptance, His Excellency, the slow-moving Moorish Minister, bestirred himself again, and taking a large piece of scarlet sealing-wax, produced a huge silver seal – his seal of office as Minister – and with considerable care and with a great show of formality, he heated the wax until he had a round mass about three inches in diameter, into which he pressed the all-important seal. Then, ascertaining that the impression was a good one, he took out a red pen and signed it with long, sprawly Arabic characters, afterwards signing his name in French as Minister of His Majesty the Sultan.
“And now, my young friend,” said the patriarchal-looking man in French, as he handed the document to Roddy hardly dry, “I want to give you some little advice. You will go to Mogador, and there you will meet Ben Chaib Benuis, who will bear a letter from me. He will conduct you safely through very unsafe country which is held by our veiled Touaregs, the brigands of the Great Desert. While you are with him you will have safe conduct into the Wad Sus, one of the most inaccessible regions south of the Atlas Mountains.”
“I am much indebted to Your Excellency,” said the young man. “I have had some little experience of mining operations in South America, and up to the present I am glad to say that I have been successful. I hope I may be equally successful in Morocco.”
“You will surely be,” the old man assured him. “Already Ben Chaib Benuis knows where to find the entrance to the workings, and the rest will be quite easy for you. You have only to raise the necessary capital here, in your city of London, and then we go ahead. And may Allah’s blessing ever rest upon you!” concluded the mock-pious old man, who saw in the concession a big profit to himself and to his royal master.
Roddy folded the precious document into four and placed it in the breast pocket of his dark-blue jacket with an expression of thanks and a promise to do his utmost to carry out his part of the contract.
“We have every hope of floating a very important company to carry out the scheme,” said Andrew Barclay enthusiastically, even then in ignorance that the plan given him by the Minister’s predecessor in Marseilles was no longer in his possession. “I saw the beautiful dark emerald which has been only recently taken from one of the mines. It is a glorious stone, finer, they say, than any that have ever come from the Urals into the treasury of the Romanoffs.”
“Emeralds and rubies are the most precious stones of to-day,” Roddy declared. “Diamonds do not count. They are unfashionable in these post-war days of the ruined aristocracy and the blatant profiteer. A big emerald worn as a pendant upon a platinum chain is of far greater notoriety than a diamond tiara. Nobody wears the latter.”
It was eleven o’clock, and His Excellency rang for a cup of black coffee, while Barclay and Roddy each took a glass of French vermouth. Then, when they sat down to chat over their cigarettes, Roddy glanced casually at the morning newspaper, and saw the announcement that the Moorish Minister was in London “upon a matter of international importance concerning the port of Mogador.”
The young fellow smiled. The matter upon which old Mohammed was “doing himself well” at the Ritz concerned his own pocket – the same matter which affects nine-tenths of the foreign political adventurers who visit Paris and London. They make excuses of international “conversations,” but the greed of gain to themselves at the expense of their own country is ever present.
Later, when he walked with Barclay along Piccadilly towards the Circus, the concession safely in his pocket, Roddy turned to his friends and said:
“Do you know, Andrew, I’m not quite easy in my own mind! I fear that somebody might try to do me out of this great stroke of good fortune for which I am indebted to you.”
“Why? Who could contest your right to the concession? The future is all plain sailing for you – and for Miss Sandys, I hope. I congratulate you, my boy. You’ll end by being a pillar of finance!”
“Never, old chap,” laughed Roddy. Then, after a few moments’ pause, he added: “I’m going over to France to-morrow. I must go.”
“Why?”
“I have a little matter to see after that brooks no delay. When I’m back I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll be away only two or three days at most. But in the meantime I shall place the concession with old Braydon, my father’s solicitor, in Bedford Row. I have to see him this afternoon regarding some matters concerning the poor old governor’s will.”
“Yes. Perhaps it may be just as well, Roddy,” said his friend. “But as soon as you have recovered from the blow of your poor father’s death we ought to take up the concession and see what business we can do to our mutual advantage. There’s a big fortune in it. Of that I’m quite convinced.”
“So am I – unless there are sinister influences at work, as somehow I fear there may be.”
But Barclay laughed at his qualms. The pair took lunch in a small Italian restaurant in Wardour Street, and while Andrew returned to Richmond, Roddy went along to see his father’s old friend, Mr Braydon, and asked him to put the sealed concession into safe keeping.
“I’m just sending along to the Safe Deposit Company’s vaults in Chancery Lane,” said the grey-haired, clean-shaven old man who was so well known in the legal world. “I’ll send the document for you. Perhaps you will like a copy? I’ll have a rough copy made at once.” And, touching a bell, he gave the order to the lady clerk who entered in response.
When Roddy left Bedford Row he felt that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Perhaps he would not have been so completely reassured if he had known that Gordon Gray himself had been very cleverly keeping watch upon his movements all the morning. He had been idling in the corridor of the Ritz while Roddy had been engaged in the negotiations, and he had been standing on the opposite pavement in Bedford Row while he had sought Mr Arnold Braydon.
When Roddy had walked down towards Holborn the silent watcher had turned upon his heel and left, with a muttered expression of dissatisfaction, for he knew that young Homfray had placed the official document in keeping so safe that theft would now be impossible.
“We must change our tactics,” growled the king of international crooks to himself. “That concession would be worthless to us even if we had it at this moment. No; we must devise other means.”
And, hailing a passing taxi, he entered and drove away.
Gordon Gray had been foiled by Roddy’s forethought. Yet, after all, the concession had been actually granted and stamped by the official seal of the Moorish Minister of the Interior. Therefore, the dead rector’s son was in possession of the sole right to prospect in the Wad Sus, and it only now remained for him to start out on his journey into the Sahara and locate the mines, aided by the plan which his friend Barclay had been given.
As far as Roddy was concerned the concession was an accomplished fact. But uppermost in his mind was that curious letter addressed to his father from the girl, Edna Manners. Something impelled him to investigate it – and at once.
Therefore, he dashed back to Little Farncombe, and before going home called at the Towers, intending to show the strange letter to Mr Sandys before leaving for Bayeux. James, the footman, who opened the door to him, replied that both his master and Miss Elma had left at twelve o’clock, Mr Sandys having some urgent business in Liverpool. They had gone north in the car.
Disappointed, Roddy went home and packed a suit-case, and that evening left for Southampton, whence he crossed to Havre, as being the most direct route into Normandy.
At midday he alighted from the train at Bayeux, and drove in a ramshackle fiacre over the uneven cobbles of the quaint old town, until at the back of the magnificent cathedral he found the address given in the letter.
Ascending to the first floor, he knocked at the door, and Madame Nicole appeared.
“I am in search of Mademoiselle Grayson,” he said inquiringly in French.
“Mademoiselle lives here,” answered the woman, “but, unfortunately, she is not at home. She went out last evening to post a letter, and, strangely enough, she has not returned! We are much distressed. Only an hour ago my husband informed the commissary of police, and he is making inquiries. Mademoiselle has recovered her sight and, to a great extent, her proper senses. It is a mystery! She promised to return in a quarter of an hour, but she has not been seen since!”
