Kitabı oku: «The Voice from the Void: The Great Wireless Mystery», sayfa 12
Chapter Twenty Three
A Caller at the Rectory
That morning Gordon Gray, dapper and well-dressed as ever, had scanned the papers and read the report of the inquiry into the death of Sir Charles Hornton. The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of “death through misadventure,” it having been proved that Sir Charles had mistaken a bottle of poison for a prescription for indigestion which the local doctor had sent him on the previous day. In fact, it was a not too rare way of hushing-up the suicide of a well-known man. In many cases where persons of means commit wilful suicide the twelve local tradesmen are lenient, and declare it to be pure accident, or “misadventure” – unless, of course, the suicide leaves a letter, in which case the truth cannot be circumvented. For a suicide to leave a letter is a criminal act towards his family.
Early in the afternoon the telephone-bell rang in the pleasant sitting-room of the cosy West End chambers Gray was occupying, and on taking off the receiver he heard Freda speaking from Paris.
“All O.K.,” she said. “Guinness has got the concession and is bringing it over this afternoon. He’ll be with you to-night.”
“When does the old Moor leave?” asked Gray.
“The day after to-morrow. He goes straight back to Tangier.”
“Right. Keep in touch with him till he’s safely away, then get back here,” were the great crook’s orders.
Meanwhile events were following close upon each other in those crowded autumn days.
Roddy, checkmated by his failure to find the girl Manners who had written to his dead father from Bayeux, made, in company with the shoe-repairer Nicole, a number of inquiries of the commissary of police and in other quarters, but in vain.
From the worthy pair he learnt how they had received the young lady at St. Malo from an Englishman and a woman, apparently his wife. From the description of the woman he felt convinced that it was Freda Crisp. The girl, under the influence of the same drug that had been administered to him, had been smitten by temporary blindness, in addition to her mind being deranged. Here was still more evidence of the dastardly machinations of Gray and his unscrupulous associates. It was now plain that the girl Manners had not died, after all, but had lapsed into a kind of cataleptic state, just as he had done.
The problem of her whereabouts, however, was an all-important one. With her as witness against Gray and the woman Crisp the unmasking of the malefactors would be an easy matter. Besides, had not Mr Sandys told him that it was most important to him that the young lady’s fate should be ascertained?
What had been her fate? The description of the mysterious man who called himself a doctor and who had recently visited the poor girl conveyed nothing to Roddy. It seemed, however, as though after she had written the letter to his father she had suddenly disappeared. Had she left Bayeux of her own accord, or had she been enticed away?
The police suspected foul play, and frankly told him so.
It was during those eager, anxious days in Bayeux that Roddy, on glancing at Le Nouvelliste, the daily paper published in Rennes, saw to his astonishment news of the tragic death of Mr Sandys’ partner, and hastened to telegraph his condolences. Hence it was with great surprise that Elma and her father were aware that the young man was in France, for the telegram simply bore the place of origin as Bayeux.
Little did he dream of the clever devil’s work which Freda and her associate Porter had accomplished with old Mohammed ben Mussa, but remained in Normandy following a slender clue, namely, a statement made by a white-capped peasant woman hailing from the neighbouring village of Le Molay-Littry, who declared that she had, on the day of the young English mademoiselle’s disappearance, seen her on the railway platform at Lison entering a train for Cherbourg. She was alone. To Cherbourg Roddy travelled, accompanied by a police-officer from Bayeux and Monsieur Nicole, but though they made every inquiry, no trace of her could be found. At the office of the Southampton boats nobody recollected her taking a passage on the day in question. Therefore, saddened and disappointed, he was compelled to relinquish his search and cross back to England.
While on board the boat he paced the deck much puzzled how to act. He wondered how Elma was faring. Mr Sandys was, no doubt, too full of his partner’s tragic end to attend to any fresh business proposal. Therefore he decided not to approach him at present with the concession, which was in the vaults of the Safe Deposit Company.
On arrival at Victoria he, however, drove to Park Lane to call, see Elma, and express to her father his regret at the tragedy. The footman who opened the door answered that neither his master nor Miss Elma was at home.
“Are they at Farncombe?” asked Roddy, much disappointed.
“No, sir. They are in town. But I do not think they will be back till very late.”
Roddy, who was a shrewd observer, could tell that the man had received orders to say “not at home.”
“Not at home” to him? Why? He stood upon the wide doorstep filled with wonder and chagrin. He wanted to tell Mr Sandys of the second disappearance of Edna Manners, and most of all to see the girl he so fondly loved.
But she was “not at home.” What could be the reason of such an attitude?
He took the last train home from Waterloo, and on arrival at the Rectory – which he still occupied until the new incumbent should require it – old Mrs Bentley came down to let him in.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “I’m glad you’ve come back. There’s been a young lady here this evening inquiring for your poor father. I told her I expected you home every day, and she’s coming again to-morrow evening at five o’clock. After she went I saw her wandering about Welling Wood, as though searching for something. She told me to say that her name is Miss Manners.”
Roddy stood staggered – too amazed to utter a word for the moment. Edna Manners had returned, and to-morrow he would know the truth.
Too puzzled and excited to sleep, he threw off his coat, and entering his wireless-room took up his cigar-box receiver with the newly invented and super-sensitive crystal detector. Placing the ’phones over his ears he switched on the little portable aerial wire which he used with it and attached another wire to earth, whereupon he heard loud and strong telephony – somebody in Rotterdam testing with a station in London and speaking in Dutch. It proved beyond all doubt that the new crystal was the most sensitive type known, and that, for a portable set, was of far greater utility than vacuum valves. The quality of the telephony, indeed, astounded him.
He had been listening in for nearly an hour when suddenly he heard the voice of a fellow-experimenter, a man named Overton, in Liverpool, with whom he often exchanged tests.
At once he threw over his transmission switch, the generator hummed with gathering speed, and taking up the telephone, he said:
“Hulloa, 3.B.L.! Hulloa, 3.B.L.! Hulloa, Liverpool! This is Homfray 3.X.Q. calling. Your signals are very good. Modulation excellent 3.B.L. I am just back from France, and will test with you to-morrow night at 22:00 G.M.T. Did you get that 3.B.L., Liverpool? 3.X.Q. over.” And he threw over the switch, the humming of the generator dying down.
In a few seconds came Overton’s familiar voice, saying:
“Hulloa 3.X.Q.! This is 3.B.L. answering! Thanks very much for your report. I will call you to-morrow night at 22:00 G.M.T. Thanks again. Somebody was calling you half an hour ago on one thousand metres. You did not get him. Better try now. G.N.O.M. (Good-night, old man.) 3.B.L. switching off.”
Roddy, interested as to who, in the wonderful modern world of wireless where men and women only meet through the ether, could have called him, raised his receiving wavelength to a thousand metres and listened.
Beyond some “harmonics” there was nothing. Suddenly, however, an unknown voice, so clear and high-pitched that it startled him, said:
“Hulloa, 3.X.Q.! Hulloa, Farncombe! I have called you several times to-night; the last time an hour ago. I’m speaking for Mr Barclay. He did not know that you were back. He is coming on urgent business to Guildford to-morrow. Can you meet him at the station at eleven o’clock in the morning. He has asked me to give you that message. This is 3.T.M. at Kingston-on-Thames speaking. 3.T.M. over.”
Roddy was not surprised. He frequently – in contravention of the Post-Office regulations, be it said – received such relayed messages. He could be with Barclay at eleven and meet Edna Manners at five.
So putting in his transmission switch, which caused the big vacuum globes to light up and the generator to hum again, he took up the microphone transmitter, and replied in a sharp clear voice:
“Hulloa, 3.T.M.! This is 3.X.Q. answering. Thank you very much for the message from Barclay – I will keep the appointment to-morrow. 3.X.Q. switching off.”
Why did Barclay wish to see him so urgently? Perhaps the urgency had not occurred until the post-office had closed, hence he had been unable to send a telegram. And at the Rectory there was no telephone, save that splendidly equipped radio-phone.
Little did Roddy Homfray suspect that Mr Purcell Sandys was faced with ruin, that Elma knew of the impending disaster, and that there was a reason – a very clear and distinct reason – why she and her father were neither of them “at home” when he had called.
Black ruin had fallen upon the great financial house of Sandys and Hornton, a fact of which, though Roddy was in ignorance, Gordon Gray, alias Rex Rutherford, and his accomplices were well aware, and were about to turn to their own advantage.
Chapter Twenty Four
Rutherford Makes a Proposition
On that evening when Roddy was told that neither Mr Sandys nor Elma was at home both father and daughter were, as a matter of fact, seated together in the library. Mr Sandys had by that time been able to ascertain pretty nearly the extent of his firm’s liabilities, and was in complete despair.
Elma was kneeling beside her father with her arm lovingly around his neck, nobly trying to comfort him.
She had confessed her affection for Roddy, and had spoken of the young man’s high hopes and aspirations, and shown her father a hasty letter she had received from him announcing the fact that the concession for emerald mining had actually been granted to him by the Moorish Minister, Mohammed ben Mussa.
A new thought arose in Mr Sandys’ mind. If Roddy had really been granted the concession for the mines known to exist there – and he had made some searching inquiries during the past week or so – then by dealing with it he might, after all, be able to raise sufficient money to discharge part of the immense liabilities of the firm, and thus stem the tide which must otherwise rise in the course of the next few days and overwhelm him.
Elma’s father spoke quite openly concerning the situation.
“In that case Roddy could marry me, dad,” she said. “And further, even if he had no concession, I am poor enough now to marry a poor man,” she added.
“Yes, my child,” was his reply. “If what young Homfray says is true then he can be the saviour of our firm and of our family. I confess I have taken a great liking to the young fellow. I have liked him all along.”
Then Elma flung herself into her father’s arms and kissed him again and again, with tears of joy. Strangely enough her father’s ruin had brought about her own happiness.
It was at that moment when the footman entered, and said:
“Mr Homfray has called, sir, and I told him that you were not at home, as you ordered.”
Elma looked at her father dismayed.
“Has he gone?” she gasped, her face falling.
“Yes, miss. He called about five minutes ago.”
And then the man bowed and retired, while the girl, turning to her father, remarked:
“How very unfortunate, dad! I wanted to tell him the good news. But now it must wait until to-morrow. Good-night, dad. Cheer up now, won’t you, dearest? This is a black cloud, but it will pass, as all clouds pass sooner or later, and the sun shines out again.” And kissing him the girl ran off joyously to her own room.
Roddy rose early, as was his wont, and went into his wireless-room, as was his habit each morning to listen to the transatlantic messages, and those from Moscow, Nantes and the rest. His eye rested upon the sensitive little set in the cigar-box, and it occurred to him to test it that day as a portable set in the train and elsewhere.
His train arrived at Guildford from Haslemere soon after ten o’clock, therefore he left the station, and climbing the old disused coach-road known as the Mount, reached the long range of hills called the Hog’s Back. There, upon the wide grass-grown road which has not been used for nearly a century, he threw up his aerial wire into a high elm and placing in position his ground wire soldered to a long steel skewer he put on the telephones, holding the box in his left hand while he turned the condensers with his right.
At once he heard the voice of the radio-telephone operator at Croydon, the shrewd, alert expert with the rolling r’s, calling Le Bourget. Signals were excellent. He listened for ten minutes or so and then, drawing down his temporary aerial and withdrawing the skewer from the wet earth, put the cigar-box into the pocket of his raincoat and descended the hill to the station.
Upon the platform he awaited the incoming train from Waterloo, and was determined to be at home at five o’clock to meet Edna Manners. The train arrived but without Barclay, so he strolled out into the yard to await the next.
In the meantime, however, another striking incident was happening at Park Lane.
Old Hughes, summoned to the door, opened it to the smiling, well-dressed Mr Rex Rutherford.
“Will you tell Mr Sandys I’m here. And apologise for my early call. I have come on rather pressing business,” he said briskly.
“Very well, sir,” replied Lord Farncombe’s old butler rather stiffly, taking his hat and umbrella, and asking him into the library.
A couple of minutes later the bearded old financier entered with outstretched hand, and smiling.
“I really must apologise, Mr Sandys,” Rutherford said. “It’s awfully early, I know, but between business men the hour, early or late, doesn’t really count – does it? At least, we say so in New York.”
“I agree,” said Mr Sandys with a smile, and then when both were seated, Rutherford said:
“I’ve come to you, Mr Sandys, with a very important proposition – one in which you will at once see big money – the concession for some ancient emerald mines in Morocco.”
“Do you mean the Wad Sus mines?” asked Sandys, much surprised.
“Yes. I have arranged with my friend, His Excellency Mohammed ben Mussa, the Moorish Minister of the Interior, for a concession in perpetuity over the whole region, subject to a payment on results to His Majesty the Sultan.”
“I really don’t understand you,” exclaimed Elma’s father, looking straight in his face. “A concession has already been granted to a young man of my acquaintance, Mr Homfray.”
“Not of the same mines – ancient ones, from which one big dark-coloured emerald has quite recently been taken? That can’t be?”
“But it is.”
“Have you seen this concession given to your friend, Mr Homfray? I don’t know who he is, but I fear it is not worth the paper it is written upon, because here I have a concession which revokes all previous ones, and which will make it penal for anyone who attempts to trespass as a prospector in any part of the Wad Sus region! Here it is! Look for yourself,” he said, taking the sealed document from his pocket and handing it to the astonished financier. “Of course,” he added, “if the affair is too small for your attention, Mr Sandys, I can easily negotiate it elsewhere. But as we are friends, I thought I would let you have its refusal.”
Purcell Sandys was utterly staggered. He knew French well, and at a glance he convinced himself that the document was genuine.
“And not only have we the concession, but here also is a plan of the exact situation of the mines, together with a statement from one of the Touareg tribesmen, Ben Chaib Benuis, with its French translation. The man, a trusted messenger of the Moorish Government, has quite recently been upon the spot, and has brought back a very large and valuable emerald which is in the possession of an ex-Moorish official at Tangier, and can be seen any day.”
Mr Sandys scanned the French translation and sat back in wonder.
It was quite evident that the concession granted to young Homfray – if there had ever been one – was worthless, for there was the sealed document dated only a few days before which rescinded every other grant made by the Moorish Government.
“I, of course, know nothing of your friend Mr Homfray,” remarked Rutherford. “But I fear that if he attempts to prospect in the Wad Sus he will be at once arrested. I alone hold the only concession in that district,” and slowly picking up both the formidable-looking documents, he carefully refolded them and replaced them in his pocket.
“Well, Mr Rutherford,” said the pale, thoughtful old financier at last. “I confess I am very much puzzled, and before entering upon this affair as a matter of business I would first like to look into young Homfray’s claims.”
“Very naturally,” laughed the easy-going Rutherford. “I should do so myself in the circumstances. I fear, however, that the young man, whoever he is, has somewhat misled you. I’ll look in and see you to-morrow morning – about this time – eh?” he added as he rose and left, while Mr Sandys sat speechless and puzzled.
When Rutherford had gone he called Elma and told her of his visit.
“What? That man here again?” cried the girl. “He can’t have any valid concession. Roddy has it. He would never write a lie to me!”
“My child, we can do nothing until we see and question young Homfray.”
“You are right, dad. I’ll try at once to get hold of him. He is probably at Farncombe. I’ll telephone to the Towers and tell Bowyer to go to the Rectory at once.”
This she did, but half an hour later the reply came back. The maid Bowyer had been to the Rectory, but Mr Homfray was out and would not return till five o’clock. She had left a message from Elma asking him to go to London at once.
At five o’clock Mrs Bentley at the Rectory opened the door to Edna Manners, but Roddy had not returned. For an hour she waited, idling most of the time in the garden. Then at last she asked leave to write him a note, which she did in the dead rector’s study, and then reluctantly left.
The evening passed until at half-past nine a man from the Towers called to ask again for Roddy, but Mrs Bentley repeated that her young master had gone out that morning and had not yet returned. This report was later repeated to Elma over the telephone from the Towers to Park Lane.
Meanwhile Mr Sandys telegraphed to the Minister Mohammed ben Mussa in Tangier, asking for confirmation of Mr Rutherford’s concession, and just before midnight came a reply that the concession had been granted to Mr Rex Rutherford.
Elma’s father showed her the reply. All Roddy’s assertions were false! All her hopes were crushed. She burst into tears and fled to her room.
Mr Sandys, left alone, faced the situation calmly. The only way to stave off ruin would be to deal with Rutherford.
Meanwhile the master criminal was playing a clever double game.
When he called next morning he asked to see Elma, pleading that he had something very important to say to her. When Hughes brought the message she was at first reluctant to accede to his wish, but in a few moments she steeled herself and walked to the morning-room into which he had been shown.
As usual, he was smartly-groomed and the essence of politeness. As he took her hand, he said:
“Miss Elma, I want to tell you that I sympathise very much with your father in his great misfortune, the secret of which I happen to know – though as yet the world suspects nothing. But I fear it soon will, unless your father can come forward with some big and lucrative scheme. I have it in my power to help him with the mining concession in Morocco. I will do so on one condition.”
“And what is that, Mr Rutherford?” she asked quite calmly.
He looked straight into her big, wide-open eyes and, after a second’s pause, replied:
“That I may be permitted to pay my attentions to you – for I confess that I love you.”
The girl’s cheeks coloured slightly and the expression in her eyes altered.
“That cannot be,” she said. “I am already engaged.”
“To that young fellow Homfray, I believe?” he laughed. “Has he not already misled you and your father into believing that he is a rich man, inasmuch that he pretends to have been granted some worthless concession also in Morocco? Surely such a man is not suited to you as a husband, Miss Elma? Could you ever trust him?”
“I will not have Mr Homfray’s character besmirched in my presence, Mr Rutherford,” she said haughtily. “And if this is the matter upon which you wished to speak with me I should prefer that you said nothing further.”
“Elma! I love you!” he cried, with openly sensual admiration.
The girl was horrified and revolted. She told him so, but he treated with a conqueror’s contempt her frightened attempts to evade him. She was to be his toy, his plaything – or he would not lift a finger to save her father.
On her part she pleaded her love for Roddy, but he told her brutally that the young fellow was a liar. Why had he not produced the concession he alleged he had?
A last Elma, compelled to listen to his specious arguments, almost gave up hope, but before leaving the room she declared that she would starve rather than marry him. And then she closed the door after her.
Ten minutes later Rutherford was shown into the library, and in his most oleaginous manner greeted the ruined financier.
“I have called to keep my appointment, Mr Sandys,” he said. “But since I saw you circumstances have altered somewhat, which makes it incumbent upon me to place the concession elsewhere.”
“Why?” asked Sandys, his face falling. “Well, it is a private matter. I – I really don’t care to discuss it, Mr Sandys. Indeed, I think it is best for me to say that our negotiations must conclude here, even though I regret it very deeply. It is not my fault, but the – well, the barrier – lies in another direction.”
“In what direction?” asked the grey-bearded man who had been clutching at the straw offered him on the previous day.
“Well – if you ask Miss Elma, your daughter, she will explain.”
“My daughter? What has she to do with our propositions?”
“I simply repeat my reply, Mr Sandys. I can’t say more. To tell the truth, I don’t feel capable. I must go now. If you want to see me later you know my telephone number.”
And taking his hat, he stalked out of the fine library, well knowing himself to be the conqueror. To those who are patient and painstaking the fruits of the world will arrive. But there are exceptions, even though the devil controls his own.
When Elma’s father sought her he found her in a paroxysm of tears and tried to comfort her. She had thrown herself on a couch at the foot of her bed and was sobbing out her heart.
The ruined man told his daughter of Rutherford’s visit, and asked her for the explanation which he had said that she alone could give.
In a few halting sentences she related what had happened.
For some time the old man remained silent, standing at the great window past which the motor-’buses were passing up and down London’s street of the wealthy.
“Ah! my dear!” he sighed. “I am sorry that you have so unfortunately fallen in love with young Homfray. At first I liked him, I confess. But he seems to have sadly misled you, and is now afraid to face the truth.”
“I agree, father. But I love him. There is some explanation, I feel sure.”
“There can be none regarding the emerald concession. Rutherford has it, as well as the plan showing the whereabouts of the mine. I could float a big company to-morrow, even upon the concession and the official plan furnished by the Moorish Minister of the Interior. But he has, alas! now withdrawn his offer.”
“Because I have refused him,” said Elma bitterly. “I love Roddy. How could I possibly become that man’s wife?”
Her father drew a long breath and shrugged his shoulders. He stood with his back towards her, looking idly out upon the traffic in Park Lane and the Park beyond.
“Yes, darling,” he said at last. “But you must not sacrifice yourself for me. It would be grossly unfair. I am ruined through no fault of my own, I trust – ruined by a gambling partner who cared for nothing save his obsession with regard to games of chance. Let us say no more about it. Rutherford may take his concession elsewhere, and I will face the music. I have my comfort in my Yogi teaching – in those two words ‘I am.’ I have done my best in life, and to my knowledge have never injured anyone. I have tried to act up to my Yogi teachers, with their magnificent philosophy of the East. Therefore I will face disaster unflinchingly.”
And seeing his daughter in tears, his further words were choked by emotion. He merely patted her upon the shoulder and, unable to bear the interview longer, withdrew.
For a fortnight past Rex Rutherford, like many crooks of his calibre, had actually engaged a “Press agent” – one of those parasites who fasten themselves upon the ambitious and put forward lies and photographs to the Press at so many guineas a time. The crook, in the financial Press, read of his own wonderful financial operations in Paris and in New York, reports which were calculated to raise him in the estimation of the great house of Sandys and Hornton. The City had read of Rex Rutherford day after day, and there were rumours of a great scheme he had for a new electric tube rail system for the outer suburbs of Paris, for which he was negotiating with the French Government.
Purcell Sandys had read all this – a Press campaign which had cost the master criminal a mere three hundred pounds. With that sum he had established a reputation in the financial papers. Editors of newspapers cannot always exclude the “puff paragraphs” when they are cleverly concealed by a master of that craft. And it often takes even a shrewd sub-editor to detect the gentle art of self-advertisement.
That afternoon the old financier walked alone through the Park as far as Kensington Gardens and back. He knew that the crash must come at latest in a day or two, and Sandys and Hornton must suspend payment.
There was no way out.
