Читать книгу The Man at the Carlton - Edgar Wallace - Страница 3

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I

There was a man named Harry Stone (also called Harry the Valet), who was a detective until they found him out, which was about three months after he had entered the C.I.D. of a police force in Rhodesia. He might have been prosecuted, but at that time this particular police force was not at all anxious to expose the dishonesty of its officers, so that when he got away by the night mail to Cape Town they took no trouble to call him back.

Harry went south with about three hundred ill-gotten pounds in the hope of meeting Lew Daney, who was a good trooper and a great, if unfortunate, artist. But Lew was gone, had been gone a very long time, was indeed at that moment organising and carrying into effect a series of raids more picturesque than his essay against the National Bank of Johannesburg, and considerably better organised.

Harry broke back again to Rhodesia by the Beira route, and through the Massi-Kassi to Salisbury, which was a misfortune for him, for Captain Timothy Jordan, Chief of the Rhodesian C.I.D., did him the honour of making a personal call on him at his hotel.

"You are registered as Harrison, but your name is Stone. By the way, how is your friend Lew Daney?"

"I don't know who you mean," said Harry the Valet.

"Tiger" Tim Jordan smiled.

"Be that as it may," he said, "the train leaves for Portuguese territory in two hours. Take it!"

The mystified Harry did not argue. He was mystified because he had never come across Tiger Tim Jordan, though he had heard of that dynamic young man and knew most of the legends concerning him by heart.

Tiger, being rather a wealthy man, could afford to be conscientious. He made a very careful study of the photographs of undesirables that came his way, and made a point of meeting all the mail trains in, and superintending the departure of all the mail trains out, most of which contained somebody he had no desire should further pollute the fair air of Southern Rhodesia, and Harry's photograph had gone to Salisbury in the ordinary way of business.

At Beira Mr. Stone boarded an East Coast boat that plied between Durban and Greenock. He had tried most things once or twice, but there had been several happenings in London that made it desirable that the ex-detective should seek a port of entry not under the direct scrutiny of Scotland Yard, which though it was extraordinarily busy at that time, could spare a few officers to watch incoming liners and give a hearty welcome to returned wanderers who would rather have been spared the reception.

A few days after Harry had hired a respectable lodging in Glasgow, Chief Constable Cowley of Scotland Yard called a conference of his chief inspectors.

"This is the second big hold-up in three weeks," he said. "It is the same crowd working, and it has only failed to get away with big money by sheer bad luck."

He was referring to the scientific busting of the Northern Counties Bank. A night watchman and a patrolling police-cyclist had been shot down in cold blood, and a vault had been opened. The robbers had got little or nothing for their pains. A big block of currency had been moved the day before, "on information received."

"One of the crowd squealed," said Cowley. "It couldn't have been for the reward, for he never claimed it--I suppose it was a case of needle. With the information the police had, it was criminal that they let the gang slip."

The Northern Counties Bank crime was followed immediately by the Mersey Trust affair, which involved two hundred thousand pounds' worth of bar gold.

"The most beautifully organised job I've ever known," said Cowley, with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur. "Everything perfectly arranged. If the purser of the Ilenic hadn't been putty-headed and delayed the delivery of the gold for an hour because he'd mislaid the documents, they'd have had it!"

"I gather, sir," said Chief Inspector Pherson, who was ponderous even when he was not sarcastic, "that you have read the accounts in the daily Press?"

Cowley rubbed the back of his head irritably.

"Naturally," he said.

Scotland Yard was annoyed, for none of the local police forces had so much as consulted headquarters.

"Why Scotland Yard?" asked the Chief Constable of Blankshire. "Haven't I a C.I.D. of my own? What nonsense!"

He was a military chief constable, a C.B.E. and a D.S.O.

Cowley said that he had more esprit de corps than prenez garde, which was probably a prejudiced view.

Chief Constables of counties are not compelled to call in Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard must not interfere with local police administrations. Their advice was not sought either in the case of the Northern Counties or the Mersey business. As the Chief Constable of Northshire said:

"If we can't do this job ourselves we ought to be boiled. We've got our own C.I.D., and I'm all for trusting the Man on the Spot. I remember some years ago when I was commanding a brigade in Poona..."

The five men who sat around the big table at Scotland Yard, examining local maps and such data as had been unofficially collected, had never been to Poona, and none was likely to command any brigade, unless it were a fire brigade.

"Number three is coming," said Cowley. "This in my opinion is a series; there are signs of long preparation and the most careful planning. Who is the artist?"

The "artist" was Lew Daney, and nobody thought of him because at the moment he was unknown to the police force, though there was an ex-detective who knew him rather well.

On the day that Harry Stone decided that, Scotland held nothing for him but incredulous business men--he was working a gold mine swindle--the third coup was thrown, and succeeded.

The Lower Clyde Bank had its palatial premises in the City of Glasgow. Between the hours of 9 p.m. on a foggy Thursday night and 4 a.m. on an even foggier Friday morning. No. 2 vault was opened and cleared. It contained about a hundred and twelve thousand pounds in English currency, but, what was more important, the vault held the sum of ten million reichsmarks deposited by the Chemical Bank of Dusseldorf, being their contribution under their working arrangement with the North British Chemical Trust. It was made up of ten thousand notes of a thousand marks, and was contained in two steel boxes, each containing five thousand notes in packages of a thousand.

There were two night watchmen, McCall and Erskine. They had disappeared. It was their failure to repeat the hourly signal to police headquarters which had brought the police to the bank.

Not until three hours later were they found in a lift which had been stopped between two floors, the mechanism of the elevator having been put out of action by the smashing of the selector bar. They were both dead--shot at close quarters.

Only one man could have given evidence that would have been of the slightest value to the police. Harry Stone had had the good luck that evening to find a well-to-do-Scotsman, in whom from 7 p.m. to 2 a.m. the fires of romance burned brightly. He had listened breathlessly to the story Harry told of the hidden gold mine that lay in the folds of the Magalies Berge (from which nothing more golden than tobacco had ever come), and he had taken Harry home to his handsome flat, and Harry had drawn maps--for Harry was a man of education, spoke three languages and could draw an unlimited number of maps if it paid him to do so. His plans embellished his story so convincingly that he almost had the cheque in his pocket. Being an artist, he did not rush things, said "good night" to his host at three o'clock in the morning and walked home.

He saw a big car snailing by the sidewalk; it stopped and he passed it by. Then, walking quickly towards him, he saw a man and caught one glimpse of his face out of the corner of his eye, Somebody he knew--who was it? He walked half a dozen paces and then turned. The first man had been joined by another, carrying a bag. A third came running across the street. They all seemed to disappear into the car together as the machine turned and sped swiftly away.

Lew Daney! He had had a moustache when Harry knew him. He whistled. Lew had done a bust! It was not healthy to be around the scene of any of Lew's exploits. He had a gun and was not averse to using it. Harry had no desire to be pulled in by the police and questioned about one of Lew's more lurid adventures.

He was relieved to reach his home. He read all about the crime in the early editions of the evening newspapers next day, and was staggered by the haul. He was as staggered by the attitude of his prospective financier, for the well-to-do Scotsman, who had been so sympathetic and so enthusiastic about that secret mine in the folds of the Magalies Berge, was strangely sane and sober and sceptical in the cold forenoon, and had no disposition to sign a cheque or to do anything save have Harry thrown out of his office.

Mr. Stone went south. There was a way of making money out of his knowledge. He did not dream of going to the bank, or to the police, or to any unprofitable source of reward. Lew Daney's haul had been a big one; he would cut in on it. But first he must find Lew Daney, and that would be a business demanding the greatest patience.

II

Harry the Valet had been established in London for a fortnight when Mary Grier came from Scotland with a third-class return ticket, a pound for expenses, a small notebook in which to keep a very careful account of how the pound was spent, and three cheques, for different amounts, to settle a claim which had been made on Mr. Awkwright by a firm of outside brokers.

"You can tell him you're my niece and that I'm not right in my head," Mr. Awkwright had said with the greatest calmness.

"He's a swindler, anyway--all these outside brokers are--and if he thinks that there's no chance of getting the lot he'll take what he can get in settlement. Don't produce the cheque until he agrees to settle, and beat him down to the lowest one if you can."

Mary had settled these accounts before. It was an ugly and unpleasant business, but jobs are not easy to get, and, generally speaking, Mr. Awkwright was a good employer.

Three hours after she arrived in London she interviewed the broker. He held her hand in quite a fatherly way and tried to kiss her. She came from the office a little flushed, rather breathless, but with a receipt for a hundred pounds in full settlement of a debt of four hundred, and she did not even have to lie; Mr. Awkwright's pathetic letter supplied the necessary invention.

Mary thought neither less nor more of men because of an experience which was not unusual. She had that sort of pale prettiness which seems very lovely to some men. She was slim and neat of figure, could walk and stand well, had a flair for dressing inexpensively and gave a four-guinea costume the illusion of Savile Row tailoring.

She was a little annoyed, but she did not feel "soiled." Men had tried to kiss her before, men of all ages and conditions. Mr. Awkwright's occasional guests, for example; they used to come upon her in the library, close the door with the greatest carelessness, and slip their arms absent-mindedly round her shoulders.

And they were respectable men, including a London solicitor.

Only one had ever treated her with complete respect.

She hated this debt settling that Mr. Awkwright practised in his extreme meanness, but she was growing more and more philosophical.

She went back to the little temperance hotel in Bloomsbury where she had taken her lodging, to get the letter she had brought over from Scotland. In the reading-room she found a copy of a morning newspaper, and studied the shipping list.

The Carnarvon Castle was due that morning, and probably had already arrived. Mr. Awkwright had given her a list of four hotels where his nephew would be likely to stay. They were all very expensive. His nephew, said Mr. Awkwright sourly, invariably chose hotels which he could not afford. By luck she tried the Carlton first, and saved herself several unnecessary twopences.

Captain Timothy Jordan had arrived. Could she speak to him? A little delay, and then:

"Hallo!" said a not-unpleasant voice. "Is that you, Colonel?"

Mary Grier smiled. "No, I am a mere private," she said. "Is that Captain Timothy Jordan? I am Mr. Awkwright's secretary."

"Oh Lord, Uncle Benjamin's? Where are you speaking from?"

She told him.

"I knew it wasn't Scotland," said the voice. "Is he in town?"

Mary explained that Mr. Awkwright was at that moment at Clench House.

"I have a letter for you. Captain Jordan. Mr. Awkwright told me to see you and find out when we could expect you in Scotland."

"In a few days," was the reply. "And when may I expect you at the Carlton? You are Miss Grier, aren't you? You are 'rather attractive and a great expense.' I am quoting my sainted uncle, who has written about you. Come and lunch."

She hesitated. She was very anxious to see this nephew of her employer. Mr. Awkwright had spoken very freely on, the subject of ungrateful relations.

"I am not sure that I have the time," she said. "It might be very embarrassing."

"If you come down don't forget to ask for Timothy Jordan; there are two of the great Jordan clan in this hotel--ask for Timothy and refuse all substitutes!"

"Timothy Jordan," she repeated, and heard a little sound behind her.

She turned and saw a man standing in the corridor, his back to her, evidently waiting to take his turn at the one telephone which the hotel possessed. She could not see his face. A derby hat was at the back of his head; the collar of his overcoat was turned up. When later she passed him, he manoeuvred so that he still presented a back view to her.

Harry Stone was more surprised than alarmed to hear his enemy was in London. After all, Tim Jordan might be a great man in Southern Rhodesia, but he was just a man on the side-walk in the Haymarket. Still, there might be certain unpleasantnesses if he were recognised, particularly as Harry had that morning located the one man in the world he wanted to meet, and that man's name was Money; pounds to spend, dollars and francs to gamble with at Monte Carlo, marks to keep him in luxury in the Tyrol.

He waited till Mary disappeared, then he went to the 'phone and gave a number. It was some time before the man he asked for came to the instrument.

"It's Harry Stone speaking," he said in a low voice. "Could I see you some place tonight?"

There was a long silence. The man at the other end did not ask unnecessary questions. "Sure," he said. "How are you, Harry?"

"Fine," said Harry glibly. "I cleaned up a bit of money before I left the Cape. I am leaving for Australia next week and I'd like to have a chat with you before I go."

"Where are you speaking from?"--after another long pause.

Harry gave the name of the hotel and the telephone number, Lew Daney considered this.

"Pack all your things and clear out of there tonight. I will put you up. You can send your things to a railway cloak-room. You know London?"

"Pretty well," said Harry.

"Meet me at ten tonight at Hampstead. Go past the Spaniards about two hundred yards towards Highgate. I will be waiting for you on the sidewalk."

Harry Stone hung up the receiver, very satisfied with the beginning of his adventure. He had considered a long time before he adopted this method of approach. Lew was not the kind of man to come upon suddenly; he was a killer, and though he was not named in the flaming reward bill as the murderer of the two night-watchmen, there was a reward of five thousand pounds on his head.

Harry packed his suitcase that evening, carefully oiled and loaded a snub-nosed revolver, and went out. As he passed through the hall, he saw the pretty girl he had seen that morning. She was evidently leaving the hotel, for her box was packed and waiting. He was interested in her: she was a friend of Tiger Tim's. He wondered how near a friend. He would like to get better acquainted with her--it would be a great joke to get back on Tiger through his girl.

He deposited his suitcase at King's Cross Station and went by Tube to Hampstead. He would have to be careful. If Lew knew he had been recognised outside the bank...but this was London, not South Africa.

He reached the rendezvous and found himself alone. It was a miserable night; a drizzle of sleet was falling and the asphalt pavement was slippery. He glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch; it was five minutes to ten. Would Lew double-cross him? That was not Lew's way.

Two cars passed, moving swiftly, and then a third came crawling along by the side of the pavement. Harry Stone took the revolver from his pocket and slipped it up his sleeve. The car stopped opposite to where he stood--an American saloon.

"Is that you, Harry?"

It was Lew's voice.

"Step inside."

He opened the door and sank down on the seat by the side of a former confederate and one who had shared a cell at Pretoria Central in the days when the prison was a little overcrowded.

"I knew your voice the moment I heard it."

Lew sent the car forward at a moderate pace.

"Doing well, are you. Harry? Made a big clean up?"

"About twenty thousand--" began Harry.

"You are a liar," said the other calmly. "I know you! If you had made twenty thousand you would have bought the Ritz. You wouldn't be staying in a punk hotel in Bloomsbury. Did you leave your bag at the station?...Good!"

Harry the Valet, a quick worker, began his tale.

"I thought I would like to have a chat with you," he said. "I've got a big scheme that wants a little money. You are quite right, I am broke--and I thought perhaps you might be able to stake me. The boys told me you've done pretty well."

He heard a low chuckle from the man at the wheel.

"Which boys? There are no boys in London who know anything about me, Harry. You know I have done well. And how well!"

"Only what I've been told--" began Harry.

"You know just what you've seen! I recognised you that night in Glasgow, boy. You are out after the five thousand pounds' reward, or do you want bigger money than that?"

Harry said nothing.

"We'll go to my place at Barnet and have a little chat," Lew went on. "I am a sensible man, Harry. I don't kick at trouble when it comes along, and you are trouble. And I have never been a greedy man. I have got six hundred thousand pounds--all in currency, and all where I can put my hand on it, so the question of splitting with you won't trouble me any. There is enough for you and me and the rest of the crowd. They are out of the country, by the way, and they don't know as much as you. They don't even know I am Lew Daney."

"Where have you cached the stuff?" asked Stone boldly.

It was a question which invited a lie or an offensive rebuff, but Lew Daney told him the amazing truth. He described the location of the treasury place with the greatest frankness and in the greatest detail. So clear was the description that he might have drawn a plan of the spot. Harry listened incredulously, and it only dawned upon him that the man was speaking the truth when he realised that he had nothing to gain by lying.

After all, he need not have kept the appointment.

They were in the open country now. The car was moving at a leisurely gait. Suddenly Lew switched off the headlamps and ran on his sidelights. "I don't want to attract too much attention," he said. "We'll be getting on the new road in a minute, and there's a cop at the crossing."

They passed the policeman and moved smoothly along the concrete surface of the wide road, always keeping close to the kerb.

A little light suddenly glowed in the dashboard immediately opposite to where Harry was sitting.

"Do you mind?" asked the other coldly. "I want to keep you illuminated. I don't suppose you've been such a fool as to come out without a gun."

Harry looked down; one of Lew's hands was on the driving wheel; the other rested on his lap, holding the butt of a long-barrelled automatic, and the muzzle covered the passenger.

"You'll be surprised to know I have told you the truth. And you won't be surprised to know that I told you the truth because I am going to make it impossible for you to tell the truth to anybody else! There is no cut for you, Harry. You are going to be what I would describe as another of London's undiscovered murder mysteries. Been looking for me, haven't you? I've been looking for you! I have got your record--squealer! You have squealed in prison and out."

He glanced at the driving mirror at his right hand. There were no lights in sight behind him, none before.

Five minutes later a big car, bound for Cambridge, passed a car stationary by the side of the road. Nearby was a broad stretch of water. The car was there for half an hour, and during that time the one man interested was extremely busy.

Near the margin of the lake were a number of pleasure boats, lying keel uppermost on the bank. To launch one was not a very difficult business. To paddle it out two hundred yards from the shore with the aid of a floorboard was not so easy, especially since a very heavy burden lay in the stern. The hardest job of all was to pull the boat ashore and restore it to its keel uppermost position.

The rower came back to the car, and was relieved to find no cyclist policeman standing by its side. He wiped his wet face with a scented silk handkerchief--Lew Daney had always been something of a dandy--and, sitting down at the driving wheel, he turned the car northward and went on into the night.

III

Tim Jordan made a call at Scotland Yard which proved to be a waste of time. That morning he had collected all the back numbers of newspapers he could secure, and had made a careful study of the Lower Clyde Bank murders, and he had a theory.

It was his misfortune to meet an "office man" who was not particularly interested in crime except in so far as it appeared in a statistical record. "I'm afraid, Captain Jordan, I can give you no information. The Chief Constable went back to Glasgow yesterday."

"Have you a record of Lew Daney?" urged Jordan. "I know just how you feel, having an interfering outsider butting into your business, but if this isn't one of Lew Daney's jobs I'm a Dutchman! He is wanted in Johannesburg for a similar, crime--without murder--and the methods are identical."

The office man sighed. "Yes, yes...I'm sure. Write his name down, will you? I'll put through an inquiry to the Records Department."

Altogether a disappointing morning.

Somebody saw Tim come impetuously through the swing doors of the Carlton, and go up the broad stairs three at a time.

Captain Jordan was in no especial hurry; no life and death appointment awaited him; he was, in point of fact, on his way to change his shoes.

"That," said the observer to his companion, "is the Tiger Man!"

"How very dramatic! Is he in a circus or something?" asked the bored young lady who was with him.

He explained Captain Timothy Jordan's peculiar position.

"He's a policeman in Rhodesia. The natives say that he walks like one and hunts like one...a terribly clever fellow...Did I ever tell you the story of the storekeeper who was murdered at Manandalas?"

He was an African millionaire, a person of some consequence; she forced a hypocritical interest and listened.

Tim Jordan was changing. He had landed less than thirty hours before, had an appointment with his tailor, his banker, his solicitor, a dinner engagement with his old colonel, and supper with a man and his wife whom he had met on the boat.

He wished it was with the girl whose voice he had heard on the telephone. He was annoyed with her for leaving his uncle's letter without presenting herself for inspection. Yet he was very happy to be in London, and sang at the top of his voice, which was not a good one. In the midst of his vocal adventures came the page boy.

"Jelf! Who's Jelf?"

He frowned down at the slip of paper that was put before him, and then remembered.

"Shoot him up, will you?"

Jelf came, an undersized man, rather furtive, and just as respectful as anybody would be who wanted a job.

"Who told you I needed a chauffeur?"

The little man wriggled uncomfortably.

"I used to work for Mr. Van Tyl, and I heard you were coming to England, sir, and thought you might like to use this car of mine. She can do eighty."

"Mr. Van Tyl?"

Tim knew twenty South African Van Tyls, and none of them well.

"He knows you, sir, and he said you were coming from Africa, and that you liked a fast car."

"How did you know when I would arrive?" asked Tim.

"I got your name from the shipping company."

Captain Jordan laughed.

"All right," he said. "You deserve something for your enterprise. Let's see that old car of yours. Have it here"--he looked up at the ceiling--"at seven o'clock on Wednesday. Do you know Scotland?"

"Very well, sir," said the man eagerly.

"Well, I'm leaving at six in the morning, and if your car is up to the description, I will hire you. Why did you shave off your moustache?"

The man was startled.

"I--I beg your pardon, sir?" he stammered.

"You had a moustache until quite recently. You shaved it off. You've fingered it twice since you've been here. Have you always worn glasses?"

"Always, sir." said the man, "but my sight's very good."

Tim looked at him for a long time, considering.

"All right. You're probably a crook, but that doesn't matter. Why do you fellows imagine that you can disguise yourselves by ringing the changes on your upper lips?"

"I'm not a crook, sir," began the man. "I've got a character--

"I am sure you have," interrupted Tim. "Bring the machine at the time I said."

Later in the day he saw it and approved.

He came back from his dinner party that night a little disappointed, for people one meets on board usually lose seventy-five per cent. of their glamour when they are met on dry land, and the dinner had been a bore.

"There's a lady waiting to see you, sir."

"A lady?" he said, and then a thought struck him. "A Miss Grier?"

"No, sir, a Mrs. Smith."

He looked past Tim, and the woman who had been sitting in the lounge rose and came towards them. She was tall, good-looking, handsomely dressed. He judged her to be somewhere about the thirties.

"Do you want to see me?" he asked.

She nodded, looked at the porter who stood by, and then:

"Could I see you in your room?" she asked in a low voice.

It was a pleasant voice, deep and rich. Tim hesitated. A man didn't see strange women in is private sitting-room at eleven o'clock at night.

"I don't want to be seen talking to you," she said. "It is very important".

He smiled. "All right. You will lose your reputation. Come along!"

They went up by elevator. He opened the door and ushered her in. It was she who closed the door he had left ajar.

"You are Captain Jordan of the Rhodesian C.I.D., aren't you? My name is Lydia Daney."

He stared at her.

"Lew Daney's wife?"

She nodded.

"The wife of the man who did the Glasgow job," she said coolly. "I thought you'd like to know that."

IV

Tim Jordan stared at the woman.

"The devil you are! It was Daney, then?"

She nodded.

"He's in London somewhere. I'm trying to find him. Do you mind if I smoke?"

She took a jewelled cigarette case from her bag, opened it, and Tim supplied her with a light.

"I am the legal, wedded wife of Lew Daney," she said. "It may surprise you that he has ever done anything legal in his life--but it's the fact."

"Why do you come to me?" he asked bluntly.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I knew you were in London. Lew has often spoken about you. As a matter of fact, he spoke today."

"He's in town?"

She nodded.

"He was. And a Miss Grier was in town--a Miss Mary Grier." She spoke slowly.

He remembered now...the girl on the telephone.

"She came from Scotland."

Mrs. Daney blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling, and did not take her eyes off it until it broke.

"She is secretary to an old gentleman in Scotland, and the romance of Lew's young life."

There was a touch of acid in the last phrase.

"And that's the reason for the squeal?" he asked.

She nodded slowly.

"That's the reason for the squeal," she repeated. "I've stood a great deal from Lew. He's been pretty generous about money, though I've had my hard times. But when a man is cool enough to tell his wife that he's in love with another woman, and makes her a cash offer for a divorce--that's how respectable Lew is getting--the question of money fades out, Captain Jordan."

"The girl came down to see him--?"

She shook her head. "No. If you believe Lew--and he's the world's worst liar, though now and again he tells the truth out of sheer malice--she doesn't even know the stir she's created in his young heart. She's met him--somewhere. A case of love at first sight--and he's fifty if he's a day!"

"Has she been in Africa?"

She shook her head.

"Get that idea out of your head, that Lew is an African worker. He went to the Cape when things were too hot for him. He has been planning big things in this country for years. Africa was an interlude. He wasn't there a year. And he was in love before he went; he told me that. And he means it, Captain Jordan. He's got a way of talking when he means things that you can't mistake if you know him."

She finished her cigarette--it was one of those Russian things that are half mouthpiece--threw it into the fireplace and took another.

"I'm not going to give you the history of my life, but there are many reasons why Lew should play square with me, and I have decided that he had better go."

"To the scaffold, in fact?" said Tim grimly.

She nodded.

"To the scaffold, in fact," she repeated. "It doesn't sound that I'm sane, but I feel very cold-blooded about it."

She rose, still smoking, and paced up and down the room.

"Do you know a man called Stone?"

"Harry the Valet?" Tim nodded.

"He's in London--I hope."

"Who are the other members of the gang?" interrupted Tim.

Her gesture was expressive of her indifference. "I don't know. I never questioned him about them. He shifts his workers--never stays long with the same crowd." She threw the second cigarette, unfinished, into the fire.

"That's all," she said. "You can go to Scotland Yard with the information, but if you send them to me, I'll make them look foolish. From what I've heard, you like a little hunt of your own. Well, you've got a chance. I may change my mind tomorrow and tell Lew I've told you, in which case you will be well advised to keep under cover. I shall probably be dead, but there's no reason why you should be."

"Thank you for those cheering words," said Tim, and led her to the door.

He sat up for two hours, thinking the matter over. There was very little he could take to Scotland Yard; he did not even know where the woman was to be found. The whole story might be a lie; he was the more inclined to view it critically because it confirmed his own theories.

The early hours of the morning brought Jelf and his fast car. Tim looked it over, and for the second time approved. He climbed into the driver's seat.

"Do you know the road from Glasgow to Kinross?"

"Like a book, sir. I've taken parties up there in the summer--

"All right, let's go," said Timothy Jordan. And then: "Do you know Clench House, by any chance?"

The man shook his head.

"I've got an idea it's near Rumble Bridge, sir, but I'm not sure. There's a lot of big houses in that country, and some of the best aristocracy live there."

"The person I'm week-ending with is not an aristocrat--not by a darned sight," said Tim Jordan grimly.

V

They called the place Clench House because, by repute, Ben Clench was visible from the little hill behind. It lay between Kinross and Glasgow and had several histories. There had been a castle here; you saw the footings of it in the firs a quarter of a mile north of the house itself. Archaeologists had varying theories. Local historians who prepared guidebooks for the use of the unlettered Southerner allowed their imagination the fullest rein, and brought Bannockburn into it.

It was a big, ugly building behind a stone wall, gaunt-faced, depressing, and made lop-sided by a monstrous garage which had once been a chapel by all accounts.

It boasted its own private graveyard. There were huge mounds beyond the orchard and a solid-looking mausoleum of granite, bearing a Gaelic inscription, which the weather of centuries had effaced.

Mr. Awkwright never ceased to complain of the place. He was a thin, complaining old man, lined of face, very rich, very mean, and he hated Scotland. He hated England as intensely; France came into the category of unpopular countries, as did Holland, Egypt, Monte Carlo and Italy.

He had never lived anywhere else. He had in his youth married a Miss Brodie, and through her claimed Scottish descent, wore the Brodie tartan (without any title to the distinction), ate porridge with a wry face, would have attended church if there had been a church of his persuasion to attend, and compromised with family prayers twice daily.

He found it difficult to keep servants, but not so difficult to keep Mary Grier, who was his secretary. Young ladies, and pretty young ladies of education, with no visible means of support, are easier to find than cooks. And Mary was held by a bond more enduring than a contract. She did not leave Mr. Awkwright's service for the same reason that a convict did not leave a prison. She had been sentenced to service. Perhaps for life.

Stocker did not come to prayers, because he was in the house but not of the household. He was one of the permanencies that Mr. Awkwright had taken over with his lease. He could not discharge him without discharging himself from his residence, which he had hired furnished at a ridiculously low figure from the London agents of Mr. Ledbetter, the absentee owner.

Mr. Ledbetter spent most of his time in warmer climates. He was, said Stocker the butler (quite unnecessarily), a great traveller. Stocker was a big man, on the fat side, with a large, fat face and blue, unintelligent eyes. He had been, he said, with Mr. Ledbetter since he was so high. He said most of these things to Mr. Awkwright's pretty secretary.

Mary smiled.

"Your knowledge is extensive and peculiar, Stocker," she said.

He nodded gloomily.

"There's very few people in the world I don't know, miss, including crowned 'eads. I've spent me life making studies of human beings, though I don't call Mr. Awkwright a human being."

Mary was taking tea in the big, chilly drawing-room alone.

Mr. Awkwright had gone into Glasgow to consult his harassed stockbroker. He was a petty punter, speculating in margins to infinitesimal sums. In addition he was interested in the sport of thoroughbred horse-racing, and had complicated bets with a Glasgow bookmaker, never losing more than a few shillings a day, and more often winning.

He used to spend his evenings after family prayers working out the form of horses that were due to run the next day, his calculations being supplemented by private information, for he received on an average six private wires or special letters from gentlemen who, for a small consideration, conveyed the cream of stable intelligence to a select list of clients. There was little that happened in the racing world which he did not know.

This was one of his illusions.

Mary remembered something she had heard in the bus driving back from the station.

"Stocker!" She called him back as he was leaving the room. "Is Mr. Ledbetter a philanthropist?"

He frowned.

"A what, miss?"

"Does he give things away?"

Stocker smiled.

'No, miss, he's a very careful man, is Mr. Ledbetter."

"Then how is it that Mr. Awkwright can hire Clench House for such a ridiculously low figure?"

Stocker came slowly back.

"He's particular, miss. He'd sooner take a low figure from an old gentleman like Mr. Awkwright than a big figure from some of these harum-scarum young people who come up for season and turn a house into a bear garden. Who's that young gentleman coming today, miss?"

Mary got up with a feeling of guilt.

"Oh, Captain Jordan. I promised to see to his room--

"It is all ready, miss. From Africa, isn't he?"

"Yes. He's Mr. Awkwright's nephew."

"In the Army, eh?" said Stocker. He rubbed his hand across his massive chin musingly. "It's funny, but soldiering never appealed to me, miss. I had a young brother, in the Grenadier Guards, but he deserted."

The girl shook her head.

"No, he's in the police--the South African Police. He's a sort of Commissioner."

"Fancy!" said Stocker.

It was a favourite expression of his, and stood for amazement.

"Fancy, miss! In the police, eh? I'll bet that's a good job. I've never been to Africa. A young cousin of mine named 'Erbert Smith got a job in a tea field or whatever they call it--

"Plantation," she suggested.

He nodded.

"Fancy being in the police. I'll bet he's a clever gentleman?"

Mary wasn't quite sure about this. There were moments when Tim Jordan was the most brilliant of Mr. Awkwright's nephews; there were times when he was a spendthrift and a wastrel. It depended very much upon the mood the old man was in when he discussed him, and the amount of money Tim required to meet his mess bills and the etceteras of his existence.

She gathered from Mr. Awkwright that he was a sort of favoured pensioner, a dependent whose extravagance was leading his devoted uncle to ruin. She was to learn later that Mr. Awkwright was officially the guardian of the young man of twenty-eight, the executor of his father's will, and, until he was thirty, his paymaster. It was one of those eccentric wills that elderly men make, and Tim Jordan had submitted to the indignity with exemplary patience.

Mary discovered this within an hour of knowing him. He came in a mud-spattered speed car as she was going up to dress for dinner.

Mr. Awkwright telephoned subsequently that he would not be home that night, and gave specific instructions as to the attitude she should adopt towards the visitor.

"There's no need to sit up late; he's quite capable of looking after himself. And you're not to discuss my affairs, Mary. You understand?"

She sighed. "Yes, I understand," she said.

"And don't answer any questions he puts to you about yourself."

Mary listened meekly, and went back to the dining-hall, where the young man was smoking his first after-dinner cigarette.

"May I ask you as a special favour not to let Mr. Awkwright know that you have told me the story of your gallant exploits?" she asked.

He smiled delightedly.

"Is that how it struck you? I suppose I am a boastful person. And I thought I was going to be so bored at this horrible place."

He was a personable young man; the hair at his temples was slightly grey (he had told her all about the lioness that came on him through his bungalow window). His skin was brown and clear; his eyes were bright with laughter. Tim Jordan found life a most amusing business. "When I saw this mausoleum," he went on, "my heart sank! And then out of the yawning mouth of the tomb, came light! I am going to stay here three months."

"You are going when you said you'd go--on Saturday," she said. "May I impress you again that I am one of the servants of the house, and the last instruction I received from Mr. Awkwright was that in no circumstances was I to indulge in any familiarity. So far you've been very, very good."

He lit another cigarette and looked up at the raftered ceiling.

"It's rather like living in the parish hall, isn't it? What a devil of a place to spend your life! I suppose you get it cheap? Uncle Ben must be worth a million pounds--don't look so incredulous; he's enormously rich. And I'm the only one who doesn't care two hoots where he leaves the money. Have you met any of his wife's relations? They're ghastly! She was a Brodie--has he told you that? Have you ever seen him dance the Highland Fling? He can be most abominably Scottish. All these Southern people who claim the Highlands as their home get that way. They have pipers who walk around the table--has he got a piper?"

Mary shook her head.

"He wouldn't pay him. But I'll bet he has bagpipe selections on the gramophone!"

He was the sort of man you knew at once or never knew. When he arrived he had taken her by the hand, kissed her, very coolly, claiming her as a cousin, and had done things which in other men would have been intolerable.

He looked over his shoulder at the watchful Stocker.

"Are you looking after my chauffeur?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Stocker. "His room is ready, but I haven't seen him. After he put the car away he went down to the village." Tim Jordan favoured him with a delightful smile.

"Then," he said, "you can put yourself away, my friend! If I want any more coffee, I'll ring for it."

Stocker retired.

"I can't abide servants who stand behind me," explained Tim. "Ever since a certain day in Umtali--but I'm boasting again. Now tell me all that my dear relative has said about me."

"There is such a thing as loyalty to one's employer," she said, and he chuckled at this.

"Don't let a little thing like that stand in your way. He's a rum old bird. I suppose he's told you that I am a poor relation? He generally does. Be respectful to me--I'm very rich--perhaps not as rich as the late Mr. Croesus, but reasonably wealthy."

"When are you going back to Africa?" she asked.

"Never," was his reply. "I've left the service. I haven't broken it to Uncle Ben, but he'll know in good time. I've got a flat in London, and I'm going to live the life of a young man about town. I went to Scotland Yard today and tried to persuade them to take me on as a commissioner. They put me straight away into the refrigerator, and I haven't thawed since."

He looked at her coldly. "By the way, do you know a man called Daney?"

He thought she hadn't heard the question, and repeated it. She was staring blankly at the panelled wall. "No, I have never heard of him," she said steadily.

"That's curious, because--"

He stopped, got up and moved noiselessly to the door. With a quick movement he pulled it open, Stocker was standing there.

"I was just coming in, sir--" he began.

"Just stay out," said Tim. He was thoughtful after that, but with little inducement went on to speak about himself. "I want to settle down to the real business of life, which is finding bad men and discovering why they're bad."

"In other words, you want to be a detective? How fascinating!"

"Don't be sarcastic," he warned her. "I have been very successful in Africa. My reputation stands at a premium. I have all the qualities of a good police officer--

"Do they include modesty?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No; modesty is a stupid affectation."

"Quite a lot of people suffer from it," she suggested.

He smiled, "Not me!"

This girl puzzled him. He thought that he had known her from the moment he had met her, as she, he guessed, knew him. But every hour in her society brought a new question-mark against his judgment. Behind her self-possession and poise he had imagined the respectable capability of the trained private secretary, but there was something more than that. She was--he pondered an exact description. "Deep" was one word, but it carried too sinister a meaning. She gave him an impression which, as a police officer, was not unfamiliar, that she was living one life and concealing another. Only, she was successful, and his earlier "clients" had failed miserably to sustain the deception.

He was an adept in the art of cross-examination.

"Yes, I have a family--a mother and a sister."

"In Scotland?"

She regarded him carefully. "No, not in Scotland. They have a house outside of London. Mother is an invalid. I saw her when I was in town."

Her lips pressed tightly together when she had finished. He knew that she had told him just as much about herself as she intended. Then suddenly, as she leaned across the table to strike a match for him, he saw something...

"That was a pretty bad cut," he said. She drew her hand back quickly and pulled down her sleeve. The scar ran from a few inches above her wrist to somewhere out of sight. He saw her face go red and white. "Yes--I cut it," she said breathlessly. "A knife slipped when I was...cutting bread. Have you any more questions?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and really was. The pink came back to her cheeks and she smiled. "Mr. Awkwright told me not to answer any questions," she said with a touch of her old flippancy. She looked at the solemn-faced clock on the mantelshelf. "I'm going to bed soon. Will you look after your chauffeur?"

"Tell me one thing," he said as she rose. "Why do you bury yourself with my fossilised relative? There must be lots of jobs--

"I suppose there are," she interrupted.

She went to the door and came back. "Do you know Mr. Awkwright very well?" she asked.

He had to confess that he had only met the old man three times in his life.

"No--practically I know nothing about him, except that he was married twice and had a child who died. I know that he's as mean as a stage, miser--"

She stopped him. "There is a lot about him that is rather wonderful," she said.

Mary went to bed soon after ten o'clock. Captain Jordan's room was three from her own, and she was falling to sleep when she heard his light footsteps pass quickly along the corridor, and the soft thud of his door as it closed. She dropped into sleep and woke again, it seemed instantly, though hours had passed.

She sat up in bed, her heart beating quickly. Something had wakened her, something that had made a bad dream which she could not remember.

She listened; there was no sound. It must have been imagination, she thought, and, recovering her breath, she slid down into the bed again. The window was slightly open; it was misty outside, and above the mist the moon was shining. She could see smoky wisps of fog coming slowly through the open casement, and was half inclined to get up and close the window. And then--

She heard distinctly a noise at her door, a confused, scrambling noise. "Who is there?" she asked.

She heard it again--not a tap, a sort of scratch and a groan.

Springing out of bed, she switched on the light, ran to the door and pulled it open. As she did so, a man fell almost into her arms.

She saw his face in the half-light, ghastly white. And then she saw, under the hand that was clasping his throat, the blood welling, and screamed.

She tried to hold him up, but he went sliding through her arms to the floor. She heard a quick patter of feet in the corridor outside, and Tim Jordan came in. He went down on his knee by the side of the man.

"How odd!" he said, in his quick, staccato way. "Jelf...my chauffeur!"

The man was fully dressed; his boots were wet and muddy.

"Can we get a doctor?" she faltered.

He shook his head.

At that moment the man opened his eyes; his gaze wandered for a while from one to the other. Finally it rested on the horrified girl. His lips parted.

"He did it!" he whispered. "The man we saved you from!"

Tim saw her wilt and caught her as she fell. He carried her out of the room and gave her into the charge of one of the women servants. When he got back to Jelf the man was dead.

Stocker, in shirt and trousers, came running in from his room below. From him Jordan borrowed an electric torch and followed the trail of blood, which ran the length of the corridor.

The trail stopped at a little door deeply recessed in the wall.

The door was unlocked and led to a private stairway, and eventually into the stable yard at the back of the house. Jordan went back to his room, dressed quickly, and followed the blood trail. It passed through an open gateway into the garden, and here it was lost in the wet soil.

Something glittered in the light of his lamp. Stooping, he picked it up. It was a small gold cigarette case, and it was open. Inside was an inscription: "To Lew, from his wife."

VI

Examining the case carefully by the light of the lantern he carried, Tim saw that one of the inner linings was loose, and inserted the point of his knife. It came back, a thin gold leaf that was hinged. Inside there were half a dozen sets of figures which he could not distinguish in the lining. At the bottom of the case was a word, "treasure." All the writing was beautifully engraved.

He fastened back the false side of the case, slipped it into his pocket and returned to the house to make a more careful examination. The figures were now obvious, in all about twelve lines.

Stocker arrived with hot coffee in time to see Tim drop the case into his pocket.

"Did you find anything, sir?" he asked. "What a terrible thing to have happened!"

"Where is Miss Grier?" asked Tim.

"She's gone into a spare room. One of the maids told me she was dressing. Did you know the man, sir?"

There was a note of anxiety in his voice for which the tragedy of the evening might have accounted.

"I've never seen him before I engaged him a couple of days ago," said Tim.

Stocker scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"I suppose he didn't by any chance make any kind of statement?" he suggested rather than asked.

"None."

"The girl who was outside the door thought she heard him speaking," insisted Stocker.

"Which girl?"

"The servant girl--the first one to get down."

"He said something which was quite indistinguishable," said Tim. Was he mistaken, or did he hear a little sigh from the stout man, and see in his eyes evidence of his relief?

"Poor Mr. Awkwright will be in a sad state when be hears about this," he said. "He doesn't like unpleasantness, and I wouldn't be surprised if this sent him to bed for a week."

"How long has Mr. Awkwright been living here?"

Stacker looked up at the raftered ceiling.

"Off and on for about four years. He took the place, went away for six months and came back again. Why, sir?"

Tim did not satisfy his curiosity. He nodded a dismissal, but Stacker lingered on; "Excuse me asking, sir, but you were the first person on the spot when this thing happened--could you tell me whether Miss Mary had her door unlocked?"

Tim stared at him.

"I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering," said Stacker.

He looked past Tim and made a movement forward.

"Can I get anything for you, miss?"

"Nothing, thank you, Stacker."

Mary Grier had come into the room, very cool, very self-possessed, and, if you could forget the pallor of her face, quite unmoved by her awful experience.

She sat down on the opposite side of the refectory table where Tim was sitting, took a cigarette from the little silver box by her elbow, and lit it. The hand that held the match did not tremble, Tim noticed.

"Yes, I think I will have some coffee, Stocker," she said.

Tim waited till the man was gone.

"You knew Jelf?"

She shook her head. "I don't remember him," she said. "I don't think that I have ever consciously seen him."

"What did he mean when he talked about the person from whom he rescued you?"

She blew a spiral of smoke across the table.

"He meant just what he said," was her quiet reply. "About three years ago I was attacked by a man, on the Kinross road. I think he was drunk." She held out her arm and bared it. "He had a knife." She touched the long cicatrice gently. "I told you I did this by accident, but it wasn't true. I hadn't the least desire to recall a very unhappy incident. If those two men hadn't been near I should have been killed, I think."

"And one of them was Jelf?" he said, in surprise.

"I don't know," she answered, and spoke truly. "It was nearly dark. The man who picked me up and brought me back to the house was--was the only one I really saw."

"Who was the man who attacked you?"

She looked down at the glowing end of her cigarette.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you. He was a stranger."

"Did you inform the police?" he asked.

There was a moment's hesitation. "No; I didn't want to get my name in the newspapers. But I should have been much happier than I am."

He looked at her in astonishment.

"It didn't strike me that you were particularly unhappy."

"Neither am I," she smiled.

"And it was the same man tonight who killed Jelf--?" began Tim.

"For God's sake don't talk about it, Captain Jordan!" she said.

Her voice broke, and he saw now something of the terror which that mask of hers hid.

"I don't want to talk about it--I won't talk about it! And if you ask me questions I'll go out of the room."

He stretched out his hand and caught hers. "Then I'm not going to ask questions," he said.

Stocker came in at that moment and served the coffee, and there was silence until he had taken his departure.

"He was very anxious to know whether your door was locked."

She nodded. "I know; he's very keen about that--my locking my door."

"Why?" he asked.

She lit another cigarette; this time her hand was trembling.

"It's horrible--horrible!" she said in a low voice. "Have the police come yet?"

"They won't be very long," he said. "They were on their way soon after I telephoned them."

She looked up at him quickly, and was about to speak, but apparently changed her mind.

"You were going to say--?"

She shook her head hesitantly, and looked at him again--a long, searching scrutiny.

"I suppose you'll think that what I'm going to ask you is rather extraordinary...you're a police officer and you won't understand...No, I won't ask you!"

"I think you'd better," said Tim quietly. "When the police come you want me not to repeat what the man said--Jelf, I mean."

Her eyes opened a little wider.

"How did you know that?" she gasped, and he laughed.

"My well-known instinct. And, anyway, it would be awkward for you if I repeated what a man said in his delirium. Perhaps some day you'll take me into your confidence."

Again she opened her lips to speak, but closed them firmly again. Then, after a pause: "Perhaps I will," she said.

One thing struck him as being curious: she made no further reference to Mr. Awkwright or to the effect this dreadful happening might have upon him. Awkwright was an elderly man; even a few years ago he had seemed decrepit; and such a shock might have the most serious consequences..

If the truth be told, Tim Jordan was in some awe of this old man, who had never shown him the least affection or friendship. Indeed, he had not concealed from his ward that he regarded his "guardianship" as one of the trials of his life.

Tim knew little about him, except that he was a secretive, suspicious man, who had odd and petty recreations--he had been a small gambler all his life. Yet he was a careful-living man, and a shrewd investor when real investments had to be made.

The police arrived as Mary was finishing her third cigarette, and there was an unpleasant hour during which she answered questions which seemed irrelevant (quite a number of them were), and reconstructed, for the enlightenment of the officers, the tragedy she had witnessed.

Jelf's body went away with the police. The doctor who came with them described the wound as having been caused by a knife used with considerable strength. The murderer must have come upon his victim from behind and stabbed him before Jelf had a chance of putting up a defence. There were no marks either on his hands or on any other part of his body.

Tim went to the door to see the last police car go, and then returned to the dining-room to find Mary lying across the table with her head on her arms, half asleep. He packed her off to bed, sending one of the maids with her, went up to his own room, had a bath, and was back in the dining-hall by five.

"No, thank you, sir," said Stocker when it was suggested he should go to bed too. "I sleep very little, and it's past five o'clock. These servants will be fit for nothing, and I had better wait up and look after things. May I suggest that you take a few hours--"

"Certainly you may," said Tim cheerfully, "and as I've given you permission I shan't return the rude answer which would otherwise be inevitable! No; as soon as it gets light, I'm going out to look round."