Читать книгу The Leopard's Spots - Fred M. White - Страница 11

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To do him justice Montagu Stagg was no hardened criminal. For instance, he had been perfectly right when he told Everard Stokes in that humorously philosophical way of his that there were many worse men than himself who died in the odour of sanctity and in the esteem of their fellow creatures. It was not much that Stagg wanted, merely a percentage of the money which most of his clients were bent on throwing away. It would have been easy enough for Stagg, in the guise of 'Frank Fair,' to have had the lot, whereas he was content with a margin, and really went out of his way to give disinterested advice of a valuable nature as to the balance.

But here, possibly, was an opportunity of raking in something substantial. By mere accident in connection with that insatiable curiosity of his, and the accidental ringing of the wrong bell, he had come in contact with a mystery which promised not only real tangible results, but a certain service rendered to the State. And because this was so Stagg devoted a good deal of his time for the next few days in an attempt to get to the bottom of the business.

But look which way he would, he was up against a blank wall on every side. To begin with, there was not a single word in the papers that he could in any way connect with the Porchester-place affair. And, so far as he knew, the police were still in utter darkness as to the identity of the man who had been found in the station cloak room. Apparently the woman with the dark eyes had got clear away from Porchester-place without any suspicion being excited, so that the further Stagg went into the matter the more puzzled he was. He could not even find any suggestion of a reward being offered for the recovery of the American millionaire's missing gems. Doubtless that would come all in good time, and, meanwhile, there was nothing for it but to wait patiently and go on with the daily toil. And this was precisely what Stagg did, pleasantly interspersed with interesting games of golf in which, as a rule, the diurnal half-crowns went his way. Occasionally he played a game with Stella, and over a comfortable dinner he discussed with her the mystery of the railway station cloak room. For Stella, like a good many other healthy-minded girls, was rather prone to a study of the darker side of humanity as expounded in the columns of the daily press. She had many theories on the subject, to all of which Stagg listened with a certain good natured tolerance.

"It is just possible," he said, "that there might be a quite prosaic explanation."

"Then, in that case, why don't the parties come forward?" Stella demanded. "And, oh, talking of mysteries, did you hear what happened on the links a day or two ago? I only heard it this afternoon from my caddie."

"Ah, what was that?" Stagg asked.

"Most extraordinary," Stella went on. "It was last Friday morning, quite early. The boy I am speaking of was going to the professional's shop, and as he passed the deep bunkers of the fifth hole saw a man lying on the sand. He was a well-dressed man, quite a gentleman from what the boy said, and seemed to be fast asleep. But there was blood on his face and on his shirt, which was exposed, and his hat was all smashed in. The caddie, being rather alarmed, told the professional's assistant, and when they got back to the bunker the man had vanished. I don't suppose there is much in it, but still, you never can tell. You see, uncle, the world is full of all sorts of extraordinary things if you know where to find them."

"Last Friday," Stagg said thoughtfully. "Let me see. That was the morning the discovery was made at the railway station. Yes, it was Friday morning."

"Do you think—" stella began eagerly.

"No. I don't, my dear child," Stagg replied. "How you women jump to conclusions."

All the same, Stagg made a note of the circumstance, as it was just possible that there was some connection between the two events. The mere fact that the golf caddie had made his discovery about the same time that the body from Porchester Place had been deposited in the railway station cloakroom certainly suggested a connecting link, thin and weak as it might be, and therefore Stagg made a note of it.

"And that's all you know?" he asked.

"That's all," Stella said. "But that boy was caddying for me this afternoon, and I asked him. He said that the man he spoke of was quite a gentleman, and he seemed to be rather annoyed when I pressed him on the point. He said, 'e thought 'e knowed a gentleman when 'e seen 'im,' and probably he was right. It was a young man, quite nice looking and well dressed, and clean shaven."

"That's very likely," Stagg said. "It is just possible that it was merely a bad case of what is commonly called the evening after the night before."

"What does that mean?" Stella asked.

Stagg smiled indulgently as he replied.

"Well, let's put it another way. Boys will be boys, and young men have to sow their wild oats. And occasionally they have a weakness for soaking those oats of theirs in alcohol first. In other words, there might have been what certain rapid youths call a gigantic spree, involving a good deal of noise and practical joking, allied with the consumption of much wine. In my hot youth I occasionally joined in a symposium of that kind. It sometimes produces an extraordinary haziness and a certain infirmity in the region of the knees, accompanied by an utter indifference as to where one sleeps. Now, when a young man is in that condition he might easily meet with a slight accident without in the least being aware of it. And he might wake up to find himself not in bed, but in a bunker on the golf links. My experience had never led me as far as that, but I have heard of such things. My dear child, I wouldn't construct a mystery out of this if I were you."

With which Stagg dived into 'The Times,' a paper he had not had the opportunity of seeing that day. He went through it very carefully with a view to finding something really useful, but nothing rewarded his search, so that he folded up his paper again and was about to throw it on one side when his eye chanced to encounter a few lines at the top of column three on the first page, that portion of the paper which is usually known as the Agony Column. There were only a few words altogether, but they were sufficient to rivet Stagg's attention like a magnet. They ran as follows:—"P—CH——R P-A-E. Any night this week after 8 o'clock, at Tagoni's. Best place to dine in London, 22."

"Now. I wonder," Stagg whispered softly, "I wonder. Those capital letters with the spaces can't mean anything else but Porchester-place. Yes, the blanks fit in quite correctly. It's Porchester-place right enough. And here we are again. Observe the 22 at the end, and that bit about the best place to dine in London is evidently dropped in to make it look like an advertisement. Somebody connected with the crime or somebody who had a hand in the robbery which was the cause of the crime, is communicating with certain persons through the medium of the papers. I think that is a fair assumption. And that being the case, it would be just as well, I think, if I make a point of dining at Tagoni's for the next few evenings; all this week, I think. I shall probably find nothing; on the other hand it may be time and money laid out to the greatest advantage, yes, I'll go."

A little while after Stagg strolled into the drawing-room where Stella was reading, and informed her that he was going to London on business that might detain him for some days. Would Stella therefore pack his bag for him?

"Oh, certainly, uncle," Stella replied. These sudden excursions were no surprise to her. "I will go and see to it at once. Are you coming back on Saturday?"