Читать книгу The Cheyne Mystery - Freeman Wills Crofts - Страница 6

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The discovery that his pockets had been gone through while he was under the influence of the drug reduced Cheyne to a state of even more complete mystification than ever. What had the unknown been looking for? He, Cheyne, had nothing with him that, so far as he could imagine, could possibly have interested any other person. Indeed, money being ruled out, he did not know that he possessed anywhere any paper or small object which it would be worth a stranger’s while to steal.

Novels he had read recurred to him in which desperate enterprises were undertaken to obtain some document of importance. Plans of naval or military inventions which would give world supremacy to the power possessing them were perhaps the favorite instruments in these romances, but treaties which would mean war if disclosed to the wrong power, maps of desert islands on which treasure was buried, wills of which the existence was generally unknown and letters compromising the good name of wealthy personages had all been used time and again. But Cheyne had no plans or treaties or compromising letters from which an astute thief might make capital. Think as he would, he could frame no theory to account for Parkes’s proceedings.

He yawned and, getting up, began to pace the deserted lounge. The effects of the drug had not entirely worn off, for though he had slept all the afternoon he still felt slack and drowsy. In spite of its being scarcely ten o’clock, he thought he would have a whisky and go up to bed, in the hope that a good night’s rest would drive the poison out of his system and restore his usual feeling of mental and physical well-being.

But Fate, once more in the guise of an approaching page, decreed otherwise. As he turned lazily towards the bar a voice sounded in his ear.

“Wanted on the telephone, sir.”

Cheyne crossed the hall and entered the booth.

“Well?” he said shortly. “Cheyne speaking.”

A woman’s voice replied, a voice he recognized. It belonged to Ethel Hazelton, the grown-up daughter of that Mrs. Hazelton whom he had asked to inform Mrs. Cheyne of his change of plans. She spoke hurriedly and he could sense perturbation in her tones.

“Oh, Mr. Cheyne, I’m afraid I have rather disturbing news for you. When you rang up we sent James over to Warren Lodge. He found Mrs. Cheyne and Agatha on the doorstep trying to get in. They had been ringing for some time, but could not attract attention. He rang also, and then eventually found a ladder and got in through one of the upper windows. He opened the door for Mrs. Cheyne and Agatha. Can you hear me all right?”

“Yes, clearly. Go on, please, Miss Hazelton.”

“They searched the house and they discovered cook and Susan in their bedrooms, both tied up and gagged, but otherwise none the worse. They released them, of course, and then found that the house had been burgled.”

“Burgled!” Cheyne ejaculated sharply. “Great Scott!” He was considerably startled and paused in some consternation, asking then if much stuff was missing.

“They don’t know,” the distant voice answered. “Your safe had been opened, but they hadn’t had time to make an examination when James left. The silver seems to be all there, so that’s something. James came back here with a message from Mrs. Cheyne asking us to let you know, and I have been ringing up hotels in Plymouth for the last half-hour. You know, you only said you were staying the night in your message; you didn’t say where. Mrs. Cheyne would like you to come back if you can manage it.”

There was no hesitation about Cheyne’s reply.

“Of course I shall,” he said quickly. “I’ll start at once on my bicycle. What about telling the police?”

“I rang them up immediately. They said they would go out at once. James has gone back also. He will stay and lend a hand until you arrive.”

“Splendid! It’s more than good of you both, Miss Hazelton. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

He delayed only to tell the news to the manager.

“There’s the explanation of this afternoon’s affair at all events,” he declared. “I was evidently fixed up so that I couldn’t butt in and spoil sport. But it’s good-bye to your keeping it quiet. The police have been called in already and the whole thing is bound to come out.”

The manager made a gesture of concern.

“I’m sorry to hear your news,” he said gravely. “Are you properly insured?”

“Partially. I don’t know if it will cover the loss because I don’t know what’s gone. But I must be getting away.”

He was moving off, but the manager laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Well, I’m extremely sorry about it. But see here, Mr. Cheyne, it may not prove to be necessary to bring in about the drugging. It would injure the hotel. I sincerely trust you’ll do what you can in the matter, and if you find the private detective sufficient, you’ll let our arrangement stand.”

“I’ll decide when I hear just what has happened. You’ll let me have a copy of the analyst’s report?”

“Of course. Directly I get it I shall send it on.”

Fifteen minutes later Cheyne was passing through the outskirts of Plymouth on his way east. The night was fine, the mists of the day having cleared away, and a three-quarter moon shone brilliantly out of a blue-black sky. Keenly anxious to reach home and learn the details of the burglary and the extent of his loss, Cheyne crammed on every ounce of power, and his machine snored along the deserted road at well over forty miles an hour. In spite of slacks for villages and curves he made a record run, turning into the gate of Warren Lodge at just ten minutes before eleven.

As he approached the house everything looked normal. But when he let himself in this impression was dispelled, for a constable stood in the hall, who, saluting, informed him that Sergeant Kirby was within and in charge.

But Cheyne’s first concern was with his mother and sister. An inquiry produced the information that the two ladies were waiting for him in the drawing room, and thither he at once betook himself.

Mrs. Cheyne was a frail little woman who looked ten years older than her age of something under sixty. She welcomed her son with a little cry of pleasure.

“Oh, I am relieved to see you, Maxwell,” she cried. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Isn’t this a terrible business?”

“I don’t know, mother,” Cheyne answered cheerily, “that depends. I hear no one is any the worse. Has much stuff been stolen?”

“Nothing!” Mrs. Cheyne’s tone conveyed the wonder she evidently felt. “Nothing whatever! Or at least we can’t find that anything is missing.”

“Unless something may have been taken from your safe,” Agatha interposed. “Was there much in it?”

“No, only a few pounds and some papers, none valuable to an outsider.” He glanced at his sister. She was a pretty girl, tall and dark and in features not unlike himself. Both the young people had favored the late commander’s side of the house. He turned towards the door, continuing: “I’ll go and have a look, and then you can tell me what has happened.”

The safe was built into the wall in his own sanctum, “the study,” as his mother persisted in calling it. It had been taken over with the house when Mrs. Cheyne bought the little estate. As Cheyne now entered he saw that its doors were standing open. A tall man in the uniform of a sergeant of police was stooping over it. He turned as he heard the newcomer’s step.

“Good-evening sir,” he said in an impressive tone. “This is a bad business.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know, sergeant,” Cheyne answered easily. “If no one has been hurt and nothing has been stolen it might have been worse.”

The sergeant stared at him with some disfavor.

“There’s not much but what might have been worse,” he observed oracularly. “But we’re not sure yet that nothing’s been stolen. Nobody knows what was in this here safe, except maybe yourself. I’d be glad if you’d have a look and see if anything is gone.”

There was very little in the safe and it did not take Cheyne many seconds to go through it. The papers were tossed about—he could swear someone had turned them over—but none seemed to have been removed. The small packet of Treasury notes was intact and a number of gold and silver medals, won in athletic contests, were all in evidence.

“Nothing missing there, sergeant,” he declared when he had finished.

His eye wandered round the room. There was not much of value in it; one or two silver bowls—athletic trophies also, a small gold clock of Indian workmanship, a pair of high-power prism binoculars and a few ornaments were about all that could be turned into money. But all these were there, undisturbed. It was true that the glass door of a locked bookcase had been broken to enable the bolt to be unfastened and the doors opened, but none of the books seemed to have been touched.

“What do you think they were after, sir?” the sergeant queried. “Was there any jewelry in the house that they might have heard of?”

“My mother has a few trinkets, but I scarcely think you could dignify them by the name of jewelry. I suppose these precious burglars have left no kind of clue?”

“No, sir, nothing. Except maybe the girls’ description. I’ve telephoned that into headquarters and the men will be on the lookout.”

“Good. Well, if you can wait here a few minutes I’ll go and send my mother to bed and then I’ll come back and we can settle what’s to be done.”

Cheyne returned to the drawing room and told his news. “Nothing’s been taken,” he declared. “I’ve been through the safe and everything’s there. And nothing seems to be missing from the room either. The sergeant was asking about your jewels, mother. Have you looked to see if they’re all right?”

“It was the first thing I thought of, but they are all in their places. The cabinet I keep them in was certainly examined, for everything was left topsy-turvy, but nothing is missing.”

“Very extraordinary,” Cheyne commented. It seemed to him more than ever clear that these mysterious thieves were after some document which they believed he had, though why they should have supposed he held a valuable document he could not imagine. But the searching first of his pockets and then of his safe and house unmistakably suggested such a conclusion. He wondered if he should advance this theory, then decided he would first hear what the others had to say.

“Now, mother,” he went on, “it’s past your bedtime, but before you go I wish you would tell me what happened to you. Remember I have heard no details other than what Miss Hazelton mentioned on the telephone.”

Mrs. Cheyne answered with some eagerness, evidently anxious to relieve her mind by relating her experiences.

“The first thing was the telegram,” she began. “Agatha and I were sitting here this afternoon. I was sewing and Agatha was reading the paper—or was it the Spectator, Agatha?”

“The paper, mother, though that does not really matter.”

“No, of course it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Cheyne repeated. It was evident the old lady had had a shock and found it difficult to concentrate her attention. “Well, at all events we were sitting here as I have said, sewing and reading, when your telegram was brought in.”

“My telegram?” Cheyne queried sharply. “What telegram do you mean?”

“Why, your telegram about Mr. Ackfield, of course,” his mother answered with some petulance. “What other telegram could it be? It did not give us much time, but—”

“But, mother dear, I don’t know what you are talking about. I sent no telegram.”

Agatha made a sudden gesture.

“There!” she exclaimed eagerly. “What did I say? When we came home and learned what had happened and thought of your not turning up,” she glanced at her brother, “I said it was only a blind. It was sent to get us away from the house!”

Cheyne shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. What he had half expected had evidently taken place.

“Dear people,” he protested, “this is worse than getting blood from a stone. Do tell me what has happened. You were sitting here this afternoon when you received a telegram. Very well now, what time was that?”

“What time? Oh, about—what time did the telegram come, Agatha?”

“Just as the clock was striking four. I heard it strike immediately after the ring.”

“Good,” said Cheyne in what he imagined was the manner of a cross-examining K.C. “And what was in the telegram?”

The girl was evidently too much upset by her experience to resent his superior tone. She crossed the room, and taking a flimsy pink form from a table, handed it over to him.

The telegram had been sent out from the General Post Office in Plymouth at 3:17 that afternoon, and read:

You and Agatha please come without fail to Newton Abbot by 5:15 train to meet self and Ackfield about unexpected financial development. Urgent that you sign papers today. Ackfield will return Plymouth after meeting. You and I will catch 7:10 home from Newton Abbot—Maxwell.

Three-seventeen; and Parkes left the Edgecombe about three! It seemed pretty certain that he had sent the telegram. But if so, what an amazing amount the man knew about them all! Not only had he known of Cheyne’s war experiences and literary efforts and of his visit that day to the Edgecombe, but now it seemed that he had also known his address, of his mother and sister, and, most amazing thing of all, of the fact that Mr. Ackfield of Plymouth was their lawyer and confidential adviser! Moreover, he had evidently known that the ladies were at home as well as that they alone comprised the family. Surely, Cheyne thought, comparatively few people possessed all this knowledge, and the finding of Parkes should therefore be a correspondingly easy task.

“Extraordinary!” he said aloud. “And what did you do?”

“We got a taxi,” Mrs. Cheyne answered. “Agatha arranged it by telephone from Mrs. Hazelton’s. You tell him, Agatha. I’m rather tired.”

The old lady indeed looked worn out and Cheyne interposed a suggestion that she should go at once to bed, leaving Agatha to finish the story. But she refused and her daughter took up the tale.

“We caught the 5:15 ferry and went on to Newton Abbot. But when the Plymouth train came in there was no sign of you or Mr. Ackfield, so we sat in the waiting-room until the 7:10. I telephoned for a taxi to meet the ferry. It brought us to the door about half-past eight, but unfortunately it went away before we found we couldn’t get in.”

“You rang?”

“We rang, and knocked, but could get no answer. The house was in darkness and we began to fear something was wrong. Then just as I was about to leave mother in the summer-house and run up to the Hazeltons’ to see if James was there, he appeared to say that you were staying in Plymouth overnight. He rang and knocked again. But still no one came. Then he tried the windows on the ground floor, but they were all fastened, and at last he got the ladder from the yard and managed to get in through the window of your dressing room. He came down and opened the door and we got in.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing at first. We wondered where the maids could possibly have got to, or what could have happened. I found your electric torch and we began to search the rooms. Then we saw that your safe had been broken open and we knew it was burglary. That terrified us on account of the maids and we wondered if they had been decoyed away also. I don’t mind admitting now that I was just shaking with fear lest we should find that they had been injured or even murdered. But it wasn’t so bad as that.”

“They were tied up?”

“Yes, we found them in cook’s bedroom, lying on the floor with their hands and feet tied, and gagged. They were both very weak and could scarcely stand when we released them. They told us—but you’d better see them and hear what they have to say. They’re not gone to bed yet.”

“Yes, I’ll see them directly. What did you do then?”

“As soon as we were satisfied the burglars had gone James went home to call up the police. Then he came back and we began a second search to see what had been stolen. But the more we looked, the more surprised we became. We couldn’t find that anything had been taken.”

“Extraordinary!” Cheyne commented again. “And then?”

“After a time the police came out, and then James went home again to see whether they had been able to get in touch with you. He came back and told us you would be here by eleven. He had only just gone when you arrived. I really can’t say how kind and helpful he has been.”

“Yes, James is a good fellow. Now you and mother get to bed and I’ll fix things up with the police.”

He turned his steps to the kitchen, where he found the two maids shivering over a roaring fire and drinking tea. They stood up as he entered, but he told them to sit down again, asked for a cup for himself, and seating himself on the table chatted pleasantly before obtaining their statements. They had evidently had a bad fright and cook still seemed hysterical. As he sat he looked at them curiously.

Cook was an elderly woman, small and plain and stout. She had been with them since they had bought the house, and though he had not seen much of her, she had always seemed good-tempered and obliging. He had heard his mother speak well of her and he was sorry she should have had so distressing an experience. But he didn’t fancy she would be one to give burglars much trouble.

Susan, the parlormaid, was of a different quality. She was tall with rather heavy features, and good looking after a somewhat coarse type. If a trifle sullen in manner, she was competent and by no means a fool, and he felt that nefarious marauders would find her a force to be reckoned with.

By dint of patient questioning he presently knew all they had to tell. It appeared that shortly after the ladies had left a ring had come at the door. Susan had opened it to find two men standing outside. One was tall and powerfully built, with dark hair and clean-shaven, the other small and pale—pale face, pale hair, and tiny pale mustache. They had inquired for Mr. Maxwell Cheyne, and when she had said he was out the small man had asked if he could write a note. She had brought them into the hall and was turning to go for some paper when the big man had sprung on her and before she could cry out had pressed a handkerchief over her mouth. The small man had shut the door and begun to tie her wrists and ankles. Susan had struggled and in spite of them had succeeded in getting her mouth free and shouting a warning to cook, but she had been immediately overpowered and securely gagged. The men had laid her on the floor of the hall and had seemed about to go upstairs when cook, attracted by Susan’s cry, had appeared at the door leading to the back premises. The two men had instantly rushed over, and in a few seconds cook also lay bound and gagged on the floor. They had then disappeared, apparently to search the house, for in a few minutes they had come back and carried first Susan and then cook to the latter’s room at the far end of the back part of the house. The intruders had then withdrawn, closing the door, and the two women had neither heard nor seen anything further of them.

The whole episode had a curious effect on Cheyne. It seemed, as he considered it, to lose its character of an ordinary breach of the law, punishable by the authorized forces of the Crown, and to take on instead that of a personal struggle between himself and these unknown men. The more he thought of it the more inclined he became to accept the challenge and to pit his own brain and powers against theirs. The mysterious nature of the affair appealed to his sporting instincts, and by the time he rejoined the sergeant in the study, he had made up his mind to keep his own counsel as to the Plymouth incident. He would call up the manager of the Edgecombe, tell him to carry on with his private detective, and have the latter down to Warren Lodge to go into the matter of the burglary.

He found the sergeant attempting ineffectively to discover fingerprints on the smooth walls of the safe, sympathized with him in the difficulty of his task, and asked a number of deliberately futile questions. On the ground that nothing had been stolen he minimized the gravity of the affair, questioned his power to prosecute should the offenders be forthcoming, and instilled doubts into the other’s mind as to the need for special efforts to run them to earth. Finally, the man explaining that he had finished for the time being, he bade him good night, locked up the house and went to bed. There he lay for several hours tossing and turning as he puzzled over the affair, before sleep descended to blot out his worries and soothe his eager desire to be on the track of his enemies.