“Why?” she asked.
“He did this,” said Gilbert Standerton, and pointed to his arm with a grim smile.
CHAPTER XI.
THE FOURTH MAN
On the night of Gilbert Standerton’s little dinner party the black-bearded taxi driver, who had called at the house off Charing Cross Road for instructions, came to the door of No. 43, and was duly observed by the detective on duty. He went into the house, was absent five minutes, and came out again, driving off without a fare.
Ten minutes later, at a signal from the detective, the house was visited by three C.I.D. men from Scotland Yard, and the mystery of the taxi-cab driver was cleared up for ever.
For, instead of George Wallis, they discovered sitting at his ease in the drawing-room upstairs, and reading a novel with evident relish, that same black-bearded chauffeur.
“It is very simple,” said Inspector Goldberg, “the driver comes up and George Wallis is waiting inside made up exactly like him. The moment he enters the door and closes it Wallis opens it, and steps out on to the car and drives off. You people watching thought it was the same driver returned.”
He looked at his prisoner.
“Well, what are you going to do?” asked the bearded man.
“I am afraid there is nothing we can do with you,” said Goldberg regretfully. “Have you got a licence?”
“You bet your life I have,” said the driver cheerfully, and produced it.
“I can take you for consorting with criminals.”
“A difficult charge to prove,” said the bearded one, “more difficult to get a conviction on, and possibly it would absolutely spoil your chance of bagging George in the end.”
“That is true,” said Goldberg; “anyway, I’m going to look for your taxi-cab. I can at least pull George in for driving without a licence.”
The man shook his head.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” he said with mock regret, “but George has a licence too.”
“The devil he has,” said the baffled inspector.
“Funny, isn’t it,” said the bearded man. “George is awfully thorough.”
“Come now, Smith,” said the detective genially, “what is the game? How deep in this are you?”
“In what?” asked the puzzled man.
Goldberg gave him up for a bad job. He knew that Wallis had chosen his associates with considerable care.
“Anyway, I will go after George,” he said. “You are probably putting up a little bluff on me about the licence. Once I get him inside the jug there are lots of little things I might be able to discover.”
“Do,” said the driver earnestly. “You will find him standing on the Haymarket rank at about half-past ten to-night.”
“Yes, I know,” said the detective sardonically.
He had no charge and no warrant, save the search warrant which gave him the right of entry.
Smith, the driver, was sent about his business, and a detective put on to shadow him.
With what success this shadowing was done may be gathered from the fact that at half-past ten that night Inspector Goldberg discovered the cab he was seeking, and to his amazement found it in the very place where Smith had told him to expect it. And there the bearded driver was sitting with all the aplomb of one who was nearing the end of a virtuous and well-rewarded day.
“Now, George,” said the inspector jocularly, “come down off that perch and let me have a look at your licence; if it is not made out in your name I am going to pull you.”
The man did not descend, but he put his hand in his pocket and produced a little leather wallet.
The inspector opened it and read.
“Ah!” he said exultantly, “as I thought, this is made out in the name of Smith.”
“I am Smith,” said the driver calmly.
“Get down,” said the inspector.
The man obeyed. There was no question as to his identity.
“You see,” he explained, “when you put your flat-footed splits on to follow me I had no intention of bothering George. He is big enough to look after himself, and, by the way, his licence is made out in his own name, so you need not trouble about that.
“But as soon as I saw you did not trust me,” he said reproachfully, “why, I sort of got on my metal. I slipped your busy fellow in Oxford Street, and came on and took my cab from the desperate criminal you are chasing.”
“Where is he now?” asked Goldberg.
“In his flat, and in bed I trust at this hour,” said the bearded man virtuously.
With this the inspector had to be content. To make absolutely sure, he went back to the house off Charing Cross Road, and found, as he feared, Mr. George Wallis, if not in bed, at least in his dressing-gown, and the end of his silk pyjamas flapped over his great woollen slippers.
“My dear good chap,” he expostulated wearily, “am I never to be left in quiet? Must the unfortunate record which I bear still pursue me, penitent as I am, and striving, as I may be, to lead that unoffending life which the State demands of its citizens?”
“Do not make a song about it, George,” grumbled Goldberg. “You have kept me busy all the night looking after you. Where have you been?”
“I have been to a picture palace,” said the calm man, “observing with sympathetic interest the struggles of a poor but honest bank clerk to secure the daughter of his rich and evil boss. I have been watching cow-boys shooting off their revolvers and sheriffs galloping madly across plains. I have, in fact, run through the whole gamut of emotions which the healthy picture palace excites.”
“You talk too much,” said the inspector.
He did not waste any further time, and left Mr. Wallis stifling a sleepy yawn; but the door had hardly closed behind the detective when Wallis’s dressing-gown was thrown aside, his pyjamas and woollen slippers discarded, and in a few seconds the man was fully dressed. From the front window he saw the little knot of detectives discussing the matter, and watched them as they moved slowly to the end of the street. There would be a further discussion there, and then one of them would come back to his vigil; but before they had reached the end of the street he was out of the house and walking rapidly in the opposite direction to that which they had taken.
He had left a light burning to encourage the watcher. He must take his chance about getting back again without being observed. He made his way quickly in the direction of the tube station, and a quarter of an hour later, by judicious transfers, he was in the vicinity of Hampstead. He walked down the hill towards Belsize Park and picked up a taxi-cab. He had stopped at the station to telephone, and had made three distinct calls.
Soon after eleven he was met at Chalk Farm Station by his two confederates. Thereafter all trace was lost of them. So far, in a vague and unsatisfactory way, Inspector Goldberg had kept a record of Wallis’s movements that night.
He had to guess much, and to take something on trust, for the quarry had very cleverly covered his tracks.
At midnight the guard in the Bank of the Northern Provinces was making his round, and was ascending the stone steps which led from the vault below, when three men sprang at him, gagged him and bound him with incredible swiftness. They did not make any attempt to injure him, but with scientific thoroughness they placed him in such a position that he was quite incapable of offering resistance or of summoning assistance to his aid. They locked him in a small room usually occupied by the assistant bank manager, and proceeded to their work downstairs.
“This is going to be a stiff job,” said Wallis, and he put his electric lamp over the steel grating which led to the entrance to the strong room.
Persh, the stout man who was with him, nodded.
“The grating is nothing,” he said, “I can get this open.”
“Look for the bells, Callidino,” said Wallis.
The little Italian was an expert in the matter of alarms, and he examined the door scientifically.
“There is nothing here,” he said definitely.
Persh, who was the best lock man in the world, set to work, and in a quarter of an hour the gate swung open. Beyond this, at the end of the passage, was a plain green door, offering no purchase whatever to any of the instruments they had brought. Moreover, the lock was a remarkable one, since it was not in the surface of the door itself, but in a small steel cabinet in the room overhead. But the blow-pipe was got to work expeditiously. Wallis had the plan of the door carefully drawn to scale, and he knew exactly where the vital spot in the massive steel covering was to be found. For an hour and a half they worked, then Persh stopped suddenly.
“What was that?” he said.
Without another word the three men raced back along the passage, up the stairs to the big office on the ground floor, Persh leading.
As he made his appearance from the stairway a shot rang out, and he staggered. He thought he saw a figure moving in the shadow of the wall, and fired at it.
“You fool!” said Wallis, “you will have the whole place surrounded.”
Again a shot was fired, and this time there was no doubt as to who was the assailant. Wallis threw the powerful gleam of his lamp in the direction of the office. With one hand free and the other holding a revolver, there crouched near the door the guard they had left secure. Wallis doused his light as the man fired again.
“Out of this, quick!” he cried.
Through the back way they sped, up the little ladder then through the skylight where they had entered, across the narrow ledge, and through the hosier’s establishment which had been the means of entrance. Persh was mortally wounded, though he made the supreme and final effort of his life. They saw people running in the direction of the Bank, and heard a police whistle blow; but they came out of the hosier’s shop together, quietly and without fuss, three respectable gentlemen, one apparently a little the worse for drink.
Wallis hailed a taxi-cab, and gave elaborate directions. He made no attempt to hurry whilst Callidino assisted the big man into the vehicle, then they drove off leisurely. As the cab moved Persh collapsed into one corner.
“Were you hit?” asked Wallis anxiously.
“I am done for, George, I think,” whispered the man.
George made a careful examination with his lamp and gasped. He was leaning his head out of the window.
“What are you doing?” asked Persh weakly.
“I am going to take you to the hospital,” said Wallis.
“You will do nothing of the kind,” said the other hoarsely. “For God’s sake do not jeopardise the whole crowd for me. I tell you I am finished. I can——”
He said no other word, every muscle in his frame seemed at that moment to relax, and he slid in a loose heap to the floor.
They lifted him up.
“My God!” said Wallis, “he is dead.”
And dead, indeed, was Persh, that amiable and florid man.
* * * *
“The burglary at the Northern Provinces Bank continues to excite a great deal of comment in city circles,” wrote the representative of the Daily Monitor.
“The police have made a number of interesting discoveries. There can be no doubt whatever that the miscreants escaped by way of” (here followed a fairly accurate description of the method of departure). “What interests the police, however, is the evidence they are able to secure as to the presence of another man in the bank who is as yet unaccounted for. The fourth man seems to have taken no part in the robbery, and to have been present without the knowledge or without the goodwill of the burglars. The bank guard who was interviewed this morning by our representative, was naturally reticent in the interest of his employers, but he confirmed the rumour that the fourth man, whoever he was, was not antagonistic so far as he (the guard) was concerned. It now transpires that the guard had been hastily bound and gagged by the burglars, who probably, without any intention, had left their victim in some serious danger, as the gag had been fixed in such a manner that the unfortunate man nearly died.
“Then when he was almost in extremis there had appeared on the scene the fourth individual, who had loosened the gag, and made him more comfortable. It was obvious that he was not a member of the original burglar gang.
“The theory is offered that on the night in question two separate and independent sets of burglars were operating against the bank. Whether that is so or not, a tribute must be paid to the humanity of number four.”
* * * *
“So that was it.” Wallis read the account in his paper that morning without resentment. Though the evening had ended disastrously for him, he had cause for satisfaction. “I should never have forgiven myself if we had killed that guard,” he said to his companion.
His eyes were tired, and his face was unusually pale. He had spent a strenuous evening. He sat now in his bucket-shop office, and his sole companion was Callidino.
“I suppose poor old Persh will catch us,” he said.
“Why Persh?” asked the other.
“The taxi driver will be able to identify us as having been his companions. I wonder they have not come before. There is no use in running away. Do you know,” he asked suddenly, “that no man ever escapes the English police if he is known. It saves a lot of trouble to await developments.”
“I thought you had been to the station,” said Callidino in surprise.
“I have,” said Wallis, “I went there the first thing—in fact, the moment I had an excuse—to identify Persh. There is no sense in pretending we did not know him. The only thing to do is to prove the necessary alibis. As for me, I was in bed and asleep.”
“Did anybody see you get back?” asked Callidino.
Wallis shook his head.
“No,” he said, “they left one man to look after me, and he did a very natural thing, he walked up and down the street. There was nothing easier than to walk the way he was going behind his back and slip in just when I wanted to.”
Shadowing is a most tiring business, and what very few realise is the physical strain of remaining in one position, having one object in view. Even the trained police may be caught napping in the most simple manner, and as Wallis said, he had found no difficulty in making his way back to the house without observation. The only danger had been that during his absence somebody had called.
“What about you?”
Callidino smiled.
“My alibi is more complex,” he said, “and yet more simple. My excellent compatriots will swear for me. They lie very readily these Neapolitans.”
“Aren’t you a Neapolitan?”
“Sicilian,” smiled the other. “Neapolitan!”
The contempt in his tone amused Wallis.
“Who is the fourth man?” Callidino asked suddenly.
“Our mysterious stranger, I am certain of that,” said George Wallis moodily. “But who the devil is he? I have never killed a man in my life so far, but I shall have to take unusual measures to settle my curiosity in this respect.
“There will have to be a division of the loot,” he said after a while, “I will go into it to-day. Persh has relations somewhere in the world, a daughter or a sister, she must have her share. There is a fake solicitor in Southwark who will do the work for us. We shall have to invent an uncle who died.”
Callidino nodded.
“As for me,” he said, rising and stretching himself, “already the vineyards of the South are appealing to me. I shall build me a villa in Montecatini and drink the wines, and another on Lake Maggiore and bathe in the waters. I shall do nothing for the rest of my life save eat and drink and bathe.”
“A perfectly ghastly idea!” said Wallis.
The question of the fourth man troubled him more than he confessed. It was shaking his nerves. The police he understood, and was prepared for, could even combat, but here was the fourth man as cunning as they, who knew their plans, who followed them, who kept them under observation. Why? What object had he? He did not doubt that the fourth man was he who had watched them in Hatton Garden.
If it was a hobby it was a most extraordinary hobby, and the man must be mad. If he had an object in view, why did he not come out into the daylight and admit it?
“I wonder how I can get hold of him?” he said half aloud.
“Advertise for him,” said Callidino.
A sharp retort rose to the other’s lips, but he checked it. After all, there was something in that. One could do many things through the columns of the daily press.
CHAPTER XII.
THE PLACE WHERE THE LOOT WAS STORED
“Will the Hatton Garden intruder communicate with the man who lay on the floor, and arrange a meeting. The man on the floor has a proposition to make, and promises no harm to intruder.”
Gilbert Standerton read the advertisement when he was taking his breakfast, and a little smile gathered at the corners of his lips.
Edith saw the smile.
“What is amusing you, Gilbert?” she asked.
“A thought,” he said. “I think these advertisements are so funny.”
She had seen the direction of his eyes, carefully noted the page of the paper, and waited for an opportunity to examine for herself the cause of his amusement.
“By the way,” he said carelessly, “I am putting some money to your credit at the bank to-day.”
“Mine?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Yes, I have been rather fortunate on the Stock Exchange lately—I made twelve thousand pounds out of American rails.”
She looked at him steadily.
“Do you mean that?” she asked.
“What else could I mean?” he demanded. “You see, American rails have been rather jumpy of late, and so have I.” He smiled again. “I jumped in when they were low and jumped out when they were high. Here is the broker’s statement.” He drew it from his pocket and passed it across the table to her.
“I feel,” he said, with a pretence of humour, “that you should know I do not secure my entire income from my nefarious profession.”
She made no response to this. She knew who the fourth man had been. Why had he gone there? What had been his object?
If he had been a detective, or if he had been in the employ of the Government, he would have confessed it. Her heart had sunk when she had read the interesting theory which had been put forward by the journal.
He was the second burglar.
She thought all this with the paper he had passed to her on the table before her.
The broker’s statement was clear enough. Here were the amounts, all columns ruled and carried forward.
“You will observe that I have not put it all to your credit,” he bantered, “some of it has gone to mine.”
“Gilbert,” she asked, “why do you keep things from me?”
“What do I keep from you?” he asked.
“Why do you keep from me the fact that you were in the bank the night before last when this horrible tragedy occurred?”
He did not answer immediately.
“I have not kept it from you,” he said. “I have practically admitted it—in an unguarded moment, I confess, but I did admit it.”
“What were you doing there?” she demanded.
“Making my fortune,” he said solemnly.
But she was not to be put off by his flippancy.
“What were you doing there?” she asked again.
“I was watching three interesting burglars at work,” he said, “as I have watched them not once but many times. You see, I am specially gifted in one respect. Nature intended me to be a burglar, but education and breed and a certain lawfulness of character prohibited that course. I am a dilettante: I do not commit crime, but I am monstrously interested in it. I seek,” he said slowly, “to discover what fascination crime has over the normal mind; also I have an especial reason for checking the amount these men collect.”
Her puzzled frown hurt him; he did not want to bother her, but she knew so much now that he must tell her more.
He had thought it would have been possible to have hidden everything from her, but people cannot live together in the same house and be interested in one another’s comings and goings without some of their cherished secrets being revealed.
“What I cannot understand——” she said slowly and was at a loss for an introduction to this delicate subject.
“What cannot you understand?” he asked.
“I cannot understand why you suddenly dropped all your normal pleasures, why you left the Foreign Office, why you gave up music, and why, above all things, that this change in your life should have come about immediately after the playing of the ‘Melody in F.’ ”
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was low and troubled.
“You are not exactly right,” he said. “I had begun my observations into the ways of the criminal before that tune was played.” He paused. “I admit that I had some fear in my mind that sooner or later the ‘Melody in F’ would be played under my window, and I was making a half-hearted preparation against the evil day. That is all I can tell you,” he said.
“Tell me this,” she asked as he rose, “if I had loved you, and had been all that you desired, would you have adopted this course?”
He thought awhile. “I cannot tell you,” he said at length; “possibly I should, perhaps I should not. Yes,” he said, nodding his head, “I should have done what I am doing now, only it would have been harder to do if you had loved me. As it is——” he shrugged his shoulders.
He went out soon after, and she found the paper he had been reading, and without difficulty discovered the advertisement.
Then he was the Hatton Garden intruder, and what he had said was true. He had observed these people, and they had known they were being observed.
With a whirling brain she sat down to piece together the threads of mystery. She was no nearer a solution when she had finished, from sheer exhaustion, than when she had begun.
* * * *
Gilbert had not intended spending the night away from his house. He realised that his wife would worry, and that she would have a genuine grievance; apart from which he was, in a sense, domesticated, and if the life he was living was an unusual one, it had its charm and its attraction.
The knowledge that he would meet her every morning, speak to her during the day, and that he had in her a growing friend was particularly pleasing to him.
He had gone to a little office that he rented over a shop in Cheapside, an office which his work in the City had made necessary.
He unlocked the door of the tiny room, which was situated on the third floor, and entered, closing the door behind him. There were one or two letters which had come to him in the capacity in which he appeared as the tenant of the office. They were mainly business communications, and required little or no attention.
He sat down at his desk to write a note; he thought he might be late that night, and wanted to explain his absence. His wife occupied a definite place in his life, and though she exercised no rights over his movements, yet could quite reasonably expect to be informed of his immediate plans.
He had scarcely put pen to paper when a knock came to the door.
“Come in,” said Gilbert in some surprise.
It was not customary for people to call upon him here. He expected to see a wandering canvasser in search of an order, but the man that came in was nothing so commonplace. Gilbert knew him as a Mr. Wallis, an affable and a pleasant man.
“Sit down, will you?” he said, without a muscle of his face wrong.
“I want to see you, Mr. Standerton,” said Wallis, and made no attempt to seat himself. “Would you care to come to my office?”
“I can see you here, I think,” said Gilbert calmly.
“I prefer to see you in my office,” said the man, “we are less liable to interruption. You are not afraid to come, I suppose?” he said with the hint of a smile.
“I am not to be piqued into coming, at any rate,” smiled Gilbert; “but since this is not a very expansive office, nor conducive to expansive thought, I will go with you. I presume you intend taking me into your confidence?”
He looked at the other man strangely and Wallis nodded.
The two men left the office together, and Gilbert wondered exactly what proposition the other would put to him.
Ten minutes later they were in the St. Bride Street store, that excellent Safe Agency whose business apparently was increasing by leaps and bounds.
Gilbert Standerton looked round. The manager was there, a model of respectability. He bowed politely to Wallis, and was somewhat surprised to see him perhaps, for the proprietor of the St. Bride’s Safe Agency was a rare visitor.
“My office, I think?” suggested Wallis.
He closed the door behind them.
“Now exactly what do you want?” asked Gilbert.
“Will you have a cigar?” Mr. Wallis pushed the box towards him.
Gilbert smiled.
“You need not be scared of them,” said Wallis with a twinkle in his eye. “There is nothing dopey or wrong with these, they are my own special brand.”
“I do not smoke cigars,” said Gilbert.
“Lie number one,” replied Wallis cheerfully. “This is a promising beginning to an exchange of confidences. Now, Mr. Standerton, we are going to be very frank with one another, at least I am going to be very frank with you. I hope you will reciprocate, because I think I deserve something. You know so much about me, and I know so little about you, that it would be fair if we evened matters up.”
“I take you,” said Gilbert, “and if I can see any advantage in doing so you may be sure I shall act on your suggestion.”
“A few months ago,” said Mr. Wallis, puffing slowly at his cigar, and regarding the ceiling with an attentive eye, “I and one of my friends were engaged in a scientific work.”
Gilbert nodded.
“In the midst of that work we were interrupted by a gentleman, who for a reason best known to himself modestly hid his features behind a mask.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I deplore the melodrama, but I applaud the discretion. Since then,” he went on, “the efforts of my friends in their scientific pursuit of wealth have been hampered and hindered by that same gentleman. Sometimes we have seen him, and sometimes we have only discovered his presence after we have retired from the scene of our labour. Now, Mr. Standerton, this young man may have excellent reasons for all he is doing, but he is considerably jeopardising our safety.”
“Who is the young man?” asked Gilbert Standerton.
“The young man,” said Mr. Wallis, without taking his eyes from the ceiling, “is yourself.”
“How do you know?” asked Gilbert quietly.
“I know,” said the other with a smile, “and there is an end to it. I can prove it curiously enough without having actually spotted your face.” He pulled an inkpad from the end of the desk. “Will you make a little finger-mark upon that sheet of paper?” he asked, and offered a sheet of paper.
Gilbert shook his head with a smile.
“I see no reason why I should,” he said coolly.
“Exactly. If you did we should find a very interesting finger-mark to compare with it. In the office here,” Mr. Wallis went on, “we have a large safe which has been on our hands for some months.”
Gilbert nodded.
“Owned by a client who has the keys,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Wallis. “You remember my lie about it. There are three sets of keys to that safe and a combination word. I said three”—he corrected himself carefully—“there are really four. By an act of gross carelessness on my part, I left the keys of the safe in my pocket in this very office three weeks ago.
“I must confess,” he said with a smile, “that I did not suspect you of having so complete a knowledge of my doings or of my many secrets. I remembered my folly at eleven o’clock that night, and came back for what I had left behind. I found them exactly where I had left them, but somebody else had found them, too, and that somebody else had taken a wax impression of them. Moreover,” he leant forward towards Gilbert, lowering his voice, “that somebody else has since formed the habit of coming to this place nightly for reasons of his own. Do you know what those reasons are, Mr. Standerton?”
“To choose a safe?” suggested Gilbert ironically.
“He comes to rob us of the fruits of our labour,” said Wallis.
He smiled as he said the words because he had a sense of humour.
“Some individual who has a conscience or a sense of rectitude which prevents him from becoming an official burglar is engaged in the fascinating pursuit of robbing the robber. In other words, some twenty thousand pounds in solid cash has been taken from my safe.”
“Borrowed, I do not doubt,” said Gilbert Standerton, and leant back in his chair, his hands stuffed into his pockets, and a hard look upon his face.
“What do you mean—borrowed?” asked Wallis in surprise.
“Borrowed by somebody who is desperately in need of money; somebody who understands the Stock Exchange much better than many of the men who make a special study of it; somebody with such knowledge as would enable him to gamble heavily with a minimum chance of loss, and yet, despite this, fearing to injure some unfortunate broker by the accident of failure.”
He leant towards Wallis, his elbow upon the desk, his face half averted from the other. He had heard the outer door close with a bang, and knew they were alone now, and that Wallis had designed it so.
“I wanted money badly,” he said. “I could have stolen it easily. I intended stealing it. I watched you for a month. I have watched criminals for years. I know as many tricks of the trade as you. Remember that I was in the Foreign Office, in that department which had to do mainly with foreign crooks, and that I was virtually a police officer, though I had none of the authority.”
“I know all about that,” said Wallis.
He was curious, he desired information for his own immediate use, he desired it, too, that his sum of knowledge concerning humanity should be enlarged.
“I am a thief—in effect. The reason does not concern you.”
“Had the ‘Melody in F’ anything to do with it?” asked the other dryly.
Gilbert Standerton sprang to his feet.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Just what I say,” said the other, watching him keenly. “I understand that you had an eccentric desire to hear that melody played. Why? I must confess I am curious.”
“Reserve your curiosity for something which concerns you,” said the other roughly. “Where did you learn?” he added the question, and Wallis laughed.
“We have sources of information——” he began magniloquently.
“Oh, yes,” Gilbert nodded, “of course, your friend Smith lodges with the Wings. I had forgotten that.”
“My friend Smith—you refer to my chauffeur, I suppose?”
“I refer to your confederate, the fourth member of your gang, the man who never appears in any of your exploits, and who in various guises is laying down the foundation for robberies of the future. Oh, I know all about this place,” he said. He waved his hand around the shop. “I know this scheme of a Safe Agency; it is ingenious, but it is not original. I think it was done some years ago in Italy. You tout safes round to country mansions, offer them at ridiculous prices, and the rest is simple. You have the keys, and at any moment you can go into a house into which such a safe has been sold with the certain knowledge that all the valuables and all the portable property will be assembled in the one spot and accessible to you.”
Wallis nodded.
“Quite right, friend,” he said. “I need no information concerning myself. Will you kindly explain exactly what part you are taking? Are you under the impression that you are numbered amongst the honest?”
“I do not,” said the other shortly. “The morality of my actions has nothing whatever to do with the matter. I have no illusion.”
“You are a fortunate man,” said George Wallis approvingly. “But will you please tell me what part you are playing, and how you justify your action in removing from time to time large sums of money from our possession to some secret depository of your own?”
“I do not justify it,” said Gilbert.
He got up and paced the little office, the other watching him narrowly.
“I tell you I know that I am in intent a thief, but I am working to a plan.”
He turned to the other.
“Do you know that there is not a robbery you have committed of which I do not know the absolute effect? There is not a piece of jewellery you have taken of which I do not know the owner and the exact value? Yes,” he nodded, “I am aware that you have not ‘fenced’—that is the term, isn’t it?—a single article, and that in your safe place you have them all stored. I hope by good fortune not only to compensate you for what I have taken from you, but to return every penny that you have stolen.”
Wallis started.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“To its rightful owner,” continued Gilbert calmly. “I have striven to be in a position to say to you: ‘Here is a necklace belonging to Lady Dynshird, it is worth four thousand pounds, I will give you a fair price for it, let us say a thousand—it is rather more than you could sell it for—and we will restore it to its owner.’ I want to say to you: ‘I have taken ten thousand sovereigns in bullion and in French banknotes from your store, here is that amount for yourself, here is a similar amount which is to be restored to the people from whom it was taken.’ I have kept a careful count of every penny you have taken since I joined your gang as an unofficial member.”
He smiled grimly.
“My dear Quixote,” drawled George Wallis protestingly, “you are setting yourself an impossible task.”
Gilbert Standerton shook his head.
“Indeed I am not,” he said. “I have made much more money on the Stock Exchange than ever I thought I should possess in my life.”
“Will you tell me this?” asked the other. “What is the explanation of this sudden desire of yours for wealth—for sudden desire I gather it was?”
“That I cannot explain,” said Gilbert, and his tone was uncompromising.
There was a little pause, then George Wallis rose.
“I think we had better understand one another now,” he said. “You have taken from us nearly twenty thousand pounds—twenty thousand pounds of our money swept out of existence.”
Gilbert shook his head.
“No, there is not a penny of it gone. I tell you I used it as a reserve in case I should want it. As a matter of fact, I shall not want it now,” he smiled, “I could restore it to you to-night.”
“You will greatly oblige me if you do,” said the other.
Gilbert looked at him.
“I rather like you, Wallis,” he said, “there is something admirable about you, rascal that you are.”
“Rascals as we are,” corrected Wallis. “You who have no illusions do not create one now.”
“I suppose that is so,” said the other moodily.
“How is this going to end?” asked Wallis. “Where do we share out, and are you prepared to carry on this high-soul arrangement as long as my firm is in existence?”
Standerton shook his head.
“No,” he said, “your business ends to-night.”
“My business?” asked the startled Wallis.
“Your business,” said the other. “You have made enough money to retire on. Get out. I have made sufficient money to take over all your stock at valuation”—he smiled again—“and to restore every penny that has been stolen by you. I was coming to you in a few days with that proposition.”
“And so we end to-night, do we?” mused Wallis. “My dear good man,” he said cheerfully, “to-night—why I am going out after the most wonderful coup of all! You would laugh if you knew who was my intended victim.”
“I am not easily amused in these days,” said Gilbert. “Who is it?”
“I will tell you another time,” said Wallis.
He walked to the office door, his hands in his pockets. He stood for a moment admiring a huge safe and whistling a little tune.
“Don’t you think it an excellent idea of mine,” he asked with the casual air of the suburban householder showing off a new cucumber frame, “this safe?”
“I think it is most excellent.”
“Business is good,” said Wallis regretfully. “It is a pity to give it up after we have taken so much trouble. You see, we may not sell half a dozen safes a year to the right kind of people, but if we only sell one—why we pay expenses! It is so simple,” he said.
“By the way, have you missed a necklace of sorts which has been restored to the police? Do not apologise!”
He raised his hand.
“I understand this is a family matter. I am sorry to have caused you any inconvenience.”
His ironical politeness amused the other.
“It was not a question of family,” he said. “I had no idea as to its ownership, only some person had been very careless—I found the necklace outside the safe. Some property had evidently been hidden in a hurry, and had fallen down.”
“I am greatly obliged to you,” said Wallis. “You removed what might possibly have been a great temptation for the honest Mr. Timmings.”
He took a key from his pocket, switched round the combination lock, and opened the safe. There was nothing in the first view to suggest that it was the storehouse of the most notorious thief in London. Every article therein had been most carefully wrapped and packed. He closed the door again.
“That is only half the treasure,” he said.
“Only half—what do you mean?”
Gilbert was genuinely surprised, and a little mocking smile played about the mouth of the other.
“I thought that would upset you,” he said. “That is only half. I will show you something. Since you know so much, why shouldn’t you know all?”
He walked back into the office. A door led into another room. He unlocked this, and opening it passed through, Gilbert following. Inside was a small room lit by a skylight. The centre of the room was occupied by what appeared to be a large cage. It was in reality a steel grill, which is sometimes sold by French firms to surround a safe.
“A pretty cage,” said Mr. Wallis admiringly.
He unlocked the tiny steel gate and stepped through, and Gilbert stepped after him.
“How did you get it in?” asked Gilbert curiously.
“It was brought in in pieces, and has just been set up in order to show a customer. It is very easily taken apart, and two or three mechanics can clear it away in a day.”
“Is this your other department?” asked Gilbert dryly.
“In a sense it is,” said Wallis, “and I will show you why. If you go to the corner and pull down the first bar you will see something which perhaps you have never seen before.”
Gilbert was half-way to the corner, when the transparency of the trick struck him. He turned quickly, but a revolver was pointed straight at his heart.
“Put up your hands, Mr. Gilbert Standerton,” said George. “You may be perfectly bona fide in your intentions to share out, but I was thinking that I would rather finish to-night’s job before I relinquish business. You see, it will be poetic justice. Your uncle——”
“My uncle!” said Gilbert.
“Your uncle,” bowed the other, “an admirable but testy old gentleman, who in one of our best safes has deposited nearly a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of jewellery, the famous Standerton diamonds, which I suppose you will one day inherit.”
“Is it not poetic justice,” he asked as he backed his way out, still covering his prisoner with his revolver, “to rob you just a little? Possibly,” he went on, with grim humour, “I also may have a conscience, and may attempt to restore to you the property which to-night I shall steal.”
He clanged the gate to, doubly locked it, and walked to the door which led to the office.
“You will stay here for forty-eight hours,” he said, “at the end of which time you will be released—on my word. It may be inconvenient for you, but there are many inconvenient happenings in this life which we must endure. I commend you to Providence.”
He went out, and was gone for a quarter of an hour.
Gilbert thought he had left, but he returned carrying a large jug of coffee, two brand new quart vacuum flasks, and two packages of what proved to be sandwiches.
“I cannot starve you,” he said. “You had better keep your coffee hot. You will have a long wait, and as you may be cold I have brought this.”
He went back to the office and carried out two heavy overcoats and thrust them through the bars.
“That is very decent of you,” said Gilbert.
“Not at all,” said the polite Mr. Wallis.
Gilbert was unarmed, and had he possessed a weapon it would have been of no service to him.
The pistol had not left Wallis’s hand, and even as he handed the food through the grill the butt of the automatic Colt was still gripped in his palm.
“I wish you a very good evening. If you would like to send a perfectly non-committal note to your wife, saying that you were too busy to come back, I should be delighted to see it delivered.”
He passed through the bars a sheet of paper and a stylograph pen. It was a thoughtful thing to do, and Gilbert appreciated it.
This man, scoundrel as he was, had nicer instincts than many who had never brought themselves within the pale of the law.
He scribbled a note excusing himself, folded up the sheet and placed it in the envelope, sealing it down before he realised that his captor would want to read it.
“I am very sorry,” he said, “but you can open it, the gum is still wet.”
Wallis shook his head.
“If you will tell me that there is nothing more than I asked you to write, or than I expected you to write, that is sufficient,” he said.
So he left Gilbert alone and with much to think about.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MAKER OF WILLS
General Sir John Standerton was a man of hateful and irascible temper. The excuse was urged for him that he had spent the greater portion of his life in India, a country calculated to undermine the sweetest disposition. He was a bachelor and lived alone, save for a small army of servants. He had renamed the country mansion he had purchased twenty years before: it was now known from one end of the country to the other as The Residency, and here he maintained an almost feudal state.
His enemies said that he kept his battalion of servants at full strength so that he might always have somebody handy to swear at, but that was obviously spite. It was said, too, that every year a fresh firm of solicitors acted for him, and it is certain that he changed his banks with extraordinary rapidity.
Leslie Frankfort was breakfasting with his brother one morning in his little Mayfair house. Jack Frankfort was a rising young solicitor, and a member of that firm which at the moment was acting for Sir John Standerton.
“By the way,” said Jack Frankfort, “I am going to see an old friend of yours this afternoon.”
“Who is my old friend?”
“Old Standerton.”
“Gilbert?”
Jack Frankfort smiled.
“No, Gilbert’s terrible uncle; we are acting for him just now.”
“What is the object of the visit?”
“A will, my boy; we are going to make a will.”
“I wonder how many wills the old man has made?” mused Leslie. “Poor Gilbert!”
“Why poor Gilbert?” asked the other, helping himself to the marmalade.
“Why, he was his uncle’s heir for about ten minutes.”
Jack grinned.
“Everybody is old Standerton’s heir for ten minutes,” he said.
“I verily believe he has endowed every hospital, every dog’s home, every cat’s home, every freakish institution that the world has ever heard of, in the course of the last twenty years, and he is making another will to-day.”
“Put in a good word for Gilbert,” said Leslie with a smile.
The other growled.
“There is not a chance of putting in a good word for anybody. Old Tomlins, who acted for him last, said that the greater difficulty in making a will for the old beggar is to finish one before the old man has thought out another. Anyway, he is keen on a will just now, and I am going down to see him. Come along?”
“You know the old gentleman?”
“Not on your life,” said the other hastily. “I know him indeed, and he knows me! He knows I am a pal of Gilbert’s. I stayed once with him for about two days. For the Lord’s sake do not confess that you are my brother, or he will find another firm of solicitors.”
“I do not usually boast of my relationship with you,” said Jack.
“You are an offensive devil,” said the other admiringly. “But I suppose you have to be, being a solicitor.”
Jack Frankfort journeyed down to Huntingdon that afternoon in the company of a pleasant man, with whom he found himself in conversation without any of that awkwardness of introductions which makes the average English passenger so impossible.
This gentleman had evidently been in all parts of the world, and knew a great many people whom Jack knew. He chatted interestingly for an hour on the strange places of the earth, and when the train drew up at the little station at which Mr. Frankfort was alighting, the other accompanied him.
“What an extraordinary coincidence,” said the stranger heartily. “I am getting out here too. This is a rum little town, isn’t it?”
It might be described as “rum,” but it was very pleasant, and it contained one of the most comfortable hostelries in England.
The fellow-passengers found themselves placed in adjoining rooms.
Jack Frankfort had hoped to conclude his business before the evening and return to London by a late train, but he knew that it would be unwise to depend upon the old man’s expedition.
As a matter of fact, he had hardly been in the hotel a quarter of an hour before he received an intimation from The Residency that Sir John could not be seen until ten o’clock that evening.
“That settles all idea of going back to London,” said Jack despairingly.
He met his fellow-passenger at dinner.
Though he was not particularly well acquainted with the habits of Sir John, he knew that one of his fads was to dine late, and since he had no desire to spend a hungry evening, he advanced the normal dinner hour of the little hotel by thirty minutes.
He explained this apologetically to the comfortable man who sat opposite him, as they discussed a perfectly roasted capon.
“It suits me very well,” said the other, “I have a lot of work to do in the neighbourhood. You see,” he explained, “I am the proprietor of the Safe Agency.”
“Safe Agency,” repeated the other wonderingly.
The man nodded.
“It seems a queer business, but it is a fairly extensive one,” he said. “We deal principally in safes and strong rooms, second-hand or new. We have a pretty large establishment in London; but I am not going to overstep the bounds of politeness”—he smiled—“and try to sell you some of my stock.”
Frankfort was amused.
“Safe Agency,” he said; “one never realises that there can be money in that sort of thing.”
“One cannot realise that there is money in any branch of commerce,” said the other. “The money-making concerns which appeal are those where one sees brains being turned into actual cash.”
“Such as——?”
“Such as a lawyer’s business,” smiled the other. “Oh, yes, I know you are a lawyer, you are the type, and I should have known your trade if I had not seen your dispatch case, and then your name.”
Jack Frankfort laughed.
“You are sharp enough to be a lawyer yourself,” he suggested.
“You are paying yourself a compliment,” said the other.
Later, in the High Street, when he was calling a fly to drive him to The Residency, Jack noticed a big covered motor lorry, bearing only the simple inscription on its side: “The St. Bride’s Safe Company.”
He saw also his pleasant companion speaking earnestly with the black-bearded chauffeur.
A little later the lorry moved on through the narrow streets of the town and took the London Road.
Jack Frankfort had no time to speculate upon the opportunities for safe selling which the little town offered, for five minutes later he was in Sir John Standerton’s study.
The old General was of the type which is frequently depicted in humorous papers. He was stout and red of face, and wore a close-cut strip of white whisker, which ended abruptly below his ear, and was continued in a wild streak of white moustache across his face. He was bald, save for a little fringe of white hair which ran from temple to temple via the occiput, and his conversation might be described as a succession of explosions.
He stared up from under his ferocious eyebrow, as the young man entered the study, and took stock of him.
He was used to lawyers. He had had every variety, and had divided them into two distinct classes—they were either rogues or fools. There was no intermediate stage with this old man, and he had no doubt in his mind that Jack Frankfort, a shrewd-looking young man, was to be classed in the former category. He bullied him into a seat.
“I want to see you about my will,” he said. “I have been seriously thinking lately of rearranging the distribution of my property.”
This was his invariable formula. It was intended to convey the impression that he had arrived at this present state of mind after very long and careful consideration, and that the making of wills was a serious and an important business to be undertaken, perhaps, once or twice in a man’s lifetime.
Jack nodded.
“Very good, General,” he said. “Have you a draft?”
“I have no draft,” snapped the other. “I have a will which has already been prepared, and here is a copy.”
He threw it across to his solicitor.
“I do not know whether you have seen this?”
“I think I have one in my bag,” said Jack.
“What the devil do you mean by carrying my will about in your bag?” snarled the other.
“That is the only place I could think of,” said the young man, calmly. “You would not like me to carry it about in my trouser’s pocket, would you?”
The General stared.
“Do not be impertinent, young man,” he said ominously.
It was not a good beginning, but Jack knew that every method had been tried, from the sycophantic to the pompous, but none had succeeded, and the end of all endeavours, so far as the solicitors were concerned, had been the closing of their association with the General’s estate.
He was rather a valuable client if he could only be retained. No human solicitor had discovered a method of retaining him.
“Very well,” said the General at last. “Now please jot down exactly what my wishes are, and have the will drafted accordingly. In the first place, I revoke all former wills.”
Jack, with a sheet of paper and a pencil, nodded and noted the fact.
“In the second place I want you to make absolutely certain that not a penny of my money goes to Dr. Sundle’s Dogs’ Home. The man has been insolent to me, and I hate dogs, anyhow. Not a penny of my money is to go to any hospital or to any charitable institution whatever.”
The old sinner declaimed this with relish.
“I had intended leaving a very large sum of money to a hospital fund,” he explained, “but after the behaviour of this infernal Government——”
Jack might have asked in what way the old man expected to get even with the offending Government by denying support to all institutions designed to help the poor, but wisely kept the question in the background.
“No charitable institution whatever.”
The old man spoke slowly, emphatically, thumping the table with every other word.
“A hundred pounds to the Army Temperance Association, though I think it is a jackass of an institution. A hundred pounds to the Soldiers’ Home at Aldershot, and a thousand pounds if they make it non-sectarian.” He grinned and added: “It will be Church of England to everlasting doomsday, so that money’s safe! And,” he added, “no money to the Cottage Hospital here—do not let that bequest creep in. That stupid maniac of a doctor—I forget his beastly name—led the agitation for opening a right-o’-way across my estate. I will ‘right-o’-way’ him!” he said viciously.
He spent half an hour specifying the people who were not to benefit by his will, and the total amount of his reluctant bequests during that period did not exceed a thousand pounds.
When he had finished he stared hopelessly at the young lawyer, and a momentary glint of humour came in the hard old blue eyes.
“I think we have disposed of everybody,” he said, “without disposing of anything. Do you know my nephew?” he asked suddenly.
“I know a friend of your nephew.”
“Are you related to that grinning idiot Leslie Frankfort?” roared the old man.
“He is my brother,” said the other calmly.
“Humph,” said the General, “I thought I recognised the face. Have you met Gilbert Standerton?” he asked suddenly.
“I have met him once or twice,” said Jack Frankfort carelessly, “as you may have met people, just to say ‘how do you do?’ and that sort of thing.”
“I have never met people to say ‘how do you do?’ and that sort of thing,” protested the old man with a snort. “What sort of fellow do you think he is?” he asked after a pause.
The injunction of Leslie to “say a good word for Gilbert” came to the young man’s mind.
“I think he is a very decent sort of fellow,” he said, “though somewhat reserved and a little stand-offish.”
The old man glowered at him.
“My nephew stand-offish?” he snapped, “Of course he is stand-offish. Do you think a Standerton is everybody’s money? There is nothing Tommyish or Dickish or Harryish about our family, sir. We are all stand-offish, thank God! I am the most stand-offish man you ever met in your life.”
“That I can well believe,” thought Jack, but did not give utterance to his thought.
Instead he pursued the subject in his own cunning way.
“He is the sort of man,” he said innocently “whom I should think money would be rather wasted on.”
“Why?” asked the General with rising wrath.
Jack shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, he makes no great show, does not attempt to keep any particular place in London Society. In fact, he treats Society as though he were superior to it.”
“And so he is,” growled the General, “we are all superior to Society. Do you think, sir, that I care a damn about any of the people in this county? Do you think I am impressed by my Lord of High Towers and my Lady of the Grange, and the various upstart parvenu aristocrats that swarm over this country like—like—field mice? No sir! And I trust my nephew is in the same mind. Society as it is at present constituted is not worth that!” He snapped his fingers in Jack’s impassive face. “That settles it,” said the General with decision. He pointed his finger at the notes which the other was taking. “The residue of my property I leave to Gilbert Standerton. Make a note of that.”
Twice had he uttered the same words in his lifetime, and twice had he changed his mind. It might well be that he would change his mind again. If the reputation he bore was justified, the morning would find him in another frame of mind.
“Stay over to-morrow,” he said at parting. “Bring me the draft at breakfast time.”
“At what hour?” asked Jack politely.
“At breakfast time,” roared the old man.
“What is your breakfast hour?”
“The same hour as every other civilised human being,” snapped the General “at twenty-five minutes to one. What time do you breakfast, for Heaven’s sake?”
“At twenty to one,” said Jack sweetly, and was pleased with himself all the way back to the hotel.
He did not see his train companion that night, but met him at breakfast the next morning at the Christian hour of half-past eight.
Something had happened in the meantime to change the equable and cheery character of the other. He was sombre and silent, and he looked worried, almost ill, Jack thought. Possibly there was a bad time for safe selling, as there was a bad time for every other department of trade.
Thinking this, he kept off the subject of business, and scarcely half a dozen sentences were exchanged between the two during the meal.
Returning to The Residency, Jack Frankfort found with surprise that the old man had not changed his mind over night. He was still of the same opinion; seemed more emphatically so. Indeed, Jack had the greatest difficulty in preventing him from striking off a miserable hundred pounds bequest which he had made to a northern dispensary.
“The whole of the money should be kept in the family,” said the General shortly; “it is absurd to fritter away little hundreds like this, it handicaps a man. I do not suppose he will have the handling of the money for many years yet, but ‘forethought,’ sir, is the motto of our family.”
It was all to Gilbert’s advantage that the lawyer persisted in demanding the restoration of the dispensary bequest. In the end the General cut out every bequest in the will, and in the shortest document which he had ever signed bequeathed the whole of his property, movable and immovable, to “my dear nephew” absolutely.
“He is married isn’t he?” he asked.
“I believe he is,” said Jack Frankfort.
“You believe! Now what is the good of your believing?” protested the old man. “You are my lawyer, and your business is to know everything. Find out if he is married, who his wife is, where she came from, and ask them up to dinner.”
“When?” demanded the startled lawyer.
“To-night,” said the old man. “There is a man coming down from Yorkshire to see me, my doctor, we will make a jolly party. Is she pretty?”
“I believe she is.”
Jack hesitated, for he was honestly in doubt. He knew very little about Gilbert Standerton or his affairs.
“If she is pretty, and she is a lady,” said the old General slowly, “I will also make provision for her separately.”
Jack’s heart sank. Would this mean another will? For good or ill, the wires were dispatched.
Edith received hers and read it in wonder.
Gilbert’s remained on the hall table, for he had not been home the previous night nor during that day.
The tear-reddened eyes of the girl offered eloquent testimony to the interest she displayed in his movements.