“Will he recover, sir?” he asked, with poignant anxiety, when at length they quitted the room to which Sir Robert had been carried, leaving him still unconscious, but breathing more naturally, and with a trained nurse already in attendance.
“Yes, yes, I hope so; but it was an overwhelming shock, of course. Is this terrible news about Lady Rawson true? It seems incredible.”
Thomson passed his hand over his forehead dazedly.
“I suppose it is, sir. I haven’t seemed to have time to think about it. It’s a terrible upset, and Mr. Carling away and all. There’s Lord Warrington. Excuse me, sir. I’d better speak to him.”
There were several people in the hall, including a couple of energetic reporters who had managed to enter and were endeavouring to interrogate the worried butler and anyone else whom they could buttonhole, for the news had spread like wildfire, and outside a crowd had assembled, watching and waiting for the grim homecoming of the woman who had left that house but a few hours before in the full vigour of youth and beauty.
Thomson approached a short, spare, but authoritative-looking man, who had just been admitted, and before whom the others gave way respectfully—Lord Warrington of the Foreign Office.
“Will you come in here, my lord?” he said, and ushered him into the library.
The same young footman whom Snell had questioned hurried forward and detained Thomson for a moment, extending a salver with a heap of letters.
“These have just come by post, Mr. Thomson. Hadn’t you better take them?”
Thomson did so mechanically, and followed Lord Warrington, who turned to him the instant the door was closed.
“This is an awful business, Thomson! Where’s Sir Robert?”
“In bed, and at death’s door, my lord. They telephoned the news to him about my lady, and he had a kind of stroke.”
“Good Heavens! But what does it all mean, man? What was Lady Rawson doing out there in the suburbs—and murdered in a post office telephone booth, of all places in the world!”
He waved an evening paper he was carrying, and Thomson glanced at it dully.
“I don’t know anything about it, my lord, except just that my lady was murdered. The Scotland Yard detective told me that, but I didn’t seem to grasp it at the time; I was too distressed about my master, and I’ve been with him ever since.”
“A detective? Did he bring the news?”
“Oh, no, my lord, it was through the telephone. He was here about those papers that are missing——”
“Papers? What papers?”
“Some that arrived by special messenger yesterday, my lord.”
Warrington stared aghast.
“Those! He told me about them at dinner. Missing! D’you mean they’re lost? Stolen?”
“I thought perhaps you knew, my lord. Mr. Carling put them in the safe last night—or said he did—and this morning they were gone. Sir Robert was very put out, and so was Mr. Carling.”
“Gone! Good Lord! I wonder what was in them and who’s got hold of them?” muttered Lord Warrington in utter consternation. His glance lighted on the letters that Thomson held.
“What have you got there?”
Thomson looked at them with a preoccupied air.
“Only some letters, my lord, just come. I don’t know what to do with them, as Mr. Carling’s away.”
“Here, give ’em to me—that one anyhow.”
“That one” was a big, bulky, blue envelope, printed with Sir Robert’s name and address, and showing also the district postmark and a big official stamp indicative of the surcharge for an unpaid letter.
“Where the dickens is Broadway?” Warrington muttered, as he scrutinized it. “Look here, Thomson, I’m going to open this. Why the seal’s broken already!”
“Very good, my lord,” Thomson murmured deferentially but abstractedly. Yet he looked up with quickened interest as Lord Warrington uttered an involuntary exclamation.
“My lord! They—they’re not those very papers?”
“They are! By Jove, that’s the queerest thing I’ve ever known! Now, who the deuce has found and returned them?”
CHAPTER VI “NO. 5339”
“Thank goodness for some peace and quietness at last! What a day it has been, with everything going wrong from beginning to end; and then this awful affair about poor Lady Rawson coming on the top of all the other happenings. I shall hate the very thought of a wedding in future!”
Winnie Winston shivered and spread her hands to the cheerful blaze in the cosy drawing-room of the flat in Chelsea which she shared with her brother George, who sprawled luxuriously in the easy chair opposite her, while between them was Austin Starr, also very much at his ease. He had found time to come round to apologize for his absence at the wedding, and to discuss the startling and mysterious tragedy of Lady Rawson’s death. There were very few days when he did not manage to see or converse with Winnie Winston, even if their intercourse was limited to a few sentences hurriedly exchanged over the telephone. He loved her; from the first moment that he met her he had decided that she was the one woman in the world for him. But he would not ask her to marry, or even to become engaged to him, until he had an assured position to offer her. Meanwhile, though he secretly hoped that she loved him, he could not be certain of that, for her attitude towards him was one of frank camaraderie that reminded him of his own countrywomen. In many ways she was much more like an American than an English girl.
“Don’t say that, Miss Winnie. I guess the next wedding will be all right,” he responded cheerfully.
“This one wasn’t,” she declared. “I’m not a bit superstitious—not as a rule—but really I’ve never known such a succession of misfortunes. First, the fog, and then Roger being so late, and the Rawsons not turning up. Mrs. Armitage was so sniffy about that; and of course she never imagined what the reason was. Who could imagine anything so horrible? And everything seemed so forlorn after Roger and Grace had gone; it always does somehow, but it was worse than usual to-day. Some of the people were staying—Mrs. Armitage had arranged a theatre party for us all to-night—I wonder if they’ve gone. I expect so! And she made me sing—you know how fussy she is—and I broke down utterly. Awfully silly of me, I know, but really I couldn’t help it. I can’t think what ‘the maestro’ would say if he knew it! So I came away: I simply felt I couldn’t stay in the house another minute; and there wasn’t a cab to be had, so I had to walk to the train; and the rain came on and ruined my new frock, which I meant to wear to-morrow—I’m singing at Æolian Hall in the afternoon.”
“Never mind, wear that one you’ve got on now. You look just lovely in it!” counselled Austin, regarding her with tender admiration.
“That’s just like a man!” she laughed, glancing down at her gown; but the laugh had an uncertain ring, with a suggestion of tears in it. “Why, this is ever such an old thing that I only wear at home. But it’s not the frock really that I mind. I—I can’t help thinking about the horror of it all; poor Lady Rawson being murdered like that, so near to the church, too; she must have been actually on her way to the wedding!”
“I don’t think she was,” said Austin reflectively, remembering how the murdered woman had been attired when he saw and identified her. “It’s a big mystery that will take a lot of unravelling.”
“But they’ve got the chap already,” interposed George Winston, reaching for a late edition of an evening paper that he had just thrown aside—“that taxicab driver. It’s as clear as daylight so far. He must have seen Lady Rawson’s bag, thought she had something valuable in it, followed and stabbed her, and then made off through the back door, bag and all.”
“Queer sort of impulse to seize a highly respectable ex-service man,” remarked Starr dryly. “And what was in the bag anyhow, for the contents haven’t been found up to now.”
“You don’t believe he did it?”
Before he could answer, the hall door-bell sounded imperatively, and Winnie started nervously.
“Now, who can that be at this hour!”
An elderly maidservant entered, Martha Stenning, who had grown grey in the Winstons’ service.
“It’s the same gentleman that called before, Mr. George, and asked to see you or Miss Winnie. He says you wouldn’t know his name, but his business is important.”
“All right, I’ll come, Martha,” said George, rising and following her from the room.
“I wonder who it is?” Winnie exclaimed anxiously. “Martha says someone has been ringing up on the telephone several times while we were out, and asking all sorts of questions about——”
They both looked round as George re-entered, followed by Snell, the detective, at sight of whom Starr rose, exclaiming:
“Why, it’s you, Mr. Snell! Anything fresh?”
“Not much at present, and I didn’t expect to see you here, Mr. Starr. Miss Winston? I must ask you to excuse my intrusion.”
“This is Mr. Snell of Scotland Yard, Winnie,” George explained hurriedly. “He says Lady Rawson rang up our number—5339—just before she was murdered. They’ve got it down in the post office book, and she must have been speaking at the very moment——”
“Lady Rawson! Our number!” gasped Winnie, in utter surprise and perplexity.
“Did you expect to receive a message from her, Miss Winston?” Snell inquired.
“I? Certainly not; why, I’ve never spoken to her in my life, though I expected to meet her to-day at my friend’s wedding. You don’t know her either, do you, George?” she added, turning to her brother.
“I’ve been to her receptions once or twice, but I’ve never exchanged a dozen words with her,” George asserted truthfully. “And I can’t imagine why she should have rung us up. I doubt if she even knew that my sister and I were to be at the wedding to-day or that we’re old friends of Carling and Miss Armitage—Mrs. Carling I mean, of course.”
“Yet Mr. Carling has been on intimate terms—like a member of the family—with Sir Robert and Lady Rawson,” Snell remarked.
“With Sir Robert,” Winston corrected. “Lady Rawson was always quite kind, I believe; and I know she asked Miss Armitage to her house once or twice; but she never showed any real interest in either of them—no personal friendship, don’t you know! At least so I’ve gathered from Carling,” he added, wondering the while what the detective was driving at.
“Then you think it unlikely that, assuming that she wished to speak to Mr. Carling on the telephone, she would expect to find him here?”
“I’m quite sure she wouldn’t,” said George, and Winnie, nodding a confirmatory assent, added:
“Besides, she wouldn’t expect him to be anywhere just then except at the church or on his way there. Not if the time is given rightly in the paper. It said she went into the office about half-past one.”
“Just so,” Snell agreed, and after a brief pause looked up with a query that at the moment sounded startlingly irrelevant.
“Do you know Signor Cacciola, Miss Winston?”
She stared in astonishment, scarcely grasping the question, especially as he mispronounced the name.
“He’s a music master or something of the sort; lives at Rivercourt Mansions West,” Snell added.
“Signor Cacciola? Why, of course I know him; he’s my singing master—‘the maestro’ we always call him,” she answered, knitting her pretty brows in bewilderment, while Austin Starr, watching Snell, screwed his lips in the form of whistling, and listened intently for what might follow.
“He comes here often?”
“Yes. At least he does when he is coaching me for a special concert or anything like that. He has been here every morning this week except to-day.”
“You did not expect him to-day?”
“No. I was going to the wedding; and besides, he has an engagement every Thursday—at Blackheath, I think.”
“You know him well? Have you known him long?”
“For several years—ever since he came to London. He is a dear old man.”
“An Italian?”
“Yes, though he has not been in Italy for many years.”
“He took a keen interest in Russian affairs,” Snell asserted.
“Did he? I’m sure I don’t know. He certainly never talked about such things to me.”
“Did he ever speak to you of Lady Rawson?”
“Never!”
It was impossible to doubt Winnie’s emphatic negative.
Again he shifted his point, or appeared to do so.
“Then you can’t give me any reason why Lady Rawson should have rung you up to-day?”
“None at all, unless she gave a wrong number and it happened by chance to be ours.”
“That’s just what I think,” exclaimed George.
“It might have been so,” Snell assented. “I’ve known a good many coincidences as queer. Well, I’m very sorry to have troubled you so late, Miss Winston, and I must thank you for answering me so clearly. Some folks beat about the bush and are scared out of their senses at the very sight of a detective—when they know him as such,” he added, with a smile. “But we’re bound to get whatever information we can, even at the risk of worrying people who really haven’t anything to do with the case. And now I’ll take myself off.”
“Have a whisky-and-soda first,” urged George Winston hospitably. “Of course we know you have to look up every point, and if we’d guessed the reason why we’ve been rung up so often to-day we should have been expecting you—or someone else on the same errand.”
Snell declined the proffered refreshment, but accepted a cigarette, and lingered for a minute or two, chatting in a casual manner on the subject that was uppermost in all their minds.
George questioned him about the suspected man, Sadler, the taxicab driver.
“He’s doing all right; not as much hurt as was thought at first, and he’ll probably be able to attend the opening of the inquest to-morrow. But we haven’t been able to interrogate him yet; in fact he doesn’t know he’s under arrest.”
“Do you believe he did it?” demanded George.
“I never form an opinion on slight evidence,” Snell replied guardedly. “Good night, Miss Winston, good night, sir. Many thanks. Are you coming with me, Mr. Starr?”
Starr shook his head.
“I guess I shan’t get anything out of you if I do, Mr. Snell.”
Snell smiled enigmatically.
“Yet I’ve given you a lot just now, Mr. Starr, though I doubt if you’ll be able to make much of it in time for to-morrow’s ‘Courier.’”
“What did he mean by that?” whispered Winnie, as her brother accompanied the unexpected guest to the door.
“I’ll tell you to-morrow. I’m going to follow it up, right now, as he surmises. There are no flies on Mr. Snell! Good night, Miss Winnie.”
In a minute or so George returned to the room.
“My hat! This is queer experience, isn’t it, Win? I say, let’s try and get on to the ‘Lord Warden’ and speak to Roger. He’ll be awfully anxious to know about everything; there’s a lot in the late editions too that he won’t be able to see down there to-night.”
“Oh, you can’t ring him up at this hour,” Winnie protested, glancing at the clock. “Besides, it would frighten Grace if she knew. You said Roger was going to keep it from her.”
“I’m going to ring him up,” George insisted. “It’s not really late—not for Roger anyhow. It’s only just on eleven.”
Winnie let him have his way, not choosing to urge the various reasons against it that occurred at once to her quick feminine mind, but escaped her brother’s obtuse one.
In a surprisingly short time for a “call” the telephone bell tinkled its summons, and George went out into the little hall to answer it.
The colloquy was very brief, and as George hurriedly re-entered she looked up with a whimsical “I told you so” expression on her pretty face, which fled as she saw his agitated aspect.
“I say, Win, they’re not there!”
“Not there!” she ejaculated, starting up.
“Haven’t been there at all. They must be crossing by the night boat after all; such a beastly night too—half a gale and raining cats and dogs. It’s worse there than it is here. I asked.”
“Crossing to-night! And Grace is the worst sailor imaginable. What on earth possessed Roger to take her?”
“He must be mad—mad as a hatter!” cried George, but the same thought and explanation occurred to him as to Winnie, and their eyes met in a glance of mutual horror and consternation.
CHAPTER VII THE CIGARETTE CASE
From Chelsea, Austin Starr went direct to Rivercourt Mansions, a quadrangular block of flats, standing back from the high road and fronting a square of grass and trees.
He dismissed his cab at the entrance to the square, which he noted was nearly opposite to the post office where Lady Rawson had been done to death a few hours before. He stood for a minute, regardless of the drizzling rain, staring across the thoroughfare, almost deserted on this dreary night. He imagined the illfated woman crossing it, with the assassin dogging her footsteps. Who was that assassin, and what was his motive? He was already certain in his own mind that the taxi-driver was as innocent of the crime as he was himself, although he had undoubtedly been close at hand at the time. And why had Lady Rawson visited Cacciola at his flat, and failing to find him there tried to ring him up at the Winstons’? He meant to discover that right now, if possible, feeling instinctively that here was the clue to the mystery. He guessed that Snell was already in possession of that clue, and had racked his brains in conjecture concerning it as he drove hither. But, though he had been with Snell all the afternoon, that astute individual had maintained silence concerning the stolen dispatches. He did not intend Starr or any other reporter to know of them at present. There were cases when he was glad to avail himself of the assistance of the Press, but this was not one of them. Already, thanks to a lucky accident—lucky from his point of view—he was in possession of evidence which he considered of the utmost importance, and on which he was building up a certain theory, which so far appeared to have very few flaws in it.
A tram came clanking along the road and Austin Starr turned away along the side-walk, glancing up at the Mansions. Most of the windows were dark, but there were lights here and there. One shone cheerily from a window high up in the block he wanted. As he reached the entrance the lights in the hall and on the staircase went out, and in the sudden darkness he collided with a man in the doorway who accosted him with facetious apology.
“Sorry, Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you.’ If I’d seen you coming I’d have waited till you got up. Half a minute, and I’ll switch on again.”
He suited the action to the word, and Austin saw he was the porter, a small, spare man with a sharp-featured, whimsical face.
“It’s all right,” Starr assured him, “I’m going up to Mr. Cacciola’s. The top flat, isn’t it? I guess he’s home, for there’s a light in the window.”
“I don’t think he is, sir, he’s mostly later than this; but old Julia will be sitting up for him. Are you Mr. Roger Carling, by any chance, sir?”
Austin Starr was considerably startled, though he made no sign beyond a penetrating glance at his interrogator, and answered quietly:
“No, but I’m his intimate friend. What made you take me for him?”
“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure. I don’t know the gentleman, but I saw the name on the cigarette case he dropped outside Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ door this morning. I always call the old gentleman that—nearest I can get to his name—and he don’t mind a bit, not he! Julia’s got the case all right—she’s Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ house-keeper; Italian same as him, and a good old sort. I thought perhaps you were Mr. Carling come after it.”
Austin saw and interpreted aright a slight and significant crook of the little man’s fingers and produced a coin.
“So you found the case?” he remarked pleasantly. “Mr. Carling will be glad to know it. I guess he hadn’t a notion where he dropped it. He’s left town to-day—on his honeymoon.”
“Thank you, sir, though I’m sure I didn’t expect anything,” responded the little man, promptly pocketing the tip. “Gone on his honeymoon, has he? Why, he’s never the gentleman that was married at St. Paul’s to-day—the wedding that poor lady was on her way to when she was murdered? They didn’t give his name in the paper, I saw. Terrible thing, isn’t it, sir? And will you believe me, I never heard a word about it till nigh on teatime! It must have ’appened just after I went to my dinner: I was a bit late to-day; had to take a parcel up to No. 20—that’s when I found the cigarette case; and if only I’d been about I might ’ave seen it all. And to think of young Charlie Sadler doing such an awful thing. He must ’ave gone clean off his nut!”
“You know him?” asked Starr quickly, thankful that the garrulous little man had strayed from the subject of Roger Carling’s presence so near the scene of the tragedy, though at the moment he was unable to analyse his thought sufficiently to know why he should feel thankful.
“Know Charlie Sadler? Why, I’ve known him ever since he was a little nipper so high. Lives with his mother—a decent old soul—down in Milsom Cottages, and he’s courting little Jessie Jackson over at the post office, on the sly, for her aunt, Mrs. Cave, don’t think him good enough for her; and it seems she’s right after all. But whoever would ’ave thought of ’im going and doing a murder like that?”
“We don’t know yet that he did it,” said Starr.
“Well, of course it’ll ’ave to be proved against him; but if he didn’t, then who did? That’s the question. And he was there right enough. Slipped in by the side door to see Jessie while her aunt was safe in the shop, and when the girl was called down he must ’ave seen the lady and been taken with one of these ’ere sudden temptations; and then when he found what he’d done he ’ooked it, and smashed up the cab and himself in his ’urry. There it is in a nutshell, sir!” Withers concluded triumphantly. Evidently he had been gossiping pretty freely during the evening, but as evidently he as yet knew nothing of Lady Rawson’s visit to Cacciola’s flat—if, indeed, she had been there—and attached no significance to Roger Carling’s visit. How should he?
“Perhaps you’re right,” Starr conceded. “We’ll all have just to ‘wait and see’ anyhow. Well, I’ll go up——”
“I’m sure Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ not in yet, sir; but I’ll give him any message for you in the morning,” suggested Withers officiously.
“No, thanks, I’ll leave it with Julia if necessary. Good night.”
“Good night, sir, and thank you. I’ll keep the lights on till you’ve got to the top.”
Starr thanked him again and went upstairs—eight flights of them—outwardly composed, inwardly more perturbed than he had ever been in his life before. His mind was in a dark tumult of suspicion and perplexity, which would have been increased if he could have known the news George Winston had just learnt from Dover—that Roger and Grace were not at the “Lord Warden.”
“It’s impossible! He can’t have had anything to do with it!” he told himself impatiently, refusing even to formulate the suspicion that had arisen in his mind. Yet the suspicion was there.
The lights below went out as he pressed the bell button at No. 19, but an instant later one flashed up within the hall of the flat and he heard a soft shuffle of slippered feet. But the door was not opened to him. The letter slit moved and through the aperture a woman’s voice demanded, in good enough English, though with a strong foreign accent:
“Who is zere?”
He responded with a counter-question:
“Is Mr. Cacciola at home?”
“He is not. He vill perhaps not return to-night. Who are you?”
“I reckon you won’t know my name. You’re Julia, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am Giulia. Vat ees it?”
“Open the door, there’s a good soul, and I’ll tell you. I can’t shout it through. It’s important.”
“I do not know you,” she protested nervously after a pause. “You are from the police again?”
So, as he guessed, Snell had already been here. He wondered that the loquacious porter had not seen him and scented the errand.
“Yes,” he lied boldly. “So you’d better open the door right now. You’ve nothing to fear from me, and I shan’t keep you many minutes.”
She muttered something that he could not catch, but a chain clanked, and a moment later she opened the door a few inches and peered out—a short, plump old woman, whose comely brown face and lustrous black eyes wore a strained, anxious expression, that relaxed a little as she eyed her visitor.
His appearance seemed to reassure her, for she drew back and motioned him to enter the little square hall.
He smiled at her, and there were few women, young or old, who could resist Austin Starr’s smile. He had what some folk term “a way with him,” all the more effective since it was exerted unconsciously.
“It’s real good of you, signora, to admit me at this unholy hour, and I’ll not keep you any time,” he began diplomatically. “First, I want that cigarette case that Mr. Roger Carling lost on your lobby this morning. The porter says he gave it to you.”
“The leetle case? But I have it not! I gave it to the officer of police—he who came to-day, saying he was of the police, though he wore no uniform; he was like yourself, signor,” she stammered.
Starr’s heart sank. The moment he had heard of that cigarette case he determined to get possession of it, and if possible prevent any knowledge of it reaching the police, though again he did not attempt to analyse his motive.
“I have done wrong in giving it him?” Giulia continued uneasily.
“Not a bit of it, signora—that’s all right,” Starr answered, with a cheerfulness he was very far from feeling. “I haven’t seen Mr. Snell since or he’d have told me you had it. I guess you’ve told him about everything else too, but I’ll have to trouble you to tell me also. The maestro left home as usual to go to his class at Blackheath. What time did he go out?”
“At a leetle after nine, signor.”
“You’re sure he was going to Blackheath?”
“Ah, yes, signor. Vere else would he go?”
“When did Lady Rawson come?”
“In a ver’ leetle time after the maestro go. He could scarce have reach the stazione.”
“So early! Then she knew he would not be back. Why did she return?”
Giulia hesitated.
“I do not comprehend,” she muttered.
“When did she go away?”
“I do not remember.”
“Come, that’s nonsense, signora. You must know; try to think. She was here after one o’clock, we know that; in fact, she went straight from here to the post office where she was murdered.”
Giulia stood speechless, plucking nervously at her white apron, and as he saw her embarrassment an idea flashed to his mind.
“Great Scot! She was here the whole morning: she came in and waited. That’s so?”
She nodded a reluctant assent.
“She was here when Mr. Carling called just after one. Did he ask for her?”
Again Giulia nodded.
“Did he see her?”
She shook her head.
“She did not vish it. I said she vas not here. It vas a lie, and I do not like lies; but she vould have it so; and he go away. She look from the vindow, and vatch till he pass the corner, and then she go away also.”
Starr stood musing for a space, and, master of his emotions though he was, Giulia’s keen old eyes detected a certain expression of relief on his face.
He was inwardly reproaching himself also for part at least of the suspicion that had assailed him the instant he learnt that Carling had been there. He thought he knew Roger Carling as thoroughly as one man can know another, believed him to be the soul of honour and rectitude. But he also knew that in every human being there are depths that none other can plumb; and, remembering the circumstances, the thought had occurred involuntarily that some shameful secret might be the cause and explanation of the mysterious tragedy.
It was such an obvious solution. Lady Rawson, young, beautiful, extraordinarily attractive, married to a man almost old enough to be her grandfather and meeting every day one of her own age, handsome and debonair as was Carling. Dangerous conditions enough, human nature being what it is! And Carling would not be the first man to be fascinated and entangled by an unscrupulous woman, even while he loved another woman—as Roger loved Grace—with all the strength of his better nature.
But that idea might be dismissed, so far as Carling was concerned as a principal in the matter anyhow. Lady Rawson had not come here to meet him, had not expected or wished to see him when he followed her there.
Yet if Lady Rawson did not come here to meet Carling, whom did she come to see—whom did she wait for all those hours? Not old Cacciola, certainly, for she learnt at once that he was out for the day. He turned to Giulia and put the question point blank.
“Who was here this morning with you and Lady Rawson?”
“No one; nevare any person at all!” she cried emphatically.
“But you expected someone; that was why Lady Rawson waited.”
She shook her head, but her eyes did not meet his, and her hands were trembling as she still fidgeted with her apron.
“Zere vas no one, zere nevare has been no one; I have told all, signor.”
He found it was useless to question her further, and decided that he would not wait on the chance of learning anything from Cacciola. He gathered that the old man seldom returned till long after midnight.
Groping his way down the dark staircase, he reached the high road just in time to board a tram going eastwards, which set him down at the terminus within a few hundred yards from the hospital to which Sadler had been taken. He might as well call and inquire as to the man’s condition. If there was anything to report there was still time to telephone to the office.
A minute later he pushed back the swing-door and entered the lobby of the hospital, to find himself face to face with Snell.
CHAPTER VIII AT CACCIOLA’S
Snell greeted Austin with a smile and a significant cock of his left eyebrow.
“You haven’t lost any time, Mr. Starr. But there’s nothing fresh here. Sadler’s just the same, and the doctor says it will be impossible for him to attend the inquest to-morrow, so we shall ask for a week’s adjournment. And he won’t be allowed to be ‘interviewed’ by anyone,” he added pointedly.
“I guessed that, of course. I only meant to inquire how he was. I take it he’s practically under arrest?”
“Not at all. Under surveillance perhaps, which is a very different matter. And the less said about that or anything else the better for the present, Mr. Starr. No ‘stunts’ in this case, please. Well, did you find Cacciola at home? Or old Julia amiable?”
“How did you know I’d been there?”
“Guessed it, knowing you. That’s meant as a compliment.”
“Cacciola hadn’t returned. I know him fairly well, having seen him a good few times at Miss Winston’s. And Giulia was civil enough, though she seemed a bit scared. She told me some yarn about a cigarette case she had found.”
As they spoke in guarded tones, they had reissued from the hospital and now stood on the steps, where the lamp-light fell full on Snell’s face. Starr’s keen eyes were fixed on it, but it revealed nothing.
“A cigarette case? Whose was it?” asked Snell.
“Don’t you know? You’ve got it, haven’t you?”
Starr strove to speak in a casual tone, but it was difficult to control his voice. Of all the many sensational cases he had come across this was the first that had touched him personally, and the horrible fear that Roger Carling might in some way be mixed up in it, and that Snell knew it, was still strong upon him.
“Are you trying to cross-examine me?” asked the detective dryly.
Possibly for the first time in his life under such circumstances Austin lost his self-possession.
“See here, Snell, what’s the use of fencing?” he asked hotly. “You’ve got that case right enough. It’s Rog——”
“Stop!” interrupted Snell imperatively, though without raising his voice. “I’ve mentioned no name. Take my advice, Mr. Starr, and don’t you mention one either. I’ve told you already that the less said the better, and if you can’t take the hint—well, that’s your affair.”
Austin bit his lip, inwardly cursing himself for his indiscretion. If he had held his tongue about his knowledge of Roger Carling’s movements he might, sooner or later, have got some hint of what was in the detective’s mind. Now, in all probability he would get no further information at all.
“Sorry,” he muttered somewhat ungraciously. “You’re right, of course. But——”
“But there’s nothing to add to your story to-night. Take my word for it,” said Snell, with restored good humour. “Which way are you going? Tube? I’m for the tram. What a beastly night! I shan’t be sorry to get indoors.”
“Nor I,” Austin confessed with a shiver.
Almost in silence they walked side by side through the chill drizzle to the station, and there parted, Snell crossing to the tram terminus.
But he was not yet bound for home, as he had allowed and wished Starr to infer. Tireless and relentless as a sleuth-hound, he believed he was already fairly on the track of Lady Rawson’s murderer, but there were certain preliminary points he wished to clear up, and till he succeeded in that there would be no rest for him.
The tram was crowded with returning theatre-goers, most of whom were discussing the grim crime and the reports in the late editions of the evening papers. None guessed how intimately the wiry little man in the drenched Burberry, meekly strap-hanging among them, was concerned with it, and quite a number alighted from the tram when he did, opposite the post office, and lingered in the rain staring at the house of tragedy, now dark and silent as a grave, with a solitary policeman standing guard, and in a subdued, monotonous voice requesting the whispering crowd to “Pass along, please.”
Snell did not even glance at the house or the sentinel, but disappeared into the darkness of the square nearly opposite, three sides of which were occupied by the tall blocks of flats known as “Rivercourt Mansions,” fronted by shrubberies, and with more shrubs and trees in the centre: a pleasant place enough in daylight, but gloomy and mysterious on this miserable wet midnight. Treading as lightly as a cat in his “silent-soled” shoes, Snell walked swiftly to the end of the square, and paused, to be joined immediately by a man in a dark mackintosh, who emerged from the shadow of the shrubs.
“Anything to report, Evans?” Snell asked softly.
“He hasn’t returned yet, sir. Mr. Starr went in and stayed a good few minutes, just after ten-thirty.”
“I know. Did he see you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“A good many have come and gone—people living in the block; but none that I could spot as on this business.”
Together they withdrew into deeper gloom again, and in dead silence waited and watched. Not for long.
Another tram clanked westward, halted, went on, and a minute later footsteps approached—heavy, weary, dragging footsteps; and the figures of two men passed into the radius of light from the street lamp nearest the watchers.
“That’s the Signor—the fat one,” Snell’s subordinate whispered. “The other’s the Russian.”
“Come on,” said Snell, and silently they followed the two men, overtaking them as Cacciola was inserting a latchkey into the outer door of the block where he lived.
He turned with a start as Snell courteously accosted him.
“Signor Cacciola? I have been waiting your return, and must have a few words with you to-night concerning the late Lady Rawson. If you will look at my card you will know who I am and that my business is urgent.”
As he spoke he switched on his electric torch, handed the card to Cacciola, and watched the old man’s face as he read it—a plump, olive-complexioned, usually jolly face that now looked drawn and grief-stricken.
“By all means; enter, signor,” said Cacciola with grave dignity. “I—we—will give you all the assistance possible. You are not alone?” he added, narrowing his dark eyes in an endeavour to pierce the gloom beyond the circle of light.
“No. But perhaps you will permit my man to wait in your hall for me,” returned Snell blandly.
He did not anticipate danger, but anything might happen in that top flat, and, though he was courageous enough he never took unnecessary risks.
“But certainly. Lead the way, Boris. Will you continue the light, Signor? The stairs are very dark—and long.”
With hushed footsteps, and no sound beyond Cacciola’s heavy breathing, they stole in procession up the staircase, Evans bringing up the rear just behind Snell.
As they reached the top landing the door of Cacciola’s flat opened, and Giulia appeared on the threshold, a dark figure against the lighted hall, began to speak volubly in Italian, and then, seeing her master’s companions, and recognizing Snell, stopped short and retreated a pace or two, glancing nervously from one to the other.
“It’s all right, ma’am. No cause for alarm,” said Snell reassuringly. “I’ve been here before to-day, sir, in your absence, as I expect she was trying to tell you. Let her tell her story now, it will help us. And in English, please, as I don’t understand your language.”
“She shall do so. Come with us, Giulia. Take off your wet coats, my friends.”
Cacciola led the way into a large, comfortable room where a gas fire glowed cosily—a musician’s room, with the place of honour occupied by a magnificent grand piano.
The Russian, who had not spoken a word, and moved like a man in a dream, allowed Cacciola to remove his dripping overcoat and push him into an easy chair. He was a delicate-looking, handsome-featured young man, who seemed, and was, dazed with grief and horror.
Rapidly, but quite coherently, Giulia poured out her story in broken English, frequently lapsing into Italian, to be as frequently, though gently, checked by her master. Much of it was already known to Snell, but there were one or two fresh and illuminative points.
“La Donna Paula,” the name by which the old woman designated Lady Rawson, had come quite early, soon after the maestro’s departure, demanding to see Signor Boris, who was away, Giulia did not know where. Then she telephoned to Blackheath, in the hope of speaking to the maestro, and learnt he was not expected there to-day, and presently she tried to telephone again, but lo! the instrument would not serve—it was out of order!
(“So that’s why she went to the call office,” Snell mentally commented, having already noticed the telephone on a table beside the piano.)
Donna Paula appeared very impatient, also agitated, and when the bell rang bade Giulia deny that she was or had been there, if one should ask for her, and, of a verity, the young signor who came did so, and ask oh, very many questions.
“Did he tell you his name?” interposed Snell.
“But no, signor. Yet I learnt it later, for soon after Donna Paula had gone, the portaire ring and give me a little silver case he find, with a name on it that I forget, for then the signor there come, and I give him the case, and he have it now, and he tell me Donna Paula have been murdered, and I know not what to do or to say, but I wait and wait for you or Signor Boris, and no one come till late, so late, when yet another signor arrive, and say he also is of the police and ask for the little silver case, and I tell him I have it not. That is the truth—you have the case still, signor?”
She whirled round towards Snell, who spoke soothingly.
“Yes, yes, that’s all right, signora. Nobody’s blaming you for anything, and you’ve told your story admirably. Thank you very much. And now, sir, if you please, we’ll have our chat.”
“Go, my good Giulia,” said Cacciola, “and be not so distressed, though, indeed, we are all cut to the heart. Now, signor?”
“I want you to tell everything you know about Lady Rawson—you and this gentleman, who, I think, were on terms of intimate friendship with the unfortunate lady.”
It was no chance shot. Hours ago he had searched Lady Rawson’s rooms, and in her boudoir, hidden in the secret drawer of a costly antique writing-table, had found a big packet of letters, some of quite recent date, written in Russian. They were all signed merely with the initial “B,” and those which he had got translated at once gave him a fair inkling of the relations between the writer and the dead woman. The translation of the others would be in his hands to-morrow morning.
If the Russian heard and understood the words he made no sign. He sat huddled in the chair where Cacciola had placed him, with one hand over his eyes. He might have been asleep for any movement that he made.
“It is but very little I can tell,” said Cacciola. “It is true that she came here from time to time—not to see me, to see her cousin, my dear pupil Boris Melikoff here, who has been in the North since three days, and returned to-night only, to hear of this deed of horror. It has overwhelmed him, as you see. He is utterly exhausted. One moment——”
Rising, he opened a corner cupboard, brought out a decanter half filled with wine, and some glasses, placed them on a table at Snell’s elbow, and filled one glass.
“This may revive him, and I think we all need it. I pray you help yourself and your friend, signor.
“It is good wine, I give you my word,” he added with a courteous gesture.
Crossing to Melikoff, he touched him, speaking caressingly as one would speak to a sick child.
“Rouse yourself, caro, and drink. It is I, maestro, who implore you. The signor is here to learn the truth, and you must aid him.”
Melikoff obeyed, and, after an instant’s hesitation, Snell accepted Cacciola’s invitation, poured out a glass of wine for himself and passed one to Evans with an affirmative nod.
The old man was right. It was jolly good wine, and jolly well they all needed it!
“That is better, eh?” said Cacciola, emptying and setting down his own glass, and looking with anxious affection at Boris, who sat upright and turned his brilliant, haggard eyes on Snell.
“You want to know—what?” he asked in perfect English, and in a low, singularly musical voice, tense with repressed emotion.
“Everything you can tell me concerning Lady Rawson, whom the Signor here says was your cousin. Is that so?”
“That is so. But I can tell you nothing more.”
“Come, come, Mr. Melikoff. That won’t do!” Snell retorted, more sternly than he had yet spoken. “I am in possession of many of your recent letters to her, and am aware of their contents. Do you understand me?”
“No,” said Melikoff curtly.
“Then I must try to make you.”
“You think I murdered her!” cried the Russian, with more vehemence than a moment before he had seemed capable of. “I, who would have given my life, my soul, to save her!”
“Nothing of the kind. I might have done so if I hadn’t happened to know that your friend here spoke the truth when he said you were away—miles away from here—at the time. But it’s my duty to discover who did murder the unfortunate lady, and if you don’t choose to give me any information you can that may assist me, here and now, you’ll only have it wrung from you later in cross-examination. So please yourself!”
“He is right—you must tell him all you know, my son,” interposed Cacciola. “I myself know so little,” he added plaintively to Snell. “They have always kept me—how do you call it?—in the dark, these two unhappy ones.”
“Well, while Mr. Melikoff makes up his mind as to whether he’s going to say anything or nothing to-night, Signor Cacciola, perhaps you’ll explain just what your association with them both was, and why her ladyship came here, more or less disguised, so often?”
The old man flung out his hands with a deprecating gesture.
“I know so little,” he repeated distressfully. “At least of Milady Rawson—Donna Paula as we call her. I love him—Boris—as if he were my son. I learn to know him first, oh, many years since, in Russia, when he was a little boy, with the voice of an angel. Though quite untrain, Signor, he sing like the birds of the air! And I say to him then, and to his mother, the countess, ‘He shall come to me in good time, and I make him the greatest singer in the whole world.’ And at last he came——”
“When?”
“But two years since, signor; and the good saints guided him to me, for he did not mean to come. He had escaped with the bare life from his unhappy country, having fought in the Great War, and then against the Red Terror, till all was lost—all, all swept away. He was at the gate of death when I find him and bring him home here so joyfully, and Giulia and I nurse him back to health, and I begin to train him, or I try, for the voice is there, signor, beautiful as ever, but the desire to sing—alas!”
He shrugged his shoulders, and again threw up his hands with an expressive gesture.
“He doesn’t want to go in for singing now?” asked Snell, with a swift glance at the Russian, who had relapsed into his former attitude. Yet the detective believed he was listening to the colloquy.
“That is so, Signor. It is my great grief. I tell him it is wrong to waste the gift of God; I tell him music is a great and a jealous mistress that demands all devotion—that the singer should have no country, no other love, no other mistress than his art!”
“H’m! And where does Lady Rawson come in?” asked Snell dryly, mindful of those letters.
Cacciola hesitated and glanced uneasily at Melikoff. Hitherto his manner had been engagingly frank; now it changed, became guarded, even furtive.
“It is so—so difficult,” he said slowly. “They are cousins—yes. They had not met for years; he thought she had perished, like so many—so many, until he found she was here in England, married to the great Sir Rawson.”
“When did he find that out? Before or after he came to you?”
“After—many weeks after he recover. I was glad—and sorry: glad that one whom he loved still lived, sorry——”
“Go on, sir—sorry because?”
“It is so difficult,” Cacciola murmured, with another appealing glance at Boris.
“Did Sir Robert know of their connection?”
Cacciola shook his head.
“Did he ever go to see her in her own house?”
Again the mute negative.
“So they used to meet here, in your flat, in secret?”
“It was not my wish,” Cacciola muttered, his distress increasing under interrogation.
“And they were engaged in some Russian plot. Were there any others in it? Who made this their meeting place?”
“I do not——”
Cacciola’s faltering denial was cut short, for Melikoff sprang to his feet and confronted Snell, who also rose.
“Enough!” cried the Russian. “The maestro is right—he does not know! And there was—there is—no plot as you call it, save that she and I, like many others of our race, were always waiting and watching, and hoping for some means of serving our unhappy country. Also, we loved each other—yes! But I swear to you it was love without one taint of dishonour to her, to me, to that old man, her husband!”
Was he speaking the truth in this respect? Snell, with his wide knowledge of poor human nature, and mentally comparing this handsome, passionate, emotional youth with Sir Robert—old, formal, pompous!—greatly doubted it.
But the point did not interest him except as it might afford some clue to the mystery. It was not his job to make inquisition into anyone’s morals.
“Did you expect Lady Rawson to visit you to-day?” he asked.
“No. How could I? It is two weeks—more—since I have even seen her. I had to go to Birmingham——”
“On my affairs—there is no secret about that,” interposed Cacciola, but neither heeded him.
“I did not send word to her of my journey—you know that, if you have—her—letters, as you say,” Boris continued. “I do not know why she came to-day—to meet her death!”
“She came to give or show you some important and secret papers which she stole from her husband’s safe this morning,” said Snell bluntly.
“So? I know nothing of that.”
“But someone knew. Those papers were in her hand-bag, which was snatched from her by the person who followed and stabbed her, and has since been found empty. Now, do you know of anyone whatsoever, man or woman, who would be likely to know or guess that she had those papers in her possession?”
“Of our people? None! Was she not one of us—the most trusted, the most beloved? Not one of us would have harmed a hair of her head! Wait—let me think. They were her husband’s papers——”
For some seconds he stood knitting his dark brows, then, very slowly:
“There is one man. Her husband’s secretary——”
“Do you know him?”
“I have never seen him, but his name is Car—Carling!”
“Were they enemies?”
“No, not openly; but she feared him. She thought he—watched her. Mon Dieu! The man who came here to-day, as Giulia said, and asked for her. That was the man! I will find him! I will kill him!”
His haggard young face was terrible to see in the frenzy of hatred that distorted it; his slender hands moved convulsively as though he already felt his fingers clutching Roger Carling’s throat. Cacciola seized one arm, Snell the other, and he collapsed under their grasp, and fell into the chair, sobbing like a woman or like a man who has been shot.
“It is too much for him!” cried Cacciola. “Boris, Boris. Courage, my child!”
“Poor chap!” said Snell. “I won’t worry him any more, nor you either to-night, sir. And I must ask you to keep silence for the present. You’ll be worried by a horde of inquirers—journalists especially—for the next few days, but you tell your old Julia to lock the door. Don’t you see anyone, and take care he doesn’t.”
“You may trust us, signor,” said the old man.
“Then, good night, sir. Come on, Evans.”
CHAPTER IX BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM
Even a short railway journey often has the effect of creating an interval that means far longer than the actual lapse of time—a honeymoon journey perhaps most of all, marking, as it does, the turning point, the beginning of a new epoch in two young lives.
Therefore, by the time Roger and his bride arrived at Dover he had not only recovered his equanimity, but the extraordinary events of the morning, and even the grim and startling news he had learned at the moment of departure had receded far away, like the remembrance of an evil dream. The only thing that really mattered was the great and wonderful fact that he and Grace were together, and would be henceforth not only, as the beautiful words in which they had so lately plighted their solemn troth declared, “till death us do part,” but, as all true lovers hope and believe, together in spirit for all eternity—“out beyond into the dream to come.”
The proud, tender, protective air with which he assisted Grace to alight, the radiant happiness of their young faces, were instantly “spotted” by the nearest porter, who bustled up in cheery anticipation of a noble tip.
“Two cabin trunks, kit-bag, and two hat-boxes in the van—very good, sir,” said he, taking possession of Grace’s dressing case and travelling rugs. “What are they like? New?”
“Oh, no! quite old. We’ll point them out,” said Grace with demure dignity, and shot an adorable glance at Roger as they followed the man, threading their way through the crowd on the platform.
They had decided to avoid any brand-new appearance, fondly imagining thereby that they would pass as an “old married couple”—as though any such device could conceal their blissful state from even the least observant of onlookers!
They halted behind an opulent-looking couple, the man smoking a huge cigar, the lady shrilly claiming a whole pile of trunks as they were bundled out of the van, and Grace, with a little gasp of dismay, clutched Roger’s sleeve and drew him aside.
“Oh, look, Roger!” she whispered, “there are the Fosters, and they’re putting up at the ‘Lord Warden’!”
“Well, what about it, darling?”
“We’re bound to meet them, and I do dislike them so and wouldn’t let mother ask them to the wedding; we had quite a scene about it, and Daddy backed me up. They are such impossible people. It will be so awkward. Can’t we dodge them?”
“Of course we can—nothing easier. We’ll lie low till they clear off and then go to the Grand.”
So they did, and once safe in the taxi laughed gaily over the narrow escape, little imagining what a sinister significance would soon be attached to their impulsive change of plan.
He waited in the lounge while Grace was upstairs unpacking and dinner was being laid in the private sitting-room he had secured. As it happened there were very few people staying in the hotel, and for the moment he had the place to himself.
He ordered a whisky-and-soda, and with it the attendant brought an evening paper.
“Just come down, sir. There’s been a horrible murder of a lady in London.”
So it was impossible to escape from the tragedy that haunted him on this, his wedding day.
He took the paper without comment, glanced at it, and laid it aside. It was the same edition that George Winston had thrust into his hands at Victoria. For a minute or more he sat in painful thought, then, leaving his glass untouched, went through to the office and gave the Grosvenor Gardens telephone number for a long-distance call.
“I’ll call you, sir; it may be some time getting through.”
“All right. I’ll be in the lounge.”
But within a couple of minutes the summons came, and, hastily finishing his drink, he hurried to the booth.
Thomson’s voice sounded, civil, precise, distinct, as usual. At the telephone as in most other respects Sir Robert’s trusted attendant was admirable, unimpeachable.
“Hullo, Thomson! Carling speaking. I’ve just arrived at Dover and seen the awful news. Where is Sir Robert?”
“In bed, sir, and still unconscious, though the doctors say that is all the better under the circumstances. In fact, I believe he is under an opiate. He had a sort of stroke, sir, when he heard—by telephone—of her ladyship’s death.”
“How on earth did it happen—the—the murder I mean? I’ve only seen the bare announcement.”
“In a ’phone booth, sir. If I may be permitted to state an opinion” (agitated though he was, Roger smiled at the formal phraseology, so entirely characteristic of old Thomson), “her ladyship was followed by someone who imagined she had valuables in her bag—a large and very handsome one—struck her down, and then finding those papers in it, and not knowing how to get rid of them, just put them into a post box, so then they came back to Sir Robert——”
“What! What papers?” Roger shouted into the transmitter, scarcely able to believe he had heard aright. “Not those we were searching for this morning?”
“The same, I understand, sir. They were delivered, surcharged, by the five o’clock post, and as Lord Warrington happened to be here, inquiring for Sir Robert, I made bold to give them to his lordship, who has taken charge of them.”
“What wonderful, what incredible luck!” exclaimed Roger, forgetting for the moment the grim central circumstance, and was ashamed next instant, especially as Thomson’s voice sounded distinctly severe and shocked:
“I fear it cost her ladyship her life, sir.”
“You’re right, Thomson. The whole thing is too terrible, and I oughn’t to have spoken like that. But it is a relief to know that the papers, at least, are safe. They are tremendously important. But, look here, Thomson, is there anything I can do? I am terribly concerned and anxious about Sir Robert. Do you think I ought to come back to town to-morrow, or—or even to-night? I don’t want to, of course, and, if possible, I shall keep the news from—Mrs. Carling—till the morning——”
There was a little pause—only a few seconds, though it seemed longer—before Thomson replied:
“I don’t think it should be at all necessary, sir. I’m sure you can do nothing for Sir Robert at present; the doctors do not anticipate any immediate danger.”
“Well, I’ll ring you up in the morning then.”
“Very good, sir. I hope you will not consider it presumptuous of me to express my deep regret that these terrible occurrences should have marred your wedding day, and to convey my respectful wishes to you and your good lady?”
“Presumptuous! Good Lord, no! It’s very kind of you, Thomson. Many thanks,” said Roger, again smiling involuntarily. “Well, if Sir Robert should ask for me, tell him you’re in touch with me.”
“I will, sir. Good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
Only after he had replaced the receiver did he remember that he had not told Thomson where he was speaking from, but decided it wasn’t worth while putting another call through. For to-night at least he would not be wanted, and he would strive to dismiss the whole tragedy from his mind. What a queer old stick Thomson was, but a good sort too! And that astounding news of the recovery of the papers was very reassuring.
Now for Grace—his own, his beloved! He went up in the lift, and tapped softly at the bedroom door. It opened instantly, and there she stood, fresh and fair, in a simple evening gown of some filmy grey stuff, a shy smile on her dear lips.
“Oh, what a tired and grubby boy!” she laughed. “He wants his dinner very badly, he does, and I b’lieve I do too! As the king and queen are travelling without attendants on this interesting occasion, the queen (that’s me) has laid out your things, sir—your majesty, I mean—and quite correctly I’m sure. I’ve done it so often for daddy. Now, don’t be long!”
“I shan’t be ten minutes, darling,” Roger assured her, and was almost as good as his word.
As charming a pair of lovers as could be found in the whole, wide world they looked, as they sat facing each other at the daintily appointed dinner-table, with the head waiter—a little apple-cheeked, grey-haired, blue-eyed old man with an expansive smile—gliding in and out and ministering to their wants with paternal solicitude. He knew well enough what was due to the occasion; those travel-worn trunks hadn’t deceived him, any more than they had deceived the railway porter or anyone else! And the flourish with which he presented the wine list was mere pretence, for when, after a short discussion, they decided on champagne, he didn’t even have to go to fetch it, but instantly produced a magnum of the best, placed there, all ready, on the sideboard.
Dinner over, they moved to the big chesterfield drawn up before the blazing fire, and sat down in discreet silence till the table was cleared and the beneficent waiter finally departed.
“At last!” said Roger, throwing his half-smoked cigarette into the fire, and drawing his wife to him. “Isn’t this cosy and jolly, darling?”
“Lovely,” Grace murmured, snuggling happily in his arm. “Almost as good as our own home’s going to be. Don’t you wish we were there already, Roger, sitting in front of our very own fire?”