Fred stopped short.
“Do you mean to tell me that I’m not pinched?” he asked incredulously.
“So far as I am concerned you are not,” said Larry, “unless Sergeant Reed has a private engagement with you.”
“Not me, sir,” smiled Sergeant Reed. “Who told you you were pinched, Fred?”
“Well, that beats it,” said Fred, aghast. “What was the game?”
“Don’t you know somebody at the Home?”
“I don’t know it from a cowshed,” said Fred. “I had to inquire my way of a milkman.”
“You should have asked a policeman,” murmured Larry. “There are plenty about.”
“There are too many about for me,” replied Flash Fred vindictively. “Here, Mr. Holt,” he said with sudden seriousness, “you’re a gentleman, and I know you wouldn’t put me wrong.”
Larry passed the compliment without comment.
“Well?” he said, and Fred dived into his inner pocket and produced a letter.
“What do you make of this, sir?” he asked.
Larry opened the letter, which was addressed to Fred Grogan, and began:
They are going to arrest you to-morrow. Larry Holt has the warrant for execution. Come to Todd’s Home in Lissom Lane at half-past six in the morning and ask to see “Lew,” and he will give you information that will help you to make a get-away. Don’t allow yourself to be shadowed, or tell anybody where you are going.
It was unsigned, and Larry folded the letter and was about to give it to Fred.
“Do you mind if I keep this?” he asked.
“No, sir, I don’t mind. But, Mr. Holt, will you tell me,” he demanded nervously, “is there any truth in that yarn of my being pinched?”
Larry shook his head.
“So far as I know you are not on the list, and certainly I have no warrant for you, Fred,” he said. “In fact, you have such a good record just now that if you ran straight you could pretty well live without fear of the police.”
“Sounds damned uninteresting to me,” said Flash Fred as he slouched off, and Larry let him go.
No. 280 Coram Street was an apartment house, and Mrs. Fanny Weldon occupied two rooms, one facing Coram Street and one a side turning. She lived well and she paid well, gave little or no trouble, and the breath of scandal did not touch her name. Not noticeably. She was in truth the star boarder, and her landlady would have gone very far to oblige Fanny, always providing that the fair name of 280 was not assailed.
This woman crook had spent a busy night, yet sleep refused to come to her in the day, and she rose at three in the afternoon and busied herself with those occupations which women of all kinds find interesting. She had a hat to trim, some dainty silk to iron, a little mending and a little darning.
“You were up late last night, Mrs. Weldon?” said the landlady, bringing her tea with her own hands.
Fanny nodded.
“To be exact, I wasn’t in bed all night,” she said. “I went to a dance. What time is it?”
“Six o’clock. I thought you were sleeping, and as you didn’t ring, I didn’t disturb you.”
“I’m going to bed early to-night,” said Fanny, yawning. “Is there anything fresh?”
“No, my dear,” said the landlady, professionally maternal. “We’ve got a new young gentleman in the opposite room,” she jerked her thumb at the door. “A gentleman from Manchester, and very quiet. Mrs. Hooper made some trouble about the dinner.” She retailed grisly gossip of the boarding house.
“Send me up something cold on a tray,” said Fanny. “I am going to bed early. I have a very important appointment to-morrow.”
She was looking forward to her appointment with Larry Holt in no great spirit of enthusiasm.
It was half-past seven when the woman undressed slowly and went to bed. She was deadly tired, and she fell asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. The dreams of evil-doers are no more unsound as a rule than the dreams of the pure and virtuous. But Fanny was over-tired and dreamt badly—ghastly dreams of monstrous shapes; of high buildings on the parapet of which she was poised, ready to fall; of men who chased her armed with long bright knives—and she turned and twisted in her bed restlessly. Then she dreamt she had committed a murder: she had murdered Gordon Stuart. She had never heard of Gordon Stuart until Larry had mentioned his name, but she pictured him as a weak youth.
And now the day of doom had come, she dreamt, and they brought her from the cell with her hands strapped behind her, and she paced slowly by the side of a white-robed clergyman into a little shed. And then a man, an executioner, had stepped out, and he had the mocking face of Blind Jake. She felt the rope about her neck, and tried to scream, but it was choking her, choking her. She woke up.
Two hands were about her throat, and in the reflected light from a street lamp outside she looked up into the sightless face of Blind Jake. It was no dream, it was reality! She tried to move, but he held her so that she was powerless. One of his knees pressed on her and he was talking softly, a sibilant whisper, meant only for her ear.
“Fanny, you gave me away,” he whispered. “You gave me away, you devil! Poor old Blind Jake! You tried to put him into jug, you did! I know all about it. I’ve got a little pal at Todd’s who told me. And now you’re going out, d’ye hear?”
She was choking, choking; she could not articulate, she felt her face going purple and the cruel hands tightening. And then the light switched on, and the “man from Manchester” who had occupied the bedroom on the opposite side of the landing, and who had waited throughout the night listening for the stealthy tread of Blind Jake, knowing that he would come after he had learnt he was betrayed—Larry Holt, a long Browning in his hand, covered the strangler.
“Put up your hands, Jake,” he said, and Blind Jake turned round with a low growl like the snarl of a tiger at bay.
For a moment they stood thus, neither man moving, then Jake put up his hands slowly.
“Got a little gun, have ye?” he growled. “You’re not going to hurt a poor old man, Mr. Holt?”
“Come forward steadily,” said Larry, “and don’t try any tricks or you’ll be sorry for yourself.”
“Sorry enough now, Mr. Holt,” grumbled the man.
It was wonderful to watch him. He moved as lightly as a girl and his extraordinary sixth sense enabled him to avoid every obstacle which stood in his way.
Larry was in a dilemma. The man’s advance toward him brought the half-fainting woman on the bed in the line of fire. But for that he undoubtedly intended to shoot if the man showed fight, but it was impossible to fire now, even to save his life, without risking the life of Fanny Weldon. And yet it would have been unfair and asking the impossible to expect the man to advance by any other way, the furniture in the room being disposed as it was. But the real danger to Larry he never saw until it was upon him.
The big man came forward, his hands in the air, and one of them touched awkwardly the hanging electric light. And then before Larry knew or guessed what was happening, the big man’s hand closed round the bulb, there was a deafening explosion as it burst under the pressure, and the room was in darkness.
To fire now would have been madness, and Larry put one foot back and braced himself to meet the shock of the body which he knew was hurtling toward him. And then he found himself in the hands of Blind Jake. Diana had not exaggerated his strength. It was terrific, and though Larry was a strong man he felt himself going under. What might have been the result of that struggle, Larry Holt has never speculated upon in cold blood. But there came an interruption, the sound of an opening door on the landing above and a man’s voice, and then Blind Jake lifted the detective as though he had been a bundle of rags, and flung him to the other end of the room, where he lay gasping and breathless.
A second later the door had opened and Blind Jake was going down the carpeted stairs faster than any man with eyesight would have dared.
Larry struggled to his feet, took his flash lamp from the floor and found his revolver where it had dropped. He picked it up and, running to the window, flung it open and peered out. But Blind Jake had already gone round the corner.
Somebody brought another bulb, and Larry went to look after the girl. She was still unconscious, the purple marks about her throat testifying to the character of Blind Jake’s grip.
“You had better get a doctor,” he said to the landlady, who was the third person in the room, and she looked at him with suspicion and distrust.
“What were you doing in this room?” she asked accusingly. “I am going to send for a policeman.”
“Send for two,” said Larry, “and get a doctor.”
Fortunately the police station was near at hand, and the divisional surgeon had been called to examine a doubtful case of drunkenness, and he was on the spot within a few minutes.
By this time the woman had come back to life, but had subsided into a condition of hysteria painful to witness.
“You had better get her into an infirmary or a hospital, I think, doctor,” said Holt, and the surgeon agreed.
He was looking at the marks about her throat with a puzzled expression.
“No man could have done this,” he said, “he must have used an instrument of some kind.”
Larry laughed. It was a very rueful laugh.
“If you think that, doctor,” he said, “you’d better have a look at my throat,” and he showed the red weal where Blind Jake’s thumb and finger had gripped.
“Do you mean to say that he did that to you?” asked the doctor incredulously.
“I do not mean to say very much about it,” said Larry, “because it is not an adventure of which I am inordinately proud, but he picked me up like a tennis ball and chucked me amongst the crockery-ware under the window.”
The doctor whistled. By this time the landlady had been assured of Larry’s bona fides and was at once apologetic and tearful at the indignity which had been offered to her house by the presence, even for one night, of a detective officer.
Larry went out into the street to breathe the night air. He was dizzy and shaky and sore. The fact that he, Larry Holt, who had pretensions to winning the middle-weight amateur championship, had been treated like a punch-ball did not distress him. What made him grave was the knowledge that there was loose in the world, and in the city of London, a man of the criminal classes more dangerous than a tiger, with the strength of a bear and an intelligence which was little better than a monkey’s.
“And that exhausts the whole Zoölogical Gardens,” said Larry after he had enumerated the unpleasant qualities of his assailant.
Half an hour afterwards every police station received an all-stations message, and the hunt for Blind Jake had begun.
Larry reached his flat at three o’clock, and Sunny was dozing peacefully in a chair. He aroused his servant with a gentle tap.
“Sunny,” said he, “I have had the experience of a lifetime.”
“I suppose you have, sir,” said Sunny, blinking himself awake. “Will you have some coffee, too, sir?”
Larry was thinking, thinking, thinking. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his legs wide apart, gazing down at the hearthrug.
“He took me by the scruff of the neck, Sunny,” he said softly, “and he threw me to the other side of the room.”
“He would, sir,” said Sunny. “What time would you like your tea in the morning?”
Weary and sick as he was, Larry had to laugh.
“If I were brought home with my neck broken, Sunny,” he demanded irritably, “what would you do?”
“I should stop the morning papers, sir,” said Sunny without hesitation. “I think I should be doing right, sir.”
“Haven’t you got a heart?” snarled Larry.
“No, sir,” was the surprising reply. “The doctor says it’s indigestion, sir.”
Larry made a gesture of despair, kicked off his boots, slipped off his coat and vest, followed that with his collar and tie, and loosening his braces, he lay down on the bed and pulled the eiderdown over him. He did this partly because he was very tired and partly because he knew that it would annoy Sunny.
There was a fashionable wedding on the Monday at St. George’s, Hanover Square. A queue of motor-cars and broughams stretched in all directions and lined both sides of the streets and partly filled Hanover Square.
Amongst those present, as they say, was Mr. Frederick Grogan. Flash Fred had not been invited, for two reasons. In the first place, the friends of bride and bridegroom did not know him, and in the second place he would not have been invited if they had. But a little thing like an invitation did not worry Fred. He knew that when the family of the bride and the bridegroom were meeting for the first time and were regarding one another with mutual suspicion and deprecation, and when all sorts of obscure cousins emerged from the oblivion which happily covered them and were not even recognizable to the principal actors in the great drama, that a face such as his, and a smartly tailored figure such as he possessed, would pass muster and gain for him a prominent seat. So he arrived at St. George’s in a glossy silk hat, white kid gloves, and perfectly pressed trousers, and made his way up the aisle, where he was mistaken for the bridegroom.
He had not come because he wished to break into society, but because it was a fashion for women to wear their precious jewels in the early hours of the morning at such functions as these. He had no particular piece of villainy in view. He was merely surveying the land as a good general might survey a possible battlefield.
Marriages did not interest him. He regarded them as superfluous ceremonies indulged in by the idle rich and the hopeless bourgeoisie. The ceremony, which was long, bored him to extinction, and he heartily regretted having taken so prominent a place and being prevented, in consequence, from stealing gently out, or from watching the people who were in his rear. At last the service ended, the organ pealed a triumphant note, and the bride and bridegroom, looking extremely ashamed of themselves, proceeded solemnly down the aisle, and Fred fell in, in the ranks of the near and dear, and came out on to the steps.
He was wondering whether it would be politic or advisable to go on to the reception, having discovered where that reception would be held, when somebody touched his arm, and he turned quickly.
“Hallo, Dr. Judd!” he said, relieved, “I thought it was that fellow Holt. He follows me about until he’s got on my nerves.”
Dr. Judd, a fine figure of a man in his morning dress, was eyeing him sternly.
“You told me you were going to Nice,” he said.
“I missed the train,” replied Fred glibly, “and my pal went on without me. I’m staying over for a few days and then I hope to get away.”
Dr. Judd was thoughtful.
“Walk a little way along with me,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
They walked without speaking a word to one another into Hanover Square, and turned toward Bond Street.
“You are getting on my nerves, Mr. Grogan,” said Dr. Judd. “At least I thought I had the satisfaction of knowing that you were taking abnormal risks on the continent of Europe. Instead I find you living a fashionable life in Jermyn Street.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know I was still here?” asked Fred quickly.
“I said nothing of the sort,” replied the calm doctor, “I merely remarked that I thought you had said you were going to Nice.”
“Oh, you knew I was here, then,” said Fred.
“I had heard you were here,” said Dr. Judd. “Now, Mr. Grogan, don’t you think you and I should effect some sort of compromise?”
Fred was all ears.
“In what way?” he asked cautiously.
“Suppose,” said Dr. Judd, “I gave you a lump sum down on condition that you did not bother me again?”
Nothing better suited Fred’s plans. Supposing the sum were a reasonable one, he would be saved the bother and anxiety of a burglary. Or he might even add that relaxation to swell his profits.
“I’m agreeable,” he said, after a reasonable pause, and Dr. Judd eyed him seriously.
“You will have to keep faith with me,” he said. “I do not intend parting with £12,000——”
“Twelve thousand pounds!” said Fred quickly. “Yes, that seems a nice tidy sum.”
“I repeat,” said the doctor, “I do not intend parting with that sum unless I have a guarantee that you will not molest me again. Will you dine with me at my house in Chelsea to-morrow night at eight o’clock?”
Fred nodded.
“There will be a few people to dinner,” said the doctor, “but nobody who knows you, and I must ask as a personal favour that you will not endeavour to follow up any acquaintance you make to-morrow night.”
“Don’t you think I am too much of a gentleman to do that sort of thing?” asked Fred, virtuously indignant.
“I don’t,” said the doctor shortly, and parted from him at the corner of Bond Street.
Twelve thousand pounds! That was a most admirable arrangement, and Fred, whose funds were getting low, trod on air as he strolled down Old Bond Street toward Piccadilly.
In his exaltation, when his generous soul had swollen, and his whole mental system was experiencing the sensation of largeness, he saw a girl on the opposite side of the road. Hers was not a face to be forgotten. He had seen it once under an electric light between St. Martin’s and the Strand, and he increased his pace, crossing the road and following behind her, not, however, without an anxious glance behind him. For once Larry Holt was invisible.
“It could not have happened better,” said Fred, for he was sensible of his fine appearance.
He overtook her at the corner of Piccadilly and raised his hat with a smile, and for a moment Diana was under the impression that she knew this stranger and her hand was halfway up when he made the mistake of repeating that fashionable formula:
“Haven’t you and I met before somewhere?”
She drew her hand back.
“My dear,” said Fred, “you’re the most wonderful thing in the world, and I simply want to know you!”
This, too, was part of the formula and had been effective on many occasions.
“Then you had better call on me,” she said, and Flash Fred scarcely believed his good fortune.
She opened the little leather bag she carried and took out a card, scribbling a number.
“A million thanks!” said Fred elegantly as he took the card. “I’ll give you mine in a minute. Now what about a little dinner——” He lifted the card and read: “Miss Diana Ward—a beautiful name,” he said. “Diana! Room 47,” and then his face underwent a change. “Scotland Yard!” he said hollowly.
“Yes, I am with Mr. Larry Holt,” she said sweetly, and Fred swallowed something.
“If he ain’t here you’re here, and if you’re not here he’s here,” he said savagely. “Why can’t you leave a gentleman alone?”
That afternoon Diana made a request of her employer which disappointed him a little.
“Certainly,” he said, “I shan’t want you this evening. Going to a dance, do you say?”
She nodded.
“That’s fine,” he said heartily. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”
It chilled him a little, for he was so completely absorbed by the game that he could not understand that what was fun to him was work to her. She must have read his thoughts, for she said, with a little jerk of her chin which was characteristic of her:
“I am merely going on duty, Mr. Holt. I should not have thought of going to the dance, but the man who asked me is a young underwriter to whom I was secretary for about six months,” she said.
“You seem to have started work at a very early age,” he smiled. “Did you go to a public school?”
“I went to a council school,” she replied quietly. “My aunt who brought me up was very poor.”
“You didn’t know your father and mother?”
She shook her head.
“I hope you’re not going to associate me with the missing Clarissa,” she smiled. “I am afraid my origin is a little less romantic. I am always expecting to find my father figuring in the records of Scotland Yard, if he is alive, for Mrs. Ward never spoke of him except in uncomplimentary terms. Yes, I did begin work rather young.”
“You say you are going on duty,” he interrupted her. “What do you mean?”
She went to her desk and took up her handbag, opened it and produced a letter.
“It will interest you to know,” she smiled, “that Mr. Gray’s wife will be there to chaperon me and joins in the invitation.”
It did interest Larry very much indeed. He did not say so because he thought it might be indiscreet, and he was not quite sure of how he would express the pleasure that news brought to him.
“Here is the paragraph that made me decide to go,” said the girl, and read:
“We have had a pretty bad time lately. The loss of a ship in the Baltic hit my partner rather hard, and I have had to pay out a very considerable sum of money over the death of a man named Stuart.”
“Stuart?” said Larry quickly. “That can’t be our Stuart. By the way, the jury have just returned a verdict of ‘Found drowned’ in that case. We did not care to oppose the verdict, or offer any evidence which might put the murderers on their guard. Stuart, eh?” he nodded to himself several times. “I owe you an apology, Diana,” he said, using her name for the first time. “I thought you were going to frivol, and I was hoping that you were sufficiently interested in this case to give your whole mind to it.”
She looked at him with kindling eyes, and her face was flushed pink.
“I am giving all my mind to it,” she said in a low voice. “It is lovely working with you,” and then, to change the subject, she told him of her adventure with Fred.
“Poor old Fred,” chuckled Larry. “You have the satisfaction of knowing that he will avoid you like the plague for the future. What time will you come back?” he asked.
“Why?” She was surprised.
“I was wondering whether you could come here, or whether I’d be waiting on the door-mat for you in Charing Cross Road. I want to know what you have discovered.”
She nibbled her finger thoughtfully.
“I will come to the Yard,” she said. “I’ll be here soon after eleven.”
She looked with narrowed eyes at the mark on his throat.
“Does that feel awfully sore?” she asked sympathetically.
“Not so bad,” said Larry. “Injury to vanity doing very badly. It will take some time before that heals.”
“He must be terribly strong,” she said with a shudder. “I shall never forget that night on the stairs. I suppose there is no news of him?”
“None whatever,” said Larry. “He’s gone to ground.”
“Are you watching the Home?”
“The Home?” he said in surprise. “No, I don’t think that is necessary. The superintendent seems a very decent sort of man. I saw the local police inspector and he told me that every man in the Home is an honest character, and he can vouch for all of them except the fellow they call ‘Lew.’ He was the man I saw upstairs who seemed to be half-demented.”
“I want to ask you a favour,” she said. “Will you take me to-morrow to the Home?”
“Ye-es,” he hesitated. “But——”
“But will you?”
“Surely if you wish to go, but I don’t think you’ll find any clue there to bring us nearer to the gentleman who murdered Stuart.”
“I wonder?” she said thoughtfully.
She permitted him to lunch with her that day: it was a joyous meal for Larry and he was unusually incoherent. The afternoon was a more serious time for him, for his search for documentary proof that Diana’s theory was correct and that Mrs. Stuart had had twin daughters had been unavailing. There was no record of the children’s births, though the files at Somerset House had been diligently examined.
“Check Number Two,” said Larry.
“Which will be overcome,” replied the girl, “though it is curious that a woman of Mrs. Stuart’s position should have neglected to register her children.”
She said this and smiled, and Larry asked her why.
“Mrs. Ward had views on that subject. My aunt, whose name I bear,” she said. “She hated vaccination, registration, and education!”
“What happened to your aunt? Did she die?” asked Larry.
The girl was silent.
“No—she didn’t die.”
She said this so strangely that Larry looked at her and the girl went crimson.
“I oughtn’t to talk about her if I’m not prepared to go on,” she said quietly. “I—I come from a very bad stock, Mr. Holt. My aunt stole from her employer, and I rather think she made a practice of doing so. At any rate, when I was twelve, she went away for quite a long time and I never saw her again.”
Larry crossed the room and laid his hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“My dear,” he said, “you have succeeded in shaking loose and establishing yourself in a truly marvellous way. I am very proud of you.”
When she looked up her eyes were filled with tears.
“I think she drank: I’m not quite sure. She was very good to me when I needed her most,” she said. “I would like to know what has happened to her, but I simply dare not ask.”
“She went to prison?”
The girl shook her head.
“I think it was an inebriates’ home,” she said. “Now, what are you doing this afternoon?” she demanded briskly, and Larry laid down his programme, dictated a letter or two, and went out, leaving her to finish them.
With every step he took, the Stuart mystery grew more and more of a tangle. Dead ends and culs-de-sac met him at every turn, and even the fact that Stuart had been murdered was no fact, but a theory based upon the eccentricity of the tide which had left his body on the steps of the Embankment, and a piece of paper, now stolen, embossed with Braille characters.
He stopped in his walk when he was halfway up Northumberland Avenue, and took out his pocket-book.
“Murdered… dear… sea…” he read, and shook his head.
“Why the ‘dear’?” he wondered. The man who attempted to betray the murderers would not go to the trouble of writing “dear sir,” and, anyway, it occurred in the wrong place. For the girl had pointed out the characters at the end of the second line.
“Dear, dear, dear,” he repeated as he strolled along, and then, for no reason at all, a name came into his mind. Dearborn! He laughed quietly. That good soul of a clergyman, labouring amongst the men who lived in everlasting darkness! He shook his head again. It is a fact which all people can verify that if you see an unusual name for the first time you meet with it again in the course of twenty-four hours. His walk carried him beyond Shaftesbury Avenue, and in passing a theatre the name caught his eye. He checked himself and stooped down to read the playbill of a theatre.
“John Dearborn,” he read.
Dearborn was apparently the author of the play which was being performed here. What was the theatre? He stepped back in the roadway and looked up at the name in coloured glass on the edge of the awning. The Macready! It was from the Macready Theatre that Gordon Stuart disappeared!
Without hesitation he walked into the vestibule to the booking-office and his quick eyes fell upon the plan which the office keeper had before him. There were precious few blue marks, indicating that seats had been taken.
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. John Dearborn?” he asked.
The office keeper looked at him with an air of pained resignation.
“You’re not a friend of the management’s, are you?”
“No,” admitted Larry, “I am not.”
“You’re not a friend of Mr. Dearborn’s, by any chance, are you?” asked the clerk carelessly, and Larry shook his head. “Well,” said the man, “I’ll speak my mind. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I don’t know where to find Mr. Dearborn, and I wish the management didn’t know where to find him either! I’m leaving this week,” he said, “so it doesn’t matter very much what I say. He’s about the rottenest playwright that the world has ever seen. I’m not choking you off buying a seat, am I?” he asked good-humouredly.
“No, no,” said Larry with a smile.
“Well, I won’t persuade you to buy one,” said the box-office keeper. “I haven’t any grudge against you, anyway! We had six people in at the Saturday matinée, and we look like having three to-night. The only people who take any interest in this play are the Commissioners in Lunacy, who come along and watch the audience, and whenever a lunatic breaks out of Hanwell they send the keepers here to search the house.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Do you know where I can find the author of this unfortunate play?”
The clerk shrugged his shoulders.
“He runs a mission for something or other in the West End. Poor chap, he’s blind, and maybe I oughtn’t to slate him. But he writes rotten plays.”
“Is he continuously writing plays?” asked Larry in surprise.
“Continuously,” said the other glumly. “I think he writes them in his sleep.”
“And they’re all produced?”
The man nodded.
“And they’re all failures?”
Again the man nodded.
“But why? Surely the management would not produce successive failures from the same pen?”
“They do,” said the clerk in despair, “and that is why the Macready is a byword——”
“How long has John Dearborn been writing?” asked Larry.
“Oh, about ten years. Mind you, it’s not bad stuff in parts. It’s more mad than bad.”
“Does he ever come here?”
“Never,” said the man, shaking his head. “I don’t know why, but he doesn’t, not even to rehearsals.”
“One more question. To whom does the theatre belong?”
“To a syndicate,” said the clerk, who was now growing restive under the questions. “May I ask why you’re making all these inquiries?”
“I’m just asking,” said Larry with a smile, and seeing that no more information could be got, he went out.
It was rather an amazing situation, he thought. But to connect that one word “dear” with the author of bad plays, or give to Mr. Dearborn, an obvious philanthropist, any evil significance, was absurd. He was outside the theatre when he suddenly remembered and went back.
“As a great personal favour,” he said, “could I see the house?”
The clerk demurred at first, but eventually summoned an attendant.
“You’ll find it pretty dark,” he said. “The house lights are not on.”
Larry followed the attendant into the dress-circle and surveyed the little theatre. It was in gloom. The curtain was down, and the seats were sheeted in holland.
“Which is Box A?” asked Larry, for that was what he came to see.
The man led him along a passage through a heavy curtain and down a narrower passage which ran at the back of the boxes, and at the end he stopped and opened a door on his right. Larry stepped in. The box was in darkness, and he lit a match.
There was nothing peculiar about Box A, except that the carpet on the floor was thick and rich and the three chairs which formed its furniture were beautifully designed.
“Are all the boxes furnished like this?” asked Larry.
“No, sir,” said the man, “only Box A.”
Larry came out and examined the passage. Opposite the door of Box A, a thick red curtain was draped on the wall. He drew it aside and found an iron door on which in red letters were the words “Exit in case of fire.”
“Where does this lead to?” he asked.
“To a side street, sir,” said the man. “To Cowley Street. It is not really a street, but a passage which is the property of this theatre and is blocked up at one end.”
Larry tipped the man and went out. He was nearer to the solution of Gordon Stuart’s disappearance and murder at that moment than he had ever been before. And he knew it.
He was in his office at half-past ten that night, waiting impatiently for the arrival of the girl, and endeavouring by self-analysis to discover whether his eagerness to see her was due to his professional zeal or to his personal interest in the girl herself.
She came at ten minutes to eleven, and he, who had never seen her before save in her working dress, was stricken dumb at the sight of this radiant beauty. He could not know that the black tulle dress she wore cost her something less than £5, or that the bandeau of black leaves about her golden hair cost something short of ten shillings. To him she was magnificently arrayed, and a creature so divine and ethereal that he hardly dared speak to her.
“Come in,” he said; “you’re making the furniture look shabby.”
She laughed, dropped her cloak on her chair, and Larry forgot the official and important side of her visit and would have continued in oblivion if she had not brought him to earth with a triumphant:
“I’ve got it!”
“Got it?” he stammered. “Oh, yes, you saw your underwriting friend.”
She opened a little satin bag and took out a piece of paper.
“I’ve made some notes,” she said. “My friend was very hard hit by Stuart’s death, and it is this Stuart.”
Larry whistled.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
“My friend is an underwriter. He’s in the insurance business,” she explained. “When a man has his life insured for a very large sum, as you probably know, the company that issues the policy does not retain all the risk. It sends round to other offices and to various underwriters offering each underwriter some of the responsibility. It appears that my friend, the underwriter, underwrote three thousand pounds’ worth of the reinsurance.”
“Three thousand pounds’ worth?” said Larry in astonishment. “Then, in the name of Heaven, for how much was Stuart insured?”
“I asked that,” she nodded, and lifted her paper. “On the policy which was endorsed by Mr. Gray the sum of £50,000 was mentioned, but Mr. Gray says that there was another policy for a similar amount.”
Larry sat down, his eyes gleaming.
“So that was the business end of Stuart’s death, was it? Insured for £100,000! Did your friend pay?”
“Naturally he paid,” said the girl, “the moment the company which had accepted the insurance had sent in its claim. He had nothing else to do but to find the money.”
“What is the name of the company?”
She paused and looked at him.
“The Greenwich Insurance Company,” she replied slowly, and he jumped to his feet.
“Dr. Judd,” he said softly.
He escorted the girl downstairs, and they stood talking in the hall. There was a car at the door, a luxury which she easily explained.
She was using the Grays’ car, which was to go back and pick up the underwriter and his wife at two o’clock.
“I hate declining your invitation,” said Larry, “but I am hanging on to the end of a wire. I sent Harvey on a tour of investigation to-day, and he promised to ’phone me round about midnight.”
She was looking at him in some concern.
“Aren’t you rather overdoing it?” she said. “You don’t get any sleep.”
He laughed.
“I am one of those fortunate people who can do without sleep,” he said boastfully, and then an official came out of one of the ground-floor rooms.
“There is a call through for you, sir,” he said.
“Come along,” said Larry. “I may get this business off and then I shall be able to revel in that millionaire feeling.”
He went back to his room and the girl followed. It was not Sergeant Harvey who had called him, but the inspector in charge of the Oxford Lane police station.
“Is that Inspector Holt?” he asked.
“That’s me,” said Larry ungrammatically.
“You circulated a description of a sleeve-link of black enamel and diamonds.”
“Yes,” said Larry quickly.
“Well,” said the man, “Mr. Emden, of Emden and Smith, pawnbrokers, brought a pair of links exactly tallying with the description published in the Hue and Cry.”
“Have you got them there?” asked Larry eagerly.
“No, sir,” said the inspector. “But Mr. Emden is here, if you would like to interview him. He can get the links in the morning. He happened to be reading the Hue and Cry to-night after dinner and he came upon the description, and immediately walked over to the station. He lives close by.”
“I’ll come down,” said Larry.
“What is it?” asked the girl. “Have they found the links?”
Larry shook his head.
“They’ve found a pair of links exactly like the one which was found in Gordon Stuart’s hand,” he said, a little puzzled. “I can’t understand that. If it had been half a link, or a link and a half, that would have been clearly a clue.”
He looked dubiously at the switchboard and the operator.
“If Sergeant Harvey comes through,” he said, “tell him to ring me again, or if he is in reach of the office to come back and wait for me. I am going to the Oxford Lane police station. Incidentally,” he said to the girl as they came out, “I will accept a lift in your palatial conveyance.”
He dropped her at her flat. There was a lounger outside who saluted Larry.
“You are not putting a guard on me?” said the girl in surprise. “I think that’s unnecessary, Mr. Holt.”
“My own experience tells me that it is very necessary,” said Larry grimly. “The gentleman who tossed me about as though I were a feather is not wanting in courage. There is no other way into the house except by this front door, is there?” he asked the detective on duty.
“No, sir, I have had a good look round, and I’ve also been into the lady’s rooms.”
She gasped.
“How?” she asked.
“I had a duplicate key made from yours,” said Larry. “I hope you don’t mind. And talking of keys,” he added, “the appearance of Blind Jake in Fanny Weldon’s room is now no mystery at all. She had given him a key of the house in case she missed him with the swag on Saturday night. He was to come up and take it from her. She was in such terror of him that she did not dare refuse the key, but she must have forgotten she had loaned it, for she would never have slept.”
He said good-night to her and went on to Oxford Lane on foot.
Mr. Emden proved to be a mild little man in pince-nez.
“I happened to be running through the list of properties stolen,” he said, “and I came upon this description of yours, Mr. Holt.”
He showed a fold of the paper on which a drawing of the link, whose fellow was sought, appeared.
“You say you have a pair?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man. “It was pledged with me this morning. As a matter of fact, it happened to be me who took the pledge. I don’t as a rule work behind the counter, but one of my clerks had gone on a message, and when the man came in I took the links and gave the pledger £4 for them.”
“They are not of a usual pattern, are they?” asked Larry, and Mr. Emden shook his head.
“They are very unusual,” he said. “I don’t remember having seen a pair exactly like those before. I think they must be of a French make. They were slightly damaged. Three of the diamonds on the rim were missing or I should have given him a great deal more.”
“Do you know the man who pledged them?”
“No, sir. He was a smart-looking fellow who told me he’d got tired of them. My impression was——” He hesitated.
“Well?” said Larry.
“Well, I thought, in spite of his good appearance, that he looked like one of these smart thieves that abound in the West End, and I had an idea that he was pledging them, not so much because he wanted the money, but because he wanted to put them in a safe place. A thief will often do that and take the chance of the pawnbroker discovering that the property is missing or wanted by the police.”
Larry nodded.
“Smartly dressed,” he said thoughtfully, and then quickly: “Did he wear any diamonds?”
“Yes, sir,” said the pawnbroker, “that is why I thought he was planting the stuff. Four pounds isn’t much to advance on property of that value, but he didn’t make any fuss.”
“What name?” asked Larry.
“He gave the name of Mr. Frederick, and I think an accommodation address.”
“Flash Fred!” said Larry. “Is Jermyn Street in your district?” he asked the inspector.
“Yes, sir,” said the officer.
“Send a couple of men out and pull in Flash Fred. Bring him here first, and afterwards, if it is necessary, I’ll take him to Cannon Row.”
“Is it an arrest?” asked the inspector.
“A detention merely. He may be able to explain, but I think he’ll have to be clever if he gets out of this. Now, Mr. Emden,” he said, turning to the pawnbroker, “I’m afraid I can’t wait until the morning and I must ask you to accompany me to your shop and let me have the actual links.”
“With pleasure, sir,” said the pawnbroker. “I expected something like that and I brought my keys over. My shop is only about five minutes’ walk away.”
Accompanied by a plain-clothes officer they went to the shop and Mr. Emden fitted the key in the side door, but as he pressed the key into the keyhole the door gave.
“Why, the door’s open,” he said in surprise, and went quickly down the side passage. He tried another door, but there was no need even to go through the formality of putting a key in the lock. The door was ajar and Larry’s pocket lamp revealed the mark of the jemmy that had opened it. The pawnbroker hurried into his main premises and switched on the light.
A book lay on the counter, open at the page of that day’s transactions.
“Where did you put these links?” asked Larry quickly.
“In the safe, in my private office,” said the man. “Look,” he returned to the book, “there is the number.”
“Also the word ‘safe,’ ” said Larry, “and somehow I don’t think you’ll see your safe intact.”
And his words proved prophetic. The big “burglar-proof” safe presented a somewhat untidy appearance, for a hole had been burnt in the steel and the lock had disappeared. Articles of value there were none. Every package had been cleared out.
“I think they have got those links,” said Larry grimly.
After the discovery in the pawnbroker’s shop Larry went back to the police station to make yet another discovery. Flash Fred was not in his lodgings.
“I wish you would come down and see his flat, sir,” said the officer who had gone to make the arrest. “I think that something queer has happened.”
“If there has been anything in this case which has not been queer,” said Larry with asperity, “I should like to hear about it!”
Flash Fred lived in Modley House, Jermyn Street, a block of service flats, and the porter had a strange story to tell.
“Mr. Grogan came in at about eleven o’clock to-night,” he said, “and went up to his flat. I took him a syphon of soda he ordered, and said good-night to him.
“Afterwards I went round seeing that the service doors were shut and that the lights had been out in the kitchen, then came to my cubby-hole to have my supper and read the evening newspaper.”
The “cubby-hole” was a space under the stairway which had been converted into a little office where the tenants left their keys.
“At about half-past twelve I thought I heard a sound like a shot and a man’s voice shout something and I came out into the passage and listened. There was still a sort of disturbance going on, so I went up to the second floor where the sound came from and listened again. There was a light in Mr. Grogan’s flat. I could see that through the transom. It was the only light visible. I knocked at the door and after a while Mr. Grogan came to the door, and I tell you he was a most terrifying sight. He had a big knife in his hand and his clothes were smothered with blood.
“ ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Come in.’
“I went into the sitting room and a pretty sight it was! Chairs thrown over, the table upside down, and glasses and bottles scattered over the floor. Outside Mr. Grogan’s window are the stairs of the fire escape, and the window was open.
“ ‘What’s wrong, sir?’ I asked.
“ ‘Nothing particular,’ he said, ‘only a burglar broke in. That’s all. Give me a whisky-and-soda.’
“He was trembling from head to foot and was very excited. He kept muttering to himself, but I didn’t hear what he said. When I came back with the whisky-and-soda he had cleaned the knife and was more calm. I found him standing at the open window, looking down into the yard, where the fire escape leads, and then I noticed that one of the pictures hanging on the wall was smashed by a bullet. I knew it was a bullet because I was in the Metropolitan Police for some years, and I’ve seen a similar mark. I told him there would be serious trouble over this disturbance because the other tenants would complain, but he asked me not to worry about that, and gave me £50 to pay his rent and any expenses that we had been put to, and asked me to keep the flat until he returned. He said he was going abroad.”
“What happened then?” asked Larry when the man paused.
“Well, sir, he came out with a bag, got into a cab and drove off, and that’s the last I saw of him.”
Larry made an examination of the room and he found that the porter’s description had been a faithful one. The room was illuminated by a cluster of three lights hanging from the ceiling and covered by a shade. One of the globes was smashed, and Larry drew the attention of the porter to this.
“Yes, sir, these lights work on two circuits: one switch turns on one and the other switch turns on two. As a rule Mr. Grogan only has the single light on.”
Larry nodded.
“I pretty well know what happened,” he said.
He could picture the scene in the room: the intruder coming through the window, Flash Fred covering him with his revolver, and the big man advancing with upraised hands until he could reach the globe and crush it in his powerful paw. And then Fred had fired and the man was on him, but Fred was too slippery. Fred had been cleverer than he. These continental crooks who take enormous risks do not depend so much upon their guns as upon their knives, and to Blind Jake’s surprise—for Blind Jake it must have been—Grogan had met the onrush and the suffocating hug of this animal-man with a steel blade, and, releasing his hold, Blind Jake must have made his escape through the open window. But where was Fred? In that moment Larry felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for the crook. He, too, then, had stumbled by accident or design upon the murderer of Gordon Stuart.
What was that clue? He must find Flash Fred, and find him at once, for this thief might have in his hands a solution to the mystery.
He went home, ’phoned to headquarters, and discovered that Harvey had made a negative report, took a bath, and went to bed. He slept for four hours; and then by his instructions Sunny, who seemed equally able to dispense with the recuperation of sleep, brought him his tea and toast.
“What time is it?” asked Larry, blinking himself awake.
“Nine o’clock, sir,” said Sunny. “The postman has come and the papers have been.”
“Bring me my letters,” said Larry, jumping out of bed.
He looked them through as he sipped his tea.
One had come, evidently delivered by hand, for there was no stamp upon the envelope.
“When did this arrive?” he asked the valet when Sunny returned to the room.
“It was in the box when I got up, sir,” said Sunny. “I think it must have come by hand.”
“You’re a fool, Sunny,” snapped Larry. “Of course it came by hand.”
“I’m glad you agree with me, sir,” said the imperturbable Sunny.
Larry ripped open the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. It began without any polite preliminary:
You had better interest yourself in another case, Mr. Holt. You will get into serious trouble if you do not heed this warning.
“Oh, yes,” said Larry, and rang the bell.
“Sunny,” he said, “bring me my coat and the papers that are in the inside pocket.”
Larry searched for and found the letter which Flash Fred had received inviting him to call at Todd’s Home at six o’clock in the morning and to avoid attracting attention.
He put the letter of warning by its side and compared them. They were in the same handwriting!
“Diana Ward, I’m a greatly rattled man,” said Larry.
The girl stopped working, her fingers poised above the keys of her typewriter; then she swung round in her chair.
“The case is growing a little clearer to me,” she said quietly.
“I wish to heaven it would grow clearer to me,” grumbled Larry. “Here is the situation. Let me recapitulate.” He ticked off the points on the fingers of one hand as he leant back in his chair. “A rich Canadian, who comes to London apparently to visit the grave of his deserted wife and child, is murdered after seeing a play at the Macready Theatre. The author of that play is John Dearborn, who admittedly writes the worst trash that has ever been seen on the stage. But that doesn’t make him a murderer. And, moreover, he is a respectable clergyman engaged in a great humanitarian work amongst the blind. The murdered Stuart leaves, written on the inside of his shirt-front, a will leaving the whole of his property to a daughter, who apparently has no existence, so far as we can discover. Certain clues are found, one a piece of Braille writing, another a black enamel and diamond sleeve-link which is found in the dead man’s hand. The Braille writing is stolen from Scotland Yard; the sleeve-links, when they fall into the possession of Flash Fred and are pawned by him for security, are regarded by some person or persons unknown as being of such importance that a burglary is committed at the pawnbroker’s shop in which they are pledged, with no other object, I should imagine, than to recover those links. Moreover, the agent of the enemy proceeds first to attempt your abduction, then the murder of Fanny Weldon, who committed the burglary at Scotland Yard, which is understandable, and then the destruction of Flash Fred, which is also within my understanding. As a matter of fact, the only inexplicable point in the whole case,” he said with a smile, “is their attempt to strafe you.”
She nodded.
“That is a mystery to me, too,” she confessed.
“We have now discovered,” said Larry, ticking off the point on another finger, “that Stuart was heavily insured, at the office of Dr. Judd, of the Greenwich Insurance Company. Dr. Judd makes no secret of the fact that this insurance was effected.”
“Have you seen Dr. Judd?” she asked in surprise.
“I have telephoned to him,” he said, “and I am seeing him this morning. Perhaps you will come along with me—we can postpone our visit to the Home until this afternoon.”
He saw her face brighten up.
“You like to be in this game, don’t you?” he bantered her.
“I think it’s wonderfully fascinating,” she replied, “and I like to be close to things. I had a feeling yesterday that you thought I wasn’t keen.”
Larry blushed guiltily.
“It was only for a second,” he admitted, “and it was very unworthy, and after all, why should you elect to work all the hours that Heaven sends?”
“Because I want to see the murderer of Gordon Stuart brought to justice,” she answered steadily, and Larry experienced a little thrill.
Dr. Judd expected one visitor, and was to all appearances surprised agreeably when Larry’s companion came into the big managing director’s office on Bloomsbury Pavement.
“This is Dr. Judd. My secretary, Miss Ward,” introduced Larry. “Miss Ward has a very excellent memory, and it may be necessary for me to have a shorthand note of our talk.”
“I should prefer that,” said Dr. Judd. Yet he seemed ill at ease at the presence of the girl. If Larry noticed this fact, it did not alter his plans.
“I am glad you have come,” said Dr. Judd slowly. “I wanted to talk to you about the man with whom you saw me the first time we met. I am afraid that you received an altogether wrong impression, though as to this I cannot blame you, for the man is a disreputable scoundrel. Have you seen him lately?”
“I have neither seen nor heard of him for weeks,” said Larry untruthfully, and the girl found that she had to exercise all her self-control to prevent her looking up in surprise.
“Well,” said the doctor, “we can talk about that at some other time. Do you mind my smoking, Miss Ward?” She shook her head with a smile. “I am an inveterate smoker of cigarettes,” said the doctor. “I have smoked a hundred a day for twenty-five years, and my robust health gives the lie to all the anti-tobacconists!”
He laughed, and he had a very hearty and pleasant laugh. It was a gurgle of genuine merriment, which was so infectious that Diana found herself smiling in sympathy. The doctor lit a cigarette, then took a folder from his desk and opened it.
“Here are the policies,” he said. “You will notice that they are made payable to a nominee who shall be afterwards named. That authorization came to us on the day of Stuart’s death. I will show it to you presently. The matter was not brought to my attention until yesterday morning, when my clerk reminded me that we had issued these policies. Simultaneously we received a demand for the money, accompanied by a certificate of death—or, rather, a copy of the certificate issued by the coroner.”
“Which can be obtained for about five shillings,” said Larry, and Dr. Judd inclined his head.
“It was sufficient,” he said quietly, “and at any rate, when the legatees called, there was no reason in the world why I should not pay the money, and that payment was made.”
“How was it paid? By cash or cheque?”
“By open cheque, at the lady’s request.”
“At the lady’s?” said Larry and Diana together, for she had been surprised into this ejaculation.
Dr. Judd looked at her with a little smile and rubbed his hands gleefully.
“I like a secretary who takes a keen interest in affairs,” he chuckled.
“But who was the lady?” asked Larry.
The doctor took two slips of paper from the folder and laid one before the detective.
“Here is the receipt,” he said. “You see it is for one hundred thousand pounds.”
Larry took up the paper and examined it. It was signed “Clarissa Stuart!”
Larry could not believe his eyes. He handed the slip to the girl, but she had already seen the signature over his shoulder.
“Clarissa Stuart?” he said slowly. “Do you know her?”
“Never heard of her before,” said the doctor cheerfully. “But she was the person nominated to receive the proceeds of the policy.”
“What is she like?” asked Larry after a pause.
Dr. Judd was lighting a fresh cigarette from the glowing end of another, and he threw the butt into the fireplace before he replied.
“Young, pretty, fashionably dressed,” he said briefly.
“Did she seem—distressed at all?”
“Not at all,” said the doctor. “On the contrary, she was rather amusing.”
They looked at one another, Diana Ward and Larry Holt, and there was blank astonishment in each pair of eyes.
“Did this lady give any address?”
“No, it was not necessary,” said the doctor. “I told you I gave her an open cheque. Well, she seemed a little perturbed at first. She did not want a cheque; so I sent my clerk to the bank to draw the money, and when he brought it back I delivered it to her.”
“So it was in cash?” said Larry.
“Literally it was in cash I paid her,” said Dr. Judd.
“You have never seen her before?” persisted Larry.
Dr. Judd shook his head.
“She came from nowhere so far as I am concerned,” he said. “She was undoubtedly the daughter of Mr. Stuart, or at least, she told me so, and I have no reason to disbelieve her word.”
Larry and the girl were out in the street again before he spoke to the girl.
“It is amazing,” he said. His cab was waiting and he ushered the girl in. “No. 304 Nottingham Place,” he said.
“Where are we going?” asked the girl in surprise.
“We’re going to the lodgings that Stuart had,” replied Larry. “I left the investigation at that point to Sergeant Harvey, and he is a particularly thorough man, but may have missed something. Surely, if Gordon Stuart learnt on the day of his death that he had another daughter, he must have had some visitor?”
“Do you think the girl saw him?” asked Diana quickly. “Clarissa, I mean.”
“It is possible,” replied Larry, “but that is to be discovered.”
No. 304 Nottingham Place was a big and sedate-looking mansion, of the type which is patronized by American visitors of the better class, and Larry and his companion were shown into a comfortable drawing room. A few minutes after, a little lady with white hair came in.
“Mrs. Portland, isn’t it?” said Larry. “My name is Holt. I am from Scotland Yard.”
A look of dismay came to the lady’s face.
“Oh, dear,” she said, evidently distressed. “I did hope that the police had finished with me. It gets this house such a bad name, and I’ve already suffered in consequence. The poor gentleman committed suicide, didn’t he? Why he should I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I have never seen him so cheerful as he was the night just before he went to the theatre. As a rule he was so glum and sad that it depressed me to see him.”
“Cheerful before he went to the theatre?” said Larry quickly. “Unusually so?”
She nodded.
“Had he any visitors in the afternoon?”
“None, sir,” replied the lady, and Larry’s face dropped. “None at all. I told your detective officer who called that he never received visitors. He had been out in the afternoon, and I must confess that he came back a little before we expected him. We had a charwoman in, and she was making his room tidy, and the first I knew about his room was when I passed his door and I heard him having a long conversation with somebody. It was so unusual that I spoke to my head waitress about it.”
“Who was the somebody?” asked Larry, and the landlady smiled.
“It was the charwoman,” she said. “A woman I used to get in to do odd jobs. I thought it was extraordinary, because he never spoke to anybody.”
“How long was the woman with him?” asked Larry.
“Nearly an hour,” was the surprising reply.
“An hour?” said Larry. “He was talking with a charwoman for an hour? What did he talk about?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. I remember it well, because the charwoman left without drawing her wages. In fact, she must have gone straight out after leaving Mr. Stuart’s room—and she never came back.”
Larry frowned.
“That is important,” he said. “Did you tell Sergeant Harvey?”
“No, sir,” said the lady in surprise. “I didn’t think it was worth while reporting a little domestic incident like that. He asked me if Mr. Stuart had had any visitors, and I replied truthfully that he had not.”
“What was the woman’s name?”
“I don’t know,” said the landlady. “We used to call her Emma. I am surprised she didn’t come back; because she left her wedding ring here. She used to take it off before she started scrubbing. It is a peculiar ring for a woman of her position—half platinum and half gold, and—— Catch that young lady, sir,” she said suddenly.
Larry turned quickly and caught the girl as she fainted.