SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND
IT was raining hard. Stuyvesant, thoroughly alarmed and not at all
elated by his astonishing conquest, halted in dismay. The pelting
torrent swept up against the side of the canvas awning that extended to
the street; the thick matting on the sidewalk was almost afloat.
Headlights of automobiles drawn up to the curb blazed dimly through the
screen of water. He peered out beyond the narrow opening left for
pedestrians and groaned.
"Taxi!" he frantically shouted to the doorman. Some one tapped him on
the shoulder. He started as if a gun had gone off at his back. It was
all up! For once the police were on the spot when--A voice was shouting:
"By thunder, I didn't think it was in you!"
He whirled to face, not the expected bluecoat, but the sallow detective.
"My God, how you startled me!"
"I'd have bet my last dollar you hadn't the nerve to--ahem! I--I--Say,
take a tip from me. Beat it! Don't hang around here waitin' for that
girl. That guy in there is beginning to see straight again, and if he
was to bust out here and find you--Well, it would be something awful!"
"Get me a taxi, you infernal idiot!" roared the conqueror in flight,
addressing the starter.
"Have one here in five minutes, sir," began the taxi starter, grabbing
up the telephone.
"Five minutes?" gasped Stuyvie, with a quick glance over his shoulder.
"Oh, Lord! Tell one of those chauffeurs out there I'll give him ten
dollars to run me to the Grand Central Station. Hurry up!"
"The Grand Central?" exclaimed the detective. "Great Scott, man, you
don't have to beat it clear out of town, you know. What are you going to
the Station for?"
"For a taxi, you damn' fool," shouted Stuyvie. "Say, who was that man in
there?"
"Didn't you know him?"
"Never saw him in my life before,--the blighter. Who is he?"
The detective stared. He opened his mouth to reply, and as suddenly
closed it. He, too, knew on which side his bread was precariously
buttered.
"I don't know," he said.
"Well, the papers will give his name in the morning,--and mine, too,
curse them," chattered Stuyvie.
"Don't you think it," said the other promptly. "There won't be a word
about it, take it from me. That guy,--whoever he is,--ain't going to
have the newspapers say he was knocked down by a pinhead like you."
The insult passed unnoticed. Stuyvie was gazing, pop-eyed, at a man who
suddenly appeared at the mouth of the canopy, a tall fellow in a
dripping raincoat.
The newcomer's eyes were upon him. They were steady, unfriendly eyes. He
advanced slowly.
"I sha'n't wait," said Stuyvie, and swiftly passed out into the deluge.
No other course was open to him. There was trouble ahead and trouble
behind.
Thomas Trotter laughed. The sallow-faced man made a trumpet of his hands
and shouted after the departing one:
"Beat it! He's coming!"
The retreating footsteps quickened into a lively clatter. Trotter
distinctly heard the sallow-faced man chuckle.
The Marchioness and Jane went home in the big Millidew limousine instead
of in a taxi. They left the restaurant soon after the departure of
Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. The pensive-looking stranger from Scotland Yard
came out close upon their heels. He was looking for his American guide.
Trotter brought his car up to the awning and grinned broadly as he
leaned forward for "orders."
"Home, James," said Lady Jane, loftily.
"Very good, my lady," said Trotter.
The man from Scotland Yard squinted narrowly at the chauffeur's face. He
moved a few paces nearer and stared harder. For a long time after the
car had rolled away, he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, frowning
perplexedly. Then he shook his head and apparently gave it up. He went
inside to look for his friend.
The next day, the sallow-faced detective received instructions over the
telephone from one who refused to give his name to the operator. He was
commanded to keep close watch on the movements of a certain party, and
to await further orders.
"I shall be out of town for a week or ten days," explained young Mr.
Smith-Parvis.
"I see," said the sallow-faced man. "Good idea. That guy--" But the
receiver at the other end clicked rudely and without ceremony.
Stuyvesant took an afternoon train for Virginia Hot Springs. At the
Pennsylvania Station he bought all of the newspapers,--morning, noon and
night. There wasn't a line in any one of them about the fracas. He was
rather hurt about it. He was beginning to feel proud of his achievement.
By the time the train reached Philadelphia he had worked himself into
quite a fury over the way the New York papers suppress things that
really ought to be printed. Subsidized, that's what they were. Jolly
well bribed. He had given the fellow,--whoever he was,--a well-deserved
drubbing, and the world would never hear of it! Miss Emsdale would not
hear of it. He very much wished her to hear of it, too. The farther away
he got from New York the more active became the conviction that he owed
it to himself to go back there and thrash the fellow all over again, as
publicly as possible,--in front of the Public Library at four o'clock in
the afternoon, while he was about it.
He had been at Hot Springs no longer than forty-eight hours when a long
letter came from his mother. She urged him to return to New York as soon
as possible. It was imperative that he should be present at a very
important dinner she was giving on Friday night. One of the most
influential politicians in New York was to be there,--a man whose name
was a household word,--and she was sure something splendid would come of
it.
"You must not fail me, dear boy," she wrote. "I would not have him miss
seeing you for anything in the world. Don't ask me any questions. I
can't tell you anything now, but I will say that a great surprise is in
store for my darling boy."
Meanwhile the nosy individual from Scotland Yard had not been idle. The
fleeting, all too brief glimpse he had had of the good-looking chauffeur
in front of Spangler's spurred him to sudden energy in pursuit of what
had long since shaped itself as a rather forlorn hope. He got out the
photograph of the youngster in the smart uniform of the Guard, and
studied it with renewed intensity. Mentally he removed the cocky little
moustache so prevalent in the Army, and with equal arrogance tried to
put one on the smooth-faced chauffeur. He allowed for elapsed time, and
the wear and tear of three years knocking about the world, and altered
circumstances, and still the resemblance persisted.
For a matter of ten months he had been seeking the young gentleman who
bore such a startling resemblance to the smiling chauffeur. He had
traced him to Turkey, into Egypt, down the East Coast of Africa, over to
Australia, up to Siam and China and Japan, across the Pacific to British
Columbia, thence to the United States, where the trail was completely
lost. His quarry had a good year and a half to two years the start of
him.
Still, a chap he knew quite well in the Yard, after chasing a man twice
around the world, had nabbed him at the end of six years. So much for
British perseverance.
Inquiry had failed to produce the slightest enlightenment from the
doorman or the starter at Spangler's. He always remembered them as the
stupidest asses he had ever encountered. They didn't recognize the
chauffeur, nor the car, nor the ladies; not only were they unable to
tell him the number of the car, but they couldn't, for the life of them,
approximate the number of ladies. All they seemed to know was that some
one had been knocked down by a "swell" who was "hot-footing it" up the
street.
His sallow-faced friend, however, had provided him with an encouraging
lead. That worthy knew the ladies, but somewhat peevishly explained that
it was hardly to be expected that he should know all of the taxi-cab
drivers in New York,--and as he had seen them arrive in a taxi-cab it
was reasonable to assume that they had departed in one.
"But it wasn't a taxi-cab," the Scotland Yard man protested. "It was a
blinking limousine."
"Then, all I got to say is that they're not the women I mean. If I'd
been out here when they left I probably could have put you wise. But I
was in there listenin' to what Con McFaddan was sayin' to poor old
Spangler. The woman I mean is a dressmaker. She ain't got any more of a
limo than I have. Did you notice what they looked like?"
The Scotland Yard man, staring gloomily up the rain-swept street,
confessed that he hadn't noticed anything but the chauffeur's face.
"Well, there you are," remarked the sallow-faced man, shrugging his
shoulders in a patronizing, almost pitying way.
The Londoner winced.
"I distinctly heard the chauffeur say 'Very good, my lady,'" he said,
after a moment. "That was a bit odd, wasn't it, now? You don't have any
such things as titles over 'ere, do you?"
"Sure. Every steamer brings one or two of 'em to our little city."
The Englishman scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened.
"I remember, after all,--in a vague sort of way, don't you know,--that
one of the ladies had white hair. I recall an instant's speculation on
my part. I remember looking twice to be sure that it was hair and not a
bit of lace thrown--"
"That's the party," exclaimed the sallow-faced man. "Now we're getting
somewhere."
The next afternoon, the man from Scotland Yard paid a visit to
Deborah's. Not at all abashed at finding himself in a place where all
save angels fear to tread, he calmly asked to be conducted into the
presence of Mrs. Sparflight. He tactfully refrained from adding "alias
Deborah, Limited. London, Paris and New York." He declined to state his
business.
"Madam," said he, coming straight to the point the instant he was
ushered into the presence of the white-haired proprietress, "I sha'n't
waste your time,--and mine, I may add,--by beating about the bush, as
you Americans would say. I represent--"
"If you are an insurance agent or a book agent, you need not waste any
time at all," began Mrs. Sparflight. He held up his hand deprecatingly.
"--Scotland Yard," he concluded, fixing his eyes upon her. The start she
gave was helpful. He went on briskly. "Last night you were at a certain
restaurant. You departed during the thunder-storm in a limousine driven
by a young man whose face is familiar to me. In short, I am looking for
a man who bears a most startling resemblance to him. May I prevail upon
you to volunteer a bit of information?"
Mrs. Sparflight betrayed agitation. A hunted, troubled look came into
her eyes.
"I--I don't quite understand," she stammered. "Who--who did you say you
were?"
"My name is Chambers, Alfred Chambers, Scotland Yard. In the event that
you are ignorant of the character of the place called Scotland Yard, I
may explain that--"
"I know what it is," she interrupted hastily. "What is it that you want
of me, Mr. Chambers?" She was rapidly gaining control of her wits.
"Very little, madam. I should very much like to know whose car took you
away from Sprinkler's last night."
She looked him straight in the eye. "I haven't the remotest idea," she
said.
He nodded his head gently. "Would you, on the other hand, object to
telling me how long James has been driving for her ladyship?"
This was a facer. Mrs. Sparflight's gaze wavered.
"Her ladyship?" she murmured weakly.
"Yes, madam,--unless my hearing was temporarily defective," he said.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Your companion was a young lady of--"
"My good man," interrupted the lady sharply, "my companion last night
was my own private secretary."
"A Miss Emsdale, I believe," said he.
She gulped. "Precisely."
"Um!" he mused. "And you do not know whose car you went off in,--is that
right?"
"I have no hesitancy in stating, Mr. Chambers, that the car does not
belong to me or to my secretary," she said, smiling.
"I trust you will pardon a seemingly rude question, Mrs. Sparflight. Is
it the custom in New York for people to take possession of private
automobiles--"
"It is the custom for New York chauffeurs to pick up an extra dollar or
two when their employers are not looking," she interrupted, with a shrug
of her shoulders. She was instantly ashamed of her mendacity. She looked
over her shoulder to see if Mr. Thomas Trotter's sweetheart was anywhere
within hearing, and was relieved to find that she was not. "And now,
sir, if it is a fair question, may I inquire just what this chauffeur's
double has been doing that Scotland Yard should be seeking him so
assiduously?"
"He has been giving us a deuce of a chase, madam," said Mr. Chambers, as
if that were the gravest crime a British subject could possibly commit.
"By the way, did you by any chance obtain a fair look at the man who
drove you home last night?"
"Yes. He seemed quite a good-looking fellow."
"Will you glance at this photograph, Mrs. Sparflight, and tell me
whether you detect a resemblance?" He took a small picture from his coat
pocket and held it out to her.
She looked at it closely, holding it at various angles and distances,
and nodded her head in doubtful acquiescence.
"I think I do, Mr. Chambers. I am not surprised that you should have
been struck by the resemblance. This man was a soldier, I perceive."
Mr. Chambers restored the photograph to his pocket.
"The King's Own," he replied succinctly. "Perhaps your secretary may be
able to throw a little more light on the matter, madam. May I have the
privilege of interrogating her?"
"Not today," said Mrs. Sparflight, who had anticipated the request. "She
is very busy."
"Of course I am in no position to insist," said he pleasantly. "I trust
you will forgive my intrusion, madam. I am here only in the interests of
justice, and I have no desire to cause you the slightest annoyance.
Permit me to bid you good day, Mrs. Sparflight. Thank you for your
kindness in receiving me. Tomorrow, if it is quite agreeable to you, I
shall call to see Miss Emsdale."
At that moment, the door opened and Miss Emsdale came into the little
office.
"You rang for me, Mrs. Sparflight?" she inquired, with a quick glance at
the stranger.
Mrs. Sparflight blinked rapidly. "Not at all,--not at all. I did not
ring."
Miss Emsdale looked puzzled. "I am sure the buzzer--"
"Pardon me," said Mr. Chambers, easily. "I fancy I can solve the
mystery. Accidentally,--quite accidentally, I assure you,--I put my hand
on the button on your desk, Mrs. Sparflight,--while you were glancing at
the photograph. Like this,--do you see?" He put his hand on the top of
the desk and leaned forward, just as he had done when he joined her in
studying the picture a few moments before.
A hot flush mounted to Mrs. Sparflight's face, and her eyes flashed. The
next instant she smiled.
"You are most resourceful, Mr. Chambers," she said. "It happens,
however, that your cleverness gains you nothing. This young lady is one
of our stenographers. I think I said that Miss Emsdale is my private
secretary. She has no connection whatever with the business office. The
button you inadvertently pressed simply disturbed one of the girls in
the next room. You may return to your work, Miss Henry."
She carried it off very well. Jane, sensing danger, was on the point of
retiring,--somewhat hurriedly, it must be confessed,--when Mr. Chambers,
in his most apologetic manner, remarked:
"May I have a word with you, your ladyship?"
It was a bold guess, encouraged by his discovery that the young lady was
not only English but of a class distinctly remote from shops and
stenography.
Under the circumstances, Jane may be forgiven for dissembling, even at
the cost of her employer's honour. She stopped short, whirled, and
confronted the stranger with a look in her eyes that convicted her
immediately. Her hand flew to her heart, and a little gasp broke from
her parted lips.
Mr. Chambers was smiling blandly. She looked from him to Mrs.
Sparflight, utter bewilderment in her eyes.
"Oh, Lord!" muttered that lady in great dismay.
The man from Scotland Yard hazarded another and even more potential
stroke while the iron was hot.
"I am from Scotland Yard," he said. "We make some mistakes there, I
admit, but not many." He proceeded to lie boldly. "I know who you are,
my lady, and--But it is not necessary to go into that at present. Do not
be alarmed. You have nothing to fear from me,--or from Scotland Yard.
I--"
"Well, I should hope _not_!" burst out Mrs. Sparflight indignantly.
"What does he want?" cried Jane, in trepidation. She addressed her
friend, but it was Mr. Chambers who answered.
"I want you to supply me with a little information concerning Lord Eric
Temple,--whom you addressed last evening as James."
Jane began to tremble. Scotland Yard!
"The man is crazy," said Mrs. Sparflight, leaping into the breach. "By
what right, sir, do you come here to impose your--"
"No offence is intended, ma'am," broke in Mr. Chambers. "Absolutely no
offence. It is merely in the line of duty that I come. In plain words, I
have been instructed to apprehend Lord Eric Temple and fetch him to
London. You see, I am quite frank about it. You can aid me by being as
frank in return, ladies."
By this time Jane had regained command of herself. Drawing herself up,
she faced the detective, and, casting discretion to the winds, took a
most positive and determined stand.
"I must decline,--no matter what the cost may be to myself,--to give you
the slightest assistance concerning Lord Temple."
To their infinite amazement, the man bowed very courteously and said:
"I shall not insist. Pardon my methods and my intrusion. I shall trouble
you no further. Good day, madam. Good day, your ladyship."
He took his leave at once, leaving them staring blankly at the closed
door. He was satisfied. He had found out just what he wanted to know,
and he was naturally in some haste to get out before they began putting
embarrassing questions to him.
"Oh, dear," murmured Jane, distractedly. "What _are_ we to do? Scotland
Yard! That can mean but one thing. His enemies at home have brought some
vile, horrible charge against--"
"We must warn him at once, Jane. There is no time to be lost. Telephone
to the garage where Mrs. Millidew--"
"But the man doesn't know that Eric is driving for Mrs. Millidew," broke
in Jane, hopefully.
"He _will_ know, and in very short order," said the other,
sententiously. "Those fellows are positively uncanny. Go at once and
telephone." She hesitated a moment, looking a little confused and
guilty. "Lay aside your work, dear, for the time being. There is nothing
very urgent about it, you know."
In sheer desperation she had that very morning set her restless charge
to work copying names out of the _Social Register_,--names she had
checked off at random between the hours of ten and two the previous
night.
Jane's distress increased to a state bordering on anguish.
"Oh, dear! He--he is out of town for two or three days."
"Out of town?"
"He told me last night he was to be off early this morning for Mrs.
Millidew's country place somewhere on Long Island. Mrs. Millidew had to
go down to see about improvements or repairs or something before the
house is opened for the season."
"Mrs. Millidew was in the shop this morning for a 'try-on,'" said the
other. "She has changed her plans, no doubt."
Jane's honest blue eyes wavered slightly as she met her friend's
questioning gaze.
"I think he said that young Mrs. Millidew was going down to look after
the work for her mother-in-law."