Mr. Ferguson of New York
Anthony listened. “Yes—that’s all right, old man. I got your message
and of course I knew from that that everything was O. K. down at
Assynton . . . What . . . When? . . . Monday? You say Stewart would
like me to come down . . . well I should rather like it myself . . .
it will suit me all right, too . . . I had intended returning on
Monday in any case . . . Goodall will be coming too . . . Ferguson,
you said . . . he’s been pretty quick over it, hasn’t he? . . . don’t
quite see how it’s been possible . . . right‑o then . . . be very
careful over the week-end, won’t you? . . . keep your eyes skinned on
every man Jack of ’em . . . Good-bye.” He sank back in his chair.
Ferguson of Crake and Ferguson, New York! Laurence Stewart’s
solicitors! But how Mr. Ferguson could have arrived in England so
quickly after the murder wasn’t clear to him—“he must have flown
over,” he remarked to himself somewhat jocularly. His train of
thought, however, didn’t last for long. His mind was soon back to the
problem of the screens. Where was he when that confounded telephone
rang? He closed his eyes in an attempt to recapture his concentration
and the exact point to which he had arrived. He had been wondering
about two things—he remarked. The Latin tag and the Fish in the center
of the screen. It was becoming increasingly plain to him that he would
have to get into touch with the Hanover Galleries screen! Without
that, he was merely beating the air. He decided to speak to Goodall at
once. He was instantly put through. Goodall seemed anxious for news.
“We are no nearer a solution this end, Mr. Bathurst,” he announced
rather gloomily, “every clue seems to lead nowhere—the pretty pair I’m
after seem to have been spirited off the face of the earth.”
“I wanted to speak to you about them, Goodall, among other things,”
replied Anthony. “Get into touch with the New York police as quickly
as you possibly can—I have a strong presentiment that the gentleman
we’re after has a considerable reputation as a ‘crook’ over the other
side. Who is he? Haven’t the least idea, Goodall—ask them if any
particularly promising specimen of the unsavory sort has slipped out
of the States recently—from little old New York, in all probability.
You can give them a rough description of the man you want.”
“Very well,” answered Goodall, “although I think you’re drawing a bow
at a venture—still I’ll try it! What else did you want to say?”
“I’ve two more pieces of news for you, Inspector—the first will make
you sit up a bit.”
“I’ve been doing quite a lot of that lately, Mr. Bathurst—what’s the
latest development?”
“Have a glance at the Personal Column of the ‘Telegraph’ for the 30th
of last month—see what you make of it!”
“All right,” assented the Inspector. “What else?”
“I want you to come down to Assynton with me on Monday morning.
There’s a train at a quarter to eleven. I’ve just heard from Mr.
Daventry that Mr. Stewart’s solicitor from New York is expected down
there and I’m required to be there as well. It isn’t putting me out at
all, because it was my intention to return then—I dare not delay
action much longer. I’ll meet you then at Paddington.”
“I hope to be in a position to report some progress this end by that
time,” declared Goodall, in a tone of voice not exactly distinguished
by hopefulness.
“I hope so too, Goodall,” added Anthony, “but never mind if you
aren’t. I forgot to tell you something! When you come down on
Monday—bring a couple of pairs of handcuffs, will you?” He chuckled,
and put the receiver back with the fervent wish that he could have
witnessed the expression on the Inspector’s face. It was during the
week-end that followed that an idea began to take very definite shape
in Mr. Bathurst’s brain. In fact, so definite did it become that he
was sorely tempted more than once to put a telephone call through to
Assynton. But he desisted—there would be plenty of time on the
morrow—and there was more important work to be done than the solving
of the problem of the “Black Twenty-Two”! Goodall was straining at the
leash, eager and impatient to land his man—to land his _men_ in both
affairs. Goodall should be satisfied!
When he met him in the morning at Paddington, Anthony could see that
the Inspector was looking very finely-drawn. Anthony touched him on
the arm. “Don’t worry, Inspector,” he exclaimed with a note of gaiety
in his voice, “the curtain is just going up for those third and fourth
acts I mentioned, and you and I are not going to miss any of it. Also,
Inspector,” he grinned broadly, “the bouquets will be for you when it
goes down—so possess your soul in patience and wait for that
‘soothsome’ moment—that ‘fragrant minute.’”
Goodall’s eyes twinkled—not necessarily in anticipation of the coming
event as depicted by Mr. Bathurst. “Bouquets aren’t much in my line!
Still, I’ve brought what you asked me.” He patted his left-hand pocket
with the palm of his hand. “Optimist—aren’t I?”
“Good man,” said Anthony, “for you’ll certainly want them. By the
way—any news from New York yet?”
“I’ve got on to them, but there’s no news as yet!”
The journey down was comparatively uneventful.
“It’s been an interesting little problem, Goodall,” said Anthony as
they ran into the drab station at Assynton, “and not the least
interesting part is yet to come. I hope you are thoroughly prepared
for a rather dramatic _dénouement_?”
“I shall be there,” retorted Goodall with grim determination,
“whatever the _dénouement_ is! Whenever! And _wherever_!” He stepped
into the car that was waiting for them.
Peter Daventry met them in the hall immediately upon their arrival.
Anthony put his finger to his lips.
“All serene, Daventry?” he whispered.
Peter nodded briskly and elevated his two thumbs. “The entire
household is as you left it—the people indoors and the outside staff
as well—you need have no qualms.”
Anthony patted him on the shoulder. “Excellent, Daventry—I felt I
could rely upon you.”
Charles Stewart came from the library with outstretched hand. “I’m
glad you’re back, Bathurst. I suppose it’s too much to ask you if
there have been any developments?” He rattled on without giving
Anthony a chance to reply. “Good morning, Inspector! You look a trifle
tired! Mr. Ferguson hasn’t arrived yet, but I’m expecting him any
minute now. I’m pleased you’re both back with us—I feel that you
should be here to hear what Ferguson has to say—come into the
library!” The three men followed him in. “The inquest is this
afternoon,” continued Stewart, “and we are burying my father early
to-morrow morning—it will be very quiet—we have very few friends in
this country—we haven’t been here long enough to make many. Colonel
Leach-Fletcher will be present—it is very considerate of him.”
He went across to the French doors and looked out on to the garden. It
was an easy matter to see that the tragic events of the last week had
left their mark upon him. He was over-young to bear alone the burden
of the blow that had befallen his house. It seemed unfair that it
should rest entirely upon his own shoulders. Anthony walked over to
him.
“Mr. Stewart,” he said very quietly, “immediately the inquest is over
this afternoon I should like to have a talk with you. There are one or
two little matters that I should like to settle as soon as possible.
Will it be convenient?” Charles Stewart paled a little.
“Only too pleased, Bathurst,” came his reply. “Let me know when you
want me—will in here do?”
“Excellently!”
As Anthony spoke the word, the noise of a car was heard humming up the
gravel approach to Assynton Lodge. The door opened to admit a stout,
clean-shaven man—dressed in a fashionable lounge-suit of
light-grey—double-breasted. Holding his grey Homburg to his chest he
bowed to Charles Stewart, at the same time making his own
introduction.
“My dear Mr. Stewart,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice, with
just a touch of American accent, “I am Andrew Ferguson, of Crake and
Ferguson, of New York. I am grieved beyond measure that our first
meeting should be taking place under such heart-breaking
circumstances. My very sincerest sympathy—Mr. Stewart.” He clasped the
young man’s hand warmly in his own. “These gentlemen”—he inquired,
raising his eyebrows.
“Mr. Peter Daventry, representing a London firm, similar to your
own—Mr. Anthony Bathurst, whom I’ve called in to watch my interests,
and Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard.” Stewart motioned
towards the three in turn. Ferguson bowed again. “Come to the library,
Mr. Ferguson, will you?” said Stewart, “and no doubt, you will stay
for lunch.”
“As a matter of fact,” said the lawyer, “my presence here to-day is
rather remarkable. When you cabled last Thursday to our New York
offices—I had already sailed for London. We have some very important
business to transact over here in connection with one of our most
esteemed clients, and Mr. Crake and I decided that I had better run
over myself. So I sailed on the _Mauretania_. I was, naturally, most
distressed and shocked to get a wireless message from my partner,
Crake, late last Friday, informing me of the sad news of Mr. Laurence
Stewart’s death—and asking me if I would call down here to see you
immediately upon my landing. My dear Mr. Stewart—I have lost no time!”
He beamed on the assembled company. “By the way, Inspector, has the
inquest been held yet?” He turned towards Goodall.
“Not yet—it is to be held this afternoon.”
“H’m—pardon any—er—possible—er—laceration of your feelings, Mr.
Stewart—I am sure—in the circumstances you will understand thoroughly
my motive in asking—but I presume that there is no possible doubt that
my unfortunate client was murdered?” He removed his glasses and wiped
them nervously.
Charles Stewart looked across at the Inspector. The latter took it as
his cue to reply to Andrew Ferguson’s question. “Unfortunately—no—Mr.
Ferguson—as far as I can see at the moment—there is not the vestige of
a doubt.” Ferguson replaced his glasses on his nose and blinked at
Goodall. “Have the police any——”
Goodall cut him short, breaking in abruptly. “As far as the inquest
this afternoon is concerned—the police will content themselves with
offering merely formal evidence of identification and then asking for
an adjournment.”
“Quite so—I see,” responded the lawyer. He paused for a moment. “Well,
what I was about to say was this. Mr. Crake in his message—sent me in
our own private professional code, of course—the major provisions of
your father’s will. Have I your permission to make them public here
and now, Mr. Stewart?”
Charles Stewart waved his hand in assent. “Certainly—I shall be rather
glad if you will. I had intended to ask you.”
Ferguson took a document from his pocket. “As you know, your father
was a very rich man. His investments, which were many and varied, have
almost, without exception, turned out to be excessively lucrative. He
had with him very much more than a mere touch of financial genius.” He
looked up. “You will understand that I have only, at this juncture,
received from my partner what I termed the _major_ provisions.
Legacies are left to all members of the late Mr. Stewart’s household
who had been in his service for any length of time—I can safely say
that nobody with any claim at all has been forgotten. Mr. Stewart was
always most generous. For example,” he broke off and referred to his
paper—“Mr. Morgan Llewellyn receives an annuity of £300—John
Butterworth £500 per annum, ‘in recognition of many years’ faithful
and devoted service’—several other servants have been remembered very
kindly. The rest of the will is rather surprising.” He wiped his
glasses and blinked at the company again. “£250,000 is devised and
bequeathed to Miss Marjorie Lennox—Mr. Stewart’s ward—and the whole of
the residue of the estate to Mr. Charles Stewart—in respect of both
real and personal property. But there are important conditions
attached to each of these two bequests. In Miss Lennox’s case, the
capital sum is to be held in trust until she reaches the age of forty,
and in Mr. Stewart’s case similar conditions apply till the age of
forty-five, unless they marry each other, when the capital sums pass
into their respective possessions immediately upon such marriage.
Should, however, either Miss Lennox or Mr. Stewart marry a third
party—when marriage to the other principal legatee is possible and
legal—the contractor of such marriage forfeits his or her bequest
under this will and the said bequest passes to various charitable
institutions.” He waved his hands with a gesture of semi-apology. “It
was pointed out to Mr. Stewart when he first outlined these provisions
that there might be several flaws in the disposition, but”—he shrugged
his ample shoulders—“he was absolutely determined upon the matter.”
Charles Stewart was very white and kept biting at his underlip in
nervous excitement. “You will be a very rich man, Mr. Stewart,” said
Mr. Ferguson of New York—“provided, of course—but there.” He smiled
somewhat fatuously—“I know how perfectly charming the lady is—I have
no doubt——”
“Come in and have some lunch, Mr. Ferguson, will you?” responded Mr.
Charles Stewart. It will be noticed that Mr. Ferguson’s remark
provoked in him no particular enthusiasm. Certainly Mr. Bathurst
noticed the fact!