INSPECTOR KENLY REPORTS
Although Cornelius had been entirely unaware of the fact, his late
landlord had arrived at Whitsea by the same train as himself, and had
been keeping a sharp eye on him, and if it were possible, a still
sharper eye on Guy Hora. But Kenly's observation had been unproductive
until the time when he obeyed the impulse to make himself known to
Jessel. He had been impelled to do so by sheer desperation at having
passed, from a professional point of view, one of the most unprofitable
fortnights of his life. He had not anticipated any remarkable
revelations when he had followed Cornelius into the hotel bar, and when
he finally bade his old tenant good-bye, he had no need to force a
spice of heartiness into the greeting.
Directly after Jessel left him he felt the necessity for rearranging
all his theories, but at the same time he was equally alive to the
desirability of getting to work upon the new clue which was in his
possession. There was now nothing to keep him in Whitsea. He had
learned of Guy's intention to return to London the following day, and
he determined to be in town before him. There would be plenty of time
to decide upon the best course to pursue during the journey.
He went into the hotel, packed his bag, and paid his bill
in a desperate hurry, for the hotel omnibus was at the door.
He caught his train and was thankful to find so few people travelling
that he could get a compartment to himself. He could marshal his ideas
better in solitude. Still, arrange them and rearrange them as he might,
he could get no nearer a reasonable explanation of the relationship
of the various parties who had become objects of his suspicion. The
only theory which seemed at all tenable was that the Horas, father and
son, Cornelius Jessel and Captain Marven were all members of a gang
of criminals who operated in perfect safety by reason of the social
position of the principals. But in such case Kenly could not understand
the motive of the elaborate plot by means of which Cornelius had
secured for himself his place in Guy's service. Nor could he comprehend
why Captain Marven's name should have been used in regard to the stock
exchange operations which had followed upon the acquisition of the
knowledge contained in the despatches. To Kenly, that seemed such a
gratuitous piece of folly, as to be entirely unworthy of the audacious
person who had planned and carried out the Flurscheim coup.
Like a wise man, he ceased after a while to trouble himself with
inventing explanations to fit theories. He knew very well that once all
the facts were in his hands an explanation would be easy to find, and
he was anxious to get some additional facts. Was not that the motive
which had made him decide to leave Whitsea in such a hurry? He knew
very well that Guy was not carrying the stolen picture about with him,
and he had learned quite enough about Whitsea Hall to be quite assured
in his own mind that the picture was not likely to be reposing there.
He had, however, become sufficiently acquainted with Lynton Hora's
mode of life from his friend the hall porter of Westminster Mansions,
to warrant the assumption that the Greuze was hidden somewhere in
Lynton Hora's flat. If he could only get an opportunity to verify his
suspicion before any of the persons he suspected were alarmed, he saw
an opportunity of bringing off a coup which would provide a startling
denouement to the sensational Flurscheim burglary. The thought ran
away with him to such an extent that he allowed himself to taste the
sweets of success. He imagined himself reading the references in the
newspapers to "the smart work of that able officer, Detective Inspector
Kenly." He imagined himself listening to the commendations of the Judge
when the prisoners at the bar had been sentenced to various terms of
penal servitude, and---- He awoke to the bustle of Liverpool Street
railway station, limp with perspiration, still undecided as to the best
manner of setting about getting the evidence he needed, and perforce
compelled to leave circumstances to guide his course of action.
He permitted himself the luxury of a cab to Scotland Yard, where he
proposed to deposit his bag and report himself. He had another reason
for calling at headquarters. He foresaw that very shortly the moment
might arrive when he would not be able to deal with the situation
single-handed. If all the parties whom he expected to be implicated
in the two affairs were to be kept under surveillance, he would need
assistance, and he was not quite certain whether that moment had not
already arrived when some such steps were necessary. Then
Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim might at any moment communicate with the
Yard, and Inspector Kenly did not want anyone else to be put on the
job without his knowledge. He knew that as he had previously had the
investigation in hand, if he reported himself back in town he would be
communicated with in the event of any fresh information coming to hand,
even though he was detailed for special service on the Foreign Office
affair, and thereby relieved of the obligation to render daily reports
of his work to his own department.
He was glad that he had determined to report himself, for he found
awaiting him a pressing message from the Permanent Secretary, asking
him to call at the Foreign Office, as the Great Man was anxious to know
the result of his investigations.
Inspector Kenly looked at his watch. The afternoon was young. The
Permanent Secretary could be kept waiting for an hour or two longer.
The detective, leaving his bag behind him, strolled out into the
sun-scorched streets. He had even forgotten that he had eaten no lunch,
so eager was he on his quest. He walked briskly towards Westminster
Mansions, and could have shouted with delight when he observed his old
comrade standing at the open door. "Hello, looking for a breeze," he
remarked.
The porter chuckled.
"If you've been locking any up lately, the sooner you let 'em loose
again the better I shall be pleased," he remarked.
"It looks cooler inside than out here," said Kenly, with meaning.
The porter winked and led the way inside. Two lift
attendants were seated languidly interesting themselves in the cricket
intelligence of the latest evening papers.
Kenly glanced at them while he asked in a low tone: "Is there any
chance of a private chat?"
His old comrade nodded, and after talking for a few moments on the
burning topic of the weather, managed to send both the youths on an
errand. Kenly grunted his relief. Directly he was alone with the porter
he went straight to the point.
"I want to go over Mr. Lynton Hora's flat," he announced abruptly.
The porter gazed at him in silent astonishment.
"Yes, I mean exactly what I say," he continued, "and the sooner I can
do so the better I shall be pleased. I suppose some of your people have
a key?"
The hall porter regained his power of speech. "It can't possibly be
managed, Kenly," he spluttered. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you
in reason, but----"
Kenly cut him short. "It's got to be done," he remarked decisively.
"I've come to you, because I know I can trust you to say nothing,
and the fewer people who know what I am doing the better I shall be
pleased."
"It can't be done," remarked the hall porter. "It would be as much as
my place is worth."
"Pooh!" said the detective. "It is easy enough to make some excuse. You
can say I'm the electric light man or that I have orders to clean out
the cisterns."
"There ain't no cisterns that want cleaning," objected the hall
porter. "Now if you had come and asked me two days ago there
wouldn't have been any difficulty, but to-day----"
"Why is it impossible to-day?" demanded the detective.
"Well, Mr. Hora and Miss Myra have been away at Scarborough for the
past fortnight, and I could have let you in to their place, but I'm
expecting them to return at any minute now."
"Then we mustn't lose any time talking about it," said Kenly briskly.
"I suppose you have some means of communicating with the flat from
here."
"There's the telephone," said the porter.
"Take me straight up," said Kenly, "and if Mr. Hora should arrive
before I come down again just give two rings at the telephone bell.
I shall have plenty of time to let myself out before Mr. Hora
returns." He caught hold of the porter's arm and hurried him away in
the direction of the lift. Protesting all the while that it would
be impossible and entreating Kenly to postpone his visit to a more
convenient occasion, he yet allowed himself to be carried away by the
detective's impetuosity. He protested while the lift went steadily
upward, he protested even while he inserted a key in the lock, and
Kenly left him outside the door still protesting.
Fortune seemed to be favouring the detective. From previous
conversations he had gained a fairly accurate knowledge of the
geography of the interior of Hora's residence, and he wasted no time
in searching the residential portion of the flat. He went directly
to the door where Hora kept his pictures and his books. But here
he experienced a rebuff. The door was locked, and the lock was a
patent one. Kenly had with him a bunch of skeleton keys, but a
very slight trial proved that the lock was unpickable.
He began to cast around for some other means of gaining access, but he
saw none within the flat. He passed through all the rooms, glancing
round each. He was impressed by the luxury of the furnishing, but
there was nothing which could cause anyone to suspect the occupant of
anything but highly refined tastes. Kenly had just completed his hasty
survey when the telephone bell rang twice.
"D----n!" said the Inspector. He opened the outer door and walked out
into the passage outside. He knew that he must not be seen, and he
hastily descended the flight of stairs to the floor below, and as he
did so the lift passed him ascending upwards. He caught a glimpse of
Hora's face.
Kenly waited until the lift descended. The hall porter himself was in
charge. He stopped the lift. Kenly entered in silence.
"Find what you wanted?" asked the porter curiously.
"No time," grunted the detective. "I must have a look round another
time. If I had only known yesterday what I learned to-day----" He
groaned at the thought of what might be hidden beyond that locked door.
Still he was not disheartened. He had noted the number of the lock and
the name of the maker, and he knew that the next time he called the
locked door would prove no barrier to his investigations. Still, days
might pass before the opportunity he desired would recur, and it was
annoying to feel that opportunity had been lost by so narrow a margin.
He bade his friend good-bye and went away at once to the Foreign Office.
The sky had become overcast and the atmosphere was hotter than ever.
Visions of a long drink, with cool translucent lumps of ice tinkling
against the steamy glass, sorely tempted the detective, but he banished
them, and, perspiring himself, he was at last ushered by a perspiring
attendant into the presence of a perspiring Permanent Secretary who
had wheeled his chair on to a line between the open door and the open
window, and sat there in his shirt sleeves in the pathetic belief that
a draught of cool air might be tempted to pass that way.
"What is it? What is it?" he snapped at the attendant who entered to
announce Inspector Kenly. Then looking up he recognised his visitor
standing at the open door.
"Oh, it's you, Kenly. Come in." The attendant withdrew. "And, yes, you
had better shut the door." He sighed as if he had thereby ordered the
door to be shut on his own salvation.
"Sit down, Inspector, and tell me what you have found out," he added.
He looked round for his cigar case, and not finding it immediately made
confusion of the pile of papers which covered his table.
"I think, Sir Everard, you will find your cigar case in your coat
pocket," observed the detective blandly.
The Permanent Secretary smiled as he thrust his hand into the breast
pocket of his discarded coat.
"The heat always makes me irritable," he apologised. "No man ought to
work when the thermometer reaches the eighties." He selected a cigar.
"By the way," he remarked, "by what process of reasoning did you arrive
at the deduction that my cigar case was in my pocket?"
"I saw the corner of it sticking out," remarked the detective equably.
"H--m," said the Permanent Secretary, laughing, "the proper use of the
eyes may on occasion be more valuable than any amount of deduction."
He lit his cigar and stretched himself lazily in his chair.
"Now fire away, Kenly. I can see that you have something to tell me
about those stolen despatches."
Without unnecessary beating about the bush Kenly began the result of
his investigations. The narration did not take long, for, though he had
already spent a month on the investigation, the facts he had discovered
could be described in a very few words. But few as those facts were
they were sufficiently startling to make the Permanent Secretary forget
the heat.
"By Jove!" he remarked, when Kenly had finished. "And I would have
pledged my life on Captain Marven's absolute honour. Yet, from what you
have told me, he appears to be hand-in-glove with a gang of thieves,
one of them living in his own house and likely at any moment to become
engaged to his daughter."
"Certainly appearances are very much against him," remarked Kenly
cautiously, "but I never trust to appearances myself. I have seen
too many cases, where perfectly innocent persons have been on the
most intimate terms with scoundrels, to allow that one fact to weigh
with me. If it was only a question of the burglary, I should expect
Captain Marven to be the next victim of the gang, and it is only the
fact that it seems impossible for the contents of the despatches to
have become known to the Horas without Marven's assistance which
leads me to suspect him with the rest of the crowd."
The Permanent Secretary puffed meditatively at his cigar.
"Things look very black against Marven," he said. "Very black indeed,"
he repeated, after a lengthy pause; then he asked, "Who are these
Horas?" Kenly shook his head.
"I should like to know their history myself," he answered. "All I have
heard hitherto is that the elder man has occupied a first-class flat
in Westminster for the past ten years at a rent of three hundred and
fifty pounds a year, and passes as a very retired gentleman indeed. He
spends only about six months of the year in London, and they say he
has estates in Italy. That may or may not be the case, but, anyhow,
he calls himself the Commandatore, which I'm told is an Italian title
given him by the King of Italy for something or other he's done over
there. The young one was at Oxbridge and made quite a name amongst his
set, and lived at home till a few weeks ago, when he took some chambers
in the Albany. Then there's a girl named Myra, who passes as the old
man's daughter, though there's reason to think that she's only an
adopted child."
"What are you proposing to do?" asked the Permanent Secretary, after
another pause.
Inspector Kenly coughed. "That depends----" he remarked, and
paused. "That depends on circumstances. You see, Sir Everard, my
hand may be forced before I shall have obtained all the evidence I
want. That communication which has been made to Mr. Flurscheim may
lead at any moment to the younger Hora's arrest, and then
good-bye to the hope of obtaining any more evidence. What I was going
to suggest was that you should allow me to continue to investigate your
affair. It will leave me more free to look after things than if I have
to turn in a report to headquarters. I'm so afraid," he added in a
burst of confidence, "that they might put some man on to the job that
would bungle it. I've got an idea as to where the Greuze is hidden,
but I know very well that at the first hint of anything going wrong it
would disappear, or be destroyed."
"Then you think that the same people who brought off the Flurscheim
burglary are responsible for the despatch leakage?" asked the Permanent
Secretary.
"Certain of it," declared Inspector Kenly.
"But if you continue to work on my business, isn't what you fear likely
to come to pass? Will not another man be put on to the picture robbery?
Flurscheim will hardly keep silence."
"I'll see after that," answered Kenly. "From what I know of Mr.
Flurscheim he won't let the grass grow under his feet. He is probably
on the way to town now."
"Then what becomes of your plans?" asked the Permanent Secretary. He
could see that the detective had not revealed all that was in his mind.
"Mr. Flurscheim wants to get his Greuze back undamaged," said the
detective slowly, "and he also wants to punish the man who stole it. I
shall see him directly he arrives in town, and I think I can make it
clear to him that he had better say nothing until I consider the time
ripe for action."
"There's only one thing more," remarked the Permanent
Secretary. "Suppose I think it necessary to ask Captain Marven for an
explanation?"
The detective jumped to his feet with a look of horror on his face.
"Good heavens! Sir Everard," he exclaimed, "you would spoil everything.
You won't do it?"
The Permanent Secretary laughed.
"You may make your mind easy, Kenly," he observed. "I'm
too much of a sportsman for that, I hope."