COINCIDENCES
Winter was blessed with an unfailing memory for dates and faces.
Before he had emerged from the main exit of Gloucester Mansions he had
fixed Drake as committed from the Old Bailey during the Summer assizes
four years earlier, released from Portland on ticket of leave at the
beginning of the current year, and marked in the "failure to report"
list.
"Poor devil!" he said to himself. "The very man for my purpose!"
Therefore, seeing his way clearly, his glance was not so encouraging
nor his voice so pleasant when he found the ex-convict awaiting him in
the Regency Cafe. Nevertheless, obeying the curious code which links
the police and noted criminals in a sort of _camaraderie_, he asked
the man what he would drink, and ordered cigarettes as well.
"Now, Maselli," he said, when they were seated at a marble-topped
table in a corner of a well-filled room, "since we know each other so
well we can converse plainly, eh?"
"Yes, sir, but I'm done for now. I've been trying to earn an honest
living, and have succeeded, but now----"
The man spoke brokenly. His spirit was crushed. He saw in his mind's
eye the frowning portals of a convict settlement, and heard the boom
of a giant knocker reverberating through gaunt aisles of despair.
"If you reflect that I am calling you Maselli, you'll drink that
whisky and soda, and listen to what I have to say," broke in Winter
severely.
The other looked up at him, and a gleam of hope illumined the pallid
cheeks. He drank eagerly, and lighted a cigarette with trembling
fingers.
"If only I am given a chance----" he began, but the detective
interfered again.
"If only you would shut up!" he said emphatically. "I want your help,
and I'm not in the habit of rewarding my assistants by sending them
back to prison."
Maselli (as he may remain in this record) was so excited that he
literally could not obey.
"I've cut completely adrift from the old crowd, sir," he pleaded
wistfully. "I'm an engraver now, and in good work. Heaven help me, I'm
married, too. She doesn't know. She thinks I was stranded in America,
and that I changed my name because Italians are thought more of than
Englishmen in my line."
"Giovanni Maselli, may I ask what you are talking about?" said Winter,
stiffening visibly.
At last the hunted and haunted wretch persuaded himself that "the
Yard" meant to be merciful. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he
finished the whisky and soda and remained silent.
"Good!" said Winter more cheerfully. "I sha'n't call you Maselli again
if you don't behave. Now, how long have you lived in Gloucester
Mansions?"
"Four months, sir. Ever since my marriage."
Winter smiled. The man had gone straight from the gates of Portland to
some woman who was waiting for him! He was an old offender, but had
proved slippery as an eel--hence a stiff sentence when caught; but
penal servitude had conquered him.
"Has Miss Eileen Garth lived in No. Eleven during those four months?"
was the next question.
"Yes, sir--two years or more, I believe. Her mother mentioned
something of it to my wife one day."
"Her mother? Same name?"
"Yes, Mrs. Garth."
"How do they live?"
"The daughter was learning to be a stage dancer; but they've come into
a settled income, and that idea is given up."
"Any male relations?"
"None that I know of, sir. Eileen is engaged to be married. I haven't
heard the gentleman's name, but I've seen him scores of times."
"Scores of times--in four months?"
"Yes, sir, every second or third day. That is, I either meet him or
know he is there because Mrs. Maselli and Mrs. Garth are friendly, and
there is constant coming and going across the landing."
"Is he a man of about thirty, middle height, lanky black hair, smooth
dark face, sunken eyes, high cheek bones--rather, shall I say, Italian
in appearance?"
Maselli was surprised, and showed it.
"Why, sir, you've described him to a nicety," he said.
"Very well. Next time he is there to your absolute knowledge, slip out
and telephone the fact to me at Scotland Yard. If I'm not in, ask for
Mr. Furneaux. You remember Mr. Furneaux?"
A sickly smile admitted the acquaintance. Furneaux had recognized the
same artist's hand in each of many realistic forgeries, and it was
this fact which led to the man's capture and conviction.
"If neither of us is at home, inquire for Mr. Sheldon," went on
Winter. "Note him. He's a stranger to you. If you fail to get hold of
any of us, say simply that Signor Maselli would like to have a word at
our convenience. It will be understood. We sha'n't bother you. Give
another call next time the visitor is in Mrs. Garth's flat, and keep
on doing this until you find one of the three on the line. Don't use
the telephone in Shaftesbury Avenue near the Mansions, because the boy
in charge there might be suspicious, and blab. That is all. You are
not doing Mrs. Garth or her daughter an ill turn, so far as I can
judge. Keep a still tongue. Silence on your part will meet with
silence on mine.... Oh, dash it, have another drink! Where's your
nerve?"
Signor Giovanni Maselli was crying. A phantom had brushed close, but
was passing; nevertheless, its shadow had chilled him to the bone.
Winter walked back to Scotland Yard, and found that Sheldon had gone,
leaving a note which read: "Mr. Robert Fenley is at 104, Hendon Road,
Battersea Park." He was tempted to have a word with Furneaux, but
forbore, and tackled some other departmental business. It was a day
fated, however, to evolve the unexpected. About a quarter to four the
telephone bell rang, and Maselli informed him that Miss Garth's fiance
had just arrived at Gloucester Mansions.
"Excellent," said Winter. "In future, devote your energies to
legitimate engraving. Good-by!"
He rushed out and leaped into a taxi; within five minutes he was at
the door of No. Eleven once more. Let it not be imagined that he had
not weighed the possible consequences of thrusting himself in this
fashion into Hilton Fenley's private affairs. Although the man had
summoned the assistance of Scotland Yard to elucidate the mystery of
his father's death, that fact alone could not secure him immunity from
the law's all-embracing glance. Winter agreed with Furneaux that the
profession of a private banker combined with company promotion is too
often a cloak for roguery in the City of London, and the little he
knew of the Fenley history did not tend to dissipate a certain
nebulous suspicion that their record might not be wholly clean.
The theft of the bonds had been hushed up in a way that savored of
unwillingness on Mortimer Fenley's part to permit the police to take
action. The man's tragic death might well be a sequel to the robbery,
and, granted the impossibility of his elder son having committed the
murder, there was nothing fantastic in the notion that he might be a
party to it.
Again, Hilton Fenley had deliberately misled Scotland Yard in regard
to the seemingly trivial incident of the telephone call. Had he told
the truth, and grumbled at the lack of discretion on some woman's part
in breaking in on a period of acute distress in the household,
Winter's subsequent discovery would have lost its point. As matters
stood, however, it was one of a large number of minor circumstances
which demanded full examination, and the Superintendent decided that
the person really responsible for any seeming excess of zeal on his
part should be given an opportunity to clear the air in the place best
fitted for the purpose; namely, the address from which the call
emanated.
Therefore, when the door was opened again by Mrs. Garth, she found
that the Napoleonic tactics of an earlier hour were no longer
practicable, for the enemy instantly occupied the terrain by leaning
inward.
"I want to see Mr. Hilton Fenley," he said suavely. "You know my name
already, Mrs. Garth, so I need not repeat it."
The sharp-featured woman was evidently sharp-witted also. Finding that
the door might not be closed, she threw it wide.
"I have no objection to your seeing Mr. Fenley," she said. "I am at a
loss to understand why you follow him here, but that does not concern
me in the least. Come this way."
Latching the door, she led him to a room on the right of the entrance
hall, which formed the central artery of the flat. The place had no
direct daylight. At night, when an electric lamp was switched on, its
contents would be far more distinct than at this hour, when the only
light came from a transverse passage at the end, or was borrowed
through any door that happened to remain open. Still, Winter could
use his eyes, even in the momentary gloom, and he used them so well
on this occasion that he noted two trunks, one on top of the other,
and standing close to the wall.
They were well plastered with hotel and railway labels, and when a
flood of light poured in from the room to which Mrs. Garth ushered
him, he deciphered two of the freshest, and presumably the most
recent. They were "Hotel d'Italie, Rue Caumartin, Paris," and a
baggage number, "517." Not much, perhaps, in the way of information,
but something; and Winter could trust his memory.
He found himself in a well-furnished room, and hoped that Mrs. Garth
might leave him there, even for a few seconds, when he would be free
to examine the apartment without her supervision. But she treated him
as if he might steal the spoons. Remaining in the doorway, she called
loudly:
"Mr. Fenley! The person I told you of is here again. Will you kindly
come? He is in the dining-room."
A door opened, a hurried step sounded on a linoleum floor-covering,
and Hilton Fenley appeared.
"Mr.--Mr. Winter, isn't it?" he said, with a fine air of surprise.
"Yes," said the Superintendent composedly. "You hardly expected to
meet me here, I suppose?"
"Well, Mrs. Garth mentioned your earlier visit, but I am at a loss to
understand----"
"Oh, it is easily explained. We of the Yard take nothing for granted,
Mr. Fenley. I learned by chance that a young lady who lives here rang
you up at Roxton this morning, and knowing that you took the trouble
to conceal the fact, I thought it advisable----"
Mrs. Garth was a woman of discretion. She closed the door on the two
men. Fenley did not wait for Winter to conclude.
"That was foolish of me, I admit," he said, readily enough. "One does
not wish all one's private affairs to be canvassed, even by the
police. The moment Mrs. Garth mentioned your name I saw my error. You
checked the telephone calls to The Towers, I suppose, and thus learned
I had misled you."
"Something of the sort. Miss Garth is a lady not difficult of
recognition."
"She and her mother are very dear friends. It was natural they should
be shocked by the paragraphs in the newspapers and wish to ascertain
the truth."
"Quite so. I'm sorry if my pertinacity has annoyed them, or you."
"I think they will rather be pleased by such proof of your
thoroughness. Certainly I, for my part, do not resent it."
"Very well, sir. Since I am here, I may inquire if you know any one
living at 104, Hendon Road, Battersea Park?"
"Now that you mention the address, I recall it as the residence of the
lady in whom my brother is interested. This morning I had forgotten
it, but you have refreshed my memory."
"You're a tolerably self-possessed person," was the detective's
unspoken thought, for Fenley was a different man now from the nervous,
distrait son who had clamored for vengeance on his father's murderer.
"You own up to the facts candidly when it is useless to do anything
else, and you never fail to hammer a nail into Robert's coffin when
the opportunity offers."
But aloud he said--
"You really don't know the lady's name, I suppose?"
Fenley hesitated a fraction of a second.
"Yes, I do know it, though I withheld the information this morning,"
he replied. "But, I ask you, is it quite fair to make me a witness
against my brother?"
"Some one must explain Mr. Robert's movements, and, since he declines
the task, I look to you," was the straightforward answer.
"She is a Mrs. Lisle," said Fenley, after another pause--a calculated
pause this time.
"Have you visited your City office today?"
"I went straight there from The Towers. I told you I was going there.
What object could I have in deceiving you?"
"None that I can see, Mr. Fenley. But I have been wondering if any new
light has been shed on the motive which might have led to the crime.
Have you examined Mr. Mortimer Fenley's papers, for instance? There
may be documents, letters, memoranda secreted in some private drawer
or dispatch case."
The other shook his head. He appeared not to resent the detective's
tone. It seemed as if regret for the morning's lack of confidence had
rendered him apologetic.
"No," he said. "I have not had time yet to go through my father's
papers. This afternoon I was taken up wholly with business. You see,
Mr. Winter, I can not allow my personal suffering to cost other men
thousands of pounds, and that must be the outcome if certain
undertakings now in hand are not completed. But my father was most
methodical, and his affairs are sure to be thoroughly in order. Within
the next few days, when I have time to make a proper search, I'll do
it. Meanwhile, I can practically assure you that he had no reason to
anticipate anything in the nature of a personal attack from any
quarter whatsoever."
"Do you care to discuss your brother's extraordinary behavior?"
"In what respect?"
"Well, he virtually bolted from Roxton today, though I had warned him
that his presence was imperative."
"My brother is self-willed and impetuous, and he was dreadfully
shocked at finding his father dead."
"Did he tell you he meant returning to London at once?"
"No. When I came downstairs, after the distressing scene with Mrs.
Fenley, he had gone."
The Superintendent was aware already that he was dealing with a man
cast in no ordinary mold, but he did not expect this continued
meekness. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have grown restive
under such cross-examination, and betrayed their annoyance by word or
look; not so Hilton Fenley, who behaved as if it were the most natural
thing in the world that he should be tracked to his friends' residence
and made to explain his comings and goings during the day. Swayed by a
subconscious desire to nettle his victim into protest, Winter tried a
new tack.
"I suppose, Mr. Fenley, you have seen your father's solicitors today?"
he said suddenly.
"If you mean that question in the ordinary sense, I must tell you that
my father employed no firm of solicitors for family purposes. Of
course, at one time or another, he has availed himself of the services
of nearly every leading firm of lawyers in the City, but each
transaction was complete in itself. For instance, his will is a
holograph will, if that is what you are hinting at. He told me its
provisions at the time it was signed and witnessed, and I shall
surely find it in his private safe at the office."
"You have not looked for it today?"
"No. Why should I?"
Feeling distinctly nonplussed, for there was no denying that Fenley
had chosen the best possible way of carrying off a delicate situation,
Winter turned, walked slowly to a window and gazed down into the
street. He was perturbed, almost irritated, by a novel sense of
failure not often associated with the day's work. He had to confess
now that he had made no material stride in an inquiry the solution of
which did not seem, at the outset, to offer any abnormal difficulty.
True, there were circumstances which might serve to incriminate Robert
Fenley; but if that young man were really responsible for the crime,
he was what "the Yard" classes privately as a monumental idiot, since
his subsequent conduct was well calculated to arouse the suspicion
which the instinct of self-preservation would try to avert. A long
experience of the methods of criminals warned Winter of the folly of
jumping at conclusions, but he would be slow to admit and hard to be
convinced that Robert Fenley took any active part in his father's
murder.
Of course, it was not with a view toward indulging in a reverie that
he approached the window. He was setting a simple trap, into which
many a man and woman had fallen. Any one of moderately strong
character can control face and eyes when the need of such discipline
is urgent, but howsoever impregnable the mask, the strain of wearing
it is felt, and relief shows itself in an unguarded moment. At the
farther end of the room there was a mirror above the fireplace, and as
he turned his back on Fenley, by a hardly perceptible inclination of
his head he could catch the reflection of his companion's face.
The maneuver succeeded, but its result was negative. Hilton Fenley's
eyes were downcast. He had lifted a hand to his chin in one of those
nervous gestures which had been so noticeable during the morning's
tumult. His face wore an expression of deep thought. Indeed, he might
be weighing each word he had heard and uttered, and calculating its
effect on his own fortunes.
Still obeying that unworthy instinct which bade him sting Fenley into
defiance, Winter tossed a question over his shoulder.
"May I have a word with Miss Garth?" he said suddenly.
"Why?" was the calm answer.
"Just to settle that telephone incident once and for all."
"But if you imagine it might not have been Miss Garth who made the
call, why are you here?"
Then the detective laughed. His wonted air of cheerful good humor
smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead. He was beaten, completely
discomfited, and he might as well confess it and betake himself to
some quarter where a likelier trail could be followed.
"True," he said affably. "I need not bother the young lady. Perhaps
you will make my excuses and tell her that I ran you to earth in
Gloucester Mansions merely to save time. By the way, I led the youth
at the call office to believe that I was searching for an undersized
Polish Jewess, all nose and gold earrings, a description which hardly
applies to Miss Garth. And one last question--do you return to Roxton
tonight?"
"Within the hour."
So Winter descended the stone stairs a second time, a prey to a
feeling of failure. What had he gained by his impetuous actions? He
had ascertained that Hilton Fenley was on terms of close intimacy with
a pretty girl and her mother. Nothing very remarkable in that. He had
secured a Paris address and the number of a baggage registration
label. But similar information might be gleaned from a hundred
thousand boxes and portmanteaux in London that day. He had been told
that Mortimer Fenley had made a holograph will. Such procedure was by
no means rare. Millions sterling have been disposed of on half sheets
of note paper. Even his Majesty's judges have written similar wills,
and blundered, with the result that a brother learned in the law has
had to decide what the testator really meant. He wondered whether or
not Mortimer Fenley had committed some technical error, such as the
common one of creating a trust without appointing trustees. That would
be seen in due course, when the will was probated.
At any rate, he grinned at his own expense.
"The only individual who has scored today," he said to himself, "is
John Christopher Drake, alias Giovanni Maselli. I must keep mum about
him. By gad, I believe I've compounded a felony!"
But because he had not scored inside Gloucester Mansions there was no
valid reason why he should not accomplish something in their immediate
neighborhood. For instance, who and what were the Garths, mother and
daughter? He looked in on a well-known dramatic agent, and raised the
point. Reference to a ledger showed that Eileen Garth, age eighteen,
tall, good-looking, no previous experience, had been a candidate for
musical comedy, London engagement alone accepted; the almost certain
sequel being that she had kept her name six months on the books
without an offer to secure her valuable services.
"I remember the girl well," said the agent. "She had the makings of a
coryphee, but lacked training. She could sing a little, so I advised
her to take dancing lessons. I believe she began them, with a teacher
I recommended, but I've seen nothing of her for a year or more."
"Again has Giovanni filled the bill," mused Winter as he made for his
office. "I wish now I had curbed my impulsiveness and kept away from
Gloucester Mansions--the second time, anyhow."
Though chastened in spirit, the fact that no news of any sort awaited
him at Scotland Yard, did not help to restore his customary poise.
"Dash it all!" he growled. "I'm losing grip. The next thing I'll hear
is that Sheldon is enjoying himself at Earl's Court and that Furneaux
has gone fishing."
Restless and ill at ease, he decided to ring up The Towers, Roxton. A
footman answered the telephone, and announced that Mr. Furneaux had
"just come in."
"Hello, Charles," said Winter, when a thin voice squeaked along the
line. "Any luck?"
"Superb!"
"Good! I've drawn blanks, regular round O's, except three probably
useless addresses."
"Addresses are never useless, friend. The mere knowing of a number in
a street picks out that street from all the other streets where one
knows no numbers."
"Tell me things, you rat, if conditions permit."
"Well, I've hit on two facts of profound importance. First, Roxton
contains an artist of rare genius, and, second, it holds a cook of
admitted excellence."
"Look here----"
"I'm listening here, which is all that science can achieve at
present."
"I'm in no mood for ill timed pleasantries."
"But I'm not joking, 'pon me honor. The cook, name of Eliza, does
really exist, and is sworn to surprise even your jaded appetite. The
artist is John Trenholme. In years to come you'll boast of having met
him before he was famous."
"So you, like me, have done nothing?"
"Ah, I note the bitterness of defeat in your tone. It has warped your
judgment, too, as you will agree when a certain dinner I have arranged
for tomorrow night touches the spot."
"Can't you put matters more plainly?"
"I'm guessing and planning and contriving. Like Galileo, I am
convinced that the world moves." Then Furneaux broke into French.
"Regarding those addresses you speak of, what are they?"
Using the same language, Winter told him, substituting "the Eurasian"
and "the motorcyclist" for names, and adding that he was writing
Jacques Faure, the Paris detective, with reference to the hotel and
the label, the figures on the latter being of the long, thin, French
variety.
"Are you coming here tonight?" went on Furneaux.
"Do you want me?"
"I'm only a little chap, and I'd like to have you near when it is
dark."
Winter sighed, but it was with relief. He knew now that Furneaux had
not failed.
"Very well," he said. "I'll arrive by the next convenient train."
"The point is," continued Furneaux, who delighted in keeping his chief
on tenterhooks when some new development in the chase was imminent,
"that the position here requires handling by a man of your weight and
authority. The motor cyclist came back an hour ago, and is now walking
in the garden with the girl."
"The deuce! Why hasn't Sheldon reported?" blurted out Winter.
"Because, in all likelihood, he is watching the other girl. Isn't that
what you were doing? Isn't half the battle won when we find the
woman?"
"I haven't set eyes on _my_ woman."
"You surprise me. That kind of modest self-effacement isn't your usual
style, at all, at all, as they say in Cork."
"Probably you're right about Sheldon. He is a worker, not a talker
like some people I know," retorted Winter.
"What very dull acquaintances you must possess! Workers are the small
fry who put spouters into Parliament, and pay them L400 a year, and
make them Cabinet Ministers."
"Evidently things have happened at Roxton, or you wouldn't be so
chirpy. Well, so long! See you later."
Having ascertained that an express train was timed to leave St.
Pancras for Roxton at six P. M., he was packing a suitcase when a
telegram arrived. It had been handed in at Folkestone at four thirty,
and read:
Decided to follow lady instead of motor cyclist. Will explain
reasons verbally. Reaching London seven o'clock.
SHELDON.
"I'm the only one of the three who has accomplished nothing," was
Winter's rueful comment. Nor could any critic have gainsaid him, for
he seemed to have been wasting precious hours while his subordinates
were making history in the Fenley case.
He left instructions with Johnston that Mr. Sheldon was to write
fully, care of the Roxton police station, and took a cab for St.
Pancras. He was passing along the platform when he caught sight of
Hilton Fenley seated on the far side of a first-class carriage, which
was otherwise untenanted. An open dispatch box lay beside him, and he
was so engrossed in the perusal of some document that he gave no heed
to externals. Winter threw wide the door, and entered.
"We are fated to meet today, Mr. Fenley," he said pleasantly. "First,
you send for me; then I hunt you, and now we come together by chance.
I don't think coincidence can arrange any fourth way of bringing us in
touch today."
But he was mistaken. Coincidence had already done far more than he
imagined in providing unseen clues to the ultimate clearing up of a
ghastly crime, and the same subtle law of chance was fated to assist
the authorities once more before the sun rose again over the trees
from whose cover Mortimer Fenley's murderer had fired the fatal shot.