Grewgus did not pay his visit the next day as arranged. In the
morning he received a wire from Newcombe, asking him for a respite of
another twenty-four hours. It was evident the Colonial wanted to think
the matter well over, in other words to consider which course would be
the most beneficial to his own interests.
On the second day the detective presented himself with the seven
hundred pounds in his pocket, the money which he devoutly hoped would
soon pass from his keeping.
Newcombe was much better, had recovered marvellously in that couple of
days. His lean face had filled out; there were no longer about him the
signs of a deadly and wasting illness. He greeted his visitor with a
rough good-humour. Grewgus, a shrewd judge of men, put him down as a
good-tempered fellow in the main, inclined to be quarrelsome and
vindictive when the drink overtook him, rather a man of moods and apt
to act on impulse.
“Come along, mister, glad to see you. The doctor says I have made a
marvellous rally. I’m a different man from what I was when you last
saw me. A lot of fight yet left in old Tom Newcombe.”
Grewgus paid him handsome compliments on his changed appearance and
laid on a little flattery. “Even now you look as if you could knock
spots off some of the young ones. I should say you would be as fit as
a fiddle in another week or ten days.”
The Colonial laughed his loud, hoarse laugh. “I guess a certain person
will be bitterly disappointed to find his old pal is so tough. Ha ha!
he’s wondering what has become of me. His money has come right enough,
but I haven’t acknowledged it yet. I don’t quite know what I’m going
to do about that. It depends.”
Grewgus did not answer. He was fairly confident he had won the day,
but he did not wish to spoil matters by hurrying them unduly. He
smiled agreeably and waited for Newcombe to speak again. “Well,
mister, I’ve decided to accept your offer. Have you brought the
‘boodle’? If you haven’t we can adjourn this meeting till to-morrow.
Another day will make no difference to me.”
Grewgus drew out a bulky pocket-book and flourished it invitingly in
front of his companion. “I’m a man of my word, Newcombe. I wasn’t, of
course, absolutely sure of what your decision might be, but I brought
the money on the off-chance. You would like me to hand it over to you
at once, eh?”
The man’s eyes had an avaricious gleam at this invitation. The
detective thought it was a long time since he had handled such a sum.
“What do _you_ think?” he said with a chuckle. “The money first, the
information after. You would do the same in my place now, wouldn’t
you, if you had the brains of a mouse?”
Grewgus could be as frank as anybody, when there was no necessity to
beat about the bush. “I trust you more than you trust me, Newcombe.
Here is the money. Count it over before you start.”
Newcombe began to count over the money. Suddenly he looked up at his
companion with a rather aggrieved air. “I say, you didn’t answer that
question. Wouldn’t you do the same in my place? It’s a matter of
business, ain’t it, pure and simple?”
“Of course, my good fellow, I am not complaining. If I were you I
would certainly have the money before I opened my mouth.”
Mollified by this rejoinder, the Colonial stuffed the notes in his
pocket, and again burst into his loud laugh.
“Now, you’re a clever man, mister--a darned sight cleverer than I am,
I expect--and I suppose you haven’t overlooked the fact that I might
take the money and give you practically nothing for it.”
Grewgus intimated in his suavest manner that such a contingency had
not escaped his intelligence. In some cases he would have taken
greater precautions. He ended with a handsome compliment. “I don’t
know much of you, Newcombe, but I’m pretty sure you’re not one of that
sort.”
The Colonial looked pleased. “You’re right, Mr. Grewgus, I don’t
pretend to be much, but if people play fair and square with me, I play
fair and square with them. I’ve never rounded on a pal yet; I
shouldn’t round on this swine if he hadn’t played the dirty on me.
Why, a week or two ago I would have been cut into little bits before I
would have given Howard Stormont away. That was when I believed him to
be a pal, not a too generous one perhaps, but still a pal. Have you
got me?”
“Perfectly,” answered Grewgus smoothly. “You would be a bit of a soft,
I think, if you showed Stormont any quarter.”
The man’s eyes flashed with sudden fury, it was evident his hatred of
his old friend was very intense, and that once having made up his
mind, he rejoiced in getting even with him.
“Yes, that was a bad evening’s work for him, cleverly as he thought he
had managed it. He was always very keen on the poisoning business,
although mind you, I can’t honestly say that I ever knew of any case
in which he had given it. But he was always fond of reading books on
the subject. He used to laugh when he told me how people in the old
days used to polish off their enemies with a poisoned glove or flower.
He dropped a little drop of something into my drink that night, you
bet--something that this fool of a doctor could not detect anyway.”
“And if you don’t get yourself out of this neighbourhood he’ll try it
again. I shouldn’t say he is the sort of man to be baffled by a first
failure,” commented Grewgus, whose object it was to keep the
Colonial’s indignation at white heat. “And now, Newcombe, let’s get to
business. You’ve counted the money and found it right. It’s for you to
carry out your part of the bargain.”
There was just a touch of shamefacedness in the man’s expression,
hardened character as he was, as he began his story.
“I’m not going to say more about myself than I can help, Mr. Grewgus.
You won’t blame me for that, I’m sure.”
“Not in the least. To be quite frank, I’m not interested in your
career, Newcombe. Stormont’s is the only one that concerns me.”
“Right-o! And if anything comes of it, you’re not going to drag me in.
You promised that at the beginning, didn’t you?”
“Practically I did, and I repeat that promise now,” confirmed Grewgus.
“Well, mister, I’ll start with the days when I first came across
Howard Stormont, when we both were young men. No need to tell you I
wasn’t a model youth. If I had been, I shouldn’t have picked up with
him, or rather he with me. Upon my word of honour, Mr. Grewgus, I
never had much of a chance. My mother, I know, was a good woman, she
died when I was a kid, I should say of a broken heart. My father was a
ne’er-do-well, drunken, callous, dishonest. Unfortunately I took after
him, but never in my life have I had decent luck. If I went straight
for a bit, misfortune dogged me, and on the crook I didn’t fare much
better.”
Proceeding with his narrative, the Colonial explained that at this
period he was associated with a set of men who were not particular as
to how they got their living, although they could not boast of being
scientific or high-class criminals. The one thing to which they had
definitely made up their minds was that they would not work, except
under the direst compulsion. They preferred to beg, borrow, or, when
necessary, cheat and steal.
Stormont, then quite a young man, a little while before was introduced
to this promising association, and in spite of his youth soon evinced
qualities that marked him out for leadership. It was whispered about
presently that he had got into some trouble at home and that his
relatives had insisted on his going abroad.
“I never knew precisely what the trouble was,” Newcombe explained,
“but from all I could gather from a few things dropped by him when he
had a little--for he was a heavy drinker in those days--it was about
money. His people--he always used to boast that he came of a highly
respectable family--paid his passage out and gave him a few pounds
over. I understood he was not to go back to England till he could
return with a clean bill of health.
“Him and me took a great fancy to each other. I don’t quite know what
he saw in me, for I was rather a dull, plodding sort of chap compared
with most of the men I associated with, who told me I wasn’t quite
clever enough for the game. What I admired in him was his high
spirits, and first and foremost his wonderful cunning and cleverness:
he was always alert and up to every move on the board. He was also
very generous, spent money like water when he had it, and most popular
with his mates. They thought a wonderful lot of his abilities and
prophesied that he would one day become a crook of the first water.”
“I take it, these associates of yours were not in the front rank of
their profession?” interjected Grewgus.
The Colonial shook his head. “Certainly not; with the exception of
Stormont they had neither the nerves nor the brains. A great deal of
card-sharping, plucking raw young pigeons who had just come out, a
little bit of easy swindling here and there, that was as far as they
could go. Stormont was altogether on a higher plane. He had the brain
to invent and elaborate big things.”
“And of course, he joined you in these agreeable pursuits, the
card-sharping, the plucking of young pigeons, even although they did
not give full scope for the exercise of his superior talents.”
“That is so, mister, and in a minute I’m coming to what you want to
know. I take it, you’ve been making a lot of inquiries, but up to the
present you haven’t been able to prove definitely he is the criminal
you believe him to be. That goes without saying. If you could have got
that information yourself, you wouldn’t chuck away seven hundred
pounds on me.”
The Colonial, when he could keep off the drink, was evidently a clear
thinker. With great modesty he had spoken of himself as a dull and
plodding fellow, but Grewgus did not consider him as dull as he
pretended to be. Probably intemperance had stood in his way: prevented
him from being a successful crook and reduced him to his present
position of subsisting on Stormont’s bounty.
“Well, the game wasn’t fast enough for him; the profits out of this
petty kind of roguery were too small for a man of his ambitious nature
and expensive tastes. Three or four times he launched out on things of
his own--things that the others were too timid or too slow-witted to
join in. And the last one brought him to grief.”
Grewgus leaned forward in an attitude of expectation. At last he was
going to get something definite about the apparently prosperous owner
of Effington Hall.
“It was rather a neat little bit of forgery. He had laid his plans
well too, thought it all out very carefully, almost succeeded in
fixing the guilt upon another chap, a perfectly honest man.”
“As big a scandal as that, eh?” was the detective’s surprised comment.
Newcombe indulged in a sardonic laugh. “Stormont wasn’t the sort of
man to think of anybody but himself. As long as he could swim he
didn’t care who sank. An innocent man sacrificed didn’t weigh heavily
on his conscience. But clever as he was, the police just went one
better. The other fellow’s innocence was proved and the guilt clearly
fastened on the right person. I forgot to tell you that when he began
to launch out on these dangerous _coups_ he changed his name from
Stormont to Manvers. Under the name of Manvers he was convicted and
sentenced to a pretty tidy term of imprisonment. Now, I’ve kept all
the papers describing the trial and evidence. I shan’t give them up,
of course; but if you give me your solemn word of honour to return
them to me, I’ll lend them to you to make copies of.”
“Thanks very much; I’ll take them away with me when I leave. Does the
name of Stormont occur in them?”
“Yes, they discovered he had been passing under the two, but they
inclined to the belief that Manvers was the real one, and as Manvers
he was convicted. Of course his old pals knew better.”
“And what became of him after he came out of prison?”
“He went back to England; I expect that sharp dose of imprisonment
sickened him of Australia. He had been clever enough to put away the
swag somewhere; it was quite a nice little sum. I’ve a notion he had a
confederate, although I’m sure it was not one of the old lot, somebody
much cleverer than we could turn out. He came to say good-bye to me
and one or two others who had been his particular pals. He bluffed us
that when he got back to his own country he was going to lead an
honest life. For my part, I never believed it. Howard Stormont was a
crook by instinct and he’d never do a bit of honest work if he could
get money by any other means.”
“What do you know of his career between the time he left England and
when you paid him that surprise visit at Effington Hall?”
“Practically nothing,” was the answer. “In the rough and ready life
out there, one soon forgets things, anyway you don’t think continually
of them. I had a lot of bad luck and after many years I worked my way
back to the old country. As I was looking about for any kind of job
that would keep my head above water, I began to think a good deal
about him and wondered what he was doing, if he had struck oil or not.
“By the merest accident I got on his track, saw him coming out of some
city offices unseen by him. A telegraph boy was passing at the time,
and I asked him if he knew anything of the gentleman, slipping into
his hand a shilling which I could ill afford. He seemed to know a good
deal about him. He was a Mr. Howard Stormont--that of course I was
sure of as, with the exception of growing stouter, he had not altered
since the Australian days--that he was engaged in business, and lived
in a fine house in Surrey at a place called Effington. I smartened
myself up as well as I could, for I had very nearly come to the end of
my tether, and went down there. Lord, he was struck all of a heap when
he saw me, so was the flunkey who opened the door.
“He was always a quick-witted fellow, so as soon as he had recovered
from the shock, he made the best of it, and took me into his study,
where we had a long jaw. He told me he had gone in for
finance--perfectly straight business, he swore--but it was terribly
hazardous, and he owned he was living up to the hilt. Knowing his
extravagance of old, I thought it very likely, but he might be
pretending this in order to choke me off, as he could be pretty
certain I hadn’t called upon him merely to inquire after the state of
his health. He was devilish civil all through, of course; he knew I
was acquainted with that nasty little episode, and he didn’t dare to
ride the high horse.”
“And in the end you came to some little financial arrangement?”
“Why, naturally. But he made a hard bargain. When he had money, he was
generous in a spasmodic sort of way; he would stand you any amount of
food and drink, but he was never fond of parting with actual cash. The
sort of man that would give you a dinner costing five pounds, and
button up his pockets when you asked him for the loan of a quid. He
said he’d try and find me a good job, and in the meantime he would
allow me four pounds a week.”
“I should say you found it a tight fit,” remarked Grewgus, thinking of
his companion’s fondness for liquid refreshment.
“You never spoke a truer word. But I couldn’t get him higher. He
pretended that he was frightfully hard up, and that any moment he
might have to give up his fine house. Of course, he knew I wasn’t in a
position to bargain.”
A smile of reminiscence stole over the Colonial’s face as he
continued: “I’m afraid I didn’t behave very well on that visit. He had
on a swell dinner-party that night, which of course I didn’t expect to
be present at, I wasn’t dressed for the part. I had a fine dinner by
myself, and after his guests had gone, he came in and chatted with me
for a few minutes, and set a bottle of whisky in front of me before he
left.
“I’d been going very much on the teetotal lately, through lack of the
ready, and when I saw that tempting bottle before me, I went at it
with a vengeance. When I take a drop too much, I get quarrelsome, the
stuff brings the worst of me to the surface. I began to think he
wasn’t treating me too courteously, and I followed him into the
billiard-room to have it out with him.
“He smoothed me down after a bit, and I had some more drink--there was
plenty of it about--and I got from the quarrelsome into the stupid
stage. I made a silly reference to a little prank of ours when we
followed up a young greenhorn with a view to relieving him of some of
his money. Luckily, he stopped me in time; his niece and her young man
were there, but of course it was a silly thing to do. I think he was
afraid of me from that moment, was never sure of what I might let out
when I was in the same condition.”
Grewgus interrupted the flow of reminiscences relating to that
embarrassing visit to Effington Hall. “Now tell me, please, all that
took place on that day when Stormont took you to the restaurant.”
The Colonial’s face darkened at the allusion. “The scoundrel showed
his usual cunning. You know of that little scene that occurred outside
the house in that street, the name of which I never can remember. Ah,
yes, Curzon Street. You remember how upset I was about it, how very
near I was to giving him away on the evening you came across me. Well,
I suppose Stormont had been thinking it over too, and came to the
conclusion he had gone too far, offended me beyond forgiveness. Well,
the next day, while I was brooding over it, he walks into my room,
with his hand outstretched, and smiling all over his red face.
“‘Tom, old man, we’ve been too good friends in the past to quarrel
now,’ he says. ‘Let us forget and forgive, and shake hands on it. I
was so riled when you came up to me in that state, before all the
crowd too, that I lost my head. I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly, but
you must allow it was a bit rough on me. Let us both bury the
hatchet.’
“I don’t think I’m a very vindictive man, except when somebody plays
the real dirty on me,” urged Newcombe in his own defence. “And I was
forced to admit to myself it was a trifle rough on him, as he said.
Well, after a bit, we made it up and agreed to be friends again. He
seemed awfully relieved, and proposed I should go out to dinner with
him, not to one of the swagger places, which he knew I shouldn’t care
for, but to a quiet little restaurant in Soho.
“We went there, and I had a splendid dinner, and as much drink as I
cared to take. He drank plenty too, but his head was always harder
than mine, and he would be sitting up in his chair when I was under
the table. When I got home, I felt a bit muddled, and when I woke in
the morning I knew I had had a warm night. But it wasn’t till the
middle of the day that I began to feel really queer. I heard the
doctor whispering to the landlady, and I caught the word ‘poisoned.’
When I was able to think things over, I began to tumble to what had
happened. I understood why he had been so devilish civil. I had given
him away in a sense twice. He was afraid of me, and thought there
would be no peace for him till I was out of the way. The dirty dog!
The dirty dog! I must try and not think of it more than I can help. It
makes me see red when I do.”
There was a long silence after this rather furious outburst. Grewgus
broke it with the question: “And have you any ideas as to what he has
been doing all these years in England?”
Newcombe indulged in a rather cunning smile. “That’s not quite in the
contract, is it, mister? I ought to ask a bit more for that, but still
you have played fair and square with me, I don’t mind answering you.
Mark you, I have never been able to get a word out of Stormont; he
swears through thick and thin he’s on the square. But I’ve done a
little spying on my own account, and I’ve come to the conclusion he’s
after the same old game, but much bigger game. There’s no legitimate
business done in that tinpot office in the city. There’s nobody there
but himself and a man named Whitehouse, a solemn-looking sort of cove
who puts in an appearance about three or four times a week. Have you
come across Whitehouse?”
The detective nodded. “Yes, I know a little about him, not very much.
A very old friend of Stormont’s, according to Stormont’s account.”
He did not tell him that the man carried on a solicitor’s business
also, under the name of Glenthorne. It was a fixed policy with him to
obtain confidences, not to make them.
“And I am pretty sure he _is_ a very old friend,” observed the
Colonial. “The first time I spotted him coming out of that office in
the City--I had placed myself where he wasn’t likely to see me--his
face seemed familiar. There was a young chap, not one of ours, whom
I’ve seen several times with Stormont in the old Australian days. He
wasn’t known to any of our lot, and Stormont never said much about
him, never mentioned his name, but I always had a notion they were in
some jobs together. When Stormont went to quod under the name of
Manvers, this chap disappeared altogether. Now, I’m not prepared to
swear to it, but I’ve got more than a notion that this fellow--he was
a young man then--and Whitehouse are one and the same person.”
Grewgus left presently, very satisfied with his day’s work, taking
with him the papers which contained a full account of the trial and
conviction of Manvers, otherwise Stormont. The next day he had a long
interview with Lydon.
“Well, I don’t begrudge the money,” said the young man, after
listening to what had passed between the two men. “We have now proved
absolutely that the man is a criminal, and a pretty desperate one at
that.”
The thing that was worrying him was this--had things now come to such
a pass that he ought to pass on the information he had acquired to
Jasper Stormont? Was it right that Gloria should ever return to her
uncle’s custody?
Without mentioning his exact relations with the girl, relations which
Grewgus already knew of from Newcombe, he put this question.
“Let’s wait a bit, something else of a confirmatory nature may turn
up,” answered the detective. “You still want me to watch the little
game going on at Curzon Street. Something may come to light there.”
And so it was left. Lydon would not approach Jasper Stormont just yet.
There was still some time before he would return to China, and until
then Gloria was safe from further association with her criminal uncle.
A week later there came to Grewgus a telephone call from the offices
of Messrs. Shelford and Taylor, the solicitors.
“Is that you, Grewgus? Good morning.” It was Mr. Shelford speaking. “I
am sending a client of mine, Lord Wraysbury, round to confer with you.
A very serious business, I fear. He will explain it all to you.
Divorce proceedings are threatened, but I think blackmail is the real
object. You might know something or find out something about the
people. Will twelve o’clock suit you?”
At the mention of Wraysbury’s name, Grewgus had a premonition of what
was in the air.
“Perfectly, Mr. Shelford, I will be in,” he said. “What are the names
of the parties?”
The reply was what he expected. “A young married couple of the name of
Edwards. They live in Curzon Street.”