THE SPEAKING LIKENESS.
Masefield looked at the figure on the pavement in a dazed kind of
way. Beyond all question there lay the embodiment of the famous
Nostalgo poster. London had been discussing the mystery of the poster
for weeks already. The amazing hideous cleverness of it had struck the
popular imagination, the artistic side of it had appealed to those of
culture. Nobody had the least idea what it was intended to convey.
Every daily paper promising a correct solution on a certain day would
have added tremendously to its circulation.
Then there had been those who had declared that the poster was a
portrait; they had held that no artist could imagine a face quite like
that. And here was dread confirmation of the theory. Absolutely the
poster and the dead man were identical. The same long, thin nose, the
same starting eyes, the same suggestion of diabolical cunning in the
smile.
In the poster Nostalgo wore a turn-down collar and a loosely-knotted
red tie. It was the same with the dead man on the pavement. As to the
rest, his dress was conventional enough--a frock coat and gray
trousers, a tall silk hat which had rolled into the road.
"Don't you think that you had better search his pockets?" Jack
suggested.
The constable replied that it was not a bad idea. But a close
examination produced no definite result. There were no papers on the
body, nothing beyond a handful of money--gold and silver and coppers
all mixed up together in the trousers pocket. There was not even a
watch.
"This game's beyond me," the officer muttered, as he blew his whistle.
"We must get this poor chap conveyed to the police station. Foreigner,
ain't he?"
But Jack could not say. The sweeping, coarse black hair pushed back
from the bulging forehead, and the yellow, guinea-colored face
suggested the Orient. But the lips were thin like the nose, and these
might have belonged to some Spanish hidalgo. It was impossible to
decide.
"You were close by," the policeman said. "Didn't you see anything,
sir?"
"Nothing whatever." said Jack. "I was just passing along on the side
of the square at right angles with this spot. I certainly saw a young
man come along, but I didn't notice him much. I expect he was the
young man who told you that a 'drunk' awaited you here."
"I expect he was, sir; young man with his moustache turned up like the
German Emperor's."
Jack started, but said nothing. It was not for him to say anything of
the strange sight that he had seen in Spencer Anstruther's study. The
young man in question had left his hansom; probably he had come back
for something forgotten; therefore, on the whole, Jack felt that he
could not in any way connect him with this mystery.
And yet Spencer Anstruther's young friend must have been close by at
the very moment the murder was committed. It seemed impossible to
believe that he had not heard that choking cry, and that strange noise
like the tearing of calico or the scatter of peas on a tray. But, on
the other hand, the murdered man had been shot, and shooting implies
noise. Certainly Jack had heard nothing that in any way would be
connected with the firing of a revolver.
And yet there was that tearing sound, and the strange fact that the
Nostalgo of the poster had tears in him in exactly the same place as
the real man who had been wounded. There was a plot calculated to
puzzle Spencer Anstruther himself, and Jack said so aloud.
"I don't think as even he'd guess this," the policeman said. "Friend
of yours by any chance, sir?"
"I had not left his house five minutes before I found that body," Jack
said. "If you like, I will go back and bring Mr. Spencer Anstruther
here."
Here was a chance to get at the other business, the mystery of the
strange music. It was a legitimate errand enough, but the policeman
shook his head. He did not want to take anything so important upon his
own shoulders, his inspector being "down on that kind of thing." Two
constables with the ambulance came at length. They asked no questions,
but hoisted the body up and turned immediately in the direction of
Shannon Street police station.
"I think you had better come along, sir," the first policeman
suggested to Jack. "It's just possible that the inspector may want to
ask you a few questions."
Masefield followed. He smiled just a little as he noted the speaker's
tone. If not exactly in custody, he was at least expected to give a
good account of himself. To his great relief he found the inspector
not in the least disposed to assume the official manner; on the
contrary, he seemed rather a timid man, though his eyes were steady
enough.
"I have told you everything, sir," Jack said at length. "I only wish
it might have been more. If there is any further way in which I can be
of assistance to you----"
"You are very good, sir," the inspector said. "What we have to do now
is to push the matter forward before the scent gets cold. It is very
imperative that we discover who this man is. The first person to apply
to is the firm of advertising contractors who posted those bills. Did
anybody happen to notice the firm whose hoarding the deceased man was
found against?"
"As a matter of fact, I did," Jack said, as the officer shook his
head. "Not that that is a sure find for you, Mr. Inspector, seeing
that those bills appeared on the hoardings of all the bill-posting
firms in London. Still, they may have emanated in the first place from
one firm, and perhaps that firm was Freshcombe & Co."
"That being the name on the top of the hoarding we are speaking of?"
the inspector asked. "You have a keen eye for detail, sir; it was very
smart of you to notice that."
"Not at all; it was almost an accident. The mere fact of finding the
prototype of the famous Nostalgo poster was sufficiently startling to
brace all one's faculties. In glancing at the hoarding I saw the name
of Freshcombe & Co. on the top. The name was impressed upon my memory
by the fact that quite recently I appeared for Freshcombe & Co. in an
action they brought against a rival firm for damages. That is why I
have the name so exact."
The inspector smiled with the air of a man who is well pleased with
himself. In that case Mr. Masefield practically knew the head of
Freshcombe & Co., and where he lived. In that event the inspector
proposed to go direct to the gentleman in question and ask for a few
particulars.
"There I can help you again," Jack said. "I had several interviews
with Mr. Freshcombe through his solicitor, and one of them took place
in Mr. Freshcombe's own house in Regent's Park Crescent."
The inspector waited to hear no more. One of his men would call a cab,
and perhaps Mr. Masefield would be good enough to go as far as
Regent's Park Crescent and smooth the way. It was getting late now,
but Jack had no objection. He was keenly interested in this mystery,
and he must get to the bottom of it if he could. He had a few
questions to ask as the cab rolled away, but none of them struck the
inspector as being to the point. But Jack knew better.
Fortunately Mr. Freshcombe had not gone to bed, though the house was
in darkness. The stout little prosperous-looking man of business
started as he caught sight of the inspector's uniform. Something in
connection with burglary rose uppermost in his mind as he asked his
visitors' business.
"I hope there is nothing wrong," he stammered. "Ah, how do you do, Mr.
Masefield? Will you gentlemen be so good as to step inside. There is a
fire in the dining-room. Anything in the way of a cigar, or----"
But the inspector came to business at once. It was plain that his
story interested the listener, for he followed with eyes of rounded
astonishment. He punctuated the story with surprised grunts.
"Bless my soul!" he explained. "Whoever would have thought it? I never
expected that there was anybody like that famous poster. I had two
thousand of them through my hands in the way of business, and they
struck me as clever, very clever indeed. Personally, I regarded them
as theatrical bills."
"Then you can't tell us anything about them?" the inspector asked,
with an air of chagrin.
"Nothing whatever," Freshcombe replied promptly. "As I said before,
the posters came to us in the ordinary way of business. There was an
air of secrecy about the whole thing."
"Which did not attract your attention? Did not appeal to your
suspicions, I mean?"
"Not a bit of it. The advertiser wanted to create an air of mystery
and sensation. How well that has been managed I leave you to guess.
Being, moreover, exceedingly shrewd, the advertiser did not mean his
name to leak out. I received a note one day asking my terms for
displaying a thousand of those posters on all the hoardings in London,
and my people sent in a quotation."
"That letter came from another business house, I presume, sir?" the
inspector asked.
"No, it didn't. It was from a certain Mr. John Smith, and was written
from the Hôtel Royale, and on the official paper of the hotel. Three
days later the posters arrived per a firm of carriers, and the same
afternoon a check drawn by John Smith on the City and Provincial Bank.
We cashed the check and posted the bills. I may say that, in the usual
course of business, I should not have known this; but I was a little
struck by the posters and their mystery, so I made inquiries. I assure
you that I have not time to go into these minor details as a rule."
"I am rather disappointed," the inspector said. "I hardly expected
this. The mystery of the posters----"
"Was part of the cleverness of the scheme," Freshcombe interrupted.
"As a rule, these things leak out and spoil the game. Why,
half-a-dozen newspaper men have been asking questions in my office."
"Then you don't even know who printed the posters?" Jack asked. "Have
you any more left?"
"I fancy the posters were French," Freshcombe said. "They had
evidently been repacked before they came to me. No, we have none left;
they were all posted last week. I haven't even one as a specimen."
Mr. Freshcombe would have pushed his hospitality, but the others
declined. The inspector was not going to give up the chase like this.
Could Mr. Freshcombe find a London Directory, or in any way help him
to ascertain the name and address of the manager of the City branch of
the City and Provincial Bank? Mr. Freshcombe could supply both
details. The bank manager in question was a large shareholder in the
firm and enjoyed an important position. As to his residence, it was in
Piccadilly, over the bank's branch there. Mr. Carrington was a man of
fashion, so that, if he were at home, it was unlikely that he had gone
to bed. A moment later and the cab was proceeding towards Piccadilly.
Mr. Carrington was not only at home, but he was entertaining friends.
There were lights in all the windows of the handsome suite of rooms
over the bank, and a chatter of voices assailed the ears of the
callers as soon as the mahogany door was opened. Mr. Carrington was
giving an evening party, the footman explained, and he did not like to
be disturbed. But the sight of the inspector's uniform was not without
its effect, and the intruders were ushered into a little room at the
top of the stairs. The door was not quite closed, so that the
strangers could see down a handsome corridor into a fine drawing-room
beyond. Jack could recognize some of the guests, whereby he knew that
Mr. Carrington kept very good company.
"I feel like an intruder," Jack said, as he stood looking out of the
room. In his evening dress he might have passed for a guest himself.
"If Mr. Carrington is in a position----"
Jack paused suddenly. He was face to face with the third great
surprise to-night. For there in the corridor, and coming towards him
now, was the fair-haired, dark-skinned girl whom he had seen with the
young man in Spencer Anstruther's study. There was no mistake here, no
illusion. The girl walked along with her head down, making a sign from
time to time to the man by her side. He was a perfect stranger to
Jack, who dismissed him from the situation altogether as a mere
vacuous man about town. If the woman was here, the youth with the
imperial moustache was not far off, Jack thought. "I think that you
were going to say something, sir," the inspector ventured. But Jack
had quite recovered himself by this time. He made some commonplace
remark, and then Mr. Carrington came into the room. He was polite, but
not at all anxious for his visitors to remain. Would they be so good
as to get to the point. The inspector told his story with considerable
brevity. Mr. Carrington was pleased to be interested. It was a strange
and startling romance as it stood, but the bank manager did not see
his way to afford any solution of this mystery. "I haven't quite
finished, sir," the inspector said quietly. "That bill-posting was
paid for by a check drawn on your City branch, of which you are
manager, by one John Smith. Now, this John Smith----"
"Which John Smith?" Mr. Carrington asked, with a smile. "My good sir,
do you know that we have some two thousand five hundred accounts at
our City branch? Probably the name of John Smith is the commonest in
the world. Without making any very definite statement, I should say
that we have over two hundred accounts in the name of Smith, and
probably a third of them John Smith. I can quite understand your
anxiety to get on the track of the right man without delay, but that
could not possibly be done to-night. I could not even get at the
ledgers without two of the cashiers being present. But I will make it
a point to be at the bank at ten o'clock to-morrow morning and meet
you there. It is impossible to do any more to-night."
The inspector nodded his head somewhat sadly. He quite saw the force
of what Mr. Carrington was saying. He could do no more than make an
appointment for the following day. He wished Carrington good-night and
turned to go, followed by Masefield. In the corridor somebody called
Jack by name. He turned to see a colleague of the junior Bar standing
before him.
"Hullo!" the latter said, "where did you turn up from? I had an idea
that you were a friend of Carrington's. Get your coat off and join us
in a game of bridge." The situation was just a little embarrassing,
but Carrington came to the rescue. Masefield was dressed for the part,
so to speak, and would he not remain? There would be dancing
presently, and----
But Jack decided promptly. He whispered the inspector to precede him
and wait for him in the cab. Carrington passed on as Jack stood just a
moment chatting with his old friend and school-fellow.
"I came here to-night on rather important business," he said. "There
is no occasion to go into that now. But I want you to do something for
me, my dear fellow. In hunting up one mystery I feel pretty sure that
I have come on the track of another. There is a deaf and dumb girl
here--there she is, with that Johnny chap in the resplendent white
waistcoat. I want you to find out who she is and where she comes
from."
"That's all right," Richard Rigby responded. "Nice-looking girl, with
fair hair and dark eyes. Sort of striking theatrical get-up, don't you
think?"
"Well, now you mention it, perhaps it is rather in that way. But that
isn't all, Dick; unless I am greatly mistaken, the girl came here with
a fair chap whose moustache is turned up after the fashion of the
German Emperor. Find out all about him, too, and I'll look you up at
your chambers the first thing in the morning. I must not keep my
friend waiting. Good-night."
Jack passed along the corridor in the direction of the staircase.
There were many palms and ferns there, with screens behind which
people could sit and not be seen except by their partners. Jack paused
with his foot on the thick pile of the carpet, for just in front of
him was the girl with the southern face and fair hair. Her head was
still bent low, her fingers were working. What her companion was like
Jack could not quite make out, for his back was turned. The girl
looked up at him with a flash of anger in her eyes, her lips moved,
and sound certainly came from them. Jack could just catch the words.
"Don't drive me too far," she said. "Take care and not drive me too
far, because----"
The girl suddenly lapsed into silence again and her fingers began to
work. The couple passed behind a screen of palms and ferns, and Jack
could see them no more.
"Well, this has been a night and a half," he said. "Where is it going
to end? I wonder if my friend the inspector will be disposed to accept
my suggestion?"
The inspector gave Jack's suggestion the most careful attention. He
had not thought of it before.
"We'll go back to the scene of the murder," Jack said. "There is a
strong electric light in front of the hoarding, and the Nostalgo
poster is only a few feet from the ground. Moreover, it has only
recently been put up, and it is quite clean and fair. Depend upon it,
there is some trade-mark upon the bill, even if it is only a cipher.
Of course, you see the importance of finding out who posted that
bill?"
"Of course, sir. How do you propose to get at the facts?"
"By examining the bill with the aid of a strong magnifying glass. I
have no doubt that, being a detective, you have such a thing in your
pocket at the present moment? Good. Then, all you have to do is to
order the cab to drive to the corner of Panton Street and stop there."
The cab arrived at length and the occupants dismounted. They did not
take the cab quite as far as the scene of the murder for obvious
reasons, but walked on there alone. It was quite still now, and
nobody was about save a passing policeman, who had orders to give
notice if anybody was coming. It was just as well that the curiosity
of passers-by should not be aroused.
"Now for it," Jack said, breathing a little faster in his excitement.
"Perhaps we had better have the assistance of your lantern as well. I
thought that the poster was there. It was there. I'll swear that that
is the very spot, just where that picture of the pretty girl taking
the pills is. Good heavens, man, the poster has _gone!_ It has been
covered up since we were here before by that mustard advertisement. At
the hour after midnight the thing has been done. But the right thing
must be underneath. See! The poster is wet!"
Jack advanced to tear the poster down, but the inspector pulled him
roughly aside.
"Don't touch it," he said hoarsely. "Whatever you do, don't touch it.
_Wait!_"