THE LETTERS THAT WERE NOT THERE
She made a rapid survey of the documents. They were unimportant, and
consisted mainly of letters from the few girl friends she had made
during her stay at Punsonby's--old theatre programmes, recipes copied
from newspapers and bunches of snapshots taken on her last summer
excursion.
She arranged the things in some sort of rough order and made an
inspection of her bedroom. Here, too, there was evidence that somebody
had been searching the room. The drawers of her dressing-table were
open, and though the contents had been little disturbed, it was clear
that they had been searched. She made another discovery. The window of
the bedroom was open at the bottom. Usually it was open half-way down
from the top, and was fastened in that position by a patent catch. This
precaution was necessary, because the window looked upon a narrow iron
parapet which ran along the building and communicated with the
fire-escape. She looked out. Evidently the intruder had both come and
gone this way, and as evidently her return had disturbed him in his
inspection, for it was hardly likely he would leave her papers and
bureau in that state of confusion.
She made a brief inspection of the drawers in the dressing-table, and so
far as she could see nothing was missing. She went back to the
writing-bureau, mechanically put away the papers, little
memorandum-books and letters which had been dragged from their
pigeon-holes, then resting her elbow on the desk she sat, chin in hand,
her pretty forehead wrinkled in a frown, recalling the events of the
morning.
Who had searched her desk? What did they hope to discover? She had no
illusions that this was the work of a common thief. There was something
behind all this, something sinister and terrifying.
What association had the search with her summary dismissal and what did
the pompous Mr. White mean when he talked about definite knowledge?
Definite knowledge of what? She gave it up with a shrug. She was not as
much alarmed as disturbed. Life was grating a little, and she resented
this departure from the smooth course which it had hitherto run. She
resented the intrusion of Mr. Beale, who was drunk one moment and sober
the next, who had offices in the city which he did not visit and who
took such an inordinate interest in her affairs, and she resented him
all the more because, in some indefinable way, he had shaken her
faith--no, not shaken her faith, that was too strong a term--he had
pared the mild romance which Dr. van Heerden's friendship represented.
She got up from the table and paced the room, planning her day. She
would go out to lunch and indulge in the dissipation of a matinee.
Perhaps she would stay out to dinner and come back--she shivered
unconsciously and looked round the room. Somehow she did not look
forward to an evening spent alone in her flat.
"Matilda, you're getting maudlin," she said, "you are getting romantic,
too. You are reading too many sensational novels and seeing too many
sensational films."
She walked briskly into her bedroom, unhooked a suit from the wardrobe
and laid it on the bed.
At that moment there came a knock at the door. She put down the
clothes-brush which was in her hand, walked out into the hall, opened
the door and stepped back. Three men stood in the passage without. Two
were strangers with that curious official look which the plain-clothes
policeman can never wholly eradicate from his bearing. The third was Mr.
White, more pompous and more solemn than ever.
"Miss Cresswell?" asked one of the strangers.
"That is my name."
"May we come inside? I want to see you."
She led the way to her little sitting-room. Mr. White followed in the
rear.
"Your name is Oliva Cresswell. You were recently employed by Punsonby's,
Limited, as cashier."
"That is true," she said, wondering what was coming next.
"Certain information was laid against you," said the spokesman, "as a
result of which you were discharged from the firm this morning?"
She raised her eyebrows in indignant surprise.
"Information laid against me?" she said haughtily. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, that a charge was made against you that you were converting
money belonging to the firm to your own use. That was the charge, I
believe, sir?" He turned to Mr. White.
Mr. White nodded slowly.
"It is a lie. It is an outrageous lie," cried the girl, turning flaming
eyes upon the stout managing director of Punsonby's. "You know it's a
lie, Mr. White! Thousands of pounds have passed through my hands and I
have never--oh, it's cruel."
"If you will only keep calm for a little while, miss," said the man, who
was not unused to such outbreaks, "I will explain that at the moment of
your dismissal there was no evidence against you."
"No definite knowledge of your offence," murmured Mr. White.
"And now?" demanded the girl.
"Now we have information, miss, to the effect that three registered
letters, containing in all the sum of L63----"
"Fourteen and sevenpence," murmured Mr. White.
"Sixty-three pounds odd," said the detective, "which were abstracted by
you yesterday are concealed in this flat."
"In the left-hand bottom drawer of your bureau," murmured Mr. White.
"That is the definite knowledge which has come to us--it is a great
pity."
The girl stared from one to the other.
"Three registered envelopes," she said incredulously; "in this flat?"
"In the bottom drawer of your bureau," mumbled Mr. White, who stood
throughout the interview with his eyes closed, his hands clasped in
front of him, a picture of a man performing a most painful act of duty.
"I have a warrant----" began the detective.
"You need no warrant," said the girl quietly, "you are at liberty to
search this flat or bring a woman to search me. I have nothing in these
rooms which I am ashamed that you should see."
The detective turned to his companion.
"Fred," he said, "just have a look over that writing-bureau. Is it
locked, miss?"
She had closed and locked the secretaire and she handed the man the key.
The detective who had done the speaking passed into the bedroom, and the
girl heard him pulling out the drawers. She did not move from where she
stood confronting her late employer, still preserving his attitude of
somnolent detachment.
"Mr. White," she asked quietly, "I have a right to know who accused me
of stealing from your firm."
He made no reply.
"Even a criminal has a right to that, you know," she said, recovering
some of her poise. "I suppose that you have been missing things for
quite a long while--people always miss things for quite a long while
before the thief is discovered, according to the Sunday papers."
"I do not read newspapers published on the Lord's Day," said Mr. White
reproachfully. "I do not know the habits of the criminal classes, but as
you say, and I fear I must convey the gist of your speech to the
officers of the law, money has been missed from your department for a
considerable time. As to your accuser, acting as--ah--as a good citizen
and performing the duties which are associated with good-citizenship, I
cannot reveal his, her, or their name."
She was eyeing him curiously with a gleam of dormant laughter in her
clear eyes. Then she heard a hurried footstep in the little passage and
remembered that the door had been left open and she looked round.
The new-comer was Dr. van Heerden.
"What is this I hear?" he demanded fiercely, addressing White. "You dare
accuse Miss Cresswell of theft?"
"My dear doctor," began White.
"It is an outrage," said the doctor. "It is disgraceful, Mr. White. I
will vouch for Miss Cresswell with my life."
The girl stopped him with a laugh.
"Please don't be dramatic, doctor. It's really a stupid mistake. I
didn't know you knew Mr. White."
"It is a disgraceful mistake," said the doctor violently. "I am
surprised at you, White."
Mr. White could not close his eyes any tighter than they were closed. He
passed the responsibility for the situation upon an invisible Providence
with one heaving shrug of his shoulders.
"It is awfully kind of you to take this interest, doctor," said the
girl, putting out her hands to him, "it was just like you."
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked earnestly. "You can depend upon
me to the last shilling if any trouble arises out of this."
"No trouble will arise out of it," she said. "Mr. White thinks that I
have stolen money and that that money is hidden in the flat--by the way,
who told you that I had been accused?"
For a moment he was taken aback; then:
"I saw the police officers go into your flat. I recognized them, and as
they were accompanied by White, and you had been dismissed this morning,
I drew my own conclusions."
It was at this moment that the detective came back from the bedroom.
"There's nothing there," he said.
Mr. White opened his eyes to their fullest extent.
"In the bottom drawer of the bureau?" he asked incredulously.
"Neither in the bottom drawer nor the top drawer," said the detective.
"Have you found anything, Fred?"
"Nothing," said the other man.
"Have a look behind those pictures."
They turned up the corners of the carpets, searched her one little
bookcase, looked under the tables, an unnecessary and amusing
proceeding in the girl's eyes till the detective explained with that
display of friendliness which all policemen show to suspected persons
whom they do not at heart suspect, it was not an uncommon process for
criminals to tack the proceeds of bank-note robberies to the underside
of the table.
"Well, miss," said the detective at last, with a smile, "I hope we
haven't worried you very much. What do you intend doing, sir?" He
addressed White.
"Did you search the bottom drawer of the bureau?" said Mr. White again.
"I searched the bottom drawer of the bureau, the top drawer and the
middle drawer," said the detective patiently. "I searched the back of
the bureau, the trinket-drawer, the trinket-boxes----"
"And it was not there?" said Mr. White, as though he could not believe
his ears.
"It was not there. What I want to know is, do you charge this young
lady? If you charge her, of course you take all the responsibility for
the act, and if you fail to convict her you will be liable to an action
for false arrest."
"I know, I know, I know," said Mr. White, with remarkable asperity in
one so placid. "No, I do not charge her. I am sorry you have been
inconvenienced"--he turned to the girl in his most majestic manner--"and
I trust that you bear no ill-will."
He offered a large and flabby hand, but Oliva ignored it.
"Mind you don't trip over the mat as you go out," she said, "the passage
is rather dark."
Mr. White left the room, breathing heavily.
"Excuse me one moment," said the doctor in a low voice. "I have a few
words to say to White."
"Please don't make a fuss," said Oliva, "I would rather the matter
dropped where it is."
He nodded, and strode out after the managing director of Punsonby's.
They made a little group of four.
"Can I see you in my flat for a moment, Mr. White?"
"Certainly," said Mr. White cheerfully.
"You don't want us any more?" asked the detective.
"No," said Mr. White; then: "Are you quite sure you searched the bottom
drawer of the bureau?"
"Perfectly sure," said the detective irritably, "you don't suppose I've
been at this job for twenty years and should overlook the one place
where I expected to find the letters."
Mr. White was saved the labour of framing a suitable retort, for the
door of Mr. Beale's flat was flung open and Mr. Beale came forth. His
grey hat was on the back of his head and he stood erect with the aid of
the door-post, surveying with a bland and inane smile the little knot of
men.
"Why," he said jovially, "it's the dear old doctor, and if my eyes don't
deceive me, it's the jolly old Archbishop."
Mr. White brindled. That he was known as the Archbishop in the intimate
circles of his acquaintances afforded him a certain satisfaction. That a
perfect stranger, and a perfectly drunken stranger at that, should
employ a nickname which was for the use of a privileged few, distressed
him.
"And," said the swaying man by the door, peering through the
half-darkness: "Is it not Detective-Sergeant Peterson and Constable
Fairbank? Welcome to this home of virtue."
The detective-sergeant smiled but said nothing. The doctor fingered his
beard indecisively, but Mr. White essayed to stride past, his chin in
the air, ignoring the greeting, but Mr. Beale was too quick for him. He
lurched forward, caught the lapels of the other's immaculate frock-coat
and held himself erect thereby.
"My dear old Whitey," he said.
"I don't know you, sir," cried Mr. White, "will you please unhand me?"
"Don't know me, Whitey? Why you astonishing old thing!"
He slipped his arm over the other's shoulder in an attitude of
affectionate regard. "Don't know old Beale?"
"I never met you before," said Mr. White, struggling to escape.
"Bless my life and soul," said Mr. Beale, stepping back, shocked and
hurt, "I call you to witnesh, Detective-Sergeant Peterson and amiable
Constable Fairbank and learned Dr. van Heerden, that he has denied me.
And it has come to this," he said bitterly, and leaning his head against
the door-post he howled like a dog.
"I say, stop your fooling, Beale," said the doctor angrily, "there's
been very serious business here, and I should thank you not to
interfere."
Mr. Beale wiped imaginary tears from his eyes, grasped Mr. White's
unwilling hand and shook it vigorously, staggered back to his flat and
slammed the door behind him.
"Do you know that man?" asked the doctor, turning to the detective.
"I seem to remember his face," said the sergeant. "Come on, Fred. Good
morning, gentlemen."
They waited till the officers were downstairs and out of sight, and then
the doctor turned to the other and in a different tone from any he had
employed, said:
"Come into my room for a moment, White," and Mr. White followed him
obediently.
They shut the door and passed into the study, with its rows of heavily
bound books, its long table covered with test-tubes and the
paraphernalia of medical research.
"Well," said White, dropping into a chair, "what happened?"
"That is what I want to know," said the doctor.
He took a cigarette from a box on the table and lit it and the two men
looked at one another without speaking.
"Do you think she had the letters and hid them?"
"Impossible," replied the doctor briefly.
White grunted, took a cigar from a long leather case, bit off the end
savagely and reached out his hand for a match.
"'The best-laid schemes of mice and men!'" he quoted.
"Oh, shut up," said the doctor savagely.
He was pacing the study with long strides. He stopped at one end of the
room staring moodily through the window, his hands thrust in his
pockets.
"I wonder what happened," he said again. "Well, that can wait. Now just
tell me exactly how matters stand in regard to you and Punsonby's."
"I have all the figures here," said Mr. White, as he thrust his hand
into the inside pocket of his frock-coat, "I can raise L40,000 by
debentures and--hello, what's this?"
He drew from his pocket a white packet, fastened about by a rubber band.
This he slipped off and gasped, for in his hands were three registered
letters, and they were addressed to Messrs. Punsonby, and each had been
slit open.