THE GOOD HERR STARDT
"Where is the rest?" said Beale.
"That's the lot," replied McNorton grimly. "It's the only information
you will get from this source for twenty-four hours."
"But I don't understand, it is undoubtedly Miss Cresswell's
handwriting."
"And 'Belocity' is as undoubtedly your telegraphic address. This paper,"
he went on, "was taken from a drunken tramp--'hobo' you call 'em, don't
you?"
"Where?"
"At Kingston-on-Thames," said McNorton--"the man was picked up in the
street, fighting drunk, and taken to the police station, where he
developed delirium tremens. Apparently he has been on the jag all the
week, and to-day's booze finished him off. The local inspector in
searching him found this piece of paper in his pocket and connected it
with the disappearance of Miss Cresswell, the matter being fresh in his
mind, as only this morning we had circulated a new description
throughout the home counties. He got me on the 'phone and sent a
constable up to town with the paper this afternoon."
"H'm," said Beale, biting his lips thoughtfully, "she evidently gave the
man the telegram, telling him to dispatch it. She probably gave him
money, too, which was the explanation of his final drunk."
"I don't think that is the case," said McNorton, "he had one lucid
moment at the station when he was cross-examined as to where he got the
money to get drunk, and he affirmed that he found it wrapped up in a
piece of paper. That sounds true to me. She either dropped it from a car
or threw it from a house."
"Is the man very ill?"
"Pretty bad," said the other, "you will get nothing out of him before
the morning. The doctors had to dope him to get him quiet, and he will
be some time before he is right."
He looked up at the other occupant of the room.
"Well, Parson, you are helping Mr. Beale, I understand?"
"Yes," said the other easily.
"Returning to your old profession, I see," said McNorton.
Parson Homo drew himself up a little stiffly.
"If you have anything against me you can pull me for it," he said
insolently: "that's your business. As to the profession I followed
before I started on that career of crime which brought me into contact
with the crude representatives of what is amusingly called 'the law,' is
entirely my affair."
"Don't get your wool off, Parson," said the other good-humouredly. "You
have lost your sense of humour."
"That's where you are wrong," said Homo coolly: "I have merely lost my
sense of decency."
McNorton turned to the other.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"'I am imprisoned at Deans,'" repeated Beale. "What 'Deans' have you in
this country?"
"There are a dozen of them," replied the police chief: "there's
Deansgate in Manchester, Deanston in Perth, Deansboro', Deans
Abbey--I've been looking them up, there is a whole crowd of them."
"Are there any 'Deans' near Kingston?"
"None," replied the other.
"Then it is obviously the name of a house," said Beale. "I have noticed
that in England you are in the habit of naming rather than numbering
your houses, especially in the suburbs." He looked across to Parson
Homo, "Can you help?"
The man shook his head.
"If I were a vulgar burglar I might assist you," he said, "but my branch
of the profession does not take me to the suburbs."
"We will get a Kingston Directory and go through it," said McNorton; "we
have one on the file at Scotland Yard. If----"
Beale suddenly raised his hand to enjoin silence: he had heard a
familiar step in the corridor outside.
"That's van Heerden," he said in a low voice, "he has been out all the
morning."
"Has he been shadowed?" asked McNorton in the same tone.
"My man lost him," he said.
He tiptoed along the passage and stood listening behind the door.
Presently he heard the doctor's door close and came back.
"I have had the best sleuth in America trailing him," he said, "and he
has slipped him every time."
"Anyway," said McNorton, "this telegram disposes of the idea that she
has gone to Liverpool. It also settles the question as to whether she
went of her own free will. If his name were on that telegram," he said
thoughtfully, "I would take a risk and pull him in."
"I will give you something bigger to pull him for," Beale said, "once I
have placed Miss Cresswell in safety."
"The Green Rust?" smiled the police chief.
"The Green Rust," said Beale, but he did not smile, "that's van
Heerden's big game. The abduction of Miss Cresswell is merely a means to
an end. He wants her money and may want it very badly. The more urgent
is his need the sooner that marriage takes place."
"But there is no clergyman in England who would marry them"--it was Homo
who interrupted. "My dear friend, that sort of thing is not done except
in story books. If the woman refuses her consent the marriage cannot
possibly occur. As I understand, the lady is not likely to be cowed."
"That is what I am afraid of," said Beale, "she is all pluck----"
He stopped, for he had heard the doctor's door close. In three strides
he had crossed the hallway and was in the corridor, confronting his
suave neighbour. Dr. van Heerden, carefully attired, was pulling on his
gloves and smiled into the stern face of his rival.
"Well," he asked pleasantly, "any news of Miss Cresswell?"
"If I had any news of Miss Cresswell you would not be here," said Beale.
"But how interesting," drawled the doctor. "Where should I be?"
"You would be under lock and key, my friend," said Beale.
The doctor threw back his head and laughed softly.
"What a lover!" he said, "and how reluctant to accept his dismissal! It
may ease your mind to know that Miss Cresswell, whom I hope very soon to
call Mrs. van Heerden, is perfectly happy, and is very annoyed at your
persistence. I had a telegram from her this morning, begging me to come
to Liverpool at the earliest opportunity."
"That's a lie," said Beale quietly, "but one lie more or less, I
suppose, doesn't count."
"A thoroughly immoral view to take," said the doctor with much severity,
"but I see there is nothing to be gained by arguing with you, and I can
only make one request."
Beale said nothing but stood waiting.
"It is this," said the doctor, choosing his words with great care: "that
you call off the gentleman who has been dogging my footsteps to-day. It
was amusing at first but now it is becoming annoying. Some of my
patients have complained of this man watching their houses."
"You've not seen a patient to-day, van Heerden," said Beale, "and,
anyway, I guess you had better get used to being shadowed. It isn't your
first experience."
The doctor looked at him under lowered lids and smiled again.
"I could save your man a great deal of trouble," he said, "and myself
considerable exertion by giving him a list of the places where I intend
calling."
"He will find that out for himself," said Beale.
"I wish him greater success than he has had," replied the other, and
passed on, descending the stairs slowly.
Beale went back to his flat, passed to his bedroom and looked down into
the street. He made a signal to a man at the corner and received an
almost imperceptible answer. Then he returned to the two men.
"This fellow is too clever for us, I am afraid, and London with its
tubes, its underground stations and taxi-cabs is a pretty difficult
proposition."
"I suppose your man lost him in the tube," said McNorton.
"There are two ways down, the elevator and the stairs, and it is mighty
difficult to follow a man unless you know which way he is going."
"But you were interrupted at an interesting moment. What are you going
to tell us about the Green Rust?"
"I can only tell you this," said Beale, "that the Green Rust is the
greatest conspiracy against the civilized world that has ever been
hatched."
He looked sharply at Homo.
"Don't look at me," said the Parson, "I know nothing about it,
unless----" He stopped and frowned. "The Green Rust," he repeated, "is
that old man Heyler's secret?"
"He's in it," said Beale shortly.
"Is it a swindle of some kind?" asked the Parson curiously. "It never
struck me that Heyler was that kind of man."
"There is no swindle in it so far as Heyler's concerned," said Beale,
"it is something bigger than a swindle."
A telephone bell rang and he took up the receiver and listened, only
interjecting a query or two. Then he hung up the instrument.
"It is as I thought," he said: "the doctor's slipped again. Had a car
waiting for him in Oxford Street and when he saw there were no taxi-cabs
about, jumped in and was driven eastward."
"Did you get the number of the car?" asked McNorton.
Beale smiled.
"That's not much use," he said, "he's probably got two or three
number-plates."
He looked at his watch.
"I'll go along to Kingston," he said.
"I shan't be able to come with you," said McNorton, "I have a meeting
with the commissioner at five."
"Before you go," remarked Beale, "you might put your signature to this
declaration of my _bona fides_."
He laid on the table a blue foolscap blank.
"What's this?" asked the surprised McNorton, "an application for a
special licence--are you going to be married?"
"I hope so," said the other cautiously.
"You don't seem very cheerful about it. I presume you want me to testify
to the urgency of the case. I am probably perjuring myself." He signed
his name with a flourish. "When are you getting the licence and what's
the hurry?"
"I am getting the licence to-morrow," said Beale.
"And the lady's name is----?"
"I thought you had noticed it," smiled the other, deftly blotting and
folding the form.
"Not Miss Cresswell?" demanded the police chief in surprise.
"Miss Cresswell it is."
"But I thought----"
"There are circumstances which may be brought to your official notice,
McNorton," said the detective, "for the present it is necessary to keep
my plan a secret."
"Has it anything to do with the Green Rust?" asked the other jokingly.
"A great deal to do with the Green Rust."
"Well, I'll get along," said McNorton. "I will telephone the Kingston
police to give you all the assistance possible, but I am afraid you will
learn nothing from the tramp till the morning, and perhaps not then."
He took his leave soon after.
"Now, Homo, it is up to you and me," said Beale. "You will have to keep
close to me after to-morrow. Make yourself at home here until I come
back."
"One moment," said Homo, as Beale rose and gathered up his hat and
gloves to depart. "Before you go I want you to understand clearly that I
am taking on this job because it offers me a chance that I haven't had
since I fell from grace, if you will excuse the _cliche_."
"That I understand," said Beale.
"I may be doing you a very bad turn."
"I'll take that risk," said Beale.
"On your own head be it," said Homo, his hard face creased in a
fleeting smile.
Beale's car was waiting, but his departure was unexpectedly delayed. As
he passed down the stairs into the vestibule he saw a stranger standing
near the door reading the enamelled name-plates affixed to the wall.
Something in his appearance arrested Beale. The man was well dressed in
the sense that his clothes were new and well cut, but the pattern of the
cloth, no less than the startling yellowness of the boots and that
unmistakable sign-manual of the foreigner, the shape and colour of the
cravat, stamped him as being neither American nor British.
"Can I be of any assistance?" asked Beale. "Are you looking for
somebody?"
The visitor turned a pink face to him.
"You are very good," he said with the faint trace of an accent. "I
understand that Doctor van Heerden lives here?"
"Yes, he lives here," said Beale, "but I am afraid he is not at home."
He thought it might be a patient or a summons to a patient.
"Not at home?" The man's face fell. "But how unfortunate! Could you tell
me where I can find him, my business is immediate and I have come a long
way."
From Germany, guessed Beale. The mail train was due at Charing Cross
half an hour before.
"I am a friend of Doctor van Heerden and possibly I can assist you. Is
the business very important? Does it concern," he hesitated, "the Green
Rust?"
He spoke the last sentence in German and the man started and looked at
him with mingled suspicion and uncertainty.
"It is a matter of the greatest importance," he repeated, "it is of
vital importance."
He spoke in German.
"About the Green Rust?" asked Beale, in the same language.
"I do not know anything of the Green Rust," said the man hurriedly. "I
am merely the bearer of a communication which is of the greatest
importance." He repeated the words--"the greatest importance."
"If you give me the letter," said Beale, "I will see that it is sent on
to him," and he held out his hand with the assurance of one who shared
the dearest secrets of the doctor. The stranger's hand wandered to his
breast pocket, but came back empty.
"No, it must be given--I must see the doctor himself," he said. "He does
not expect me and I will wait."
Beale thought quickly.
"Well, perhaps you will come upstairs to my flat and wait," he said
genially, and led the way, and the man, still showing evidence of
uneasiness, was ushered into his room, where the sight of the Rev.
Parson Homo tended to reassure him.
Would he have tea? He would not have tea. Would he take coffee? He would
not take coffee. A glass of wine perhaps? No, he did not drink wine nor
beer, nor would he take any refreshment whatever.
"My man," thought the desperate Beale, "I either chloroform you or hit
you on the head with the poker, but I am going to see that letter."
As if divining his thought, but placing thereon a wrong construction,
the man said:
"I should avail myself of your kindness to deliver my letter to Doctor
van Heerden, but of what service would it be since it is only a letter
introducing me to the good doctor?"
"Oh, is that all?" said Beale, disappointed, and somehow he knew the man
spoke the truth.
"That is all," he said, "except of course my message, which is verbal.
My name is Stardt, you may have heard the doctor speak of me. We have
had some correspondence."
"Yes, yes, I remember," lied Beale.
"The message is for him alone, of course, as you will understand, and if
I deliver it to you," smiled Herr Stardt, "you should not understand it,
because it is one word."
"One word?" said Beale blankly. "A code--hang!"