THE WATCH
"Thanks," said van Heerden, pocketing the ticket, "it is of no use to me
now, for I cannot wait. I gather that you have not disclosed the fact
that this ticket is in your possession."
"I don't know how you gather that," she said.
"Lower your voice!" he hissed menacingly. "I gather as much because
Beale knew the ticket would not be in my possession now. If he only
knew, if he only had a hint of its existence, I fear my scheme would
fail. As it is, it will succeed. And now," he said with a smile, "time
is short and your preparations must be of the briefest. I will save you
the trouble of asking questions by telling you that I am going to take
you along with me. I certainly cannot afford to leave you. Get your
coat."
With a shrug she walked past him to the bedroom and he followed.
"Are we going far?" she asked.
There was no tremor in her voice and she felt remarkably self-possessed.
"That you will discover," said he.
"I am not asking out of idle curiosity, but I want to know whether I
ought to take a bag."
"Perhaps it would be better," he said.
She carried the little attache case back to the sitting-room.
"You have no objection to my taking a little light reading-matter?" she
asked contemptuously. "I am afraid you are not a very entertaining
companion, Dr. van Heerden."
"Excellent girl," said van Heerden cheerfully. "Take anything you like."
She slipped a book from the shelf and nearly betrayed herself by an
involuntary exclamation as she felt its weight.
"You are not very original in your methods," she said, "this is the
second time you have spirited me off."
"The gaols of England, as your new-found friend Milsom will tell you,
are filled with criminals who departed from the beaten tracks," said van
Heerden. "Walk out into the corridor and turn to the right. I will be
close behind you. A little way along you will discover a narrow passage
which leads to the service staircase. Go down that. I am sure you
believe me when I say that I will kill you if you attempt to make any
signal or scream or appeal for help."
She did not answer. It was because of this knowledge and this fear,
which was part of her youthful equipment--for violent death is a very
terrible prospect to the young and the healthy--that she obeyed him at
all.
They walked down the stone stairs, through an untidy, low-roofed lobby,
redolent of cooking food, into the street, without challenge and without
attracting undue notice.
Van Heerden's car was waiting at the end of the street, and she thought
she recognized the chauffeur as Bridgers.
"Once more we ride together," said van Heerden gaily, "and what will be
the end of this adventure for you depends entirely upon your
loyalty--what are you opening your bag for?" he asked, peering in the
dark.
"I am looking for a handkerchief," said Oliva. "I am afraid I am going
to cry!"
He settled himself back in the corner of the car with a sigh of
resignation, accepting her explanation--sarcasm was wholly wasted on van
Heerden.
* * * * *
"Well, gentlemen," said Milsom, "I don't think there's anything more I
can tell you. What are you going to do with me?"
"I'll take the responsibility of not executing the warrant," said
McNorton. "You will accompany one of my men to his home to-night and you
will be under police supervision."
"That's no new experience," said Milsom, "there's only one piece of
advice I want to give you."
"And that is?" asked Beale.
"Don't underrate van Heerden. You have no conception of his nerve. There
isn't a man of us here," he said, "whose insurance rate wouldn't go up
to ninety per cent. if van Heerden decided to get him. I don't profess
that I can help you to explain his strange conduct to-day. I can only
outline the psychology of it, but how and where he has hidden his code
and what circumstances prevent its recovery, is known only to van
Heerden."
He nodded to the little group, and accompanied by McNorton left the
room.
"There goes a pretty bad man," said Kitson, "or I am no judge of
character. He's an old lag, isn't he?"
Beale nodded.
"Murder," he said laconically. "He lived after his time. He should have
been a contemporary of the Borgias."
"A poisoner!" shuddered one of the under-secretaries. "I remember the
case. He killed his nephew and defended himself on the plea that the
youth was a degenerate, as he undoubtedly was."
"He might have got that defence past in America or France," said Beale,
"but unfortunately there was a business end to the matter. He was the
sole heir of his nephew's considerable fortune, and a jury from the
Society of Eugenics would have convicted him on that."
He looked at his watch and turned his eyes to Kitson.
"I presume Miss Cresswell is bored and has retired for the night," he
said.
"I'll find out in a moment," said Kitson. "Did you speak to her?"
Beale nodded, and his eyes twinkled.
"Did you make any progress?"
"I broke the sad news to her, if that's what you mean."
"You told her she was married to you? Good heavens! What did she say?"
"Well, she didn't faint, I don't think she's the fainting kind. She is
cursed with a sense of humour, and refused even to take a tragic view."
"That's bad," said Kitson, shaking his head. "A sense of humour is out
of place in a divorce court, and that is where your little romance is
going to end, my friend."
"I am not so sure," said Beale calmly, and the other stared at him.
"You have promised me," he began, with a note of acerbity in his voice.
"And you have advised me," said Beale.
Kitson choked down something which he was going to say, but which he
evidently thought was better left unsaid.
"Wait," he commanded, "I will find out whether Miss Cresswell," he
emphasized the words, "has gone to bed."
He passed through the door to Oliva's sitting-room and was gone a few
minutes. When he came back Beale saw his troubled face, and ran forward
to meet him.
"She's not there," said Kitson.
"Not in her room?"
"Neither in the sitting-room nor the bedroom. I have rung for her maid.
Oh, here you are."
Prim Minnie came through the bedroom door.
"Where is your mistress?"
"I thought she was with you, sir."
"What is this?" said Beale, stooped and picked up a white kid glove.
"She surely hasn't gone out," he said in consternation.
"That's not a lady's glove, sir," said the girl, "that is a
gentleman's."
It was a new glove, and turning it over he saw stamped inside the words:
"Glebler, Rotterdam."
"Has anybody been here?" he asked.
"Not to my knowledge, sir. The young lady told me she did not want me
any more to-night." The girl hesitated. It seemed a veritable betrayal
of her mistress to disclose such a sordid matter as the search for a
pawn ticket.
Beale noticed the hesitation.
"You must tell me everything, and tell me quickly," he said.
"Well, sir," said the maid, "the lady came in to look for something she
brought with her when she came here."
"I remember!" cried Kitson, "she told me she had brought away something
very curious from van Heerden's house and made me guess what it was.
Something interrupted our talk--what was it?"
"Well, sir," said the maid, resigned, "I won't tell you a lie, sir. It
was a pawn ticket."
"A pawn ticket!" cried Kitson and Beale in unison.
"Are you sure?" asked the latter.
"Absolutely sure, sir."
"But she couldn't have brought a pawn ticket from van Heerden's house.
What was it for?"
"I beg your pardon, sir."
"What was on the pawn ticket?" said Kitson impatiently. "What article
had been pledged?"
Again the girl hesitated. To betray her mistress was unpleasant. To
betray herself--as she would if she confessed that she had most
carefully and thoroughly read the voucher--was unthinkable.
"You know what was on it," said Beale, in his best third degree manner,
"now don't keep us waiting. What was it?"
"A watch, sir."
"How much was it pledged for?"
"Ten shillings, sir."
"Do you remember the name."
"In a foreign name, sir--van Horden."
"Van Heerden," said Beale quickly, "and at what pawnbrokers?"
"Well, sir," said the girl, making a fight for her reputation, "I only
glanced at the ticket and I only noticed----"
"Yes, you did," interrupted Beale sharply, "you read every line of it.
Where was it?"
"Rosenblaum Bros., of Commercial Road," blurted the girl.
"Any number?"
"I didn't see the number."
"You will find them in the telephone book," said Kitson. "What does it
mean?"
But Beale was half-way to Kitson's sitting-room, arriving there in time
to meet McNorton who had handed over his charge to his subordinate.
"I've found it!" cried Beale.
"Found what?" asked Kitson.
"The code!"
"Where? How?" asked McNorton.
"Unless I am altogether wrong the code is contained, either engraved on
the case or written on a slip of paper enclosed within the case of a
watch. Can't you see it all plainly now? Van Heerden neither trusted his
memory nor his subordinates. He had his simple code written, as we shall
find, upon thin paper enclosed in the case of a hunter watch, and this
he pledged. A pawnbroker's is the safest of safe deposits. Searching for
clues, suppose the police had detected his preparations, the pledged
ticket might have been easily overlooked."
Kitson was looking at him with an expression of amazed indignation.
Here was a man who had lost his wife, and Kitson believed that this
young detective loved the girl as few women are loved; but in the
passion of the chase, in the production of a new problem, he was
absorbed to the exclusion of all other considerations in the greater
game.
Yet he did Beale an injustice if he only knew, for the thought of
Oliva's new peril ran through all his speculations, his rapid
deductions, his lightning plans.
"Miss Cresswell found the ticket and probably extracted it as a
curiosity. These things are kept in little envelopes, aren't they,
McNorton?"
The police chief nodded.
"That was it, then. She took it out and left the envelope behind, and
van Heerden did not discover his loss until he went to find the voucher
to give Milsom the code. Don't you remember? In the first place he said
he couldn't give him the code until after ten o'clock, which is probably
the hour the pawnbrokers open for business."
McNorton nodded again.
"Then do you remember that Milsom said that the code was not
irredeemably lost and that van Heerden knew where it was. In default of
finding the ticket he decided to burgle the pawnbroker's, and that
burglary is going through to-night."
"But he could have obtained a duplicate of the ticket," said McNorton.
"How?" asked Beale quickly.
"By going before a magistrate and swearing an affidavit."
"In his own name," said Beale, "you see, he couldn't do that. It would
mean walking into the lion's den. No, burglary was his only chance."
"But what of Oliva?" said Kitson impatiently, "I tell you, Beale, I am
not big enough or stoical enough to think outside of that girl's
safety."
Beale swung round at him.
"You don't think I've forgotten that, do you?" he said in a low voice.
"You don't think that has been out of my mind?" His face was tense and
drawn. "I think, I believe that Oliva is safe," he said quietly. "I
believe that Oliva and not any of us here will deliver van Heerden to
justice."
"Are you mad?" asked Kitson in astonishment.
"I am very sane. Come here!"
He gripped the old lawyer by the arm and led him back to the girl's
room.
"Look," he said, and pointed.
"What do you mean, the bookshelf?"
Beale nodded.
"Half an hour ago I gave Oliva a book," he said, "that book is no longer
there."
"But in the name of Heaven how can a book save her?" demanded the
exasperated Kitson.
Stanford Beale did not answer.
"Yes, yes, she's safe. I know she's safe," he said. "If Oliva is the
girl I think she is then I see van Heerden's finish."