MR. GERALD RAYNER
There were various reasons why Ambler Appleyard's wonder had often been
aroused by the man to whom Miss Slade had stopped to speak. He wondered
about him, first of all, because of his personal appearance. That was
striking enough to excite wonder in anybody, for he was one of those
remarkable men who possess great beauty of countenance allied to
unfortunate deformity of body. The face was that of a poet and a
dreamer, the body that of a hunchback and a cripple. Painter or
sculptor alike would have rejoiced to depict the face on canvas or
carve it in marble--its perfect shape, fine tinting, the lines of the
features, the beauty of the eyes, the wealth of the dark, clustering
hair, were all as near artistic perfection as could be. But all else
spoke of deformity--the badly bent back, the twisted body, the short
leg, the misshapen foot. It was as if Nature had endeavoured in some
wickedly mischievous freak to show how beauty and ugliness can be
combined in one creature.
That was one reason for wonder in Appleyard's mind--he had never come
across quite this type before, though he knew that hunchbacks and
cripples are often gifted with unusual strength, and more than usual good
looks, as if in ironic compensation for their other disadvantages. But
there were others. Mr. Gerald Rayner--everybody knew everybody else's
name in that private hotel, for they were all more or less permanent
residents--was something of a mystery man. In spite of his deformity, he
was the best-dressed man in the house--they were all smart men there, but
none of them came up to him in the way of clothes, linen, and personal
adornment, always in the best and most cultured taste. Also it was easy
to gather that he was a young man of large means. Although he made full
use of the public rooms, and was always in and about them of an evening,
from dinner-time to a late hour, he tenanted a private suite of
apartments in the hotel--those residents, few in number, who had been
privileged to obtain entrance to them spoke with almost awed admiration
of their occupant's books, pictures, and objects of art. Mr. Gerald
Rayner, it was evident, was a man of culture--that, indeed, was shown by
his conversation. And at first Appleyard had set him down as a poet, or
an artist, or a writing man of some sort--a dilettante who possessed
private means. Then, being a sharp observer of all that went on around
his own centre, he began to perceive that he must be mistaken in
that--Rayner was obviously a business man, like himself. For every
morning, at precisely half-past nine, a smart motor-brougham arrived at
the door of the private hotel and carried Rayner off Citywards; every
afternoon at exactly half-past five the same conveyance brought him back.
Only business men, said Appleyard, are so regular, so punctual; therefore
Rayner must be a business man.
But nobody in that hotel knew anything whatever of Rayner, beyond what
they saw of him within its walls. Nobody knew whither the motor-brougham
carried him, what he did when he reached his destination, nobody knew
what or who he was. Appleyard, who was always knocking about the heart of
the City, who was for ever in its business streets, who knew all the City
clubs, all the best City restaurants, and was familiar with all sorts
and shades of life in the City, never saw Rayner in any of his own
purlieus. Accordingly, he came to the conclusion that Rayner's business,
whatever it was, did not take him to the City. Nevertheless, it was
certain, in Appleyard's opinion, that he was in business, and paid
scrupulous attention to his daily duties.
Over the edge of his newspaper he watched Rayner and Miss Slade meet,
exchange a word or two, and retire to a corner of an inner lounge in
which they often sat talking together. He had often seen them talking
together, and it had struck him that they seemed to talk with more than
ordinary confidence. The hunchback was on terms of easy familiarity with
everybody in the house, and he had a remarkable range of topics. He could
talk sport, books, finance, politics, art, science, history,
theology--the variety of his conversation was astonishing. But Appleyard
had begun to notice that he rarely talked to any single person with the
exception of Miss Slade--he would join a group in smoking-room or
drawing-room and enter gaily into whatever was being discussed, but he
seemed to have no desire to hold a _tête-a-tête_ talk with any one except
this young woman, who was now as much an object of mystery and
speculation to Appleyard as he himself was. They were often seen talking
together in quiet corners--and some of the old maids and eligible widows
were already saying that Miss Slade was setting her cap at Mr. Rayner's
evident deep purse.
Ambler Appleyard went to bed that night wondering greatly about two
matters--first, why Miss Slade was Miss Slade in Bayswater and Mrs.
Marlow at Fullaway's office; second, if Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow,
whichever she really was, had any secrets with the mysterious Mr.
Rayner. From that he got to wondering who Rayner really was, and what
his business was. And this process of speculation began again next
morning, and continued all the way to the Gresham Street warehouse,
and by the time he had arrived there he had half-determined to find
out more about Miss Slade than was known to him up to then--and also,
since he appeared to be such great friends with Miss Slade, about Mr.
Gerald Rayner.
"But how?" he mused as he ran up the steps to the warehouse. "I'm not a
private detective, and I don't propose to employ one. If I knew some
sharp fellow--"
Just then he caught sight of Gaffney, who sat on a bale of goods within
the warehouse door, holding a note in his hand. He stood up with a grin
of friendly recognition when he saw Appleyard.
"Morning, sir," he said. "Letter from Mr. Allerdyke for you. No answer,
but I was to wait till you'd read it."
Appleyard opened the note there and then. It was a mere hurried scrawl,
saying that Allerdyke was just setting off for Hull, in obedience to a
call from the police; as Gaffney had nothing to do, would Appleyard make
use of him during Allerdyke's absence?
Appleyard bade Gaffney wait a while, went into his office, ran through
his correspondence, gave the morning's orders out to the warehouseman,
and called the chauffeur inside.
"Gaffney," he said as he carefully closed the door on them, "you're a
Londoner, aren't you?"
Gaffney smiled widely.
"Ought to be, Mr. Appleyard," he answered. "I was born within sound of
Bow Bells, anyhow. Off Aldersgate Street, sir. Yes, I'm a Cockney,
right enough."
"Then you know London well, of course," suggested Appleyard.
"Never went out of it much, sir, till I went down to Bradford to this
present job," replied Gaffney. "I shouldn't have left it if Mr. Allerdyke
hadn't given me extra good wages and a real good place."
Appleyard tossed Allerdyke's note across his desk.
"You see what Mr. Allerdyke says," he remarked. "Wants me to find you
something to do while he's off. How long is he likely to be off?"
"He said he might be back to-morrow night, sir," answered Gaffney,
glancing at the note. "But possibly not till the day after to-morrow."
"Well, I don't know that there's anything you can do here," said
Appleyard. "We're not particularly busy, and we've a full staff. But," he
continued, with a sharp glance at the chauffeur, "there's something you
can do for me, privately, to-morrow morning--a quite private matter--a
matter entirely between ourselves. I'll account to Mr. Allerdyke for your
time, but I don't want even him to know about this job that you can do
for me--I'll pay you for doing it out of my own pocket."
"Just as you think right, sir," answered Gaffney. "So long as you make it
right with the guv'nor, I'm willing."
"Very well," said Appleyard. He paused a moment, and then lowered his
voice. "You've seen about this tremendous reward that's being offered in
Mr. James Allerdyke's case?" he asked, with another sharp look. "You know
what I mean?"
Gaffney's shrewd face grew shrewder, and he nodded knowingly.
"I know!" he said. "Fifty thousand! A fortune, sir!"
"What I want you to do," continued Appleyard, "may lead to something
relating to that, and it mayn't. Anyway, I'll make you all right. Now,
listen carefully. Do you think you could get hold of a private motor
to-morrow morning? A smart, private cab in which you could put a friend
of yours--well dressed--would be the thing. Early."
"Easy as winking, sir," answered Gaffney. "Know the cab, and know a
friend o'mine who'd sit in it--as long as you like."
"Very good," said Appleyard. "Now, then, do you know Lancaster Gate?"
"Do I know St. Paul's?" exclaimed Gaffney, half-derisively. "Used to
drive for an old gent who lived in Porchester Terrace."
"Oh!" replied Appleyard. "Then I daresay you know the Pompadour
Private Hotel?"
"As well as I know my own fingers," responded Gaffney. "Driven to and
from it many a hundred times."
"Just the man I want, then," continued Appleyard. "Now, to-morrow
morning, get your cab early--put your friend in it--dressed up, of
course--and at half-past nine to the very minute drive slowly past the
front door of the Pompadour. You'll see a private motor-brougham
there--dark green--you'll also see a hunchbacked gentleman enter it--you
can't mistake him. Follow him! Never mind where he goes, or how long it
takes to get there--or how few minutes it takes to get there, for that
matter!--follow him and find out where that private cab puts him down.
Then--come and report to me. Is that all clear?"
"Clear as noonday, sir," answered Gaffney. "I understand--I've been at
that sort of game more than once."
"All right," said Appleyard. "I leave it to you. Take every care--I
don't want this man to get the least suspicion that he's followed.
And--" He hesitated, considering his plans over again. "Yes," he went
on, "there's just another detail that I may mention--it'll save time.
This hunchback gentleman's name is Rayner--Mr. Gerald Rayner. Can you
remember it?"
"As well as my own," answered Gaffney. "Mr. Gerald Rayner. I've got it."
"Very good. Now, then, can you trust this friend of yours?" asked
Appleyard. "Is he a chap of common sense?"
"It's my own brother," replied Gaffney. "Some people say I'm the sharper
of the two, some say he is. There's a pair of us, anyhow."
"That'll do," said Appleyard. "Now, wherever you see this Mr. Rayner set
down, let your brother get out of your cab and take particular notice if
he goes into any shop, office, flats, buildings, anything of that sort
which bears his name--Rayner. D'you see? I want to know what his business
is. And now that you know what I want, you and your brother put your
heads together and try to find it out, and come to me when you've done,
and I'll make it worth your while. You'd better go now and make your
arrangements."
Gaffney went away, evidently delighted with his commission, and Appleyard
turned to his business of the day, wondering if he was not going to waste
the chauffer's time and his own money. Next morning he purposely hung
about the Pompadour until the time for Rayner's departure arrived; from
one of the front windows he saw the hunchback enter his brougham and
drive away; at the same moment he saw a neat private cab, driven by
Gaffney, and occupied by a smart-looking young gentleman in a silk hat,
come along and follow in quite an ordinary and usual manner. And on that
he himself went to Gresham Street and waited.
Gaffney and his brother turned in during the morning, both evidently
primed with news. Appleyard shut himself into his office with them.
"Well?" he asked.
"Easy job, Mr. Appleyard," replied Gaffney. "Drove straight through the
Park, Constitution Hill, the Mall, Strand, to top of Arundel Street.
There he got out; brougham went off--back--he walked down street. So my
brother here he got out too, and strolled down street after him. He'll
tell you the rest, sir."
"Just as plain as what he's told," said the other Gaffney. "I followed
him down the street; he walked one side, I t'other side. He went into
Clytemnestra House--one of those big houses of business flats and
offices--almost at the bottom. I waited some time to see if he was
settled like, or if it was only a call he was making. Then I went into
the hall of Clytemnestra House, as if I was looking for somebody. There
are two boards in that hall with the names of tenants painted on 'em. But
there's not that name--Gerald Rayner. Still, I'll tell you what there is,
sir--there's a name that begins with the same initials--G.R."
"What name?" asked Appleyard.
"The name," replied the second Gaffney, "is Gavin Ramsay--Agent."