Three days had gone by, and the mystery of Reginald Monkton's
disappearance remained as insoluble as ever. Well, it might be so,
since there did not seem a single clue, with the exception of the name
muttered by the dying man, which at first had sounded like Molyneux, and
afterwards like Mulliner. Neither Sheila nor Grant, who had listened to
those faint sounds issuing from the dying lips, could be certain which
of the two was correct.
Wingate had seen Smeaton twice, and that astute person assured him that
the keenest brains at Scotland Yard were working on the case. But he
was very reticent, and from his manner the young man was forced to draw
the conclusion that the prospects of success were very slight.
If it had been simply a case of disappearance, uncomplicated by other
circumstances, many theories could have been formed. There were plenty
of instances of men whose reason had become temporarily unhinged, and
who had lost consciousness of their own identity.
Again, men have disappeared voluntarily because they have been
threatened with exposure of some shameful secret of the past, and will
willingly pay the penalty of separation from their own kith and kin to
avoid it.
But no such theories seemed tenable in this instance. Monkton's life,
in the opinion of all who knew him, had been a well-ordered and
blameless one. He had been a devoted husband; and he was a devoted
father, wrapped up in his charming daughter, the sole legacy of that
happy marriage.
In the case of such a man, with so stainless a record, it was
unthinkable that anything could leap to light from the past which could
shame him to such an extent that he would, of his own act, abandon his
office, and isolate himself from his child.
Even granting such an hypothesis for a moment, and brushing aside all
the evidences of his past life and all the knowledge of him gained
through years by his relatives and intimate friends, how did such a
theory fit in with the appearance on the scene of the stranger now dead?
"You fear the worst?" queried Wingate one day, as Smeaton sat with him
in his cosy rooms in Half Moon Street.
"It is too early yet to give a decided opinion, if, in a case of such
complexity, one could ever give a decided opinion at all," was the
detective's answer. "But at present things point that way. What was
the motive underlying the scheme? You can give the answer quickly--that
all inquiries as to the real man are being stifled."
"In other words, that Mr Monkton has been done away with, for motives
we do not know, by the person or persons who put the man into the taxi?"
Smeaton nodded. "That's what it seems to be at the moment, Mr Wingate.
But we should be poor detectives if we pinned ourselves to any one
theory, especially on such evidence--or rather want of evidence--as we
have got at present. Cases as mysterious as this--and there was never
one more mysterious--have been solved by unexpected means. If we can
get hold of that driver who brought the dying man to Chesterfield
Street, we may light upon something useful."
"If he was an accomplice, as seems possible, he will never turn up,"
said Wingate gloomily.
"Accomplice or not, I think the reward will tempt him," replied Smeaton,
"even if he has to make up his tale before he comes. I expected he
would come forward before now. But one of two things may have happened.
Either he may be cogitating over what he shall say when he does come,
or he may be an ignorant sort of fellow, who hardly ever reads the
newspapers."
"Anyway," resumed Smeaton, after a thoughtful pause, "if and when he
does turn up, we shall know, with our long experience, what sort of a
customer he is. You may rely upon it that if there is anything to be
got out of him, we shall get it, whether it proves valuable or not."
It was not a very cheering interview, certainly, but how could there be
any chance of hopefulness at present?
During the few days, however, the police had not been idle. They had
made a few discoveries, although they were of a nature to intensify
rather than tend to a solution of the mystery.
They had established one most important fact.
Monkton had excused himself from dining at home on the plea that he must
be down at the House, the inference being that he would snatch a hasty
meal there, in the pause of his Ministerial work.
Instead of that, he had dined about seven o'clock in an obscure little
Italian restaurant in Soho. Luigi, the proprietor, had at once
recognised him from his portraits in the illustrated papers, and from
having seen him at the Ritz, where he had been a waiter.
He had entered the cafe a few minutes before seven, and had looked
round, as if expecting to find somebody waiting for him. Luigi had
taken him the menu, and he had said he would wait a few minutes before
giving his order, as a guest would arrive.
On the stroke of seven a tall, bearded man, evidently a foreigner, who
walked with a limp, joined him. Questioned by Smeaton as to the
nationality of the man, the proprietor replied that he could not be
sure. He would take him for a Russian. He was quite certain that he
was neither French nor Italian. And he was equally certain that he was
not a German.
The new arrival joined Mr Monkton, who at once ordered the dinner.
Neither of the men ate much, but consumed a bottle of wine between them.
They talked earnestly, and in low tones, during the progress of the
meal, which was finished in about half-an-hour. Cigars, coffee, and
liqueurs were then ordered, and over these they sat till half-past
eight, conversing in the same low tones all the time.
Luigi added that the Russian--if he was of that nationality, as he
suspected--seemed to bear the chief burden of the conversation. Mr
Monkton played the part of listener most of the time, interjecting
remarks now and again.
Asked if he overheard any of the talk between them, he replied that he
did not catch a syllable. When he approached the table they remained
silent, and did not speak again until he was well out of earshot.
"And you are quite positive it was Mr Monkton?" Smeaton had
questioned, when Luigi had finished his recital. It had struck him that
Luigi might have been mistaken after all.
Luigi was quite sure. He reminded Smeaton that before taking on the
little restaurant in Soho he had been a waiter at the Ritz, where he had
often seen the Cabinet Minister. It was impossible he could be
mistaken.
He added in his excellent English, for he was one of those foreigners
who are very clever linguists. "Besides, there is one other thing that
proves it, even supposing I was misled by a chance likeness--though Mr
Monkton's is not a face you would easily forget--as I helped him on with
his light overcoat he remarked to his friend, `I must hurry on as fast
as I can. I am overdue at the House.'"
That seemed to settle the point. There might be a dozen men walking
about London with sufficient superficial resemblance to deceive an
ordinary observer, but there was no Member of the House of Commons who
could pass for Monkton.
It was evident, then, that he had gone to that little, out-of-the-way
restaurant to keep an appointment. The man he met was his guest, as
Monkton paid for the dinner. The excuse he made for not dining at home
was a subterfuge. The appointment was therefore one that he wished to
conceal from his daughter, unless he did not deem it a matter of
sufficient importance to warrant an explanation.
Monkton's secretary was also interrogated by the detective. He was a
fat-faced, rather pompous young man, with a somewhat plausible and
ingratiating manner. He had been with Monkton three years. Sheila had
seen very little of him, but what little she had seen did not impress
her in his favour. And her father had owned that he liked him least of
any one of the numerous secretaries who had served him.
This young man, James Farloe by name, had very little to tell. He was
at the House at eight o'clock, according to Monkton's instructions, and
expected, him at that hour. He did not come in till after half-past,
and he noticed that his manner was strange and abrupt, as if he had been
disturbed by something. At a few minutes before ten he left, presumably
for home. When he bade Farloe good-night he still seemed preoccupied.
In these terrible days Austin Wingate's business occupied but second
place in his thoughts. He was prepared to devote every moment he could
snatch to cheer and sustain the sorrowing Sheila.
A week had gone by, but thanks to certain instructions given by the
authorities, at the instance of the Prime Minister, who deplored the
loss of his valuable colleague, the matter was being carefully
hushed-up.
Late one afternoon, while Smeaton was seated in his bare official room
on the second floor at Scotland Yard, the window of which overlooked
Westminster Bridge, a constable ushered in a taxi-driver, saying:
"This man has come to see you, sir, regarding a fare he drove to
Chesterfield Street the other night."
"Excellent!" exclaimed Smeaton, lounging back in his chair, having been
busy writing reports. "Sit down. What is your name?"
"Davies, sir--George Davies," replied the man, twisting his cap
awkwardly in his hands as he seated himself.
Smeaton could not sum him up. There was no apparent look of dishonesty
about him, but he would not like to have said that he conveyed the idea
of absolute honesty. There was something a little bit foxy in his
expression, and he was decidedly nervous. But then Scotland Yard is an
awe-inspiring place to the humbler classes, and nervousness is quite as
often a symptom of innocence as of guilt.
"I only 'eard about this advertisement from a pal this morning. I never
reads the papers," the taxi-driver said.
"Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. That
gentleman died, you know!"
The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice:
"I've come 'ere, sir, to tell you the truth. I'll tell you all I know,"
he added, "providing I'm not going to get into any trouble."
"Not if you are not an accomplice," Smeaton said, his keen eyes fixed
upon his visitor.
The man paused and then with considerable apprehension said:
"Well--I don't know 'ow I can be really an accomplice. All I know about
it is that I was passin' into Victoria Street goin' towards the station,
when three gentlemen standin' under a lamp just opposite the entrance to
Dean's Yard hailed me. I pulls up when I sees that two of 'em 'ad got
another gentleman by the arms. `Look 'ere, driver,' says one of 'em,
`this friend of ours 'as 'ad a drop too much wine, and we don't want to
go 'ome with 'im because of 'is wife. Will you take 'im? 'E lives in
Chesterfield Street, just off Curzon Street,' and 'e gives me the
number."
"Yes," said Smeaton anxiously. "And what then?"
"Well, sir, 'e gives me five bob and puts the gentleman into my cab, and
I drove 'im to the address, where 'is servant took charge of 'im. Did
'e really die afterwards?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes--unfortunately he did," was the police official's reply. "But tell
me, Davies. Did you get a good look at the faces of the two men?"
"Yes, sir. They were all three under the lamp."
"Do you think you could recognise both of them again--eh?"
"Of course I could. Why, one of 'em I've seen about lots o' times.
Indeed, only yesterday, about three o'clock, while I was waitin' on the
rank in the Strand, opposite the Savoy, I saw 'im come out with a lady,
and drive away in a big grey car. If I'd a known then, sir, I could
'ave stopped 'im!"