At the beginning of the interview, the demeanour of the taxi-driver had
betrayed signs of nervousness and trepidation. He had hesitated and
stumbled in his speech, so much so that Smeaton, the detective, was
still in doubt as to his honesty.
Smeaton, however, was a past-master in the art of dealing with a
difficult witness. So reassuring was his manner that at the end of five
minutes he had succeeded in inspiring the taxi-driver with confidence.
His nervousness and hesitation were succeeded by loquacity.
Urged to give a description of the two men, he explained, with amplitude
of detail, that the man who had come out of the Savoy was of medium
height and clean-shaven, with angular features and piercing dark eyes.
He was of striking appearance, the kind of man you would be sure to
recognise anywhere. The lady with him was smartly dressed and appeared
to be about thirty or under.
"Seems to me I've known 'im about London for years, although I can't
remember as I ever drove 'im," he added.
The other man was, Davies said, tall and bearded, and certainly a
foreigner, although he could not pretend to fix his nationality.
A tall, bearded man, and a foreigner! Smeaton pricked up his ears. The
description tallied somewhat with that of the person who had dined with
Monkton in the little restaurant in Soho.
Davies was dismissed with encouraging words and a liberal _douceur_.
Given Smeaton the semblance of a clue, and he was on the track like a
bloodhound.
Within twenty minutes of the taxi-driver's departure, he was
interviewing one of the hall-porters at the Savoy, an imposing
functionary, and an old friend.
Smeaton had a large and extensive acquaintance among people who could be
useful. He knew the hall-porters of all the big hotels. They were men
of quick intelligence, keen powers of observation, and gathered much
important information. He had unravelled many a mystery with their
assistance.
The detective, standing aside in the hall, described the man as he had
been featured by Davies. Did the hall-porter recognise him?
The answer was in the affirmative.
"He's not a man you would be likely to forget, Mr Smeaton," he said.
"He is a pretty frequent visitor here. He lunches two or three times a
week, and is popular with the waiters, through being pretty free with
his tips. Most times he comes alone. Now and again he brings a guest,
but nobody we know."
"And his name?" questioned Smeaton eagerly.
"Well, that's the funny part of it," explained the other man. "We get
to know the names of the habitues sooner or later, but none of us have
ever heard his. He never seems to meet anybody here that he knows, and
none of the waiters have ever heard one of his guests address him by
name. The maitre d'hotel and I have often talked him over, and wondered
who and what he was."
Smeaton showed his disappointment. "That is unfortunate. Let us see if
we can be more successful in another direction. Yesterday afternoon,
about three o'clock, this man, whose name we don't know, drove away from
this place in a taxi, accompanied by a lady. My informant tells me she
was smartly dressed, and he puts her age at about thirty, or perhaps
less."
The hall-porter indulged in a smile of satisfaction.
"I think I can help you there, Mr Smeaton. I was passing through the
palm-court at the time, and saw them go out together. We all know the
lady very well. She is here pretty often. Sometimes she comes with a
big party, sometimes with a lady friend, sometimes with a gentleman.
Her name is Saxton, and she has a flat in Hyde Park Mansions. One of
her friends told me she is a widow."
"What sort of a person is she? How would you class her? She seems to
dress well, and is, I suppose, attractive."
The hall-porter mused a moment before he replied. Like most of his
class, he was an expert at social classification.
"Not one of the `nobs,' certainly," he answered at length, with a smile.
"Semi-fashionable, I should say; moves in society with a small `s.'
Her friends seem of two sorts, high-class Bohemians--you know the sort I
mean,--and rich middle-class who spend money like water."
"I see," said Smeaton. "And she lives in Hyde Park Mansions off the
Edgware Road, or, to be more correct, Lisson Grove. She is evidently
not rich."
They bade each other a cordial good-day, Smeaton having first expressed
his gratitude for the information, and left in the hall-porter's
capacious palm a more substantial proof of his satisfaction.
The next thing to be done was to interview the attractive widow. Before
doing so, he looked in at Chesterfield Street, and, as he expected,
found Wingate and Sheila together.
He told them of the visit of Davies, and his subsequent conversation
with the hall-porter at the Savoy.
When he mentioned the name of Saxton, Sheila uttered an exclamation.
"Why, Mr Farloe has a sister of the name of Saxton, a widow! He
brought her once to one of our parties, and I remember she was very
gushing. She begged me to go and see her at her flat, and I am pretty
certain Hyde Park Mansions was the place she named, although I can't be
positive."
"Did you go. Miss Monkton?"
"No. As I have told you, I never liked Mr Farloe, and I liked his
sister less. She was pretty, and I think men would find her attractive.
But there seemed to me an under-current of slyness and insincerity
about her."
It was rather a weakness of Wingate's that he credited himself with
great analytical powers, and believed he was eminently suited to
detective work. So he broke in:
"Perhaps Miss Monkton and I could help you a bit, by keeping a watch on
this woman. I have time to spare, and it would take her out of
herself."
Smeaton repressed a smile. Like most professionals, he had little faith
in the amateur. But it would not be polite to say so.
"By all means, Mr Wingate. We can do with assistance. 'Phone me up or
call at Scotland Yard whenever you have anything to communicate. Now, I
think I will be off to Hyde Park Mansions and see what sort of a
customer Mrs Saxton is." A taxi bore him to his destination, and in a
few moments he was ringing at the door of the flat.
A neat maid admitted him, and in answer to his inquiries said her
mistress was at home.
"What name shall I say, please?" she asked in a hesitating voice. He
produced his case and handed the girl a card.
"Of course, you know I am a stranger," he explained. "Will you kindly
take this to Mrs Saxton, and tell her that I will take up as little of
her time as possible."
After the delay of a few moments, he was shown into a pretty
drawing-room, tastefully furnished. The lady was sitting at a
tea-table, and alone.
"Please sit down," she said; her tones were quite affable. She did not
in the least appear to resent this sudden intrusion into her domestic
life. "Lily, bring another cup. You will let me offer you some tea?"
She was certainly a most agreeable person--on the right side of thirty,
he judged. Smeaton was somewhat susceptible to female influence,
although, to do him justice, he never allowed this weakness to interfere
with business.
He explained that tea was a meal of which he never partook. Mrs
Saxton, it appeared, was a most hospitable person, and promptly
suggested a whisky-and-soda. He must take something, she protested, or
she would feel embarrassed.
The detective accepted, and felt that things had begun very smoothly.
The velvet glove was very obvious, even if, later, he should catch a
glimpse of the iron hand encased within.
"I must apologise for intruding upon you, Mrs Saxton, in this fashion.
But I am in want of a little information, and I believe you can furnish
me with it, if you are disposed to."
Mrs Saxton smiled at him very sweetly, and regarded him with eyes of
mild surprise. Very fine eyes they were, he thought. It was a pity
that she had taken the trouble to enhance their brilliancy by the aid of
art. She was quite good-looking enough to rely upon her attractions,
without surreptitious assistance.
"How very interesting," she said in a prettily modulated, but rather
affected voice. "I am all curiosity."
She was purring perhaps a little bit too much for absolute sincerity,
but it was pleasant to be met with such apparent cordiality.
Smeaton came to the point at once. "I am at the present moment
considerably interested in the gentleman with whom you left the Savoy
yesterday afternoon in a taxi-cab."
There was just a moment's pause before she replied. But there were no
signs of confusion about her. Her eyes never left his face, and there
was no change in her voice when she spoke. She was either perfectly
straightforward, or as cool a hand as he had ever met.
"You are interested in Mr Stent? How strange! Gentlemen of your
profession do not generally interest themselves in other persons without
some strong motive, I presume?"
"The motive is a pretty strong one. At present, other interests require
that I do not divulge it," replied Smeaton gravely. He was pleased with
one thing, he had already got the name of the man; he preferred not to
confess that he did not know it. And her frank allusion to him as Mr
Stent seemed to show that she had nothing to hide. Unless, of course,
it was a slip.
"I know I am asking something that you may consider an impertinence," he
went on. "But, if you are at liberty to do so, I should like you to
tell me all you know of this gentleman; in short, who and what he is."
She laughed quite naturally. "But I really fear I can tell you very
little. I suppose going away together in a taxi appears to argue a
certain amount of intimacy. But in this case it is not so. I know next
to nothing of Mr Stent. He is not even a friend, only a man whose
acquaintance I made in the most casual manner. And, apart from two
occasions about which I will tell you presently, I don't suppose I have
been in his company a dozen times."
It was a disappointment, certainly, and this time Smeaton did not
believe she was speaking the truth. In spite of the silvery laugh and
the apparently frank manner. But he must put up with what she chose to
give him.
"Do you mind telling me how you first made his acquaintance, Mrs
Saxton?"
"Not in the least," she replied graciously. "Two years ago I was
staying in the Hotel Royal at Dinard. Mr Stent was there too. He
seemed a very reserved, silent sort of man, and kept himself very much
aloof from the others, myself included, although, as I daresay you have
guessed, I am of a gregarious and unconventional disposition."
She gave him a flashing smile, and Smeaton bowed gallantly. "I should
say you were immensely popular," he observed judiciously.
"Thanks for the compliment; without vanity, I think I may say most
people take to me. Well, one day Mr Stent and I found ourselves alone
in the drawing-room, and the ice was broken. After that we talked
together a good deal, and occasionally went to the Casino, and took
walks together. He left before I did, and I did not meet him again till
next year at Monte Carlo."
"Did you learn anything about his private affairs, his profession or
occupation?"
"Not a word. The conversation was always general. He was the last man
in the world to talk about himself. He was at Monte Carlo about a week.
I did not see very much of him then, as I was staying with a party in
Mentone; he was by himself, as before."
"Did he give you the impression of a man of means?"
"On the whole, I should say, yes. One night he lost a big sum in the
Rooms, but appeared quite unconcerned. Since then I have met him about
a dozen times, or perhaps less, at different places, mostly restaurants.
Yesterday he came through the palm-court, as I was sitting there after
lunch, and we exchanged a few words."
"Did you not see him at lunch; you were both there?" questioned Smeaton
quickly.
"I saw him at a table some distance from mine, but he did not see me. I
mentioned that I was going back to Hyde Park Mansions. He said he was
driving in the direction of St John's Wood, and would drop me on his
way. He left me at the entrance to the flats."
Smeaton rose. He knew that if he stopped there for another hour he
would get nothing more out of her.
"Thanks very much, Mrs Saxton, for what you have told me. One last
question, and I have done. Do you know where he lives?"
There was just a moment's hesitation. Did she once know, and had she
forgotten? Or was she debating whether she would feign ignorance? He
fancied the latter was the correct reason.
"I don't remember, if I ever knew, the exact address, but it is
somewhere in the direction of St Albans."
Smeaton bowed himself out, and meditated deeply. "She's an artful
customer, for all her innocent air, and knows more than she will tell,
till she's forced," was his inward comment. "Now for two things--one,
to find out what there is to be found at St Albans; two, to get on the
track of the bearded man."