Austin Wingate's feelings as he left the post-office in Brighton can
easily be imagined. He had failed ignominiously in his mission, and the
sarcastic young woman who had spoken so insolently to him was laughing
at his discomfiture.
It was some moments before he could sufficiently recover his composure
to go to the nearest telephone--he did not dare to re-enter the
post-office so soon--and communicate with Smeaton.
He was fortified by the detective's request to remain at his post for
some time longer, in the hope of turning a failure into something of a
partial success. He lit a big cigar and prepared for a long vigil.
He began to think there were certain discomforts attached to detective
work. He found himself commiserating the two unfortunate creatures who
had been appointed to keep watch at Hyde Park Mansions.
He was better off than they in one important particular. They only
worked for pay, not, probably, of a very munificent description. If he
succeeded, he would not only earn the praises of Smeaton, but he would
be rewarded with the tender light of gratitude in the beautiful eyes of
his beloved Sheila.
So he kept resolutely at his post, lounging up and down the street, with
his glance ever alert for any likely stranger who should come along.
An hour passed, and then the minutes went very slowly. He kept looking
at his watch. Smeaton was sure the strange man would come back for a
further communication. Putting himself in the man's place, he reasoned
that he had wired a reply to Mrs Saxton, and that he would allow
himself a certain time for his wire to reach London, and the return wire
to get to Brighton.
Calculating on this basis--and he felt rather proud of the process--
Austin reckoned that the man would be back in a couple of hours from
when he left the post-office. The insolent young woman had told him
that the wire had been fetched away half-an-hour before Wingate's
arrival.
If this reasoning was correct, the man he was in search of would make
his appearance in about another ten minutes from the last time Austin
had looked at his watch.
He felt his nerves quivering as the moment drew near and then passed.
The street was very busy, many people entering and leaving the
post-office.
Another ten minutes had elapsed, and then a tall, bearded man came
along. There was something peculiar in his gait: he seemed to walk
stiffly with one leg.
He proceeded slowly in the direction of the post-office, and entered the
swing-doors. A chill came over the ardent Wingate as he recognised that
the man might be merely going in to buy stamps, or send a wire--not to
receive one.
He stole across from the opposite side of the street, where he had been
marching up and down for such an interminable time, and peered through
the glass door.
A thrill of exultation swept through him as he saw the young woman hand
the stranger a telegram, which he opened, read rapidly, and then thrust
in his breast pocket. Wingate at once darted back to his previous post.
At a respectful distance he followed the stranger with the peculiar
limping walk. They came on to the sea front, and his quarry finally
disappeared into that well-known hostelry, "The Old Ship."
It was now much more than an even chance, taking all the circumstances
into consideration, that this was the man who was in communication with
Mrs Saxton, and that the telegram he had seen him read was from her.
The man, further, answered to the description given by Davies of one of
the two men who had hailed his taxi at Dean's Yard. The taxi-driver had
said nothing about the peculiarity in his walk, which had impressed
Wingate at once, probably for the obvious reason that Davies had not had
an opportunity of observing it. He had only seen him for a couple of
minutes, during which time he was occupied in taking instructions for
the disposal of his fare.
"The Old Ship" had been a favourite resort of Wingate's for some years.
In fact, until within the last few months, when his business occupations
had permitted less leisure, there was hardly a week in which he had not
motored down there.
The manager he knew well, also the head-waiter, and two or three of his
subordinates. If the man he was tracking was staying there, it would be
the easiest thing in the world to make a few judicious inquiries ere he
again 'phoned Smeaton. The first person he met, as he stepped into the
hall, was Bayfield, the portly and rubicund head-waiter himself.
"Good-day, Mr Wingate. Very pleased to see you, sir. We were saying
only the other day that you had quite deserted us."
"Been awfully busy, Bayfield; couldn't get away. But it was such a
lovely day that I made up my mind I would rush down for a breath of
fresh air."
"Quite right, sir," cried the cheerful Bayfield, in an approving voice.
"It will do you good. All work and no play--you know the old proverb,
sir--eh? You are staying the night, I hope?"
Wingate hesitated. "I didn't intend to when I started from town.
Anyway, I will have dinner, and make plans afterwards. Have you many
people stopping here?"
"Never knew the house so empty, although, of course, we don't expect to
have many this time of year. A lot of people come in to the _table
d'hote_, but at the moment, in the house itself, we've only an elderly
couple, a few stray people, and a foreign gentleman, who has been a
visitor, on and off, for the last few months."
It was a fine opportunity to engage Bayfield in conversation upon the
subject of the "foreign" gentleman, and pick up what he could. Bayfield
was a chatty, old-fashioned creature nearly seventy, and could be
trusted not to exhibit undue reticence when unfolding himself to a
customer whom he had known for some years.
But Wingate made up his mind not to press matters too much. He would
prospect a little on his own account first, before he availed himself of
the head-waiter's loquacity.
A minute later he entered the smoking-room, lit another cigar, and
prepared to cogitate over matters. At the moment of his entrance there
was nobody else in the apartment. A few seconds later the bearded
stranger came in, rang the bell, ordered something, and seated himself
before a small writing-table in the corner of the room. Then he pulled
from his breast pocket a bundle of papers.
He read through some of them, various letters and memoranda they seemed
to be, slowly and carefully, and laid them aside after perusal, making
notes meanwhile.
Then, almost, but not quite, at the end of the packet, came the telegram
which he had received at the post-office. He placed this on the top of
the little pile, and went on with what remained.
It was a tantalising moment for Austin. There was the telegram within
six feet of him. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain. An idea
occurred to him. He stumped his cigar upon the ash-tray, till it failed
to emit the feeblest glow. He had already observed that, through
carelessness, nearly every match-box in the room was empty.
Noiselessly he stole across the few feet of space that divided him from
the stranger, and stood on his right hand. Another document had been
laid upon the pile, and only the corner of the telegram was peeping
forth. A second or two sooner, and he could have read it. He was full
of chagrin.
"Excuse me, sir, but can you oblige me with a match? They don't seem to
provide them in this establishment."
The visitor turned, and for a moment regarded him keenly. What he saw
seemed to impress him favourably: an open, honest English face,
perfectly candid eyes that looked into his own, without a suspicion of
guile in their direct gaze.
"With pleasure, sir. They seem very remiss."
He spoke with a slight foreign accent, but his tones were cultivated,
and his manner was courtesy itself. He held out his match-box. Wingate
fancied his glance travelled uneasily to the pile of papers upon the
table.
The young man turned half round to strike the match. There was hardly
anything of the telegram to read, so obscured was it by the letter lying
on the top of it, in which he was not interested.
But what he could see, with his abnormally quick vision, was sufficient.
The signature showed distinctly, the same that had appeared on the
previous wire--the name MAUDE!
He bowed and withdrew. The foreigner finished his examination of the
pile of correspondence he had produced, gathered it up, and transferred
it to his breast pocket. Then, with a courteous smile to Wingate, he
quitted the room.
The young man breathed a sigh of relief. He was both astonished and
delighted at his own resource, at the extent of his discovery. The
contents of the telegram could be obtained by Smeaton at his leisure.
What he, Austin Wingate, amateur detective, had proved was that the
mysterious man who was staying there was the same person who was in
communication with Maude, otherwise Mrs Saxton, of Hyde Park Mansions.
He had done good spade work. Of that he was sure. It was now half-past
seven. Plenty of time to 'phone Smeaton, tell him what he had
discovered, and inquire how he was to proceed.
The detective decided on his campaign without a moment's hesitation.
"Well done, Mr Wingate, an excellent result," he said over the wire.
"Stay the night and keep the fellow under observation. We must have him
identified. I will send Davies down by the first train to-morrow
morning. I will 'phone you full instructions, say, in a couple of
hours. Meet him at the station in the morning, smuggle him into the
hotel as quickly as you can; I leave the details to you. Let him see
our foreign friend, and say if he is the man we think him to be." He
paused a moment, then added:
"You say the manager and Bayfield are well-known to you. They are also
old friends of mine. I have unearthed more than one mystery with their
help. Mention my name, show them my card, if you think it will ease
matters. They will give you any assistance you want. Once again,
bravo, and well-done. I'll ring you up as soon as I have fixed Davies."
Wingate felt he was walking on air as he returned to the hotel. With
his new-born cunning he had not 'phoned from "The Old Ship," but from
the post-office.
The dining-room was not at all full. The elderly couple and the
foreigner sat at their respective tables. A few other people were
dotted about.
At the end of an hour Wingate had the room to himself, with the
head-waiter, his old friend, hovering around, ready for a prolonged
chat.
"I'm rather interested in that foreign chap, Bayfield," he said
carelessly. "What do you know about him? Is he a quiet sort of
Anarchist, or what?"
Bayfield was quite ready to communicate all he knew, in confidential
whispers, for Wingate was always very popular with his inferiors. He
gave himself no airs, and he was more than liberal with tips.
"He's a bit of a mystery, sir, but he's a very quiet sort of a
gentleman. He began coming here about three months ago. I should say,
since he started, he has stayed two or three days out of every week. He
has heaps of letters. Sometimes he goes off at a minute's notice, and
then we have to send his letters after him."
"Where does he live, and what's his name?"
"He lives in the Boundary Road, St John's Wood, and his name is
Bolinski; a Russian, I suppose. All their names seem to end in `ski' or
`off.'"
So his name was Bolinski, and he lived in Boundary Road, St John's
Wood. Here was valuable information for Smeaton. Wingate chatted a
little longer with Bayfield, and then went for a walk along the front,
returning in time to receive the detective's message 'phoned to the
hotel.
At this juncture he thought it was wise policy to take both the manager
and Bayfield into his confidence. He showed them Smeaton's card, and
explained that for reasons he was not at liberty to disclose, he wanted
to identify Bolinski. A man was coming down for that purpose by an
early train to-morrow morning, and he wanted to smuggle him into the
hotel as early as possible.
The manager smiled. "That's all right, Mr Wingate. Inspector Smeaton
is an old friend of mine, and I have helped him a bit here, and more in
London. Our friend breakfasts on the stroke of half-past nine. Get
your man in here a little before nine, and Bayfield will take him in
charge, and give him a glimpse of the distinguished foreigner."
Next morning the taxi-driver Davies arrived, attired in a brand new
suit, and looking eminently respectable in mufti.
Wingate met him at the station, piloted him to "The Old Ship," and
handed him over to the careful guardianship of the astute Bayfield.
At nine-thirty, Bolinski, fresh and smart, came down to his breakfast,
seating himself at his usual table. Davies crept in, and took a good
look at him, unobserved by the object of his scrutiny.
Wingate was waiting in the hall, with the manager. The face of Davies
was purple with emotion and the pleasurable anticipation of further and
substantial reward.
"That's the man, right enough, sir!" he said in an excited whisper.
"I'd swear to him out of a thousand if they was all standin' before me."