Some few days had elapsed, and the Monkton mystery remained in the same
deep obscurity. The inquest had been resumed, and an "open verdict" was
returned by the jury. But nothing as yet had been published in the
Press. All that the public knew was by an obscure paragraph which
stated that the Colonial Secretary had been suffering from ill-health,
and, having been ordered complete rest by his doctor, he had gone
abroad.
The body of the dead man had not been identified. There was nothing to
prove conclusively the cause of death, so the matter was left in the
hands of the police for investigation.
Some little progress had been made in the direction of Bolinski. Luigi,
the proprietor of the restaurant in Soho, had been taken to the Boundary
Road in St John's Wood, and had waited for the mysterious foreigner to
come out of the house.
When he appeared, limping along with that peculiar gait of his, Luigi
unhesitatingly declared that he was the man who had dined on the
eventful night with the missing Mr Monkton. He could have identified
him anyway by his features and figure, but the dragging walk left no
room for doubt. Luigi, like Wingate, had noticed it at once.
A few facts about him were established. He was either a bachelor or a
widower, as the only other occupants of the house were a married couple,
also foreigners, who looked after the establishment. Inquiries in the
neighbourhood proved that he spent about half the week there, going up
to business every morning.
They tracked him to his office in the city, a couple of rooms on the
second floor of a big block of recently erected buildings in the
vicinity of Liverpool Street Station. His staff was small, consisting
of a young clerk of about eighteen, and a woman of about thirty-five, by
her appearance a Jewess of foreign, probably Polish, nationality.
The name Bolinski was inscribed in large latters on a plate outside the
door. No business or profession was stated. Patient investigation
revealed the fact that he was supposed to be a financial agent, was
connected with certain small, but more or less profitable, enterprises
abroad, and had a banking account at the head office of one of the
biggest banks in England.
Such facts as these rather deepened the mystery. What circumstances had
produced an even momentary association between Reginald Monkton, a
statesman of more than ordinary eminence, a man of considerable fortune,
with a financier of fifth or sixth rate standing, who lived in a small
house in St John's Wood.
While the Russian was being subjected to these investigations, the other
man. Stent, had suddenly absented himself from the Savoy. This was
annoying, as Smeaton had sworn to hunt him to his lair, with the aid of
his old ally, the hall-porter.
Mrs Saxton was still being kept under strict surveillance, but she,
too, was lying very low. She left the flat very seldom, and her
movements had in them nothing suspicious. Her brother, James Farloe,
went there every day, but she did not appear to be in further
communication with Bolinski. Nothing had come to light since those two
telegrams despatched to Brighton.
In the meantime rumour was growing in every direction, more especially
in political and club circles. What had become of Monkton? Why was he
no longer in his place in the House of Commons? Why had his name
disappeared from the Parliamentary reports? Was he really ill and
abroad?
At no place was the subject discussed with greater interest than at that
celebrated resort of intellectual Bohemianism, the Savage Club. Here
were gathered together the brightest spirits of the stage, the Bar, and
modern journalism with its insatiable appetite for sensational news and
thrilling headlines.
Prominent amongst the journalistic section was Roderick Varney, a
brilliant young man of twenty-eight, of whom his friends predicted great
things. After a most successful career at Oxford, he had entered the
Middle Temple, and in due course been called to the Bar.
Having no connection among solicitors, briefs did not flow in, and he
turned his attention to the Press. Here he speedily found his true
vocation. He was now on the staff of a powerful syndicate which
controlled an important group of daily and weekly newspapers.
The bent of his mind lay in the direction of criminal investigation. On
behalf of one of the syndicated newspapers, he had helped to solve a
mystery which had puzzled the trained detectives of Scotland Yard.
Thinking over the Monkton matter, he had come to the conclusion that
there might be a great "scoop" in it.
Unfortunately, he knew so little of the actual facts; there were such
slender premises to start from. Rumours, more or less exaggerated, were
not of much use to him, and those were all that he had at his disposal.
And then, as he sat in the smoking-room of the Savage, overlooking the
Thames, a big idea occurred to him. He would go to headquarters at
once, to Chesterfield Street, and ask for Miss Monkton. He would send
in a brief note first, explaining his errand.
He had dined, and it was getting on for half-past eight. No time to
lose. In under ten minutes from the time the idea had struck him, he
was at the door of Reginald Monkton's house.
Grant showed him into the library, and took in the note. Sheila and
Wingate had dined together, and were sitting in the drawing-room.
The sad events had drawn them so closely together that they might now be
said to be acknowledged lovers. Austin had never made any pretence of
his regard for her, and Sheila was no longer reserved or elusive.
She handed him the letter, and Wingate read it carefully.
"I know the man a little," he said, when he had gathered the contents.
"I belong to the Savage, and go there occasionally. He has the
reputation of a brilliant journalist, and has written one or two quite
good books on the subject of criminology. Suppose we have him in, and
see what he wants. Smeaton is a first-class man, no doubt, but this
chap unearthed the Balham mystery that baffled Scotland Yard; all London
rang with it, at the time. A fresh brain might help us."
Sheila yielded to her lover's suggestion. Privately, she thought
etiquette demanded that they should first ring up to consult Smeaton as
to whether the newcomer should be shown the door or not. But Wingate
had been so good, so tender to her in her hour of trial, that she did
not like to oppose him.
Varney came in and at once made a good impression upon her. He was
quite a gentleman; his voice and manner showed unmistakable signs of
cultivation.
He plunged at once into the matter without insincere apologies.
Plenty of rumours were flying about, he explained, many of them, no
doubt, quite baseless; most, or all of them, exaggerated. He had a
faculty for this kind of investigation, and had been successful in a
very complicated and baffling case at Balham. If they would give him
first-hand information he would be pleased to place his services at
their disposal.
"You know, of course, that nothing will be allowed to appear in the
Press," said Wingate, when the young journalist had finished. "The Home
Secretary has given instructions to that effect."
Varney admitted he was under the impression something of the kind had
occurred. Otherwise his chief would have sent for him at once.
"So you see I am not out for immediate kudos," he said, with a very
frank smile. "Under different circumstances I daresay I should act very
much like any other enterprising journalist anxious to establish a
reputation."
There was a moment's pause. Wingate looked at Sheila, and she returned
his glance of inquiry. Should they trust this singular young man, who
spoke with such apparent frankness? Or should they refer him to the
detective-inspector who had the case in hand?
Varney perceived their natural hesitation, and hastened to turn it in
his favour.
"Let us make a bargain," he said, in a voice of real heartiness.
"Forget for the moment that I am a predatory journalist, on the prowl
for sensational news. Just consider me as a man who has a bent for this
particular form of investigation, and takes a delight in it. Treat me
as a friend, and I will prove myself worthy of your confidence, and help
you as far as my brains and resources will permit."
It was Sheila who spoke first, with her woman's impulse. "Austin," she
said, "I think we may trust Mr Varney."
The journalist bowed. "Many thanks. Miss Monkton," He smiled a little
as he added: "Ring up my old friend Smeaton, who, I know, has charge of
the case, and get his permission if you like. You know, that was your
first thought--was it not?"