Boyle had directed the driver to stop at Uxbridge Road Station, where
the two roads branch off, the one on the left leading into Chiswick,
that on the right passing through Hanwell and Uxbridge.
He got out, and insisted on paying the fare, out of his newly-acquired
wealth.
"We are now at the beginning of Shepherd's Bush. The Carthorne road,
where I live--I should rather say exist--is a few minutes' walk from
here. It would have been impossible to direct the driver. It would
require the exploring instinct of a Stanley or a Livingstone to track me
to my lair," he laughed.
He led Wingate through various mean streets, consisting of two long rows
of narrow three-storied houses. Several of them were to let. Most of
them bore cards in their windows with the words "Furnished apartments."
Poverty everywhere betrayed its ugly features.
Boyle paused before the door of one of these ill-favoured tenements, and
applied a latchkey. Wingate stepped into a narrow hall, covered by a
strip of oil-cloth, full of holes, the pattern worn away with hard wear.
An evil-smelling lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a feeble light
that was little removed from darkness.
Boyle led him to the end of the passage, and took him into a chamber
that extended the width of the house. Quickly he struck a match, and
lit a lamp.
Wingate felt terribly depressed. But Boyle, fortified, no doubt, by the
unexpected possession of those few providential sovereigns, had
recovered his accustomed buoyancy. He waved his hand round the faded
apartment with a theatrical air.
"Welcome to my poor abode, the present _pied-a-terre_ of Caleb Boyle,
once a member of exclusive clubs, and not an unknown figure in London
society."
Wingate looked round and shuddered inwardly at what he saw. A horsehair
sofa, black and stained with age, a carpet, worn threadbare and full of
holes, three cane chairs, one easy-chair, worn and bulged out of shape,
a cheap chest of drawers, with half the knobs missing. And at the side
of the wall opposite the fire-place, a low, narrow single bedstead
covered with a darned and patched counterpane. This was flanked by a
yellow deal washstand.
Was it possible that anybody who had once lived decently, could draw a
breath in this musty and abominable hole? Certainly there was a courage
and power of endurance in the man that compelled Wingate's admiration.
Boyle pushed one of the rickety chairs towards his guest, and crossed to
a small hanging cupboard, from the recesses of which he produced a black
bottle, which he held up to the lamp.
"There is corn in Egypt," he cried gaily; he seemed in the highest
spirits amid these depressing surroundings. "We will carouse while the
night is still young. I am sorry I have no soda, and I fear all the
houses are shut. But the whisky is good."
He poured out two liberal portions, added some water, and drained his
off at a draught. Then he stooped, and lifted the lid of a dilapidated
tin box.
"Now for the letters," he said.
In a few moments he had found them, tied together in a packet with a
thin piece of twine. On a strip of paper within was: "Letters from
Charles Bellamy to Caleb Boyle."
Wingate took them, and rapidly scanned the contents of the first two.
There were about a dozen in all. They related to purely business
matters, dwelling upon the magnificent prospects of a certain company in
which Boyle had taken shares, and exhorting him to patience under the
present non-payment of dividends.
Read by the light of subsequent events, they were obviously the letters
of a swindler to the victim he had entrapped in his financial meshes.
But, of course, to Wingate the supreme matter of interest was the
handwriting. And here, he could not be positive. He had read the
threatening letter, and he knew the contents of it by heart. But that
was some time ago, and he could not form a mental picture of it.
"Can you trust me with one of those, Mr Boyle, to show to our friend
Smeaton, so that he may compare it with a letter in his possession. I
think, so far as my memory serves me, they were written by the same man,
but I want to see the two together. If you would rather not part with
it, bring it down yourself to-morrow to Scotland Yard, and I will meet
you there."
Boyle was hurt at the suggestion. "My dear Wingate, take the whole
packet, if you wish. After the noble way in which you have behaved
to-night, is it likely I should refuse such a trifling thing?"
"Thanks, they shall be returned to you directly Smeaton has done with
them. A thousand thanks, and now I will say good-night. I have to be
up betimes to-morrow morning."
He left, after refusing Boyle's earnest request to join him in a final
whisky. He fancied there would not be much left in that bottle when the
poor broken-down gentleman stumbled into his uninviting bed.
Wingate took the precious packet round to Smeaton next morning. And the
detective, after a minute and lengthy examination, declared there could
be no doubt that Charles Bellamy was the writer of the threatening
letter.
"I will put all the documents in the hands of an expert for
confirmation," he said, "but I am quite certain in my own mind, and I
shall follow up the clue at once."
"You have also another clue, that concerning Lady Wrenwyck," observed
Austin. "Strange that we should be indebted to this peculiar creature,
Boyle, for both!"
"He seems to grow more useful as we cultivate his further acquaintance,"
said the detective, a humorous smile softening for a moment his rather
harsh features.
"To which of the two do you attach the greater importance?" was
Wingate's next question.
"It is hard to say. But by following both we may arrive at a solution.
They must be pursued simultaneously and that requires two men.
Personally I think the Bellamy track may produce the better result, and
naturally I should like to choose that for myself. On the other hand,
the Wrenwyck one requires some experience and _finesse_, both of which
qualities I flatter myself I possess. Anyway, I must trust one of the
two to a subordinate."
He passed, and remained silent for a few moments, then made up his mind.
He rang the bell, and requested that Johnson should come to him at
once.
"I have resolved to take the Bellamy clue," he explained to Wingate.
"It will require some research, possibly lengthy communications with the
police of other countries. Here I shall be better equipped than a
comparatively new man. Johnson has so far acted with great promptitude
in the Wrenwyck matter."
Detective-sergeant Johnson appeared almost immediately, and to him
Smeaton issued brief instructions.
"About Lady Wrenwyck. You have lost no time over this, and I want you
to follow it up. This is Mr Wingate, before whom we can speak quite
freely. Find out where the lady is and, equally important, if she is
alone, or with a companion. I exclude, of course, her maid."
Mr Johnson bowed. "I quite understand, sir. I know, as a fact, her
maid left with her. She was with her ladyship before her marriage, and
is, no doubt, entirely in her mistress's confidence."
The detective paused a second, and then added a little touch of his own
which, he was sure, would not be lost on his chief. Besides, it showed
his knowledge of high society, and of the ways of ladies who were a
trifle unconventional.
"Of course, sir, in circumstances of a delicate nature, ladies have been
known to give their maids a holiday."
"I quite appreciate that point, Johnson. Well, get on to the job at
once, and confer with me when necessary."
Johnson withdrew, well pleased that his chief had entrusted him with so
important a mission. Smeaton turned to his visitor.
"Well, Mr Wingate, we ought to find out something in the next few days.
I will get on to the track of Bellamy at once. Kindly drop a note to
Boyle that I will keep his letters for a little time. Good-bye for the
present. I will communicate with you the moment there is anything worth
telling."
He set to work at once on the Bellamy _dossier_. Up to a certain point
the task was comparatively easy. The man was of Polish origin, his real
name being Ivan Bolinski. A little further investigation revealed the
fact that he was the elder brother of the Bolinski who lived in the
Boundary Road, St John's Wood, the man who had dined with Monkton at
the Soho restaurant, and according to the evidence of Davies, the
taxi-driver, one of the pair who had hailed his vehicle for the
conveyance of the dying man to Chesterfield Street.
So far, the scent seemed a warm one. Bellamy, to give him his assumed
name, was born of an English mother, and, in marked contrast to his
brother, betrayed very little of the foreigner in his appearance. He
spoke English with a perfect accent.
He had started his career as a money-lender, his operations, which were
on a small scale, being confined chiefly to his compatriots. He next
blossomed out, in conjunction with a couple of scoundrels of the same
kidney, into a promoter of small and shady concerns. Success attended
his efforts, and he then flew at higher game. But although he amassed
money he was never connected with a single flourishing company. He made
thousands out of his victims, but they never saw a penny of their money
back until just at the end.
And at this point Smeaton came to the trial at which Monkton had
appeared and obtained a verdict for the restitution of the sums acquired
by fraudulent misrepresentation. Although only a civil action, the
evidence against Bellamy was so damaging that a criminal prosecution was
bound to follow.
This he himself recognised, with the result that within twenty-four
hours after the verdict had been given he escaped from England under an
assumed name.
Five years later he was convicted in America, and sentenced to a long
term of imprisonment, under this assumed name. At the trial it was
conclusively proved that he was the same man, Ivan Bolinski, alias
Bellamy, who had previously figured in the English Courts, and been
driven from the pursuit of his nefarious occupation by the skill and
eloquence of Monkton.
He was tracked through a series of wanderings in different countries,
where no doubt he still pursued his profession of _chevalier
d'industrie_, although he seemed during that period to have escaped the
active interference of justice till about five years ago.
At that date he was living at a small village in Cornwall, either on his
private means, or perhaps on money allowed him by his brother. Against
this brother, so far as his commercial career was concerned, nothing of
a suspicious nature was known.
Here Smeaton came to a _cul-de-sac_. At that date Ivan Bolinski was
living in this remote Cornish village, under the name of Charlton.
Twenty years or so had elapsed since, in a moment of burning hatred, he
had penned that threatening letter to the man who had brought to an
abrupt close his nefarious career in this country.
To that remote fishing hamlet went Smeaton. He found the quaint little
house which had sheltered Bellamy; which he hoped still sheltered him.
The door was opened by an elderly woman.
"I have come to inquire about a man named Charlton who came to live here
five years ago," he said, going to the point at once.
She was evidently an honest creature who knew nothing of what was going
on in the big world outside her little corner of earth.
"Please come in, sir. A gentleman of that name came to lodge here about
that time."
She led him into the tiny parlour, and asked him to be seated. At
Smeaton's request she told him all about her lodger.
"He was in very poor health, sir, when he came here, and he seemed to
gradually get worse. He was a very quiet gentleman; spent most of his
time reading. When he first came he took long walks, but latterly he
had to give these up. He lived a most solitary life, hardly ever wrote
or received a letter, and had only one visitor, who came from London to
see him occasionally."
"Can you describe this visitor to me?" asked Smeaton.
"A tall, bearded man, who walked with a limp, and looked like a
foreigner. He told me he was his brother. I remarked once how unlike
they were, and he smiled and said he took after his mother, and the
other after his father. Once he told me that Charlton was not his
proper name, that he had taken it for the sake of property."
A somewhat indiscreet admission, thought Smeaton. But after all those
years there was little to fear. He had been forgotten by now, and this
simple woman could do him no harm.
The landlady went on with her narrative.
"As I told you, sir, he got worse and worse, and Doctor Mayhew, who
lives a little way beyond the village, was always in and out. It must
have cost a small fortune, that long illness. Then one night, just
before the end, he sent me with a telegram to his brother--it was a long
foreign name, and I can't remember it."
"Bolinski," suggested Smeaton.
The woman looked puzzled. "Very likely, sir; I know it began with a B.
Next day the brother came down, and stayed with him till he died, a
matter of a week. I remember when the doctor was going to give the
certificate he told him the right name to put on it. I remember his
words: `The name of Charlton was assumed, doctor. On the certificate we
will have the real one. It doesn't matter now. It was assumed for
reasons I do not wish to explain, and they would not interest you.'"
"When did he die?" asked Smeaton eagerly.
"A little over two years ago, sir, this very month."
Then, as the detective rose, she added: "If you would like to step round
to Doctor Mayhew's he is sure to be in at this time. He could give you
full particulars of the end."
"Thanks," said Smeaton absently, as he bade her good-day.
There was no need to visit the doctor. The woman's tale had been simple
and convincing.
What he knew for a certainty was that Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy,
alias Charlton, the writer of the threatening letter, had died more than
two years before Reginald Monkton's disappearance.
Was Reginald Monkton dead, or still alive?