MR. MAITLAND GOES HOME
THEY were nearing the imposing home of Maitlands Consolidated, when Mr.
Johnson suddenly broke off in the middle of an interesting exposition of
his philosophy and quickened his pace. On the pavement ahead of them he
saw Ray Bennett, and by his side the slim figure of a girl. Their backs
were toward the two men, but Elk guessed rightly when he decided that
the girl was Ella Bennett. He had seen her twice before, and he had a
wonderful memory for backs.
Turning as the stout man came up to her, hat in hand, she greeted him
with a quick and friendly smile.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Bennett.”
There was a pink tinge to Johnson’s homely face (“Sweet on her,” thought
Elk, interested), and his handshake was warm and something more than
cordial.
“I didn’t intend coming to town, but father has gone off on one of his
mysterious excursions,” she said with a little laugh, “this time to the
West. And, curiously enough, I am absolutely sure I saw him on a ’bus
just now, though his train left two hours ago.”
She glanced at Elk hovering in the background, and the sight of his glum
countenance seemed to arouse some unpleasant memory, for the brightness
went out of her face.
“My friend, Mr. Elk,” said Johnson a little awkwardly, and Elk nodded.
“Glad to meet you, Miss Bennett,” he said, and noted Ray’s annoyance
with inward satisfaction which, in a more cheerful man, would have been
mirth.
She bowed slightly and then said something in a low tone to her brother.
Elk saw the boy frown.
“I shan’t be very late,” he said, loudly enough for the detective to
hear.
She put out her hand to Johnson, Elk she favoured with a distant
inclination of her head, and was gone, leaving the three men looking
after her. Two, for when Mr. Elk looked around, the boy had disappeared
into the building.
“You know Miss Bennett?”
“Slightly,” said Elk grudgingly. “I know almost everybody slightly. Good
people and bad people. The gooder they are, the slighter I know ’em.
Queer devil.”
“Who?” asked the startled Johnson. “You mean her father? I wish he
wasn’t so chilly with me.”
Elk’s lips twitched.
“I guess you do,” he said drily. “So long.”
He strolled aimlessly away as Johnson walked up the steps into
Maitlands, but he did not go far. Crossing the road, he retraced his
steps and took up his station in the doorway.
At four o’clock a taxicab drew up before the imposing door of Maitlands
Consolidated, and a few minutes later the old man shuffled out, looking
neither to the right nor to the left. Elk regarded him with more than
ordinary interest. He knew the financier by sight, and had paid two or
three visits to the office in connection with certain petty thefts
committed by cleaners. In this way he had become acquainted with Philo
Johnson, for old Maitland had delegated the interview to his
subordinate.
Elk judged the old man to be in the region of seventy, and wondered for
the first time where he lived, and in what state. Had he relations? It
was a curious fact that he knew nothing whatever about the financier,
the least paragraphed of any of the big City forces.
The detective had no business with the head of this flourishing firm.
His task was to discover the association between Lola Bassano and this
impecunious clerk. He knew inside him that Dick Gordon’s interest in the
young man was not altogether disinterested, and suspected rightly that
the pretty sister of Ray Bennett lay behind it.
But the itch for knowledge about Maitland, suddenly aroused by the
realization that the old man’s home life was an unknown quantity, was
too strong to be resisted. As the taxicab moved off, Elk beckoned
another.
“Follow that cab,” he said, and the driver nodded his agreement without
question, for there was no taximan on the streets who did not know this
melancholy policeman.
The first of the cabs drove rapidly in the direction of North London,
and halted at a busy junction of streets in Finsbury Park. This is a
part of the town which great financiers do not as a rule choose for
their habitations. It is a working-class district, full of small houses,
usually occupied by two or more families; and when the cab stopped and
the old man nimbly descended, Elk’s mouth opened in an ‘O’ of surprise.
Maitland did not pay the cabman, but hurried round the corner into the
busy thoroughfare, with Elk at his heels. He walked a hundred yards, and
then boarded a street car. Elk sprinted, and swung himself on board as
the car was moving. The old man found a seat, took a battered newspaper
from his pocket, and began reading.
The car ran down Seven Sisters Road into Tottenham, and here Mr.
Maitland descended. He turned into a side street of apparently
interminable length, crossed the road, and came into a narrow and even
meaner street than that which he had traversed; and then, to Elk’s
amazement, pushed open the iron gate of a dark and dirty little house,
opened the door and went in, closing it behind him.
The detective looked up and down the street. It was crowded with poor
children. Elk looked at the house again, scarcely believing his eyes.
The windows were unclean, the soiled curtains visible were ragged, and
the tiny forecourt bore an appearance of neglect. And this was the home
of Ezra Maitland, a master of millions, the man who gave £5,000 to the
London hospitals! It was incredible.
He made up his mind, and, walking to the door, knocked. For some time
there was no reply, and then he heard the shuffle of slippered feet in
the passage, and an old woman with a yellow face opened the door.
“Excuse me,” said Elk; “I think the gentleman who just came in dropped
this.” He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, and she glared at it
for a moment, and then, reaching out her hand, took it from him and
slammed the door in his face.
“And that’s the last of my good handkerchief,” thought Elk bitterly.
He had caught one glimpse of the interior. A grimy-looking passage with
a strip of faded carpet, and a flight of uncovered stairs. He proceeded
to make a few local inquiries.
“Maitland or Mainland, I don’t know which,” said a tradesman who kept a
general store at the corner. “The old gentleman goes out every morning
at nine, and comes home just about this hour. I don’t know who or what
he is. I can tell you this, though; he doesn’t eat much! He buys all his
goods here. What those two people live on, an ordinary healthy child
would eat at one meal!”
Elk went back to the west, a little mystified. The miser was a common
figure of fiction, and not uncommonly met with in real life. But old
Maitland must be a super-miser, he thought, and decided to give the
matter a little further attention. For the moment, he was concentrating
his efforts upon Miss Lola Bassano, that interesting lady.
In one of the fashionable thoroughfares leading from Cavendish Square is
a block of flats, occupied by wealthy tenants. Its rents are remarkably
high, even for that exclusive quarter, and even Elk, who was not easily
surprised, was a little staggered when he learnt that Lola Bassano
occupied a suite in this expensive building.
It was to Caverley House that he made his way after returning to
Maitland’s office, to find the premises closed. There was no indicator
on the wall, but the lift-man, who regarded Elk with some suspicion, as
he was entitled to do, announced that Miss Bassano lived on the third
floor.
“How long has she been here?” asked Elk.
“That’s no business of yours,” said the lift-man; “and I think what you
want, my friend, is the tradesmen’s entrance.”
“I’ve often wondered,” ruminated Elk, “what people like you do their
thinking with.”
“Now look here——!” began the lift-man indignantly.
“Look here,” retorted Elk, and at the sight of his badge the man grew
more polite and more informative.
“She’s been here two months,” he said. “And, to tell you the truth, Mr.
Elk, I’ve often wondered how she got a suite in Caverley House. They
tell me she used to run a gambling joint on Jermyn Street. You haven’t
come to raid her, have you?” he asked anxiously. “That’d get Caverley
House a pretty bad name.”
“I’ve come to make a friendly call,” said Elk carefully.
“That’s the door.” The man stepped out of the lift and pointed to one of
the two sober mahogany doors on the landing. “This other flat belongs to
an American millionaire.”
“Is there such a thing?” asked Elk.
He was about to say something more when the lift-man walked to the door
and peered at one of its polished panels.
“That’s queer,” he said. “What do you make of this?”
Elk joined him, and at a glance saw and understood.
On the panel had been stamped a small white frog—an exact replica of
those he had seen that morning on the photographs that Dick Gordon had
shown him. A squatting frog, slightly askew.
He touched it. The ink was still wet and showed on his finger. And then
the strangest thing of all happened. The door opened suddenly, and a man
of middle age appeared in the doorway. In his hand was a long-barrelled
Browning, and it covered the detective’s heart.
“Put up your hands!” he said sharply. Then he stopped and stared at the
detective.
Elk returned the gaze, speechless; for the elegantly dressed man who
stood there was the hawk-faced pedlar he had seen in Whitehall!
The American was the first to recover. Not a muscle of his face moved,
but Elk saw again that light of amusement in his eyes as he stepped back
and opened the door still wider.
“Come right in, Mr. Elk,” he said, and, to the amazed lift-man; “It’s
all right, Worth. I was practising a little joke on Mr. Elk.”
He closed the door behind him, and with a gesture beckoned the detective
into a prettily furnished drawing-room. Elk went in, leaving the matter
of the frog on the door for discussion later.
“We’re quite alone, Mr. Elk, so you needn’t lower your voice when you
talk of my indiscretions. Will you smoke a cigar?”
Elk stretched out his fingers mechanically and selected a big Cabana.
“Unless I’m greatly mistaken, I saw you this morning,” he began.
“You weren’t mistaken at all,” interrupted the other coolly. “You saw me
on Whitehall. I was peddling key-rings. My name is Joshua Broad. You
haven’t anything on me for trading in a false name.”
The detective lit his cigar before he spoke.
“This apartment must cost you a whole lot to keep up,” he said slowly,
“and I don’t blame you for trying to earn something on the side. But it
seems to me that peddling key-rings is a very poor proposition for a
first-class business man.”
Joshua Broad nodded.
“I haven’t made a million out of that business,” he said, “but it amuses
me, Mr. Elk. I am something of a philosopher.”
He lit a cigar and settled himself comfortably in a deep, chintz-covered
arm-chair, his legs crossed, the picture of contentment.
“As an American, I am interested in social problems, and I have found
that the best way to understand the very poor of any country is to get
right down amongst them.”
His tone was easy, apologetic, but quite self-possessed.
“I think I forestalled any question on your part as to whether I had a
licence in my own name, by telling you that I had.”
Elk settled his glasses more firmly on his nose, and his eyes strayed to
Mr. Broad’s pocket, whither the pistol had returned.
“This is a pretty free country,” he said in his deliberate way, “and a
man can peddle key-rings, even if he’s a member of the House of Lords.
But one thing he mustn’t do, Mr. Broad, is to stick fire-arms under the
noses of respectable policemen.”
Broad chuckled.
“I’m afraid I was a little rattled,” he said. “But the truth is, I’ve
been waiting for the greater part of an hour, expecting somebody to come
to my door, and when I heard your stealthy footsteps”—he shrugged—“it
was a fool mistake for a grown man to make,” he said, “and I guess I’m
feeling as badly about it as you would have me feel.”
The unwavering eyes of Mr. Elk did not leave his face.
“I won’t insult your intelligence by asking you if you were expecting a
friend,” he said. “But I should like to know the name of the other
guest.”
“So should I,” said the other, “and so would a whole lot of people.”
He reached out his hand to flick the ash from his cigar, looking at Elk
thoughtfully the while.
“I was expecting a man who has every reason to be very much afraid of
me,” he said. “His name is—well, it doesn’t matter, and I’ve only met
him once in my life, and then I didn’t see his face.”
“And you beat him up?” suggested Elk.
The other man laughed.
“I didn’t even beat him up. In fact, I behaved most generously to him,”
he said quietly. “I was not with him more than five minutes, in a
darkened room, the only light being a lantern which was on the table.
And I guess that’s about all I can tell you, Inspector.”
“Sergeant,” murmured Elk. “It’s curious the number of people who think
I’m an Inspector.”
There was an awkward pause. Elk could think of no other questions he
wanted to ask, and his host displayed as little inclination to advance
any further statement.
“Neighbour friends of yours?” asked Elk, and jerked his head toward the
passage.
“Who—Bassano and her friend? No. Are you after them?” he asked quickly.
Elk shook his head.
“Making a friendly call,” he said. “Just that. I’ve just come back from
your country, Mr. Broad. A good country, but too full of distances.”
He ruminated, looking down at the carpet for a long time, and presently
he said:
“I’d like to meet that friend of yours, Mr. Broad—American?”
Broad shook his head. Not a word was spoken as they went up the passage
to the front door, and it almost seemed as if Elk was going without
saying good-bye, for he walked out absent-mindedly, and only turned as
though the question of any farewell had occurred to him.
“Shall be glad to meet you again, Mr. Broad,” he said. “Perhaps I shall
see you in Whitehall——”
And then his eyes strayed to the grotesque white frog on the door. Broad
said nothing. He put his finger on the imprint and it smudged under his
touch.
“Recently stamped,” he drawled. “Well, now, what do you think of that,
Mr. Elk?”
Elk was examining the mat before the door. There was a little spot of
white, and he stooped and smeared his finger over it.
“Yes, quite recent. It must have been done just before I came in,” he
said. And there his interest in the Frog seemed to evaporate. “I’ll be
going along now,” he said with a nod.
In the exquisitely appointed drawing-room of Suite No. 6, Lola Bassano
sat cuddled up in a deep, over-cushioned chair, her feet tucked under
her, a thin cigarette between her lips, a scowl upon her pretty face.
From time to time she glanced at the man who stood by the window, hands
in pockets, staring down into the square. He was tall, heavily built,
heavily jowled, unprepossessing. All the help that tailor and valet gave
to him could not disguise his origin. He was pugilist, run to fat. For a
time, a very short time, Lew Brady had been welter-weight champion of
Europe, a terrific fighter with just that yellow thread in his
composition which makes all the difference between greatness and
mediocrity in the ring. A harder man had discovered his weakness, and
the glory of Lew Brady faded with remarkable rapidity. He had one
advantage over his fellows which saved him from utter extinction. A
philanthropist had found him in the gutter as a child, and had given him
an education. He had gone to a good school and associated with boys who
spoke good English. The benefit of that association he had never lost,
and his voice was so curiously cultured that people who for the first
time heard this brute-man speak, listened open-mouthed.
“What time do you expect that rat of yours?” he asked.
Lola lifted her silk-clad shoulders, took out her cigarette to yawn, and
settled herself more cosily.
“I don’t know. He leaves his office at five.”
The man turned from the window and began to pace the room slowly.
“Why Frog worries about him I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Lola, I’m
surely getting tired of old man Frog.”
Lola smiled and blew out a ring of smoke.
“Perhaps you’re tired of getting money for nothing, Brady,” she said.
“Personally speaking, that kind of weariness never comes to me. There is
one thing sure; Frog wouldn’t bother with young Bennett if there wasn’t
something in it.”
He pulled out a watch and glanced at its jewelled face.
“Five o’clock. I suppose that fellow doesn’t know you’re married to me?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Lola wearily. “Am I likely to boast about it?”
He grinned and resumed his pacings. Presently he heard the faint tinkle
of the bell and glanced at the girl. She got up, shook the cushions and
nodded.
“Open the door,” she said, and the man went out of the room obediently.
Ray Bennett crossed the room with quick strides and caught the girl’s
hand in both of his.
“I’m late. Old Johnson kept me running round after the clerks had gone.
Moses, this is a fine room, Lola! I hadn’t any idea you lived in such
style.”
“You know Lew Brady?”
Ray nodded smilingly. He was a picture of happiness, and the presence of
Lew Brady made no difference to him. He had met Lola at a supper club,
and knew that she and Brady had some business association. Moreover, Ray
prided himself upon that confusion of standards which is called
“broad-mindedness.” He visualized a new social condition which was
superior to the bondage which old-fashioned rules of conduct imposed
upon men and women in their relationship one to the other. He was young,
clean-minded, saw things as he would have them be. Breadth of mind not
infrequently accompanies limitation of knowledge.
“Now for your wonderful scheme,” he said as, at a gesture from her, he
settled himself by the girl’s side. “Does Brady know?”
“It is Lew’s idea,” she said lightly. “He is always looking out for
opportunities—not for himself but for other people.”
“It’s a weakness of mine,” said Lew apologetically. “And anyway, I don’t
know if you’ll like the scheme. I’d have taken it on myself, but I’m too
busy. Did Lola tell you anything about it?”
Ray nodded.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I always thought such things belonged to
magazine stories! Lola says that the Government of Japan wants a secret
agent in London. Somebody they can disown, if necessary. But what is the
work?”
“There you’ve got me,” said Lew, shaking his head. “So far as I can
discover, you’ve nothing to do but live! Perhaps they’ll want you to
keep track of what is going on in the political world. The thing I don’t
like about it is that you’ll have to live a double life. Nobody must
know that you’re a clerk at Maitlands. You can call yourself by any name
you like, and you’ll have to make your domestic arrangements as best you
know.”
“That will be easy,” interrupted the boy. “My father says I ought to
have a room in town—he thinks the journey to and from Horsham every day
is too expensive. I fixed that with him on Sunday. I shall have to go
down to the cottage some week-ends—but what am I to do, and to whom do
I report?”
Lola laughed softly.
“Poor boy,” she mocked. “The prospect of owning a beautiful flat and
seeing me every day is worrying him.”