MURDER MYSTERIOUS
Melun's glance down the ranks of the men satisfied him that he had
things well in hand.
The bullet-headed man was shifting about on his seat, and Crow sat with
a pasty face, twisting and bending his great, brutal fingers.
“Gentlemen,” said Melun, almost politely, “I expect you feel that some
explanation is due from me.”
The majority of the men nodded in a surly way.
“Well,” Melun continued, “the explanation is simplicity itself. I have
been duped by that man.”
Again he pointed to Westerham.
“He introduced himself to me,” he went on, “as a colleague in our own
particular line of business, and suggested certain schemes to me. Some
of them appeared to me to be good, but I may as well tell you that
they were at the moment of no use to me, as I had on hand a piece of
business which, if I had pulled it off, would have enabled us to rest
on our laurels for a considerable period.”
At this point Melun laughed to himself. Westerham was sitting bolt
upright on the floor, with every evidence of the closest attention. He
was of half a mind to call Melun a liar there and then, but he knew
that the greater the lies, and the more the lies, the easier he could
refute them. So he let Melun run on without protest.
“Yes,” continued the captain, “it was a very great piece of business
indeed, so important a piece of business that it was necessary to keep
it from even my most intimate friends and helpers. There was nothing
unusual in this, for, as you know, I have often conducted campaigns
without letting you into my secrets until success had been assured.
“On this occasion, considering the position of the person I was
assailing, the strictest secrecy was necessary. I didn't even inform
the kind friend who finances us what I was about. I didn't even tell
Crow of my movements, though I had informed him that something out of
the common was in view.
“However, with the appearance of that man whom you now see convicted
as a traitor, there was introduced into our affairs a certain
element—treachery and suspicion.
“One never knows,” Melun went on with calm mendacity, “of what one may
be accused; and I therefore took the precaution to inform at least one
of you of what I was about, lest it should be charged against me that I
was playing the rest of you false.
“The man to whom I spoke of this matter was Patmore. Patmore, be good
enough to stand up.”
Patmore rose and glanced uneasily at his chief.
“Be so kind as to repeat, as accurately as you can, what I told you,”
Melun ordered him.
Patmore began to speak rapidly, and with what, to a keen observer,
might have seemed a somewhat parrot-like air.
“You told me,” he said, looking at Melun, “that this was a matter of
blackmail.”
He spoke quite unblushingly, as though such a business was an every-day
affair, which, as a matter of fact, it was.
“You told me,” he continued, “that the person to be blackmailed
occupied a high position in the State, and that it was so necessary for
him to purchase our silence that he would pay practically any price.
“You mentioned a quarter of a million, of which you yourself proposed
to take fifty thousand pounds, dividing the rest of the money among us.
You also took the oath of the club before me and declared that whatever
might be said to the contrary you were determined to play fair.
“You further said that it was absolutely impossible to reveal any
details of the scheme to me, as, should anyone know of the matter
besides yourself, discovery would be inevitable.
“In fact, you declared that it was the most difficult, and at the same
time the boldest, piece of work that you had ever attempted.”
Patmore stopped abruptly in his recitation.
“And that, gentlemen,” said Melun, nodding towards the men, “is
absolutely true.
“It is also true,” he continued, “that to win this vast amount of money
it was necessary to lay out a certain amount of capital. I hadn't the
money on hand, and it was inadvisable to approach the usual sources.
“I trusted”—and there was an increased bitterness in his voice—“I
trusted this man Robinson.
“But, would you believe me, gentlemen, I have just discovered that he
is not Robinson at all, nor Smith, nor Jones—nor anyone, indeed, of
small importance in this world?
“Now, gentlemen, it would be inadvisable at this moment to tell you
precisely who he is, but one thing I may tell you, and that is that he
is a gentleman of title, and a man of wealth and position.”
The men turned their wondering gaze on Westerham.
“Now, for what purpose do you suppose that a man of title, of wealth
and position is mixing himself up with our affairs?”
Melun paused for a few minutes, and watched with satisfaction
intelligence dawn on the stupid, brutal faces before him, which stared
first at himself in amazement, and then gloomily and savagely at
Westerham.
Westerham, however, to their further astonishment, was laughing
quietly, his teeth bared in quite an amused and pleasant smile.
“Now, gentlemen,” Melun continued, “it is one of our unbreakable rules
that all traitors must die. Therefore, anyone who is likely to betray
us must die also.
“From what I know of this man,” he went on, “he will be too proud to
purchase his freedom. In short, not to put too fine a point on it, we
cannot bleed him, though his wealth is enormous. I fancy it runs into
millions.”
Little cries of wonderment and anger broke from the glowering men round
the table.
Westerham laughed aloud.
“In fact,” cried Melun, “though I much regret the necessity of having
to take such a step, I am afraid this gentleman's last hour has arrived.
“His death,” he added quietly, “will be carried out by the usual means.”
Crow started eagerly from his chair.
“Is it to be done at once?” he asked.
“At once,” said Melun.
All this time, though he had laughed now and again and never ceased to
smile a bold, amused smile, Westerham's quick brain was taking in every
word and watching for some means of deliverance. He saw that he was in
an extremely tight corner, but he did not doubt his ability to find a
way out.
The two men who were acting as his warders suddenly seized his hands,
and before he quite realised his position Westerham found himself
handcuffed.
Still, however, he made no resistance.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, raising his voice so that it rang through the
room and dominated all who were gathered there, “gentlemen, a man is
usually permitted to say something when he has been condemned to death.
I make no quarrel with your decision. If I were in your place I should
probably do the same myself by another man as you are doing by me.
“I don't wish to dispute your decision, much less do I wish to plead
for mercy. Melun has denounced me for the simple reason that I have the
misfortune to be a gentleman. Well, gentlemen have a habit of dying as
such.
“I trust I shall be no exception to the rule, but still, before you
carry out your kind intentions, I should like to say something to
Melun.”
“Bring him to the table,” said Melun. He looked uneasily at Westerham
and avoided the steadiness of his glance. He felt that the moment was
an awkward one. It was unwise to allow Westerham to speak; on the other
hand, it would have been folly to deny him the privilege.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded sharply as Westerham stepped up to the
table and leant his manacled hands on it.
Westerham bent forward over the table as far as he could and looked
Melun straight in the face.
“You will not strangle me,” he said in a very quiet voice, “because
THEY ARE NOT WHERE THEY WERE.”
Melun turned pale as ashes, and seemed to shrink in his seat.
“Good Heavens, man, what do you mean?” he cried.
Once again the men were glancing stupidly from Westerham to Melun, and
back from Melun to Westerham.
“I repeat,” said Westerham, more pointedly than before, “that THEY ARE
NOT WHERE THEY WERE.”
There was a long and uncomfortable pause while Melun sat rigid in his
chair biting his nails.
Westerham had made a long shot, and had found the mark.
He had argued that Melun's control over the Premier was due to the
illegal possession of some of Lord Penshurst's papers, though he did
not know whom these papers might concern nor where Melun had placed
them.
Certainly the captain had not hidden them in his own rooms, nor in the
rooms of any of his confederates; for without a doubt if Lord Penshurst
had not scrupled to burgle Westerham's flat, he would not scruple to
ransack the houses of Melun or his friends.
Indeed, Westerham guessed that the hiding-place must be a very strange
and secret one—so strange and so secret that probably only the subtle
mind of Melun could have conceived it.
Thus he had come to the conclusion that it would cause Melun most
terrible alarm if that individual even suspected he had an inkling of
the whereabouts of the papers. Nor was he mistaken.
Slowly and painfully Melun pulled himself together. The easy confidence
which had marked his manner and his talk a few moments before was now
utterly gone. He was a broken, almost a cringing, man; and Westerham
realised that Lord Penshurst could not be setting any fictitious value
on the stolen papers.
These papers could involve no mere matter of sentiment or personal
honour or pride. Some colossal undertaking must be at stake.
It was also obvious to Westerham that if the papers fell into strange
hands the consequences must be terrible for all concerned. For the
anxiety and fear on Melun's face were greater than the anxiety and fear
of a man who hazards all in a great stake and thinks he has lost.
Presently Melun got unsteadily out of his chair and came round the
table to Westerham.
“Stand away there!” he said to the two men who were guarding the
baronet. “Stand away there!”
The men fell back, and Melun, coming close up to Westerham, whispered
in his ear: “What do you mean that ‘they are not where they were’? Do
you mean the papers?”
Westerham nodded.
“Where are they?” Melun whispered again.
“I decline to say,” said Westerham.
He might well decline, for he had not the least idea.
“I will make you tell me, you dog!” cried Melun.
“You won't,” answered Westerham, suavely.
“By Heaven!” shouted Melun, “but I will. There are more unpleasant
things done in this place than you ever dreamt of in your philosophy.
The times of the Inquisition are not past for some people.”
“It will take a little more than you to frighten me, you cur,” said
Westerham, in a low voice.
Melun's face blazed with passion. He drew back a pace, and then struck
Westerham heavily across the mouth.
On his part Westerham did not hesitate for a moment. He lifted both his
fettered hands and brought his steel-bound wrists down with a crash on
Melun's head; and the captain went sprawling to the floor.
“Look you here,” cried Westerham to the dumbfounded ruffians who stood
watching the scene as though they were chained to their chairs. “Look
you here; I will deal with men, but not with curs such as this.”
He touched Melun with his boot.
“You cannot deny,” he continued, purposely dropping to a certain extent
into their own jargon, “that I was game. I was prepared to die, but I
am not prepared to be struck by swine like this.
“Why,” he went on, turning Melun's prostrate body over with his foot,
“he is a liar through and through.
“Did I speak the truth just now when I convicted Crow out of his own
mouth? I did. I proved it. And surely Melun has now condemned himself
in his turn.
“Do you think that there would be all this fuss over a bundle of papers
if there weren't more in the matter than he ever intended to tell you?
Not a bit of it.”
The men murmured angry assent, and Westerham felt that he was at last
winning through.
“Do you think,” he went on boldly, “that I am the kind of man who
deserves to be tortured to reveal the truth? I say no; and so will you.”
Again the men nodded.
“This fellow Melun says that I have betrayed him and you. Let him prove
it. I tell him that ‘the papers are not where they were.’ He knows
where he placed them; let him go and see. I am content to abide here
until he returns.”
It was now the turn of the bullet-headed man to speak.
“Get him to his feet,” he said, pointing to Melun.
Melun was dragged up, dazed and bleeding.
“You will do nothing to this gentleman,” said the bullet-headed man,
waving his hand with some deference towards Westerham, “until you have
cleared yourself. You will have to see if the papers are gone. But you
don't go alone—not much!”
Then Crow spoke up: “Let me go with him,” he pleaded.
The bullet-headed man shook his head. “You have almost as much to
answer for as Melun,” he objected.
“No,” he continued. “Ross is the man. We can trust Ross.”
Ross came forward as though the task of watching Melun was not an
unwelcome one.
“Yes, boys,” he said, “you can trust me. I will go.”
“Then pull him together a bit,” ordered the bullet-headed man.
Thereupon they roughly plucked Melun's clothes into shape, sponged his
face clear of blood, set his hat on his head, and put his stick into
his hand.
By this time he had practically recovered himself. He gave one quick
look of intense hatred towards Westerham and one quick, vindictive
glance in the direction of the man with the bullet head.
“Very well,” he said, in a rather shaky voice. “If it must be, it must
be. You are fools to believe your enemy, but I cannot prevent you. If
you must know all, you will probably lose all; well—so much the worse
for you.”
He jerked his waistcoat down and assumed a certain air of bravado. In
spite of himself, Westerham could not but admire the man. At this point
Crow urged again that he should be allowed to accompany Melun. Ross
made no objection, and he was given leave to go.
The scoundrels round the table then watched Melun take his departure
with Ross and Crow. The room was very quiet, and Westerham could hear
the men's retreating footsteps along the path of the canal.
When they had quite ceased to be audible Westerham turned again to the
bullet-headed man.
“How long do you suppose,” he asked, “we shall have to wait?”
“Heaven knows,” answered the fat man, with a shrug.
“Then, if you will permit me,” said Westerham, “I will sit down. And,”
he added, “I should be obliged to you if you will remove these.”
He stretched out his handcuffed wrists.
One of the men laughed and knocked them off. Westerham thanked him and
sat down.
Without more ado he took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. As
he smoked he turned things rapidly over in his mind. He was perfectly
certain that Melun, in spite of his protestations, would not reveal the
whereabouts of the papers. Westerham even doubted whether Melun would
take the trouble to lead the man on a bogus chase.
For some reason which he was unable to account for he had a foreboding
of coming evil. He tried to shake it off, but in vain.
Time and time again he tried to think matters out and decide what
Melun's probable course of action would be. But time and time again he
failed to work out any theory which satisfied him.
At last, when half an hour had gone by and the delay was becoming
irksome, Westerham spoke up again.
“If you will call for silence,” he said to the bullet-headed man,
“there is something else I would like to say.”
The bullet-headed man called at once for order.
“Gentlemen,” said Westerham, addressing the men for the third and last
time that night, “will you allow me to range myself on your side? I
really think I have proved myself sufficiently a man to warrant my
asking this.
“I will not take your oath, but if you will take the word of a
gentleman, I will pledge it that, come what may, I will never reveal to
anyone what has taken place to-night.”
There was considerable grumbling at this, but the bullet-headed man
forcibly expressed his favourable opinion.
“Look here, mates,” he cried, turning to the others, “I know a
gentleman when I see one, and I know that this gentleman is to be
trusted. If Melun wants to do his own dirty work, let him do it.
“In spite of all his boasting our hands have been pretty clean up to
the present. It is quite true that we have always been prepared to put
a man out of the way if it had to be done, but we have never done it
yet.
“And there is no reason, so far as I can see, that we should begin now.
So long as we know where to find this gentleman, that should be good
enough for us. I am not much of a hand at an argument, but one thing
seems to me pretty plain. If this gent”—he indicated Westerham—“had
wanted to give us away he would have given us away long since. No, you
may depend upon it that whatever his reasons may be he's got as good
cause to keep silence as we have. Don't you think that's right?”
Again there was a good deal of grumbling, but on the other hand there
was general assent.
“So I will tell you what we will do,” continued the bullet-headed man,
now certain of his ground. “We will let him go on one condition—that
he allows me and another man to accompany him home. That seems to be
fair. It may be taking a bit of a risk, but it is the only thing to be
done unless we want to do murder, and that is not our game. I am not
taking any chances of hanging while there's money to be got, and no
doubt but that this gentleman will use us fair.”
Westerham caught his meaning, and for the second time took out his
pocket-book.
“I said that you would not steal these notes, and I also said that
I would not give them away. But I have changed my mind. There they
are—and I give you my word that to-morrow I will take the embargo off.
It will be easy enough for you to find out whether they are posted as
lost or not. I can scarcely do more.”
To this there was greedy assent, and Westerham realised that he was
free. He did not even wait for the bullet-headed man's full approval,
but reached out for his hat.
There was some dispute as to whom the notes should be given, and
finally it was decided that Mackintosh—such was the name of the
bullet-headed man—should keep them in his own charge. And then he and
a second man by the name of Hicks accompanied Westerham out.
In the main road they took a tram and travelled westward. At Aldgate
Westerham hailed a cab, and the three men drove through the half-empty
city streets, past St. Paul's, and up Fleet Street, into the Strand.
As they drew near to Walter's, Westerham's quick eye detected a crowd
round the hotel. He thrust his hand through the trap-door in the roof
and brought the cab to a standstill.
“Look here,” he said quickly to the other men, “that crowd is outside
Walter's—and that is where I live.
“You can accompany me to the door if you like and see me go in; but I
should not drive up if I were you, as you will only arouse interest,
and possibly someone may see and recognise you. That would be awkward
both for you and for me.”
Mackintosh gave a grin of agreement, and alighting, the three men
walked towards the hotel.
As they approached the crowd, Mackintosh and his companion drew away
from Westerham.
“It will do if we see you go in,” said the bullet-headed man, “we will
wait here.” And he moved into a little opening on the side of the
street opposite the hotel.
Westerham struck across the Strand and pushed his way through the
press. The hotel door was closed and guarded on either side by a
constable. Through the glass doorway Westerham could see the face of
the hall porter peering out, pale and anxious and questioning.
He rapped on the door, and the porter opened it, the policemen making
no demur, seeing that the porter obviously recognised the new arrival.
At the further end of the hall were gathered a number of the visitors,
talking excitedly, but in low voices.
Two immensely large and solid men were seated on a bench. They rose up
as Westerham entered, and he immediately recognised one of them as the
inquisitive Mr. Rookley from Scotland Yard.
Rookley, with a stern, set face, walked forward to meet Westerham, and
touched him with a forefinger on his chest.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said.
The sense of coming evil against which Westerham had struggled earlier
in the evening swept over him again with redoubled force. He made an
effort to shake it off, but again failed to do so.
“What is it?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange and harsh even to
himself.
Without a word, Rookley grasped his arm and led him up the stairs, nor
did he stop till he reached the second floor, on which were situated
Westerham's sitting-room and modest bedroom.
Opening the door of the sitting-room, Rookley drew Westerham in and
closed the door again.
“Look here, Mr. Robinson,” he said, “you gave us the slip last time,
I admit; and I admit also that it was only by a very dreadful miracle
that I discovered your whereabouts to-night. For I was summoned here
on an awful piece of business. But we've got you now, and I want an
explanation.”
Westerham stared at him with a set face.
“Now, one thing is certain—I will give you that much credit”—the
detective continued—“that you are not the actual perpetrator of what
has happened. Perhaps, too, it would be better to prepare you for a
shock, though you look a pretty strong-nerved man. You'd better brace
yourself, Mr. Robinson.”
“All right,” said Westerham, quietly.
Without more ado the detective pushed open the door communicating with
Westerham's bedroom and led the way in.
The room was in darkness, but Rookley, putting his thumb on the
electric button, suddenly switched on the light. And with a cry
Westerham stepped back and blundered against the detective.
For on the bed was stretched Ross, the man who had left him in the
company of Crow and Melun; and driven hard up to the hilt, straight
through the man's heart, was a knife which Westerham instantly
recognised as one of his own.
The detective seized him almost roughly and hurried him mercilessly up
to the bedside.
“Read that!” he whispered hoarsely.
Westerham stooped and saw attached to the handle of the knife a luggage
label which bore the name of Walter's hotel.
And on the luggage label was printed in hand-writing the following
inscription:—
“So perish all traitors. Be warned in time. The girl may be the next.”