LANE ENGAGES AN ASSISTANT
Mr. Sellars, Reggie Sellars as he was known to his intimates, was a
tall, good-looking young man of about thirty, of the aristocratic type,
with aquiline features and an elegant figure. Following no settled
occupation or profession, he formed one of that numerous brigade of
men-about-town who belong to good clubs, frequent respectable society
and always seem to have plenty of money for their personal wants,
although nobody knows the exact source of their incomes, or how they
contrive to present such a good appearance.
These men are usually very scrupulous in money matters, pay their bets
promptly when they lose and expect to be paid as promptly when they
win, are never behindhand in a club subscription, liberal but not
ostentatious in their tips to waiters. Many of them, in fact most, have
a small annuity which forms the nucleus of their income; how the rest
of that income is earned is often a puzzle to even their most intimate
friends.
Mr. Sellars was one of a large family, some twelve in all, sons and
daughters. His father had left capital bringing in about fifteen
hundred a year to be divided amongst this numerous offspring. This
brought Reggie in the modest competence of about a hundred odd pounds
a year. He dressed very well, and his tailor must have taken more
than that. It was obvious, therefore, that he had a knack of picking
up money somehow and somewhere, as he belonged to several clubs,
frequented fashionable society, and was by no means an anchorite in his
tastes.
As a matter of fact, he lived on his wits, using the expression in
a perfectly respectable sense. He furnished gossip to a well-known
Society newspaper for which he received a liberal remuneration; he was
a scientific backer of horses, he played a first-rate hand at bridge,
sometimes he got a handsome fee for initiating some _nouveau riche_
into the mysteries of fashionable life. Since his acquaintance with Mr.
Gideon Lane, he had often been useful to that gentleman, and had been
paid well for his services.
They had met at a Bohemian club to which both men belonged, for Reggie
Sellars, although of very good family and an aristocrat by instinct
and connection, was by no means exclusive, and was equally at home in
Bohemia and Mayfair.
At first Lane had not been attracted to the young man, whom he regarded
as the usual type of lounger who led a life of aimless pleasure, a mere
idler with whom he was not likely to have anything in common. And,
truth to tell, although in a certain way he was one of the shrewdest
fellows alive, Sellars’ good-looking countenance did not furnish any
striking evidence of mentality or strenuous impulse.
But one night in the smoking-room the two got into a conversation on
the subject of criminals and criminology, and Lane found that this
seemingly idle, pleasure-loving young man, with apparently no thoughts
beyond the race-course and the bridge-table, displayed a keen knowledge
and a swift power of deduction that astonished him.
Lane had a considerable _clientèle_ amongst persons high up in the
social scale, he frequently wanted to obtain special information
about people belonging to or moving in fashionable circles. Into such
quarters he was unable to penetrate himself for obvious reasons. Here
was a man just fitted for the job, keen, quiet, quick in resource;
a man, in short, disguising a considerable mentality under a most
deceptive exterior. Lane suggested that there was certain work in
which his previous knowledge and facilities of approach could be of
material assistance to him. Mr. Reginald Sellars, the good-looking
young man-about-town, jumped at the proposal, and Lane had to confess
that, in his own line, he had never possessed a more competent
lieutenant.
He was just the man for the Morrice job, or at any rate one particular
portion of it, and that was why the busy and brainy detective had rung
him up to-day.
“Not been very long, eh, Lane?” was the young man’s greeting as he
entered the private room. “Always ready for business, you know, for
anything that brings grist to the mill. I hope you’ve got something
good for me.”
At his fashionable clubs, in the society of his aristocratic friends,
he cultivated a rather languid manner. When he talked to practical
people like Lane his tone was brisk, his whole manner alert.
The detective went to the point at once. “Of course, you know of Rupert
Morrice, the big financier, most probably you are personally acquainted
with him?”
“Known him for years, he was rather a pal of my father’s, used to give
him a good tip now and then for his investments,” was the answer.
“Can’t say I’m one of the intimates of the house, but always get a card
for their big things, have been asked twice, I think, to fill up a
dinner-party. What’s up?”
But without answering his question, Lane asked one himself. “We all
know the man’s story, that is public property. But what about Mrs.
Morrice; do you know anything about her antecedents, her family, her
history, before she met her husband?”
Sellars shook his head. “I’ve never heard, I don’t think anybody has.
A very charming woman, well-bred and all that, does the honours
perfectly, but never seems to talk about herself as most of her sex do.
The only thing I can remember is that some few years ago a nephew was
introduced, a young chap named Archie Brookes, who was also a nephew
of Sir George Clayton-Brookes who is as well-known in London as the
Monument. Her sister married his younger brother, we were told.”
“You don’t know her maiden name?”
“No, but that of course can easily be got at Somerset House,” said the
bright young man who had proved such an able colleague.
“Of course, I know that, but we need not go there. I have got the name,
a rather uncommon one. She was a Miss Lettice Larchester, and I believe
she hails from somewhere in Sussex.”
“And you want me to find out all about her before she became Mrs.
Morrice, eh? He met her and married her abroad, I suppose you know
that. He was awfully gone on Mrs. Croxton, the mother of that young
chap whom he practically adopted and who acts as his secretary. It is
said he remained a bachelor for years because of her.”
Reggie Sellars’ knowledge of the annals of the people who moved in
certain circles was of the most exhaustive nature. And he had a memory
like a vice; he never forgot a fact or a date, and never confused one
history with another. He was certainly a most deceptive person. To look
at him you would never imagine he would take the slightest trouble
to acquire any knowledge that was not strictly necessary for his own
immediate purposes.
“Yes, I want you to find out all you can about her; of course you will
make your inquiries very discreetly. But, there, I need not warn you of
that. You are always discreet.”
And in truth he was. He could pursue the most delicate investigations
without giving himself away for a second.
“Well, now, you haven’t given me an inkling of what’s up yet, and you
know I’m not fond of working in the dark. Why this sudden interest in
Mrs. Morrice’s past?”
Lane was not addicted to telling more than he could help, for secrecy
had become an ingrained habit with him. But the young man was a bit
touchy on some things. He was especially so on the point that perfect
confidence should be reposed in him, and it must be admitted that
that confidence was never abused. He was a perfectly honourable young
fellow, and his word was better than the bond of a good many people.
So Lane told him the salient details of the robbery in Deanery Street,
ending with the remarkable discovery of the finger-prints of “Tubby”
Thomas, and the incarceration of that accomplished criminal.
The quick mind of Sellars speedily grasped the complicated nature of
this puzzling case. “By Jove, it wants a bit of thinking out, doesn’t
it, Lane? In the meantime, according to your invariable custom, you are
suspecting everybody, including Mrs. Morrice; the secretary, of course,
and Morrice himself, and naturally the Brookes’s, uncle and nephew.”
Lane smiled. “I intend to know everything I can about every one of
them. I exclude the servants, it is too deep a job for any of them.”
“And what about that pretty girl, the niece, what’s her name—eh, Miss
Sheldon? You’ve got your eye on her, of course?” He spoke in rather a
joking manner, for he often rallied Lane on his tendency to reverse the
usual principle of British law and believe everybody to be guilty till
his innocence was fully established.”
“She is a very charming young lady,” replied the detective a little
grimly, for he did not relish being chaffed. “But I shall certainly not
exclude her from the scope of my investigations if all others fail.
Well now, look here, Mr. Sellars, I expect it will take you a little
time to get at Mrs. Morrice’s history. What do you know about this
Clayton-Brookes and his nephew? The uncle is a great racing man, I
understand, and you are amongst the racing set.”
“I know Sir George just a little, we nod to each other when we meet,
but I don’t think I have exchanged half a hundred words with him in my
life. Archie Brookes I know about as well. But I can tell you this, he
is not popular; most people think him a bit of a bounder. Do you want
me to investigate in that quarter too?”
“Yes, I wish you to find out all you can. I want you to discover
particularly what is known about the young man’s father who, according
to what we are told, married Mrs. Morrice’s sister.”
“Right, it shall be done,” replied Sellars. “Now, as I have said, I
don’t know either of the men well, and I can’t get any information from
them. But I do know pretty intimately a man who is a great pal of Sir
George; he’s a member of White’s, a good, garrulous sort of person, and
he’ll talk by the hour when you once get him started. I’ll tap him as
soon as I can get the chance. He’s much older than I, of course, but we
are rather pals, and I’ll make him give me what I want.”
Lane did not possess a very keen sense of humour, his calling did not
greatly encourage it, but he was a bit tickled by the gusto with which
this remarkable young man, who hid his talents so successfully under
that indifferent exterior, set about the task of extracting information
from his numerous friends and acquaintances.
For it was one of his greatest assets, moving as he did in so many
various circles, that if he could not get what he wanted directly,
he could always do so indirectly. Here, for example, although he did
not know Sir George very well, he was more than intimate with that
gentleman’s great friend, whom, of course, he could pump with greater
freedom than Sir George himself. Presently he took his leave, promising
to let Lane know the result of his investigations at the earliest
moment.
He appeared a couple of days later. “He rose to the fly beautifully,”
he said in that brisk voice which he always assumed when he was engaged
on strict business. “He has got it all pat. Sir George had a younger
brother Archibald, a bit of a rolling-stone. He couldn’t make good
here, so his family packed him off to Australia to try what a change
of climate might do. He didn’t do very well there, but he didn’t come
back. He married—but my friend doesn’t know the maiden name of his
wife; Sir George had either never mentioned it, or he had forgotten it.
Anyway, there was one child, the boy Archie, named after his father.
The mother died a few years after his birth. The father died later in
Melbourne. When the young one was grown up, Sir George sent for him to
come home, and adopted him. There’s the whole history cut and dried for
you.”
“And very lucidly told too,” said Mr. Lane approvingly. Sellars knew
him well now, and he inferred from the careful way in which he entered
the details in his notebook that he attached great importance to the
information. So he did, much more than the young man guessed; this he
was to learn later on.
To be a really great detective a man must have a certain amount of
inspiration and imagination, and Lane possessed both these in a
remarkable degree. While ruminating over the various problems of this
puzzling case, one of these flashes of inspiration had come to him,
and he intended to test it. But for the present, he was not going to
take Sellars into his confidence in case it proved to be wrong.
The young man shortly took his leave and returned to his modest
rooms in Bennett Street. To-morrow, he was going to embark on his
investigations into Mrs. Morrice’s past, and it behoved him to set his
affairs in order, in a sense, so as to be left free to devote his whole
energies to the task.
This he easily did, being a very methodical and business-like person,
although most of his acquaintances regarded him only as a saunterer
through life, a frequenter of fashionable salons. He posted his
little paragraphs of Society gossip to his editor, he wrote certain
instructions to his bookmaker, he wrote and despatched a short breezy
article on current topics to a newspaper which published his effusions
at regular intervals. Then he felt himself free to embark on the great
adventure to which he was looking forward, for he revelled in detective
work as much as the great Lane himself.
* * * * *
Poor Rosabelle had gone home after that interview in a very
crestfallen and despondent mood, for she had pinned her faith to those
finger-marks, and in prophetic imagination had seen her lover restored
to his old place in the esteem of all who were in the terrible secret.
She communicated the new facts to her uncle on his return to Deanery
Street. Morrice said little, but a pitying look came over his face
as he noticed how pale and sad she looked. He laid his hand upon her
shoulder with a kindly gesture.
“Give it up, my poor little girl, give it up before it breaks your
heart. Steel yourself to face the fact that Richard Croxton, by his own
act, has passed away from your life.”
But she would have none of that. Her voice was pleading but half
indignant as she cried out in her pain: “Oh, uncle dear, do not ever
say that to me again. I know, I feel it in my heart, that a day will
come when you will regret bitterly that you spoke those words.”
The hardest task was when she had to tell her lover that the mystery,
so far from approaching solution, was deepened by what had happened.
Richard took it calmly to all appearance, but she noticed that the
depression which had been temporarily lifted by the discovery of those
strange finger-prints, seemed to settle on him again.
“Oh, Dick, my poor darling,” she cried tearfully; “how I wish we were
not going to Mürren! I think I shall ask uncle to let me stay behind so
that I can come and cheer you.”
But he would not hear of that. It seemed as if he was beginning to
realize that he must pass out of her life, as Morrice had put it, and
that the sooner the separation began the better for both.
So a week before Christmas a sad group of three started for
Switzerland, an expedition they had all so looked forward to when
Richard Croxton was to have been one of the party.
And some days before they left a cable from Australia arrived at Lane’s
office, and as he read it, his eyes gleamed. That inspiration of his
had been true. The contents of that cable were communicated to Sellars
in a brief note:—
“You will remember I attached great importance to the details you
obtained for me about Archibald Brookes, the brother of Sir George,
who went to Australia. A certain inspiration came to me on that
subject which I did not tell you of at the time for fear it might lead
to nothing. I cabled out to an old colleague of mine in that country
to make certain inquiries. I have heard from him to-day. It is true
that Archibald Brookes died in Melbourne, but he was a bachelor and
consequently left no children. Therefore the tale Sir George told his
old friend is a lie, and the story of Mrs. Morrice’s sister being
married to his brother is a fabrication. Here is another mystery in
the Morrice household which must be unravelled.”