THE SAFE IS ROBBED AGAIN
In the New Year, Sellars, having spent a most enjoyable Christmas, and
fortified both in spirits and body by the season’s jollity and good
cheer, set to work to discover whether Miss Alma Buckley was still in
the land of the living, and if so, where she was to be found.
It has been said that nobody knew better how to set about getting
information that he was in need of than this agreeable young
man-about-town, who had never been credited by his ordinary
acquaintances with ability beyond the average.
Amongst his various clubs was a very unpretentious and Bohemian one
called “The Strollers.” As its name implied, its members were mainly
recruited from the theatrical profession, but it also admitted within
its portals musicians, artists, journalists, authors, and a few people
who were great admirers of the arts but did not practise any of them
as a means of livelihood. If Miss Alma Buckley was still in the
profession, he would find somebody here who knew her, or at any rate
knew of her.
We know that, strictly speaking, his proper _milieu_ was the
fashionable world, his proper place for relaxation a club like White’s
or Boodles’; but he was a young man of catholic tastes, and he was
also entitled to call himself a journalist, if his activities in that
profession were not very great. He was also very fond of people who
“did something,” whether in music or art or literature. Therefore “The
Strollers” suited him very well when he got a bit bored with exclusive
society, and the rather banal talk of fashionable and semi-fashionable
people.
The subscription was very moderate, the entrance fee equally
reasonable; he met there men who could talk well, a few quite
brilliantly. Once a week during certain seasons they held an
entertainment at which there was quite a respectable array of talent.
To this very delightful little place he repaired one evening in search
of information about Miss Alma Buckley.
He inquired of two theatrical members, not of the very highest rank
in their profession, but neither of these gentlemen had ever heard of
the lady in question. They suggested that she might probably be on the
provincial stage.
The third time, however, he was more lucky. He came across a rather
well-known music-hall artist, one Tom Codlin, who reddened his nose and
leaned decidedly to the vulgar side on the boards, but who was a very
quiet, decorous fellow off. He knew the name at once.
“Alma Buckley, of course, known her since I first took up the business;
must be a good ten years older than I am, I should say, makes up
wonderfully, too. Saw her a few months ago in one of the Stein shows,
and I was surprised to see how well she wore. No particular talent, no
particular line, but generally gets an engagement, even when cleverer
people are out.”
“Has she ever been on the stage, the real stage, I mean?” asked young
Sellars. Mr. Codlin shook his head.
“Never. She started in the halls when quite a young girl and has stuck
there ever since.”
“Do you know if she’s playing now, and if so, where?”
Codlin had no idea; he had not seen her name for some time in any of
the bills. She might be in the provinces, she might have gone for a
tour abroad.
He thought a moment, and then added: “The best thing you can do if you
want to get hold of her is to go to her agent, ‘Mossy’ Samuelson, as we
call him. I’ll scribble his address on my card; he knows me well. That
will get you the _entrée_ at once, for he’s an awfully busy chap, and
if he doesn’t know you, will keep you waiting for hours.”
The next day found Sellars presenting his club friend’s card to a
small, sharp-looking boy in the rather dingy front room of a house
in a street off the Strand. A communicating door led to Mr. “Mossy”
Samuelson’s private sanctum, where he received his clients. A lot of
women, mostly young, but a few middle-aged, were waiting to see the
great man. Sellars thought that if all these people had to go in before
him he would have to wait for hours. He did not of course know the ways
of busy theatrical agents, that they do not see half the people who are
waiting for an audience, only come out and dismiss most of them with a
brief “Nothing for you to-day.”
“Tell him I won’t keep him a minute,” he whispered to the sharp-looking
boy, slipping half a crown into his rather grubby but appreciative palm.
Mr. Codlin’s card had a magical effect. In less than a minute the boy
appeared in the opening of the doorway and beckoned him in. A gentleman
with a pronounced Hebraic aspect sat in solemn state at a big table,
wearing the shiniest tall hat that Sellars had ever seen on a human
head. He doffed this resplendent article when he observed the young man
remove his own.
“Good-morning, sir; good-morning. Sorry I can’t give you more than a
minute or two. I’ve got three contracts to draw before one o’clock, and
there’s half the music-hall profession waiting in the other room to see
me. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Codlin’s card, couldn’t have given you a
second.”
In view of Mr. Samuelson’s evident importance, Sellars adopted a most
respectful tone. “Very kind of you, sir, very kind indeed. I will come
to the point at once. You are the agent of Miss Alma Buckley, I am
told.”
“I am, sir; been her agent for the last twenty years. What can I do for
you?”
“I want to see the lady on some private and important business. You
could not, of course, give me her address?”
“We never give addresses of our clients; clean against the rules, sir.”
The little, keen, beady eyes looked at him inquiringly. The young man
belonged to White’s Club and looked what Mr. Samuelson would describe
in his own words, “a toff.” What could such a person want with a
middle-aged, undistinguished music-hall artist?
“I quite appreciate that, Mr. Samuelson. Would you be good enough to
forward a letter for me?”
“Very ’appy, sir,” replied the Hebraic gentleman affably. “But it’s no
good your sending it yet. Miss Buckley is returning from South Africa;
at this moment she’s on the ocean, and she’s not due in London for
another ten days. Send it then, and I will take care it reaches her.
Good-morning, sir; ’appy to have met you.”
He held out a podgy hand, and the interview terminated. It was a bit of
a check, this waiting for ten days, for Sellars was getting very keen
on the Morrice case. But there was no help for it, and it was always on
the cards that Miss Buckley might refuse to receive him, or if she did,
might decline to give information about her old friend.
* * * * *
Rosabelle returned to London with her uncle and aunt, very glad to get
home again. Under ordinary conditions she would have enjoyed herself
hugely at Mürren, for she was a thorough open-air girl, and delighted
in every form of sport. But the sight of other people’s gaiety made
her sad when she was so miserable herself. Mrs. Morrice, too, seemed
very unhappy and restless during what should have been such a festive
season. Rosabelle thought that Mrs. Morrice must have been fonder of
Richard than she had believed.
The first visit she paid, even before she went to see her lover, was to
the offices of Gideon Lane. This man, with his strong resolute face, was
her only hope; she had longed to be back in London so that she might be
near him; his propinquity to her gave her a sense of comfort.
“I don’t want to make myself a nuisance, Mr. Lane, but I simply could
not keep away,” she explained by way of greeting. “You have not been
idle during our absence, I am sure. Are you any nearer to discovering
the true criminal? Have you found out anything at all?”
It was an awkward question for the detective to reply to. A very great
deal had been discovered during the time that had elapsed between her
departure for Mürren and her return to London; startling facts at
present known only to himself and Sellars.
If she had been a hard-headed practical man instead of an emotional
girl wrought up to a pitch of almost unendurable tension by the serious
plight of her lover, he might have been disposed to make a clean
breast of it. But for the moment he dared not trust her. Guided by her
feelings, she might act impulsively and spoil all his plans.
“I will be frank with you, Miss Sheldon, as far as I can be, as I
dare be, at this juncture. Certain things have been discovered of
considerable importance. What they are, the precise nature of them,
even a hint, I dare not indulge in for the present, not until I know
much more.”
She knew the man well by now; it was useless to attempt to shake his
determination. When he had once made up his mind, it was like beating
against an open door.
“Will you at least tell me this, to ease my suspense,” she said at
length. “What you have discovered so far, does it tell against or in
favour of Mr. Croxton?”
There was a perceptible pause before he answered. Caution was so
ingrained in the man, his habit of carefully weighing every word, his
dread of expressing an opinion before he was fully justified, had
become so deeply rooted that he could hardly ever exhibit complete
frankness. Optimism was, of course, a mood unknown to him.
“If certain nebulous suspicions which are slowly forming in my mind
turn out to be correct, the result of my discoveries, so far, is rather
in favour of Mr. Croxton.”
That was all she could get out of him for the present, all she would,
in all probability, ever get out of him till he had fully and finally
solved the Morrice mystery. It was not great comfort, but it was better
than nothing.
The next day she went to Petersham, and received a warm welcome from
her lover, whose heart had been aching for her during those weary days
of separation. Small as were the crumbs of comfort which Lane had given
her, she made the most of them, and heartened Dick considerably by her
assurance that all would come right in the end.
“There are things about the man that irritate me—just an impulsive
woman with more heart than head—his slowness, his caution, his dislike
to speak positively; but I do believe in him, in his capacity, his
ability. If the mystery is to be solved by human agency, I am convinced
he will solve it.”
The lovers had a fairly happy day, considering the depressing
circumstances. They took a long walk through busy Kingston, over the
Thames glistening in the winter sunshine, to Hampton Court, where they
had lunch at that best of old-fashioned hotels, the Mitre. They got
back to Petersham late in the afternoon, and Richard’s kindly old nurse
had a dainty tea ready for them. And too soon the hour of parting came
and her lover put her in a taxi and kissed her fervently as they said
good-bye.
“God bless you, my darling; need I tell you how I appreciate your faith
in me? But for your visits, and I count the hours till you come, I
think I should go mad. And yet I must not reckon on them. One day your
uncle will forbid them.”
The steadfast girl smiled bravely. “We will talk of that when the time
comes, my poor old boy.”
She returned his fond caress. “Remember, Dick, whether Lane succeeds or
fails, it will make no difference to me. We are sweethearts now, and we
are going to be sweethearts till the end.”
During her long absence startling events had happened in the big,
old-fashioned house in Deanery Street.
Gideon Lane had spent a busy morning away from his office. It was three
o’clock before he found time to snatch a hasty lunch. When he got back
it was close upon four. His clerk had an urgent message for him.
“Mr. Morrice of Deanery Street has rung up three times during your
absence, sir. The last time he left word for you to go round as soon as
you came in. He said it was of the utmost importance.”
A taxi soon conveyed the detective to the financier’s house. He found
Morrice in his room in a great state of anger and excitement.
“Another robbery, Mr. Lane, this time a small one. A bundle of
Treasury notes and a quantity of Swiss bank-notes have been abstracted,
to the value of two hundred and eighty pounds. This time I am
determined to get to the bottom of it. If you are agreeable, you shall
act for me as well as for the other parties. You have no objection to
that, I suppose?”
Lane bowed. “None at all, sir. Whoever employs me does so with the same
object—to bring home the guilt to the right person.”
There were finger-marks on the safe as before. These were duly
photographed. They were identical with the previous ones, those of the
expert safe-breaker known as “Tubby” Thomas.
_And “Tubby” Thomas, as they knew beyond the possibility of doubt, was
safely locked up in Dartmoor._