SIR GEORGE’S VALET
In a back street behind the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly there is a
small, quiet-looking public-house which is a great rendezvous for male
servants of a superior class. Thither in their leisure moments repair
chauffeurs, butlers, valets in good service, to take a moderate amount
of refreshment—such men seldom drink to excess—to chat over the news of
the day, and very frequently to comment to each other on the characters
and doings of their employers.
On the evening following the day on which Lane had held that long
conversation with Mr. Morrice recorded in the last chapter, two men
sat in a corner of the snug little bar, drinking whisky and soda and
talking together in confidential tones.
The one party to the conversation had “gentleman’s gentleman” written
all over his manner and appearance. The deferential voice, the trick of
lowering his eyes when he spoke, proclaimed the valet who had served
in good families. He had not the smug pomposity of the butler nor the
breezy open-air demeanour of the driver.
His companion was no other than our old friend the detective, who did
not, like his companion, exhibit any signs of his calling, as far as
appearance went; he might have been anything—respectable bookmaker,
prosperous commercial traveller, well-to-do shopkeeper, whatever you
pleased.
In the pursuit of his professional duties Lane penetrated into several
circles, outside the higher ones. These he left to Sellars principally,
although he had two other occasional assistants of the same class, but
less zealous and capable. His object in coming to this quiet little
place to-night was to extend his acquaintance, one formed a few nights
previously, with the man who was drinking now at his expense, who
rejoiced in the popular name of Simmons and was valet to Sir George
Clayton-Brookes.
Lane was speaking in answer to some remarks just brought to a
conclusion by the valet with the neat, respectable appearance and the
low, deferential voice.
“And so you think of shifting. Well, it’s no use staying in a place
that doesn’t square with your ideas of comfort.”
“That’s just it, Mr. Cox.” The detective had assumed this name for the
purposes of the temporary friendship. “I knew after the first fortnight
it wouldn’t suit me at all. But I’ve stayed nine months for reasons. It
doesn’t do for a man with my record in good families to go chopping and
changing every five minutes, it gets him a bad name.”
Lane signified his approval of this politic conduct, and noting that
the valet’s glass was empty, hastened to have it refilled, a proceeding
to which Mr. Simmons offered no objection. With his shrewd knowledge
of men, his habit of drawing conclusions from small but infallible
signs, the detective inclined to the belief that his new friend was an
acquisitive kind of fellow, a man who would take all he could get and
give as little as he could in return.
“Your health, Mr. Cox.” The man lifted his glass and looked
appreciatively at his host, while he gave utterance to further thoughts
of his master.
“I don’t say Sir George isn’t all right in the matter of family,
although of course we know they’ve come down through his old father
playing ducks and drakes with the property. But the truth is, a poor
place doesn’t suit a man at my time of life, forty-five last birthday.
Wages are nothing; it’s the pickings that enable a fellow to put by and
start a snug little place of his own to keep him in his old age.”
A poor place, an absence of “pickings”! This confirmed the banker’s
report. As a matter of fact, Lane did not want the banker’s report
confirmed, he could rely on it as far as it went. He was on a much
deeper game, and with that object he had sought the society of Mr.
Simmons in the hope of finding him the sort of person who would help
him to play it.
“Now, that’s rather funny,” he said in assumed surprise. “I’ve heard a
good deal about Sir George, one way and another, and I was always under
the impression he was a wealthy man, had come into a large fortune.”
Mr. Simmons gave a contemptuous sniff. “If he came into a large
fortune, and I think I’ve heard something of that tale myself, it was
before my time. I’ll bet he hasn’t got any of it left now. I tell you
what he does, Mr. Cox, he bluffs a lot, he makes out to most of his
acquaintances that he’s got tons of money, and, of course, several of
them take his word. I’ve heard him putting the pot on often myself when
he didn’t know I was listening.”
An eavesdropper, this quiet, respectable-looking man! If he had the
smaller infirmities, he would be pretty certain to have the bigger
ones. Such was the thought of the shrewd detective.
“But I’ve always heard he bets high, Mr. Simmons.”
The valet, warmed by his potations, gave another sniff of contempt.
“Not he; that’s where he bluffs again. I know it for a fact. I
overheard him one morning put a fiver on a horse over the telephone;
it won at six to one. That same evening, when I was bringing in the
whisky, he told a pal of his right before me he’d laid a hundred. Of
course, he didn’t know I’d heard him in the morning. That’s how he got
the reputation of wealth, by bluffing, gassing and lying.”
It was clear that Simmons hated his employer with the deadly rancour
of a man deprived of his legitimate “pickings,” for he proceeded to
further disclosures, not at all redounding to Sir George’s credit.
He emitted a sardonic chuckle. “I overheard a little conversation
between him and that precious nephew of his one day, and I soon put
the pieces together, though I wasn’t in at the beginning of it. It
seems Sir George had changed a cheque for thirty pounds at one of his
clubs, in the expectation of some money coming in the next day. Well,
the money hadn’t come in, and he was in a frightful stew. ‘If I can’t
pay-in the first thing to-morrow morning, I’m done, and I shall be had
up before the Committee. The bank won’t let me overdraw five pounds;
the manager refused me a week ago when I begged the favour of him.’
That’s your wealthy man. Bah! I’m a poor chap enough, but I believe I
could buy him up if he was for sale.”
Lane shrugged his shoulders. “If you weren’t in the know you’d hardly
credit it, would you, Mr. Simmons?”
“By George, he was in a stew. I remember his words to his nephew; he
almost screamed them; ‘Archie, old boy, you must stand by me, you must
get me that money this afternoon, or it’s all up with me.’ Queer sort
of thing to say, wasn’t it, Mr. Cox.”
“Very queer,” agreed the detective. “Did you hear young Brookes’s
reply? I take it you were listening outside the door.”
“I was,” admitted Mr. Simmons, quite unabashed. It was evident he was
a very curious sort of person, and spent a considerable portion of his
time eavesdropping. “Young Archie was talking extremely low, and I
couldn’t catch very distinctly what he said. But there was a bit of an
argument between the two. I thought I caught the words, ‘it’s so soon
after the other,’ and then Sir George almost screamed out again, ‘I
can’t help that; I tell you it’s got to be done.’”
“An interesting couple,” remarked the supposed Mr. Cox. He was quite
sure now of the kind of man Mr. Simmons was. Should he approach him
at once or cultivate him a little further before he did so? Being a
cautious man and disinclined to do things in a hurry, he chose the
waiting policy. So he asked the valet when he would be likely to meet
him there again, at the same time proffering another whisky.
“To tell the truth, Mr. Cox, I shall be here for the next three
evenings. A bit of luck has come my way. Sir George is going into the
country to-morrow morning, and won’t be back till Friday. He isn’t
taking me with him, and I don’t know where’s he’s going. No letters or
telegrams are to be forwarded.”
“A bit queer he doesn’t want his valet with him, isn’t it?”
“I think so,” replied Mr. Simmons with a knowing expression. “A very
dark horse is our respected and wealthy baronet! If he’s going to a
swagger country house he takes me fast enough. But it’s not the first
time by half a dozen that he’s sloped off like this by himself. He’s
after something that he doesn’t want anybody else to know about, you
bet. A very queer fish, Mr. Cox.”
So Sir George would be away for a few days; that would just suit Lane’s
plans. He must open the campaign with the not too scrupulous valet as
soon as possible, but not to-night.
“Look out for me to-morrow evening then, Mr. Simmons. I like this
little place, it’s very snug and quiet, and I have very much enjoyed my
chats with you. Good-night. Sure you won’t have another before you go?”
But the acquisitive valet had that delicacy in him that he declined
further hospitality; he had already done himself very well at his
companion’s expense, and was perhaps fearful of trespassing too greatly
on his good nature.
The next evening they were again in their quiet corner, and Lane opened
the ball a few minutes after they had exchanged greetings.
“Now, Mr. Simmons, I am going to be quite frank with you. I didn’t come
here by accident. I got to know—it doesn’t matter how—that you were Sir
George’s valet, that you frequented this place. If you are so inclined,
you are just the man to give me help in a little job I’m after. I’m a
detective by profession; here is my card with my name and address. If
you have any doubts about the truth of my assertion, I will take you
down to Shaftesbury Avenue now and convince you by ocular proof.”
Mr. Simmons scrutinized the card carefully; he was a shrewd and wary
fellow, and not one to be easily taken in.
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Cox, or rather Mr. Lane, to give you your
true name, I had a sort of suspicion all along that you were a ’tec and
wanted something out of me. I’ve never seen you in this place before,
and you’ve given me a lot of drinks and wouldn’t take one back. Now,
sir, if I may speak without offence, a man who meets a stranger doesn’t
do all the paying without a motive. Well, sir, let’s come to business.
What can I do for you—of course, with safety to myself, and if I do it,
what do I get out of it?”
A business-like fellow, a bit of a rogue, in a noncriminal way no
doubt! But it was always easier to deal with a rogue than a fool in
matters of this kind. There would be no beating about the bush.
Lane briefly explained what he wanted. He wished to examine Sir
George’s pass-book; if that was not available, his paying-in slips. Did
the valet know where he kept them?
Yes, Mr. Simmons did know. Sir George was in the habit of getting his
book every month from the bank, and after examining it, returning it
in about three weeks to be made up for the following month. He kept it
with his cheque-book and the paying-in slips in one of the top drawers
of his writing-table. Sometimes the drawer was locked, more frequently
not, for in some matters where the vast majority of men were cautious,
the mysterious baronet was singularly careless. At the present moment
Mr. Simmons did not know whether it was locked or not, but it would
probably be locked before he went away.
“That doesn’t present much difficulty,” said Lane with a calmness that
took away his companion’s breath. “If it is not a very complicated
lock, and it’s not likely to be if the writing-table is an ordinary
sort of one; I can easily pick it.”
Mr. Simmons pursed his lips in perplexity. “But that’s burglary, isn’t
it, and spells quod if were caught?”
The detective smiled. “’Pon my soul, I’m not very sure. We have to do
this sort of thing sometimes, but we don’t run any very great risk,
because the people we do it to have so much to conceal that they
daren’t take action. I’m not proposing to take away anything, you
know.”
But Mr. Simmons evidently did not like the prospect. He was perfectly
unscrupulous in a small way, would not have objected to certain petty
pilferings sanctioned by custom and tradition amongst certain members
of his profession. One of his grievances against the baronet was that
he counted his cigars and his bottles of wine; there was never a chance
of getting a free smoke or drink.
But this looked a bigger thing than he expected. He thought very
deeply for a few seconds, while Lane cursed him in his heart for a
faint-hearted rogue, who let his inclination wait upon his fears.
“Look here,” he said at length. “We haven’t said anything yet about
terms. If I do it—and mind you, I’m not very gone on it—what’s the
price? It ought to be a good one.”
Lane named a liberal sum, and, truth to tell, it did make the valet’s
mouth water, but he was a greedy fellow, and he was determined to try
for a bit more. So for a few minutes they haggled till a compromise was
effected. But still Simmons was torn in two between his greed and his
fear of detection and would not say positively that he would assist.
The detective was a man of resource, he saw that he must adopt
different tactics with this cowardly rogue and relieve him from his
apprehensions.
“Look here, my friend, I can see you are in a blue funk; you are
afraid of what I am certain won’t happen, that Sir George will return
unexpectedly, walk into his flat and find me at work. Of course, he has
got his key.”
Mr. Simmons wanted to get that money in his possession, and his greed
sharpened his wits.
“Yes, he has got his key; he always carries it with him. But I could
put the inside latch up, making some plausible excuse for doing so,
and while I was going to the door you could put things straight and
escape into my room, hide there and be smuggled out as soon as we got a
chance. What do you think of that?”
“Quite ingenious,” was the approving answer. No doubt the fellow would
have developed a very pretty talent in the domain of “crookdom” if he
had been properly trained by a qualified professor.
“Quite ingenious,” repeated Lane; “but I think I can manage it in a way
that will avert any danger from yourself if accidents should happen.
Now here is my plan. I will explain it as briefly as possible. You
won’t appear in the matter at all.”
Mr. Simmons heaved a sigh of relief. He looked at his new friend with
an air of admiration; he felt he was in the presence of a master mind.
The detective lucidly explained his scheme. “You meet me at the bottom
of the street to-morrow evening at seven o’clock, and hand me the key
of the flat. You come on here, I join you in five minutes; we have met
here as usual for a chat. I’m in a hurry; I stay with you a quarter of
an hour, then hasten off on the plea of having to attend to some urgent
business. I go on to the flat, take care that nobody is about, put the
key in the door, enter Sir George’s room and do my business. You will
sit here for an hour with your pals, then you will leave and meet me,
say, in the buffet of Victoria Station, when I will hand you back your
key.”
“It sounds all right,” said Mr. Simmons, still speaking dubiously.
“But what happens if Sir George ‘cops’ you, and you can’t meet me at
Victoria?”
“I’m coming to that, although there’s not the smallest probability
that Sir George will ‘cop’ me. If he does, I think I shall have
to say something to him that will prevent him from giving me in
charge. But whatever happens, all that can be proved against you is
indiscretion—mind you, rather unpardonable in a man of your years, but
still only indiscretion. So you tumble to it now?”
“I think I’m getting an inkling; but you might explain it fully. You
are a clever chap, and you make things seem so clear.”
“You met a very plausible stranger in a certain pub. Give the name
to show good faith. Your friends can prove they have seen us talking
together. You got rather pals; he stood you a lot of drinks. On this
particular evening he gave you a little too much, perhaps put something
in it to make you stupid, and while you were losing your wits, picked
your pocket of the key and rushed round to the flat, leaving you to
recover yourself. So remember, after I leave you to-morrow evening, to
be a little foolish in your manner for half an hour or so.”
“Excellent,” cried Mr. Simmons in genuine admiration. “By jingo, you
are a knock-out; you think of everything. To-morrow evening, just at
the bottom of the street; afterwards here. Now, what do you think of
something on account—say a ‘tenner.’”
“I don’t mind a ‘fiver,’” was Lane’s answer; he was not disposed to
trust the valet too much. If he got as much as ten pounds safely into
his hands he might back out at the last moment and leave the detective
in the lurch. “I won’t give it you before all these people; you never
know who’s looking. We’ll leave here in about half an hour, and I’ll
hand it over when we’re safe out of the street.”
About eleven o’clock the next morning he received a further surprise in
connection with this most puzzling case. A note was sent round to him
from Mr. Morrice:
“DEAR SIR,—Another development! On opening my safe this morning I
found that the packet of papers abstracted in the first robbery has
been put back, also the bundle of Swiss notes. I suppose the thief
found they were of no use to him and obligingly returned them. Come
round as soon as you can. I shall be in all day.
“Yours faithfully,
“RUPERT MORRICE.”