AN ALARMING INTERRUPTION
Punctually at five o’clock on the appointed evening Lane and Simmons
met. On the face of the valet was a triumphant expression.
“We needn’t try this new scheme of yours, Mr. Cox—Mr. Lane, I should
say. I’ll come back to the flat with you; it’s all plain sailing. The
drawer is unlocked. The bank-book isn’t there, and he’s taken the
cheque-book with him; but he’s left the paying-in slips all right. You
said these would do.”
Not by any means for the first time was Gideon Lane impressed by the
inconsistencies of the human temperament. Here was a shrewd, clever
man like Sir George Clayton-Brookes, one who counted his cigars and
wine-bottles to prevent his valet helping himself to a surreptitious
smoke or drink! Surely he would be equally meticulous in other and
more important matters. And yet, he had gone away leaving that drawer
unlocked, its contents open to the prying eyes of Simmons.
The detective himself would never have done such a thing, and he was
quite sure he had less to conceal than this mysterious baronet who
passed himself off as a wealthy man, while all the evidence that had
been gathered pointed to the contrary. Perhaps Sir George, like many
other persons of considerable mentality—for there was little doubt
that he had brains of a certain order—entertained a great contempt for
the intelligence of his inferiors, and thought that if Simmons did pry
about in his absence he would not be much the wiser for his researches.
The baronet resided on the first floor of a block of service flats in
the Victoria direction, finding this mode of living very suitable to
him. Simmons slept out, coming early in the morning and leaving at all
sorts of times dependent upon his master’s convenience. In the course
of his communications to Lane, the detective had gathered that, in
many respects, it was a very easy place. Sir George did a great deal
for himself, so that the valet’s duties were not onerous, and he had
a lot of spare time. If his master went out for the evening, and this
happened on most evenings of the week, Simmons was never required to
await his return. His meals he occasionally took in the restaurant
attached to the flats, but more frequently he lunched and dined at
his clubs or the private houses of his acquaintances. Breakfast, a
Continental one of coffee and rolls, was served in his own apartments.
“As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want a valet at all,” was Simmons’s
rather contemptuous comment on his master’s habits. “And if he
consulted his own inclinations, I don’t believe he would keep one, for
he’s that dirt mean that I know he begrudges me my wages every time he
pays me. What can you expect of a man who sells all his old clothes to
a second-hand dealer? Not a waistcoat or a pair of old boots have I had
since I was in his service. He’s obliged to keep one to carry out his
policy of ‘swank.’ He knows his friends would think it deuced queer for
one in his position to be without a man.”
It formed a handsome suite of apartments, with its two elegantly
furnished sitting-rooms, large airy bedroom and capacious bathroom.
Still, one would only put it down as the abode of a man comfortably
well-off, not one supposed to be actually wealthy.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Mr. Simmons, as he ushered the detective into
the smaller of the two sitting-rooms, which was used as a smoking-room
and study in which the owner wrote his letters and attended to his
business, whatever it was.
“And here’s the writing-table, and that top one on the left is the
drawer in which you want to look. I’m glad it’s turned out like this,
Mr. Lane; I feel a good bit easier in my mind. Nobody can call this
burglary, eh? No harm in taking a peep at things that be under your
hand, is there?”
By which it will be seen that Mr. Simmons, though perhaps not a high
authority on morals, had certain well-defined ethics of his own. It
was not stealing to abstract a cigar from the store of a master who
did not resort to the discreditable meanness of putting out a dozen in
a box at a time so that he would easily miss one; it was not wrong to
help yourself as often as you could to a glass of good wine; it was not
against the moral code to listen outside doors, or to read letters and
papers to which you could procure easy access through your employer’s
carelessness. But in some matters the valet was a purist, more, it
is to be feared, from terror of the legal consequences than from the
revolt of a tender conscience. He did draw the line at picking locks or
steaming open a letter.
Growing quite daring in his comfortable belief that they were engaged
in a comparatively innocent operation, he pulled the drawer open with
his own hands and pointed to the pale-coloured little book which
contained the paying-in slips.
“There it is; goes back for two months. Is that enough for you? I hope
so, for I don’t know where he puts the old ones; locks them up in his
safe, I expect.”
Lane intimated it would be quite sufficient for his purposes, and got
to work at once. He took careful notice of the exact position of the
little book which was lying at a slight angle on the top of a pile of
papers, so that he could replace it in the same position. Sir George,
careless as he appeared to be in some matters, might have a good memory
in certain things, and might notice on his return that the contents of
the drawer had been disturbed. Still, that did not matter very much if
he did suspect; his suspicions would naturally fall upon Simmons as
the guilty party, and, truth to tell, the detective was not very much
concerned about that individual. He had proved a useful and adaptable
instrument, but Lane could not help despising him for a smooth-faced
hypocrite and venal rogue.
It cannot be said that he enjoyed the situation very much himself. He
had taken this course because he could think of no other which would
serve his ends, and one has often to resort to dirty means in a good
cause. But even if Sir George was the scoundrel he was beginning to
believe him to be, the action he was now taking savoured just a little
too much of hitting below the belt to square with his stolid English
notions of fair play. If it had been possible he would have preferred
to come out more in the open. Still, all is fair in war; he had
comforted himself with that reflection many times in the course of his
active career.
It was not a very long task, for there seemed to be but few payments,
and those mostly for small sums. The name of Willis occurred frequently
in the margin of the counterfoils, evidently this was the person who
had paid the amounts to Sir George.
“Do you know anything of a man named Willis?” asked Lane of the valet
who was watching his proceedings with great interest. He was a very
curious fellow, and he would dearly have liked to know the particular
object of the present researches.
“Yes, that’s his bookmaker,” was the answer of Simmons.
Mr. Willis’s cheques were for trifling sums which seemed to prove
that the baronet did not bet so high as was generally supposed, as he
pretended to his friends, according to the valet’s account. But, of
course, it was not proof positive. Like most men who follow racing, he
would win one day and lose the next, so that at the end of the week
there might be a very trifling balance against him or in his favour.
What, of course, Lane was looking for was an entry a little subsequent
to the first big burglary, when the diamonds and the big bundle of
foreign notes had been stolen. There was certainly the biggest entry
he had seen in the book about a week after the actual date of the
robbery, and against it was marked the word “cash.” But it was only for
seventy-five pounds.
Now the diamonds alone, according to Lane’s information, had cost
Mr. Morrice no less than eight thousand pounds, as the stones were
big ones, perfect in matching and colour. Granted that they had been
realized by the thief or thieves at a tremendous depreciation, they
should at least have brought in a fourth of that sum. It was hardly
possible that Sir George, even if he were a member of a gang who shared
the spoil, would engage in such a dangerous operation for the sake of
the paltry sum of seventy-five pounds.
Including that item the total payings-in for the two months were a
little over four hundred pounds. Assuming that this was a fair average,
the baronet’s income would be only slightly more than two thousand a
year. It was a small amount for a man who went about in good society,
and according to Simmons, spent about five hundred a year at least
on his clothes, and entertained his friends lavishly to lunches and
dinners at the most expensive restaurants.
“That’s what riles me about him,” observed the valet when he had
answered Lane’s direct questions on these points. “A month ago he
bought a new car that must have cost him every penny of a thousand
pounds. He thinks nothing of paying fifty pounds for a dinner to his
pals, I know that from one or two waiters who are friends of mine. And
yet he’s so devilish mean in some things, he sells his old clothes, he
begrudges me a cigar or a glass of wine, and while he’s blueing all
this money, his bank won’t let him overdraw five pounds, according to
his own statement which I overheard him make to his nephew.”
“On the evidence of this book, one would say he was, comparatively
speaking, a poor man, that is to say a poor man for his position,” said
the detective in a musing tone, as he restored the little pale-coloured
book to its original position, and shut the drawer. “And yet he spends
any amount of money on clothes and entertaining, and can plank down a
thousand pounds for a new car. You said yourself he was a poor man,
pretending to be rich.”
“He seems to be wealthy one day and hard-up the next, now one comes to
go into it a bit closer,” remarked Mr. Simmons. “I expect I was guided
a bit too much to my opinion by the fact of his being in such a blue
funk about that cheque he had changed at the club.”
“That little book is a blind, Simmons; no wonder he is careless about
that drawer; he knows that whatever you can see there will not disclose
the true state of his affairs. And you say he bought that car about a
month ago.”
“Of course, he may owe for it, for anything we know to the contrary,”
was the valet’s comment, “only just paid a bit down and is trying to
raise the wind somewhere now. Perhaps that’s the object of his present
journey.”
The detective was thinking deeply, it was a puzzling situation. He
had been in hopes that he might have got some absolute results from
his visit to Sir George’s flat and the inspection of his paying-in
book. The outcome was quite negative. The one suspicious thing was the
purchase of that car, and as Simmons had truly remarked, it might have
been bought on credit. Still, supposing it had been, Sir George must
have expected to lay his hands upon a thousand pounds pretty soon.
The drawer contained nothing to help him. He cast his eyes longingly
at the safe which stood in the corner of the room, a big one, made by
one of the best-known makers in London. He would very much have liked
to have a peep into that safe, it might have yielded up some secrets.
But he was not an expert safe-breaker like Mr. “Tubby” Thomas now
languishing in Dartmoor, or the hitherto undiscovered thief who had
practised his art in the big, old-fashioned house in Deanery Street.
He lost himself in speculation for some little time, almost oblivious
of the valet’s presence. That gentleman thought it time that attention
should be paid to his own immediate affairs, and coughed gently to
raise Lane from his reverie.
“Haven’t you found what you wanted?” he asked, with an anxious look in
his cunning little eyes.
“To tell the truth, I haven’t. For all practical purposes I might as
well not have taken on the job.”
The anxious look grew more intense. Mr. Simmons had small faith in his
fellow-men. Perhaps the detective might try to get out of his bargain,
if not altogether, to a very considerable extent.
He spoke in an ingratiating tone. “Not my fault, is it? I’ve done all
you wanted, haven’t I?”
“Oh, certainly, there is no blame attached to you.” Lane understood
what he was driving at and extracted from a letter-case several
five-pound notes, the balance of the sum which he had undertaken to
pay, and handed them to the valet, who received them with profuse
expressions of gratitude and a look of relief.
“Many, many thanks. Is there any other question you’d like to ask? Only
too happy to oblige.”
“Well, yes, Mr. Simmons, since you’re so kind, we may as well have a
little further chat while I’m here; we shan’t be disturbed. It’s about
this nephew, young Archie Brookes, who seems so fully in his uncle’s
confidence. What can you tell me about him?”
Mr. Simmons with that nice sum of money nestling snugly in his pocket
was in a most obliging mood, and hastened to unfold all he knew.
“Well, Mr. Lane, as you know, I haven’t been in Sir George’s service
very long, and what I know is chiefly gathered from his former valet,
who is now with the Duke of Droitwich, a man named Dundas, and other
servants who have been about in the same sort of set.”
“What I want to know particularly is when he first appeared upon the
scene. I understand the story given out is that he’s the son of a
younger brother of Sir George’s, that the father died in Australia, and
that his uncle sent for the young fellow and introduced him to London
society.”
“Quite right, Mr. Lane. This happened about five years ago. Sir George
gave out the story as you have heard it, the young man came over, and
ever since his arrival the two have been inseparable. When Sir George
is in town, and that’s the best part of the year, there’s hardly a day
passes that young Archie doesn’t come here, sometimes staying for only
a few minutes. Sir George put him up for a couple of decent clubs that
he belongs to himself, but not for the two very exclusive ones of which
he is a member. I suppose the young chap is not quite big enough for
them.”
“Is he supposed to have any money of his own?”
“According to my friend Dundas, not more than a pittance. Dundas was
in the service of a great friend of Sir George’s before he went to the
baronet, and he got the information from him. The father, according
to this account, died leaving very little; the mother had died years
before. His uncle practically adopted him with the intention of making
him his heir. Although, as you and I know, Mr. Lane, whether there will
be anything for him to be heir to is a bit of a puzzle, I think.”
“There is the furniture of this flat which is worth a bit, and the
motor-car,” observed Lane with a humorous smile. “Do I take it then
that the young man is supported by Sir George?”
“That’s what my friend Dundas gathered.”
“If that is a fact, it might account for the baronet being a
comparatively poor man, then. What sort of style does this young Archie
keep up?”
“From all that I hear, he makes a greater show than his uncle. He
rents a flat in the Hyde Park district twice the rent of this, runs
a Rolls-Royce and keeps a valet. I know his man, and he says it’s a
ripping job. He’s as open-handed as his uncle is stingy. Gives jolly
bachelor dinners sent in from outside to his own place, where they swim
in champagne and the most expensive wines. Jenks, my friend, can take
as many cigars as he likes, nothing is ever said; many a time I’ve
cracked a bottle of young Archie’s best champagne when he’s been out of
the way. Jenks says he’d give him one if he asked for it. When he goes
for his holiday, he chucks him a tenner; he does the same at Christmas.
He has no end of clothes which he never half wears out, and as soon as
he tires of a suit he tosses it over to my friend. Oh, there’s some
pretty little ‘picks’ there, I can tell you. If I was in the young
man’s service, instead of in this old curmudgeon’s, I shouldn’t be
looking out for a new place, you bet your life.”
“A gay young gentleman, evidently,” observed Lane, to whom all this
information was intensely interesting.
“Rather! He spends money right and left. He’s got a lot of lady
friends, many of them not too particular, married and single. He’s
always buying handsome presents for them. His jeweller’s bills tot up
to a nice round sum, Jenks tells me. Besides that, he gambles a lot,
but he doesn’t back horses much.”
“Then we have established one fact pretty clearly,” said the detective
decisively. “If this young scapegrace has no money and his uncle is
paying the piper, Sir George must, after all, be the wealthy man that
popular report considers him.”
The door of the room in which they were sitting and holding this
confidential conversation was partly open, and just as Lane had
finished speaking, both men distinctly heard the sound of a key being
inserted in the hall door.
The valet swore wickedly under his breath, and sprang to his feet, his
face white as chalk, his hands shaking.
“It’s Archie, I know his cat-like footstep. The old devil has left his
key with him. He’s come after his letters, they won’t trust me with the
address.”
Lane was disturbed too, he had not bargained for this sudden
interruption, and Simmons looked so panic-stricken, being a
white-livered sort of fellow, that his looks were enough to hang him.
“Pull yourself together and leave as much as you can to me,” he
whispered to the shaking valet. Then he strode across the room and
pretended to be examining a picture while he awaited the entrance of
Archibald Brookes.