RUPERT MORRICE SENDS FOR LANE
Lane was as chagrined as Sellars himself when he learned the result of
that interview with Alma Buckley, for he had rather pinned his hopes
on it. The great majority of people who engaged in wrong-doing were
corruptible, as he had found by long experience. This middle-aged
music-hall artist was a striking exception.
“Drawn into crooked paths by accident perhaps,” he commented, “and
makes loyalty to her pals her first principle or, equally probable, is
too well paid by the other side to consider it worth while treating
with us.”
He rose and paced the room, a sign with him of unusual mental activity.
“Well, now, it is needless to say, I am very grievously disappointed,
I looked for some good results, and the worst of it is, we have given
ourselves away. In another twenty-four hours our friend the baronet and
Mrs. Morrice will know of your visit, and will be on their guard.”
Sellars agreed. “That is inevitable. Unless she happened to speak the
truth when she said that she knew nothing of Mrs. Morrice and did not
know whether she was dead or alive.”
“That’s a lie like the other about Archie Brookes,” replied the
detective grimly. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I have had
Mrs. Morrice under observation by one of my best men for a little
time. During that period she has paid two visits to the Kew flat.
Alma Buckley is a useful friend in many ways, although she is not an
official one and doesn’t show up at Deanery Street—and no doubt, she
gets well paid for her services. It won’t be very long now before we
shall have to open the eyes of the master of the house.”
He was pacing up and down the room with very vigorous strides now,
his physical energy reflecting his mental activity. In that keen and
resourceful brain he was doubtless planning his campaign, determining
the best method of exploding his bombshell in Deanery Street.
He paused at last in his restless pacing and turned to his lieutenant,
who knew the man too well to put any direct questions.
“Well, Sellars, we have drawn a blank with Alma Buckley, through no
fault of yours. You couldn’t have done more than you have. We shall
have to precipitate matters, and blow up Clayton-Brookes and that young
impostor, whom the world takes for his nephew, in the process.”
Sellars would have dearly liked to have an actual inkling of what his
astute leader was planning, but he knew it was useless asking. Lane
never revealed his _coups_ beforehand. When they were accomplished, he
was as frank as he had previously been reticent, and would explain with
perfect candour the processes by which he had engineered them.
“Well, good-bye, Lane. Sorry the result wasn’t satisfactory. Better
luck next time. Can I get on to any other portion of the job?”
The detective thought not, at the moment; what was left he was going
to take into his own hands. But he praised his able young lieutenant
very highly for the work he had done down at Brinkstone, the foundation
on which the superstructure of the subsequent investigations had been
built.
In the meantime, while Lane was preparing his _coup_, Rupert Morrice
had been stealthily pursuing his line of investigation.
A passionate man by nature, he had experienced the greatest difficulty
in restraining himself on his return from the jeweller who had told
him that the supposed “birthday” necklace was a worthless imitation.
When his wife returned about five o’clock unconscious of the tragic
happenings during her brief absence, his first impulse was to follow
her up to her room, tell her what he had learned and wring from her a
confession.
But he held himself in by a great exercise of self-control. He wanted
more evidence, he wished to make sure if this was an isolated instance
or one of a series of similar transactions.
As it happened, fortune was adverse to the wrong-doer, and in the
banker’s favour. Mrs. Morrice’s friend was very unwell, and the
lady drove down to her on the two following days to cheer her up,
leaving early in the morning and returning about the same time in the
afternoon. As on the previous occasion, the maid was given a holiday
during the few hours of her mistress’s absence.
The coast therefore was quite clear for Morrice, and he took advantage
of his unique opportunities with grim determination. Rosabelle alone in
the house had an idea that something was going on from noting the fact
that she met him in the hall on one of the mornings, carrying a small
bag and wearing a very grim expression, as if he were engaged on some
urgent but disagreeable business.
In all he took some ten very valuable pieces of jewellery to the same
man for examination. The result in each case was similar, they were all
cleverly executed imitations of the original gifts he had presented to
her. That was enough for him. She had a pretty large collection, and it
might be that a great many of them were not substitutes; that she had
not so far made use of them for her secret purposes. On those of which
he was quite certain from the expert’s evidence, he reckoned that, even
selling at a greatly depreciated price, she must have realized several
thousands of pounds.
On the afternoon of the third day he was pacing his room about five
o’clock like a caged lion, feverishly awaiting his wife’s return,
waiting to confront her with the anonymous letter, and reveal to her
his verification of the charges it contained.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, the quarter, and the
half-hour. His face grew darker and darker, as the tide of his
righteous wrath swelled. Six o’clock struck, and no sign of Mrs.
Morrice. Then ten minutes later a telegram was brought to him which
after reading he cast angrily on the floor. It explained that her
friend was very unwell, that she was stopping the night at her house,
and would return home at lunch time to-morrow.
The storm could not burst to-day on the devoted head of the woman who
had played so foolishly with her husband’s trust in her. The unexpected
delay incensed further the unfortunate financier, against whom of late
fate seemed to have a special grudge.
Rosabelle came in while he was fuming, to ask him for a small cheque in
anticipation of her quarter’s allowance. So preoccupied was he with his
bitter thoughts of the gross way in which he had been deceived that he
wrote the cheque like a man in a dream, and the girl noticed that his
hand trembled. When he looked up to give it to her, she saw that his
face was as black as night.
“Uncle dear, whatever is the matter?” she cried impetuously. For
some little time past she had had an uneasy feeling, one of those
presentiments which occur so often to sensitive people, that there was
trouble of some sort brewing in this household.
“Nothing the matter, my child,” he answered evasively, passing his hand
wearily across his forehead. Much as he loved his pretty niece, much
as he trusted her, he could not as yet reveal to her the cause of his
trouble, betray the woman in whom he had believed—who bore his honoured
name.
But the girl persisted. “But, dearest uncle, you are hiding something
from me. You look so strange, I am sure you are very much moved. Have
you had disturbing news?”
For a little time the unhappy man refrained from answering that
question, inspired by no spirit of girlish curiosity, but by the
sincerest and most loyal affection.
“Yes, my child, I have had bad news, very bad news, I am afraid I am a
poor dissembler,” he said at length. “Later on, under the strict seal
of secrecy, I may tell you the cause of my trouble. But not now, not
now. Run away, my precious little girl, and leave me to my black mood.”
She dared not worry him further, although her heart was aching for him.
Nobody knew better than she the kind, tender nature underlying that
rather stern exterior. Before she obeyed him, she put her arms round
his neck and kissed him affectionately.
“Tell me when you please, dear, in your own good time, and your poor
little Rosabelle, to whom you have always been so kind and generous,
will do her best to comfort you.”
“I know you will, you precious, warm-hearted girl.” He clasped her hand
almost convulsively. What he had found out had wounded him to the core.
Nothing hurt this strong, proud man so much as the discovery that his
confidence had been misplaced in those near to him, that his trust in
them had been abused.
“Thank heaven, I have one dear little friend in the world, one dear,
loyal little friend who has never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who I
am confident never will. But run away now, my darling. I cannot speak
yet, even to you, of what is troubling me.”
She obeyed him, and left the room wondering. The words he had spoken
had been very vague, but her quick instinct had prompted certain
suspicions of the cause of his deep perturbation. She was confident
that Mrs. Morrice was at the bottom of it. Had he found out something
to her discredit, and if so, what? Was it possible that Lane had
conceived it to be his duty to report to him that conversation between
aunt and nephew which she had overheard?
They dined alone that night, and she was sure that his deep gloom must
have been noticed by the servants who waited on them. And she was sure
it was not business matters that troubled him. He had always boasted
that he never brought home his office worries with him, had expressed
his contempt for men who did so, who had no power of detachment. “When
a man comes back to his home it is his duty to make his family happy,
and leave his business behind him,” had been a favourite dictum of his,
and to do him justice he had always acted up to it.
After dinner they went up to the drawing-room, but he made no pretence
of being cheerful. Rosabelle asked if the piano would disturb him.
He shook his head, and she played very softly a few of her favourite
pieces. Suddenly Morrice rose, went to her, and kissed her.
“I am wretched company to-night, my little girl,” he said; his face
still wore its hard gloomy expression, but there was a sadness in his
voice that went to the girl’s heart. “You stay here and amuse yourself
as best you can. I am going to my study, and shall not see you again
this evening. Good-night, dear.”
Rosabelle clung to him. “Oh, uncle, can I do nothing to help you?”
He gave her a grateful smile, but shook his head obstinately, and left
the room. She played on a little after he had gone, but she was full of
troubled thoughts, and hardly knew what she was doing.
And Rupert Morrice, the great financier, the successful man of
business, respected by all who knew him, envied by many, sat alone in
his room, devoured by bitter and revengeful thoughts. What had his
wealth done for him, if it failed to buy loyalty from those who were
near to him, on whom he had lavished such kindness and generosity?
It was only a little past eight o’clock, they had dined early as was
often their custom when they had no company. Would the weary evening
ever come to a close? But when it did, and he went to his room, he knew
he would not be able to sleep.
Suddenly the telephone bell rang. Glad of the momentary diversion, he
crossed to the instrument and unhooked the receiver.
It was Lane’s voice that was speaking. The detective was late at his
office, and it had occurred to him to ring up on the chance of finding
Morrice in and making an appointment for to-morrow morning. He had that
day, after much reflection, judged that it was time to precipitate
matters—to launch his _coup_.
“Ah, good-evening, Mr. Morrice. I have something of the utmost
importance to communicate to you, and the sooner the better. Can I see
you to-morrow?”
The financier’s deep voice came back through the telephone. “To-morrow,
certainly, any time you please, preferably in the morning. But, if
convenient to you, come round at once. Mrs. Morrice is away; I am here
alone.”
Lane was rather glad to hear it. He answered that he would come at
once. What he was about to tell Morrice was bound to produce a violent
explosion, but it would not occur while he was in the house.
A few moments later the detective stood in the financier’s private
room, in a mood almost as serious as that of Morrice himself.