THE BOOK
The house in St. John Street had been raided. In a little room on
the top floor there was evidence that an instrument of some
considerable size had been hastily dismantled. Broken ends of wire
were hanging from the wall, and one other room on the same floor was
packed with storage batteries. Pursuing their investigations, the
detectives ascended to the roof through a trap door. Here was the
flagstaff and the arrangement for hoisting the wires. Apparently,
night was usually chosen for the reception and despatch of messages.
By night, the taut strands of wire would not attract attention. Only
in cases of extremest urgency were they employed in daylight.
Count Poltavo was gone--vanished, in spite of the fact that every
railway terminus in London had been watched, every ocean-going
passenger scrutinised.
Van Ingen had been given two days to get the "book"; this code which
the unfortunate Hyatt had deciphered to his undoing. Moss had said
Hyatt's sister had it, but the country had been searched from end to
end for Hyatt's sister. It had not been difficult to trace her. Van
Ingen, after half-an-hour's search in Falmouth, had discovered her
abode, but the girl was not there.
"She left for London yesterday," he was informed.
From that moment Miss Hyatt had disappeared.
A telegram had reached her on the very day of Hyatt's death. It said
"Come."
There was no name, no address. The telegram had been handed in at
St. Martin's-le-Grand; unearthed, it was found to be in typewritten
characters, and the address at its back a fictitious one.
One other item of news Van Ingen secured; there had been a lady on
the same errand as himself. "A foreign lady," said the good folks of
Falmouth.
He had some two days to discover Eva Hyatt--this was her name.
He paced the room, his head sunk on his breast.
Where was the girl?
The telegram said "Come." It suggested some prearranged plan in
which the girl had acquiesced; she was to leave Falmouth and go
somewhere.
Suppose she had come to London, where would Catherine Dominguez have
placed her? Near at hand; a thought struck Van Ingen. Smith had
told him the tale of the deportation of the dancing girl. He would
search her flat. He took down his overcoat and struggled into it,
made a selection of keys from his pocket, and went out. It was a
forlorn hope, but forlorn hopes had often been the runners of
victory, and there was nothing to be lost by trying.
He came to the great hall of the mansion in Baker Street and asked
the number of the dancer's flat.
The hall porter touched his cap.
"Evening, sir." Then, "I suppose you know the young lady hasn't come
back yet?"
Van Ingen did know, but said nothing. The porter was in a talkative
mood.
"She sent me a wire from Liverpool, saying that she'd been called
away suddenly."
The young man nodded. He knew this, too, for T. B. had sent the wire.
"What the other young lady couldn't understand," continued the
porter, and Van Ingen's heart gave a leap, "was, why----"
"Why she hadn't wired her, eh?" he asked. "Well, you see, she was so
busy----"
"Of course!" The porter clucked his lips impatiently.
"She's upstairs in Miss Dominguez' flat at this moment. My word,
she's been horribly worried----"
"I'll go up and see her. As a matter of fact, I've come here for the
purpose," said Van Ingen quickly.
He took the lift to the second floor, and walked along the corridor.
He reached No. 43 and his hand was raised to press the little
electric bell of the suite when the door opened quickly and a girl
stepped out. She gave a startled cry as she saw the stranger, and
drew back.
"I beg your pardon," said Van Ingen, with a pleasant smile. "I'm
afraid I startled you."
She was a big florid girl with a certain awkwardness of movement.
"Well-dressed but _gauche_," thought Van Ingen. "Provincial! she'll
talk."
"I was a little startled," she said, with a ready smile. "I thought
it was the postman."
"But surely postmen do not deliver letters in this palatial
dwelling," he laughed. "I thought the hall porter----"
"Oh, but this is a registered letter," she said importantly, "from
America."
All the time Van Ingen was thinking out some method by which he might
introduce the object of his visit. An idea struck him.
"Is your mother--" she looked blank, "er--aunt within?" he asked.
He saw the slow suspicion gathering on her face.
"I'm not a burglar," he smiled, "in spite of my alarming question,
but I'm in rather a quandary. I've a friend--well, not exactly a
friend--but I have business with Miss Dominguez, and----"
"Here's the postman," she interrupted.
A quick step sounded in the passage, and the bearer of the king's
mails, with a flat parcel in his hand and his eyes searching the door
numbers, stopped before them.
"Hyatt?" he asked, glancing at the address.
"Yes," said the girl; "is that my parcel?"
"Yes, miss; will you sign?"
"Hyatt?" murmured Van Ingen; "what an extraordinary coincidence. You
are not by any chance related to the unfortunate young man the story
of whose sad death has been filling the newspapers?"
She flushed and her lip trembled.
"He was my brother; did you know him?"
"I knew of him," said Van Ingen quietly, "but I did not know you
lived in London!"
"Nor do I," said the girl; "it is only by the great kindness of Miss
Dominguez that I am here."
There was no time for delicate finesse.
"Will you let me come in and talk with you?" Van Ingen said; then, as
he saw again the evidence of her suspicion, "What I have to ask you
is of the greatest importance to you and to me."
She hesitated, then led the way into a handsomely furnished
sitting-room.
"First of all," said Van Ingen quietly, "you must tell me how Miss
Dominguez found you."
"She came to Falmouth and sought me out. It was not difficult. I
have a little millinery establishment there, and my name is well
known. She came one morning, eight days--no--yes, it was seven days
ago, and----"
"What did she want?"
"She said she had known Charles; he had some awfully swagger friends;
that is what got him into trouble at the post-office; it was a great
blow to us, because----"
"What did she want?" asked Van Ingen, cutting short the loquacity.
"She said that Charles had something of hers--a book which she had
lent him, years before. Now, the strange thing was that on the very
day poor Charles was killed I had a telegram which ran: 'If anything
happens, tell Escoltier book is at Antaxia, New York.' It was
unsigned, and I did not connect it with Charles. You see, I hadn't
heard from him for years.
"She was a great friend of Charles'--the Spanish lady--and she came
down especially about the book. She said Charles had got into
trouble and she wanted the book to save him. Then I showed her the
telegram. I was confused, but I wanted to help Charles." She gulped
down a sob. "I asked her who Escoltier was."
"Yes?" asked Van Ingen quickly.
"She said he was a friend of hers who was interested in the book.
She went away, but came back soon afterwards and told me that
'Antaxia' was the telegraphic address of a safe deposit in New York.
She was very nice and offered to pay for a cable to the deposit. So
I wired: 'Please forward by registered post the book deposited by
Charles Hyatt'; and I signed it 'Eva Hyatt' and gave my address. By
the evening the reply came: 'Forwarded; your previous wire did not
comply with our instructions.'"
"I see," said Van Ingen.
"Well, that is more than I can," said the girl, with a smile,
"because only one wire was sent. Miss Dominguez was surprised, too,
and a little annoyed, and said: 'How foolish it was of me not to ask
you your Christian name.' Well, then she insisted upon my coming to
stay with her till the book came. I came expecting I should find
Charles, but--but----"
Her eyes were filled with tears.
"I read in a newspaper that he was dead. It was the first thing I
saw in London, the bill of a newspaper----"
Van Ingen gave her time to recover her voice.
"And Miss Dominguez?"
"She took this furnished flat near to hers," said the girl; "she
lives here----"
"Does she?" asked Van Ingen artlessly. He took up the registered
parcel which she had put on the table.
It was fairly light.
"Now, Miss Hyatt," he said, very gently. "I want you to do something
for me; and I must tell you that, although I ask it as a favour, I
can enforce my wishes as a right."
"I will do anything," said the girl eagerly.
"Very well; you must let me take this book away."
"But it is not mine; it belongs to Miss Dominguez," she protested;
"and it is to save my brother's name----"
"Miss Hyatt," said Van Ingen, "I must take this book which has so
providentially come into my hands, not to save your brother's name,
but to bring to justice the men who took his life."
As he spoke there came a knock at the door; and, hastily drying her
eyes, the girl opened it.
A porter handed her a telegram, and she came back into the light of
the room to open it.
She read it, and reread it; then looked at Van Ingen with
bewilderment written on her face.
"What does this mean?" she said.
He took the telegram from her hand; it had been readdressed from
Falmouth and ran:
"By wireless from Port Sybil. Do not part with book to anybody on
any account.
"CATHERINE DOMINGUEZ."
He handed the telegram back.
"It means," he said, "that our friend is just two minutes too late."