SERGEANT SMITH CALLS
The big library of Weald Lodge was brilliantly lighted and nobody had
pulled down the blinds. So that it was possible for any man who troubled
to jump the low stone wall which ran by the road and push a way through
the damp shrubbery to see all that was happening in the room.
Weald Lodge stands between Eastbourne and Wilmington, and in the winter
months the curious, represented by youthful holiday makers, are few and
far between. Constable Wiseman, of the Eastbourne constabulary,
certainly was not curious. He paced his slow, moist way and merely
noted, in passing, the fact that the flood of light reflected on the
little patch of lawn at the side of the house.
The hour was nine o'clock on a June evening, and officially it was only
the hour of sunset, though lowering rain clouds had so darkened the
world that night had closed down upon the weald, had blotted out its
pleasant villages and had hidden the green downs.
He continued to the end of his beat and met his impatient superior.
"Everything's all right, sergeant," he reported; "only old Minute's
lights are blazing away and his windows are open."
"Better go and warn him," said the sergeant, pulling his bicycle into
position for mounting.
He had his foot on the treadle, but hesitated.
"I'd warn him myself, but I don't think he'd be glad to see me."
He grinned to himself, then remarked: "Something queer about
Minute--eh?"
"There is, indeed," agreed Constable Wiseman heartily. His beat was a
lonely one, and he was a very bored man. If by agreement with his
officer he could induce that loquacious gentleman to talk for a quarter
of an hour, so much dull time might be passed. The fact that Sergeant
Smith was loquacious indicated, too, that he had been drinking and was
ready to quarrel with anybody.
"Come under the shelter of that wall," said the sergeant, and pushed his
machine to the protection afforded by the side wall of a house.
It is possible that the sergeant was anxious to impress upon his
subordinate's mind a point of view which might be useful to himself one
day.
"Minute is a dangerous old man," he said.
"Don't I know it?" said Constable Wiseman, with the recollection of
sundry "reportings" and inquiries.
"You've got to remember that, Wiseman," the sergeant went on; "and by
'dangerous' I mean that he's the sort of old fellow that would ask a
constable to come in to have a drink and then report him."
"Good Lord!" said the shocked Mr. Wiseman at this revelation of the
blackest treachery.
Sergeant Smith nodded.
"That's the sort of man he is," he said. "I knew him years ago--at
least, I've seen him. I was in Matabeleland with him, and I tell you
there's nothing too mean for 'Ready-Money Minute'--curse him!"
"I'll bet you have had a terrible life, sergeant," encouraged Constable
Wiseman.
The other laughed bitterly.
"I have," he said.
Sergeant Smith's acquaintance with Eastbourne was a short one. He had
only been four years in the town, and had, so rumor ran, owed his
promotion to influence. What that influence was none could say. It had
been suggested that John Minute himself had secured him his sergeant's
stripes, but that was a theory which was pooh-poohed by people who knew
that the sergeant had little that was good to say of his supposed
patron.
Constable Wiseman, a profound thinker and a secret reader of sensational
detective stories, had at one time made a report against John Minute for
some technical offense, and had made it in fear and trembling,
expecting his sergeant promptly to squash this attempt to persecute his
patron; but, to his surprise and delight, Sergeant Smith had furthered
his efforts and had helped to secure the conviction which involved a
fine.
"You go on and finish your beat, Constable," said the sergeant suddenly,
"and I'll ride up to the old devil's house and see what's doing."
He mounted his bicycle and trundled up the hill, dismounting before
Weald Lodge, and propped his bicycle against the wall. He looked for a
long time toward the open French windows, and then, jumping the wall,
made his way slowly across the lawn, avoiding the gravel path which
would betray his presence. He got to a point opposite the window which
commanded a full view of the room.
Though the window was open, there was a fire in the grate. To the
sergeant's satisfaction, John Minute was alone. He sat in a deep
armchair in his favorite attitude, his hands pushed into his pockets,
his head upon his chest. He heard the sergeant's foot upon the gravel
and stood up as the rain-drenched figure appeared at the open window.
"Oh, it is you, is it?" growled John Minute. "What do you want?"
"Alone?" said the sergeant, and he spoke as one to his equal.
"Come in!"
Mr. Minute's library had been furnished by the Artistic Furniture
Company, of Eastbourne, which had branches at Hastings, Bexhill,
Brighton, and--it was claimed--at London. The furniture was of dark oak,
busily carved. There was a large bookcase which half covered one wall.
This was the "library," and it was filled with books of uniform binding
which occupied the shelves. The books had been supplied by a great
bookseller of London, and included--at Mr. Minute's suggestion--"The
Hundred Best Books," "Books That Have Helped Me," "The Encyclopedia
Brillonica," and twenty bound volumes of a certain weekly periodical of
international reputation. John Minute had no literary leanings.
The sergeant hesitated, wiped his heavy boots on the sodden mat outside
the window, and walked into the room.
"You are pretty cozy, John," he said.
"What do you want?" asked Minute, without enthusiasm.
"I thought I'd look you up. My constable reported your windows were
open, and I felt it my duty to come along and warn you--there are
thieves about, John."
"I know of one," said John Minute, looking at the other steadily. "Your
constable, as you call him, is, I presume, that thick-headed jackass,
Wiseman!"
"Got him first time," said the sergeant, removing his waterproof cape.
"I don't often trouble you, but somehow I had a feeling I'd like to see
you to-night. My constable revived old memories, John."
"Unpleasant for you, I hope," said John Minute ungraciously.
"There's a nice little gold farm four hundred miles north of Gwelo,"
said Sergeant Smith meditatively.
"And a nice little breakwater half a mile south of Cape Town," said John
Minute, "where the Cape government keeps highwaymen who hold up the
Salisbury coach and rob the mails."
Sergeant Smith smiled.
"You will have your little joke," he said; "but I might remind you that
they have plenty of accommodation on the breakwater, John. They even
take care of men who have stolen land and murdered natives."
"What do you want?" asked John Minute again.
The other grinned.
"Just a pleasant little friendly visit," he explained. "I haven't looked
you up for twelve months. It is a hard life, this police work, even when
you have got two or three pounds a week from a private source to add to
your pay. It is nothing like the work we have in the Matabele mounted
police, eh, John? But, Lord," he said, looking into the fire
thoughtfully, "when I think how I stood up in the attorney's office at
Salisbury and took my solemn oath that old John Gedding had transferred
his Saibach gold claims to you on his death bed; when I think of the
amount of perjury--me a uniformed servant of the British South African
Company, and, so to speak, an official of the law--I blush for myself."
"Do you ever blush for yourself when you think of how you and your pals
held up Hoffman's store, shot Hoffman, and took his swag?" asked John
Minute. "I'd give a lot of money to see you blush, Crawley; and now, for
about the fourteenth time, what do you want? If it is money, you can't
have it. If it is more promotion, you are not fit to have it. If it is a
word of advice--"
The other stopped him with a motion of his hand.
"I can't afford to have your advice, John," he said. "All I know is that
you promised me my fair share over those Saibach claims. It is a paying
mine now. They tell me that its capital is two millions."
"You were well paid," said John Minute shortly.
"Five hundred pounds isn't much for the surrender of your soul's
salvation," said Sergeant Smith.
He slowly replaced his cape on his broad shoulders and walked to the
window.
"Listen here, John Minute!" All the good nature had gone out of his
voice, and it was Trooper Henry Crawley, the lawbreaker, who spoke. "You
are not going to satisfy me much longer with a few pounds a week. You
have got to do the right thing by me, or I am going to blow."
"Let me know when your blowing starts," said John Minute, "and I'll send
you a bowl of soup to cool."
"You're funny, but you don't amuse me," were the last words of the
sergeant as he walked into the rain.
As before, he avoided the drive and jumped over the low wall on to the
road, and was glad that he had done so, for a motor car swung into the
drive and pulled up before the dark doorway of the house. He was over
the wall again in an instant, and crossing with swift, noiseless steps
in the direction of the car. He got as close as he could and listened.
Two of the voices he recognized. The third, that of a man, was a
stranger. He heard this third person called "inspector," and wondered
who was the guest. His curiosity was not to be satisfied, for by the
time he had reached the view place on the lawn which overlooked the
library John Minute had closed the windows and pulled down the blinds.
The visitors to Weald Lodge were three--Jasper Cole, May Nuttall, and a
stout, middle-aged man of slow speech but of authoritative tone. This
was Inspector Nash, of Scotland Yard, who was in charge of the
investigations into the forgeries. Minute received them in the library.
He knew the inspector of old.
Jasper had brought May down in response to the telegraphed instructions
which John Minute had sent him.
"What's the news?" he asked.
"Well, I think I have found your Mr. Holland," said the inspector.
He took a fat case from his inside pocket, opened it, and extracted a
snapshot photograph. It represented a big motor car, and, standing by
its bonnet, a little man in chauffeur's uniform.
"This is the fellow who called himself 'Rex Holland' and who sent the
commissionaire on his errand. The photograph came into my possession as
the result of an accident. It was discovered in the flat and had
evidently fallen out of the man's pocket. I made inquiries and found
that it was taken by a small photographer in Putney, and that the man
had called for the photographs about ten o'clock in the morning of the
same day that he sent the commissionaire on his errand. He was probably
examining them during the period of his waiting in the flat, and one of
them slipped to the ground. At any rate, the commissionaire has no doubt
that this was the man."
"Do you seriously suggest that this fellow is Rex Holland?"
The inspector shook his head.
"I think he is merely one of the gang," he said. "I don't believe you
will ever find Rex Holland, for each of the gang took the name in turn
to take the part, according to the circumstances in which they found
themselves. I have been unable to identify him, except that he went by
the name of Feltham and was an Australian. That was the name he gave to
the photographer with whom he talked. You see, the photograph was taken
in High Street, Putney. The only clew we have is that he has been seen
several times on the Portsmouth Road, driving one or two cars in which
was a man who is probably the nearest approach to Rex Holland we shall
get.
"I put my men on to make further investigations, and the Haslemere
police told them that it is believed that the car was the property of a
gentleman who lived in a lockup cottage some distance from
Haslemere--evidently rather a swagger affair, because its owner had an
electric cable and telephone wires laid in, and the cottage was altered
and renovated twelve months ago at a very considerable cost. I shall be
able to tell you more about that to-morrow."
They spent the rest of the evening discussing the crime, and the girl
was a silent listener. It was not until very late that John Minute was
able to give her his undivided attention.
"I asked you to come down," he said, "because I am getting a little
worried about you."
"Worried about me, uncle?" she said, in surprise.
He nodded.
The two men had gone off to Jasper's study, and she was alone with her
uncle.
"When I lunched with you the other day at the Savoy," he said, "I spoke
to you about your marriage, and I asked you to defer any action for a
fortnight."
She nodded.
"I was coming down to see you on that very matter," she said. "Uncle,
won't you tell me why you want me to delay my marriage for a fortnight,
and why you think I am going to get married at all?"
He did not answer immediately, but paced up and down the room.
"May," he said, "you have heard a great deal about me which is not very
flattering. I lived a very rough life in South Africa, and I only had
one friend in the world in whom I had the slightest confidence. That
friend was your father. He stood by me in my bad times. He never worried
me when I was flush of money, never denied me when I was broke. Whenever
he helped me, he was content with what reward I offered him. There was
no 'fifty-fifty' with Bill Nuttall. He was a man who had no ambition, no
avarice--the whitest man I have ever met. What I have not told you about
him is this: He and I were equal partners in a mine, the Gwelo Deep. He
had great faith in the mine, and I had none at all. I knew it to be one
of those properties you sometimes get in Rhodesia, all pocket and
outcrop. Anyway, we floated a company."
He stopped and chuckled as at an amusing memory.
"The pound shares were worth a little less than sixpence until a
fortnight ago."
He looked at her with one of those swift, penetrating glances, as though
he were anxious to discover her thoughts.
"A fortnight ago," he said, "I learned from my agent in Bulawayo that a
reef had been struck on an adjoining mine, and that the reef runs
through our property. If that is true, you will be a rich woman in your
own right, apart from the money you get from me. I cannot tell whether
it is true until I have heard from the engineers, who are now examining
the property, and I cannot know that for a fortnight. May, you are a
dear girl," he said, and laid his hand on her arm, "and I have looked
after you as though you were my own daughter. It is a happiness to me
to know that you will be a very rich woman, because your father's shares
was the only property you inherited from him. There is, however, one
curious thing about it that I cannot understand."
He walked over to the bureau, unlocked a drawer, and took out a letter.
"My agent says that he advised me two years ago that this reef existed,
and wondered why I had never given him authority to bore. I have no
recollection of his ever having told me anything of the sort. Now you
know the position," he said, putting back the letter and closing the
drawer with a bang.
"You want me to wait for a better match," said the girl.
He inclined his head.
"I don't want you to get married for a fortnight," he repeated.
May Nuttall went to bed that night full of doubt and more than a little
unhappy. The story that John Minute told about her father--was it true?
Was it a story invented on the spur of the moment to counter Frank's
plan? She thought of Frank and his almost solemn entreaty. There had
been no mistaking his earnestness or his sincerity. If he would only
take her into his confidence--and yet she recognized and was surprised
at the revelation that she did not want that confidence. She wanted to
help Frank very badly, and it was not the romance of the situation which
appealed to her. There was a large sense of duty, something of that
mother sense which every woman possesses, which tempted her to the
sacrifice. Yet was it a sacrifice?
She debated that question half the night, tossing from side to side. She
could not sleep, and, rising before the dawn, slipped into her dressing
gown and went to the window. The rain had ceased, the clouds had broken
and stood in black bars against the silver light of dawn. She felt
unaccountably hungry, and after a second's hesitation she opened the
door and went down the broad stairs to the hall.
To reach the kitchen she had to pass her uncle's door, and she noticed
that it was ajar. She thought possibly he had gone to bed and left the
light on, and her hand was on the knob to investigate when she heard a
voice and drew back hurriedly. It was the voice of Jasper Cole.
"I have been into the books very carefully with Mackensen, the
accountant, and there seems no doubt," he said.
"You think--" demanded her uncle.
"I am certain," answered Jasper, in his even, passionless tone. "The
fraud has been worked by Frank. He had access to the books. He was the
only person who saw Rex Holland; he was the only official at the bank
who could possibly falsify the entries and at the same time hide his
trail."
The girl turned cold and for a moment swayed as though she would faint.
She clutched the jamb of the door for support and waited.
"I am half inclined to your belief," said John Minute slowly. "It is
awful to believe that Frank is a forger, as his father was--awful!"
"It is pretty ghastly," said Jasper's voice, "but it is true."
The girl flung open the door and stood in the doorway.
"It is a lie!" she cried wrathfully. "A horrible lie--and you know it is
a lie, Jasper!"
Without another word, she turned, slamming the door behind her.